Skip to main content

Full text of "Blackwood's magazine"

See other formats

Presented to the 


by the 










. ' 


4 . 






JULY, 1826. 



No. I. 

SHUT your books, readers all ; ar- 
range your libraries by MS. catalogue ; 
see your studies decently dusted ; en- 
trust the key of the locked treasures to 
no man of woman born, and away 
with you into the country, forgetful of 
towns and turmoil, and like a bird 
from a cage, clapping your wings in 
the air of liberty. 

Have you ever seen THE LAKES? 
Take Maga with you then, and she 
will be your guide through that region 
of beauty and grandeur. Encumber 
yourselves with no needless volumes 
Maga and a map are all-sufficient ; 
but trust to no man's eyes but your 
own ; and above all things, carry with 
you a good conscience. 

From Kendal proceed not impatient- 
ly, but in the pleasures of hope, to the 
village of Bowness, on the banks of 
Windermere. You will see the Lake 
when you are about a mile from it, 
and the view is a pleasant one ; but 
firstimpressions, although often strong, 
are seldom correct; so on this your 
first introduction to the Lady of the 
Isles, admire her beauty without con- 
sidering its peculiar character, and 
wait till it has won its way to your 
heart in the light of a few sunsets. 

We shall suppose that you reach 
the White Lion (one of the best inns 
in England) before breakfast, that is, 
between eight and ten o'clock ; for a 
certain latitude in all things must be 
allowed to travellers ; and if you lay 
clown austere rules for you own guid- 
ance, you may depend upon being not 

only miserable yourself, but the cause 
of misery to others during yotir entire 
tour. Most true it is, that Time was 
made for vulgar souls but you are not 
a vulgar soul very far from it and 
will prove yourself independent of the 

Many people, immediately on their 
arrival at an inn, in a picturesque or 
romantic country, become fidgetty in 
the extreme, and calling up the land- 
lord, commence an unmerciful system 
of cross-questioning respecting every- 
thing visible in the neighbourhood. 
Beware of such weakness ; and rest as- 
sured, that as the scenery can have no 
reason for concealing itself, you will 
behold it all in good time, without 
difficulty or trepidation. No fear of the 
wonderful hanging-bridge, built by 
the devil, tumbling down the very 
hour before you approach it. Although 
there has been some talk about drain- 
ing the Lake, operations are not yet 
commenced. You may very safely 
take another cup of coffee before the 
total cessation of the celebrated wa- 
terfall ; and as for the mountains,, 
they will wait, though perhaps not 
without murmuring, till you have 
composedly wound up your breakfast. 
Be not unduly alarmed at cloud, mist, 
or rain ; for they may come and go 
twenty times between first egg and last 
ham ; and as you have a soul to be sa- 
ved, neither hope nor fear in that dull 
deceiver the Barometer. 

On your arrival, then* at the White 
Lion, Bowness, walk with an amiable 

Hints for the Holidays. No. I. 

countenance into whatever room may 
be allotted to you ; but should there 
appear to be no great bustle before the 
white-washed front, then ask to be 
shown up to either of the two pretty 
"bow- windowed parlours, that openinto 
the Tent-Green. There is little or no 
difference between them ; but for our 
own parts, in our progress through life, 
we always prefer turning to the right, 
and have uniformly found it an excel- 
lent rule of conduct. There is not much 
to be seen from either, but the little is 
delightful some of the prettiest cot- 
tages in the village, through orchard 
and garden the old church, with its 
white tower and blue lead roof, the 
bells perhaps ringing for a wedding 
a glimpse of the lake the sylvan line 
of the opposite hill-shore and in the 
distance, a few mountain tops. 

And now that you have had break- 
fast, do not, we again beseech you, put 
yourself into a flurry, but quietly order 
a row-boat, and embark with your 
wife and children. On no account 
whatever have anything to do with a 
sail. There is, we believe, an appa- 
ratus for inflating the lungs, kept in 
the village, but it is in indifferent or- 
der ; and, besides, when a large party 
of all ages and sexes are upset, hours, 
nay days, elapse before they are 
brought ashore ; and, under such cir- 
cumstances, to use the poetical phra- 
seology of the daily press no wonder 
that the vital spark should be found 
to be extinguished. Act then on the 
burthen of the old Scottish song, 
" The boatie rows, the boatie rows," 
and you are as safe on the waters of 
Windermere as if gathering wild- 
flowers on its banks. 

Fix no hour for your return, nor 
have the meanness to order dinner. 
But let not your enthusiasm forget a 
pregnant basket in a white veil, whom 
both boatmen will assist over the gun- 
wale, and stow away from the sun- 
shine in the hollow of the stern. In- 
tense admiration of mountain scenery 
soon exhausts the frame of the wor- 
shipper of Nature, and during the 
Bright Intermediate Hour, in sylvan 
nook, how refreshing a glass of Ma- 
deira and a veal-pie ! Such slight repast 
brings the capacity of the mind into 
power ; and as again you issue from 
the reedy bay of the Lily-of-the- Val- 
ley Isle, the Lake seems to expand 
into bolder and brighter beauty, and 

Winandermere sounds like a lovelier 
name for Paradise. 

Tell the boatmen to pull just suffi- 
ciently quick to keep themselves from 
falling asleep. Slow, regular, and steady 
should be the music of the oar, 
" when heaven and earth do make 
one imagery," in the seeming air- 
depths of a summer lake. Leave not 
the Bay of Bowness too soon, in your 
impatient passion for beauty ; but let 
your pinnace, like a swan, float away 
into the bays within the Bay, and 
now and then, as if her anchor were 
dropped, hang motionless on the mirror. 
You may now see the village in its fairest 
character, clustering round the church, 
and one sweet cottage (peace be with- 
in it !) dipping its feet in the shallow 
murmur. " The Island," with a beau- 
tiful boundary, cuts the crescent; 
away to the north gleams the broad 
basin of the Lake, to the south, the 
eye stretches through " the streights " 
towards the sylvan Storrs, and many 
a coppice promontory or, if that be 
forbidden by the laws of optics, you 
may at least admire the Ferry-House, 
beneath its grove of cherry-trees, and 
hear the sound of the huge heavy oars 
accompanying the slow motion of the 
Great Boat from shore to shore. 

Follow now the impulse of your 
own imagination; but, if equally plea- 
sant to you all, row close round the 
nearest end of " The Island," six in 
the minute being the dip of the oar. 
If you desire a wide prospect, let your 
eye sweep the Lake, as if with a 
telescope, from Rayrig-Bay over the 
groves of Calgarth, Lowood, and Dove- 
nest, till it rests on the blue misty 
light that glimmers in the vale of 
Ambleside. Do you rather choose to 
delight in a close home-scene ? Then 
drift along by forest-glades, and lose 
your reckoning in the confusion of that 
multitude of Islands, whose shadows 
meet on the narrow waters, and far 
down embower commingled arbours 
for the Naiads' sleep. Here every 
pull of the oar sends you on into a 
new scene, as if the banks and isles 
had shifted places ; and you may make 
a whole forenoon's voyage of disco- 
very, so inexhaustible in beauty is that 
tiny sea, through which a light breeze 
would in a few minutes waft the 
winged pleasure-boat with her gaudy 
flags burning along the woods. 

And now land at the Ferry-House, 


Hints for the Holidays. No. /. 

and whoever may be of the party, 
walk arm in arm with your wife, 
through laurels, lilacs, and labur- 
nums, up to the Station. The wood 
is so overgrown, that, on your way up 
to the Fort, you can scarcely see the 
Lake. It is always a sad thing to cut 
down a fine, healthy, growing tree 
and Mr Curweri does right to spare 
this forest. Nothing can be pleasanter 
than its glimmering alleys after some 
hours sunshine on the water. The 
green parasols are folded with a rustle, 
and the party rests on some old osier- 
seat beneath an ivied rock, amidst the 
fragrant perfume of roses, here some- 
what pale in the shade. On entering 
a large room, with wide and many 
windows, in the " Station," Winder- 
mere, with all her isles, suddenly re- 
appears ; and if the breeze has fresh- 
ened, you probably behold at least a 
dozen pleasure-boats, with all sail set, 
(the Victory and Endeavour conspi- 
cuous like parent sea-mews among 
their brood,) going wherever the wind 
in its caprice chooses to carry them, 
or bent on clearing some point or 
promontory, close-hauled, and skil- 
fully gathering every breath that blows, 
as if one of the Eyes of a Fleet drawn 
up in line of battle, and manoeuvring 
for the weather- gage. 

The view from the Station is a very 
delightful one, but it absolutely re- 
quires a fine day. Its character is that 
of beauty, which disappears almost ut- 
terly in wet or drizzly weather. If 
there be strong bright sunshine, a 
" blue breeze" perhaps gives animation 
to the scene. You look down on the 
islands, which are here very happily 
disposed. The banks of Windermere 
are rich and various in groves, woods, 
coppice, and corn-fields. The long 
deep valley of Troutbeck (which is, in 
fact, a sort of straggling village, houses 
of the true old Westmoreland style 
of architecture being dropped all the 
way from the lakeside to the head of 
it), stretches finely away up to the 
mountains of High street and Hill- Bell 
hill and eminence are all cultivated 
wherever the trees have been cleared 
away ; and numerous villas are visible 
in every direction, which, although 
perhaps not all built on very tasteful 
models, have yet an airy and sprightly 
character, and with their fields of 
brighter verdure and sheltery groves, 
may be fairly allowed to add to, rather 
than detract from, the beauty of a 

scene, one of whose chief charms is, 
that it is the cheerful abode. of social 

Some of the windows of this room 
are of stained glass, producing the ef- 
fect of sunrise and sunset, moonlight, 
deep gloom, frost and snow. This, 
it seems, has been talked of contemp- 
tuously, as a childish raree-show. Be 
it so. People do well to be a little 
childish, when away from home du- 
ring the holidays. Green is, unques- 
tionably, the best of all colours in the 
long run for the earth, and the trees, 
and the sea. But for all that, we 
wonder and admire to behold the 
creation dimly discoloured into a me- 
lancholy beauty, more especially if 
another pair of eyes, soft, large, and 
liquid, and of the hazel hue, are beam- 
ing through the same pane, and a little 
silken tress, with a momentary touch 
on the cheek thrilling to the heart's 
core, as we gaze together on the living 
lake and landscape. 

Reimbark, and row away down to 
Storrs. The Mansion is in admirable 
keeping, with the scenery here soft, 
sweet, gentle, and graceful. The rocks 
have been cut, so as to give from the 
windows on the ground-floor, glimpses 
of the near lake, and groves in the dis- 
tance; the leafless lawn, bright and 
smooth as any sheep-nibbled pasture, 
is worthy the footsteps of Titania 
herself and the flower-gardens, only 
a little richer than the blossoms na- 
turally straying in the woods, breathe 
over the place an air of elegant luxury 
and refinement. The porticos, pil- 
lars, and cornices of the house, are seen 
through the glades ; and such is the 
effect of the whole, that you feel this 
division of Windermere to be a lake 
by itself, a feeling increased by the 
appearance of a Vessel of sovereign 
beauty lying at anchor close to the 
shore, with masts so taper that they 
seem almost to bend beneath the weight 
of the streaming flag, yet so elastic, 
that, were her wings unfurled, she 
would manifestly glide away like a 
sunbeam over the murmuring waters. 

There is a small four-sided build- 
ing on the artificial mole called Storrs 
point, which, in days of yore, used, we 
remember, to be called a Naval tem- 
ple. Each side then bore the name 
of a famous Admiral. The taste which 
engraved them there was certainly 
questionable ; and they are now ob- 
literated or hidden. One of those 

4, Hints for the Holidays. No. I. 

persons who, in the language of Mr tourists are generally fond of poetry , 

Jeffrey, " haunt about the lakes" in here they are for their silent perusal, 

the character of poets, has written or sonorous recitation on the la ke. 
some lines about this edifice ; and as 



NAY ! Stranger ! smile not at this little dome. 
Albeit quaint, and with no nice regard 
To highest rules of grace and symmetry, 
Plaything of art, it venture thus to stand 
'Mid the great forms of Nature. Doth it jscer-- 
A vain intruder in the quiet heart 
Of this majestic Lake, that like an arm 
Of Ocean, or some Indian river vast, 
In beauty floats amid its guardian hills .-* 
Haply it may : yet in this humble tower. 
The mimicry of loftier edifice, 
There lives a silent spirit, that confers 
A lasting charter on its sportive wreath 
Of battlements, amid the mountain-calm 
To stand as proudly, as yon giant rock 
That with his shadow dims the dazzling lake ! 

Then blame it not : for know 'twas planted here. 
In mingled mood of seriousness and mirth, 
By one who meant to Nature's sanctity 
No cold unmeaning outrage. He was one 
Who often in adventurous youth had sail'd 
O'er the great waters, and he dearly loved 
Their music wild ; nor less the gallant souls 
Whose home is on the Ocean : so he framed 
This jutting mole, that like a natural cape 
Meets the soft-breaking waves, and on its point, 
Bethinking him of some sea-structure huge, 
Watch-tower or light-house, rear'd this mimic dome y 
Seen up and down the lake, a monument 
Sacred to images of former days. 

See ! in the playfulness of English zeal 
Its low walls are emblazon'd ! there thou read'st 
Howe, Duncan, Vincent, and that mightier name 
Whom death has made immortal. Not misplaced 
On temple rising from an inland sea 
Such venerable names, though ne'er was heard 
The sound of cannon o'er these tranquil shores. 
Save when it peal'd to waken in her cave 
The mountain echo : yet this chronicle, 
Speaking of war amid the depths of peace, 
Wastes not its meaning on the heedless air. 
It hath its worshippers : it sends a voice, 
A voice creating elevated thoughts, 
Into the hearts of our bold peasantry 
Following the plough along these fertile vales, 
Or up among the misty solitude 
Beside the wild sheep-fold. The fishermen, 
Who on the clear wave ply their silent trade, 
Oft passing lean upon their dripping oars, 
And bless the heroes : Idling in the joy 
Of summer sunshine, as in light canoe 

1826.J Hints Jbr the Holiday*. No. 1. 

The stranger glides among these lovely isles, 
This little temple to his startled soul 
Oft sends a gorgeous vision, gallant crews 
Tn fierce joy cheering as they onwards bear 
To break the line of battle, meteor-like 
Long ensigns brightening on the towery mast. 
And sails in awful silence o'er the main 
Lowering like thunder- clouds ! 

Then, stranger ! give 
A blessing on this temple, and admire 
The gaudy pendant round the painted staff 
Wreathed in still splendour, or in wanton folds, 
Even like a serpent bright and beautiful, 
Streaming its burnished glory on the air. 
And whether silence sleep upon the stones 
Of this small edifice, or from within 
Steal the glad voice of laughter and of song, 
Pass on with altered thoughts, and gently own 
That Windermere, with all her radiant isles 
Serenely floating on her azure breast, 
Like stars in heaven, with kindest smiles may robe 
This monument to heroes dedicate, 
Nor Nature feel her holy reign profaned 
By work of art, though framed in humblest guise, 
When a high spirit prompts the builder's soul. 

On your return to Bowness, you 
xvill take our advice and land at the 
boat-house of Belle-Isle. You can- 
not expect to find many entirely new 
views, as you have already encircled 
the island ; yet, under the shade of 
venerable boughs, the panorama, as 
you walk along, goes majestically by, 
and nothing can be finer than the 
glades, which want only a few deer 
for the perfection of the forest charac- 
ter. A gravel path, about a mile in 
extent, winds round the island, which 
consists of nearly thirty acres. In for- 
mer times the shores of this island 
were indented with numerous creeks 
and bays ; now there is a stone-beach, 
which has destroyed the beauty of the 
natural outline. But in high floods 
the island used in some parts to be 
entirely overflowed ; consequently, 
when the water was low, deformed 
with marshes. More, therefore, has 
perhaps been gained than lost by the 
change; and, certainly, if there has 
been a sacrifice of the romantic or pic- 
turesque, there has been an advantage 
on the side of neatness and comfort. 
Reeds, and bulrushes, and water-lilies, 
are extremely beautiful to idle people 
like you, gentle readers lying all 
your length in a boat, and poetizing as 
you glide along; but the man who 
builds a house on an island, and inha- 
bits it summer and winter, must have 

sound footing as he walks on the wa- 
ter-edge, and is entitled also to guard 
against miasmata and marsh fever. An 
uninhabited island should have its wild 
bays almost forlorn in the entangle- 
ment of briary underwood. Half a do- 
zen flat stones, flung into the shallow 
water, suffice for a landing-place to the 
occasional visitant stepping ashore but 
for a solitary hour ; and the path can- 
not be too rough that leads to the ruin- 
ed cell of the saiut who died there 
hundreds of years ago, but not before 
he had worn a hollow on the stone 
floor with his knees. There the heron 
may fish in the creeks so shallow that 
his long bill catches the minnow on the 
turf; and there the shy wild- duck may 
lead forth her yellow family through 
and among the strong stems of the bul- 
rushes, not without an occasional death 
among them by the jaws of pike. And 
there, ere autumn-frosts set in, may 
the swallows congregate, before their 
flight across seas to warmer climates, 
while rural naturalist fondly imagines 
they sink down to the earth-holes be- 
low the waves, to reascend with fresh- 
ened plume and twitter, when May-day 
again fills the sunshine with insects, 
and covers the earth with flowers. Gen- 
tle reader, in such an isle, perhaps^ 
thou wouldst wish to act the hermit ? 
But if a family-man, thou wilt agree 
with us, that the water, pellucid though 

Hints for the Holidays. No. 1. 


it may be, must be kept within bounds 
in its wave-flow ; and that stagnant 
fens maybe dispensed with where there 
is a large family of children, whose 
beauty must not, by their parents, be 
sacrificed to the picturesque. 

Now, my dear friends, you hav 
done and seen enough for one day, 
and although the entire extent of your 
circumnavigation has not been more 
than five miles, yet has it taken as 
many hours to complete. As you re- 
land on the margin of Bowness Bay, 
the church-clock strikes four, and lit- 
tle familiar as you are with the sce- 
nery around, still you see that a dif- 
ferent set of shadows have given it 
a different character, the afternoon 
pensiveness being as pleasant as the 
morning joy. On your way up to the 
inn, you admire the beauty of the 
children now, many of them, set free 
from school ; and a few halfpence dis- 
tributed among a group, who, on re- 
ceiving the largess, instantly clatter 
off on their wooden-clogs to the gin- 
gerbread-stall, spreads through the 
village praises of the Laker's opulence 
and generosity. 

Two hours at least ought to elapse 
between the close of a five-hours' sum- 
mer voyage on a lake and dinner. It 
takes a good hour to get your chin 
as smooth as satin your head brush- 
ed and oiled your body and limbs 
thoroughly dried and cooled, and fresh- 
ened, and polished, and brightened, 
and clothed in fine linen. You then 
descend from your bedroom, like the 
sun out of a cloud, and the female 
waiters are astonished with your ef- 
fulgence. Blue coat, yellow waistcoat, 
white trowsers, silk stockings of course, 
and pumps, is pretty apparel and cool- 
looking, and puts the wearer in love 
with himself and all the world. 

We shall suppose that there are la- 
dies in the party Queen-Mary's caps 
are irresistible on virgin-heads; and 
if you be a bachelor, and have a heart 
to lose, it has gone to the bosom of 
that tall, slim, elegant girl, whose 
face, at all times beautiful, has now 
mixed with its innocence an almost 
Circean spell, while she sits in playful 
rnood, in a high-backed and richly 
carved oak-chair, placed as a curious 
antique on the green, and, with half- 
conscious coquetry, lets peep out from 
below the silken drapery, such a 
foot as might be expected to match 
that little lily hand, with the violet 

veins, whose touch tingles like a gen- 
tle shock of electricity. The time 
should be charmed away with con- 
verse and with song, till the approach 
of twilight, and then an hour's walk 
anywhere, alone or with another, not 
to discover but to dream ! " A. night 
like a darkened day" has gradually 
hushed the village ; and wearied, al- 
though you know it not, by the per- 
petual flow of happiness, the eyes of 
the whole party close almost as soon 
as heads are laid on the pillow, and 
thus closes (Oh! wilt thou become 
a Contributor?) thy First Day on 
Windermere ! 

We are no friends to early rising in 
towns, but during the summer months 
in the country, who would lie a-bed 
after the mists have left the valleys ? 
Up, then, all of you, about half before 
six, and off in your barouche to Conis- 
ton. It is a heavy carriage, so do not 
grudge to take four horses, and then 
there will be no occasion to walk up 
hills. To say nothing of the humanity, 
you will find your account in it a thou- 
sand ways. Remember that you are 
laking ; forget the derangement of the 
currency ; and since the life of the small 
notes is to be a short, let it be a merry 
one. The scenery from the Ferry- 
House to Hawkshead (four miles) is 
full of animation, and interchange of 
hill and dale. We do not know that 
there is any one particular cottage, 
knoll, field, garden, or grove, especially 
beautiful, but the variety is endless ; 
and at every turn of the road, the 
country presents a new combination of 
objects, as at the shake of a kaleido- 
scope. There is something chaotic about 
the village of Saury ; scarcely a vil- 
lage, indeed, but rocks, glades, and cop- 
pices^ bedropt with dwellings. Esth- 
waite is a cheerful piece of water, but 
not seen to advantage as you pass along 
its low shore ; it is even beautiful when 
beheld lying in softened distance, (from 
the grounds of Belmont, for example,) 
with the village of Hawkshead in the 
foreground, and its impressive church- 
tower, which, in such a vale, has a 
commanding character. Three miles 
beyond Hawkshead, you come in sight 
of the Lake of Coniston. The pros- 
pect is at once beautiful and sublime. 
How profound the peace of that far- 
down valley, sleeping among wooded 
mountains how sweet that sudden 
gleam of water, betrayed in the sun- 
shine ! Leave the carriage, and, send- 


Hints for the Holidays. No. 1. 

ing it on to the inn at Waterhead, be 
seated, we pray you, for half an hour, 
on a moss- cushioned stone, or a grassy 
couch among the heather. That huge 
mountain is Coniston Old Man ; and he 
certainly is, with his firm foot and sun- 
ny brow, 
" The prince o* gude fellows, and wale o' 

auld men." 

No doubt, from his summit there is a 
noble empire for an eagle's eye ; but 
you will find it slavish work to reach 
the summit on foot or pony-back, so 
be satisfied with imagination. It is ob- 
vious, from the slightest anatomical 
knowledge of the structure of the hu- 
man frame, that it is not good for man 
to be alone on the mountain-tops. We 
have more than once managed to climb 
Chimborazo in our sleep, and even then 
it was fatiguing enough, although the 
view certainly repaid us; but when 
broad awake and sober, no sensible 
man will ever, in defiance of his own 
gravity, raise himself up thousands of 
feet above the level of the sea. You see 
yonder, three-fourths up the moun- 
tain, the mouth of a mine ! If it is 
hard labour you are in search of, be- 
come a miner at once ; or why not have 
a private tread-mill of your own, on 
which to perform the principal charac- 

Winding away down hill, and every 
moment widening the glorious pano- 
rama, the road leads you, smiling, and 
talking, and making love perhaps, to 
the pretty, little, white, comfortable, 
sycamore- shaded inn of Coniston Wa- 
terhead. There you get an admirable 
breakfast, the lake all the time rip- 
pling a low, cheerful song, for there 
is only the road between you; and 
when the wind, however gentle, comes 
from the south and the sea, the edge 
of the crescent-bay is here all in a mur- 
mur. The view down the Lake is no- 
thing very remarkable ; but a fine sheet 
of water, shining in the sun, or dark- 
ening in the shadow, is always worth 
gazing on; and there is a tempting 
pinnace so hand or lift the ladies on 
board, and, without aim or object, pull 
away a mile or two, and then let your 
bark drift and dally with the wave- 
lets. No wonder you cannot keep 
your eyes off that face, for it is indeed 
a pretty one, and there is something 
more than ordinarily sweet and insi- 
nuating in its smile ; so without taking 
your arm from the gunwale, although 
it has rather too much the effect of 

being round Louisa's waist, look to- 
wards the head of the lake, and you 
will acknowledge that Coniston can 
almost bear a comparison with Win- 

Here, indeed, are no islands like 
those of Windermere no single cliff, 
crowned with oak and elm, and mat- 
ted with broom, briar, and the nut- 
bearing hazel no low-lying ridge of 
rocks, covered with lichens, and thinly 
sprinkled with dwarf birches sown by 
bird or breeze no Isle of the Oratory, 
where once the penitent prayed no 
Lady-Holm, where stood the Virgin's 
Chapel no Belle-Isle, whose noble 
forest- trees fling their shadows from 
shore to shore, till two separate Lakes, 
upper and lower, rejoice each in its 
own independent and different beauty. 
But there is great grandeur in the bold 
breadth of that amphitheatre; and those 
surely are noble woods and groves 
that not only embower the meadows, 
but ascend the mountain-sides, broken 
but by castellated cliffs, round which 
flies and cries hawk or kite, or per- 
haps the eagle. That kingly bird gives 
name to yonder solitary mountain in 
the darkness of the glen ; but you 
must not expect to see him, for he is 
fond of foreign travel, and revisits his 
paternal mansion only about four times 
a century. 

Coniston Lake is best seen, no doubt, 
by entering the country over the sands 
from Lancaster ; and by doing so, you 
may likewise pay a visit to the inte- 
resting ruins of Furness- Abbey. " The 
stranger," says Mr Wordsworth, with 
his usual poetical feeling, " from the 
moment he sets his foot on these sands, 
seems to leave the turmoil and traffic 
of the world behind him ; and, cross- 
ing the majestic plain, when the sea 
has retired, he beholds, rising appa- 
rently from its base, the cluster of 
mountains among which he is going 
to wander ; and towards whose recess- 
es, by the Vale of Coniston, he is gra- 
dually and peacefully led." Did time 
permit, every lake in the world, besides 
Coniston, ought to be approached from 
the foot; but the attempt would be 
often difficult, and indeed human life 
is too short for such a scientific survey. 
But now that you are afloat, you may 
pull away to the foot of the lake, if 
you choose, and you will be well re- 
paid for your labour by the pretty 
promontories and bashful bays they 
conceal, and merry meadows lying in 

Hints for the Holidays. No. J. 

ambush, and " corn-riggs sae bonny" 
trespassing upon the coppice-woods, 
that year after year yield up their lin- 
gering roots to the ploughshare, arid 
grey, white, blue, green, and brown 
cottages, of every shape and size, and 
pastoral eminences of old lea, crown- 
ed with a few pine-trees, or with an 
Oak, itself a grove. 

It is indeed a pretty sight to see two 
young ladies attempting to row. How 
white the gleam of the delicate little 
fingers on the yellow weather-beaten 
oar ! Pity that there should ever rise 
a blister on such smooth silken palms ! 
Ever and anon, their heads are tossed 
backward and aside, the auburn head 
that glitters like the sunshine, and the 
head dark as the raven's wing, that 
the dishevelled tresses may not blind 
altogether those blue or dark-grey 
laughing eyes. Those slender ankles 
would blush through the silk, and fly 
for shelter beneath the flounces, were 
there the slightest suspicion how inno- 
cently they are betrayed ! How pants 
in its close concealment the heaving 
of the lilied bosom, whose slightest 
glimpse breathes over the senses at 
once beauty, brightness, and balm ! 
But a wave, bolder than the rest, has 
taken hold of the deep-dipping oar, 
and the fair rower, falling back with a 
mirth-mingled shriek of fear, is caught 
in her lover's arms; while something 
like a kiss is, in spite of all his efforts 
to prevent it, left upon the blushes 
that burn even on her snow-white 

By this time the Old People at the 
Inn have become angrily uneasy ; but 
the landlord gives them a telescope, 
(the gifc of an Ulverston sea-captain,) 
and their parental wrath is appeased 
by the far-off, but approaching dis- 
play of parasols, that comes brighten- 
ing along, and in half an hour, has 
brought its green reflection into the 
mirror of the home-bay, now indis- 
tinguishable from shore, air, or sky. 

As you have brought with you four 
-horses, what's to hinder them from 
being saddled now that they have 
been combed and curried and an 
equestrian excursion made into Yew- 
dale and Tilberthwaite ? That curly- 
pated pigmy will be your guide, and 
if murmuring streams, and dashing 
torrents, and silent pools, and shadow- 
haunted grass fields, and star-studded 
meadows, and glimmering groves, and 
cliff-girdling coppicewoods, and a hun- 

dred charcoal Sheilings, Huts, and 
Cottages, and one old Hall, and several 
hall-like Barns, and a solitary Chapel 
among its green graves, and glades, and 
dells, and glens without number, 
knolls, eminences, hillocks, hills, and 
mountains, if these, and many other 
such sights as these, all so disposed 
that beauty breathes, whispers, moves, 
or hangs motionless over all, have 
power to charm your spirit, then put 
all the side-saddles in the village in 
requisition, and you males being nim- 
ble as deer, pace proudly each by his 
own lady's palfrey, and away with 
the cavalcade into the heart of the ex- 
pecting mountains ! 

On such excursions there are sure 
to occur a few enviable adventures. 
First, the girths get wrong, and with- 
out allowing your beloved virgin to 
alight, you spend more time than is ab- 
solutely necessary in arranging it ; nor 
can you help admiring the attitude into 
which the graceful creature is forced to 
draw up her delicate limbs, that her 
fairy feet may not be in the way to im- 
pede your services. By and by, a calf, 
which you hope will be allowed to 
grow up into a cow, stretching up 
her curved red back from behind a 
wall, startles John Darby, albeit un- 
used to the starting mood, and you 
leap four yards to the timely assist- 
ance of the fair shrieker, tenderly 
pressing her bridle-hand as you find 
the rein that has not been lost, and 
wonder what has become of the whip 
that never existed. A little farther on, 
a bridgeless stream crosses the road 
a dangerous- looking ford indeed a 
foot deep at the very least, and scorn- 
ing wet feet, as they ought to be scorn- 
ed, you almost carry, serene in danger, 
your affianced bride (or she is in a fair 
way of becoming so), in your arms off 
the saddle, nor relinquish the delight- 
ful clasp till all risk is at an end, some 
hundred yards on, along the velvet 
herbage. Next stream you come to 
has indeed a bridge but then what 
a bridge ! A long, coggly, cracked 
slate-stone, whose unsteady clatter 
would make the soberest steed jump 
over the moon. You beseech the ti- 
mid girl to sit fast, and she almost 
leans down to your bosom, as you 
press to meet the blessed burthen, and 
to prevent the steady old stager from 
leaping over the battlements. But now 
the chasm on each side of the narrow 
path is so tremendous, that she must 


Hints fur the Holidays. No, /. 

dismount, after du disentanglement, 
from that awkward, old-fashioned 
crutch and pummel, and from a stir- 
rup, into winch a little foot, when it 
has once crept like a mouse, finds it- 
self caught as in a trap of singular 
construction, arid difficult to open for 
releasement. You feel that all you 
love in the world is indeed fully, fresh- 
ly, and warmly in your arms, nor can 
you bear to set the treasure down on 
the rough, stony road, but look round, 
and round, and round, for a soft spot, 
which you finally prophesy at some 
distance up the hill, whither wards, in 
spite of pouting Yea and Nay, you per- 
sist in carrying her whose head is ere 
long to lie in your tranquil bosom. 

Gallantry forbids, but Truth com- 
mands to say, that young ladies are 
sorry sketchers. The dear creatures 
have no notion of perspective. At 
flower- pain ting and embroidery, they 
are pretty fair hands, but they make 
sad work among waterfalls and ruins. 
They pencil most extraordinary trees, 
aud nothing can be more puzzling 
than their horned cattle. Their wo- 
men are like boys in girls' clothes 
all as flat as flounders ; nor can there 
be greater failures than the generality 
of their men. Notwithstanding, it is 
pleasant to hang over them, seated on 
stone or stool, drawing from nature ; 
and now and then to help them in 
with a cow or a horse, or a hermit. It 
is a difficult, almost an impossible 
thing that foreshortening. The most 
speculative genius is often at a loss to 
conjecture the species of a human 
being foreshortened by a young lady. 
The hanging Tower at Pisa is, we be- 
lieve, some thirty feet or so off the 
perpendicular, and there is one at 
Caerphilly about seventeen ; but these 
are nothing to the castles in the air 
we have seen built by the touch of a 
female magician ; nor is it an unusual 
thing with artists of the fair sex to 
order their plumed chivalry to gallop 
down precipices considerably steeper 
than a house, on animals apparently 
produced between the tiger and the 

Their happiest landscapes betray 
indeed an amiable innocence of all 
branches of natural history, except 
perhaps botany, the foreground be- 
ing accordingly well stocked with rare 
plants, which it would stagger a Hook- 
er, a Greville, or a Graham, to christen 
out of any accredited nomenclature. 


When they have succeeded in getting 
something like the appearance of wa- 
ter between banks, like Air Barrow of 
the Admiralty they are not very par- 
ticular about its running occasionally 
up-hill ; and it is interesting to see a 
stream stealing quietly below trees in 
gradual ascension, till, disappearing 
round a corner for a few minutes, it 
comes thundering down in the shape 
of a waterfall on the head of an elderly 
gentleman, unsuspectingly reading Mr 
Wordsworth's Excursion, perhaps, in 
the foreground. Nevertheless, we re- 
peat, that it is delightful to hang over 
one of the dear creatures, seated on 
stone or stool, drawing from nature ; 
for whatever may be the pencil's skill, 
the eye may behold the glimpse of a 
vision whose beauty shall be remem- 
bered when even Coniston and Win- 
der mere have faded into oblivion. 

Several such sketches having enrich- 
ed the portfolios of the party, you all 
return the best way you can, in strag- 
gling order, to the inn. Yesterday 'a 
Epicurean dimieratBowness may have 
made you all rather fastidious; but 
the cook at Coniston Waterhead is a 
woman of great merit, and celebrated 
as the " Lady of the Lardner." In 
the cool of the evening you leave the 
inn in your barouche, the homeward- 
bound horses with difficulty being kept 
from the gallop, and lo, at the Ferry, 
a group of intimates from the neigh- 
bourhood of your seat in Yorkshire or 
Surrey ! 

What cordial shaking of hands 
amongst the young gentlemen ! what 
loving kisses among the young ladies ! 
a hundred unanswered questions are 
immediately put into circulation ; and 
the silence of the twilight is cheered 
by a sweet susurring, that whispers 
innocence and joy. A general assig- 
nation is made between the affectionate 
parties for to-morrow ; and, after their 
few hours' dreamy sleep of wavering 
woods, lo, in the twinkling of the sun's 
eye, to-morrow rises on the world and 

It is very much the same with plea- 
sant scenery as with pleasant people, 
we feel as if we knew the character of 
place or person even from a single 
interview. So is it now with the coali- 
tion of parties. Not a single soul among 
them had seen Windermere till yes- 
terday, and now they are all talking 
away about it as if the friendship 
had been of twenty years' standing it 


the least. They scramble up the hill 
above the School-house, which we 
believe was first discovered by Mr 
Arthur Young, and a wonderful dis- 
covery it was, so far remote, for a 
gentleman somewhat advanced in life, 
and so entirely devoted to agricultural 
pursuits. From that eminence the 
Lake is seen in all its length, breadth, 
and beauty ; and now, and not till now, 
can it be said that you have seen 

This is a fine, warm, cool, bright, 
dark, calm, and breezy forenoon ; so 
you must pedestrianize it for a few 
unmeasured miles, over Jiill and dale, 
through brake and wood. Find your 
way, then, the best you can, over 
fitone-wall, or through hedge-gap, 
gate, or stile, along the breast and 
brow of Bannerig, and along the 
heights of Elleray and Oresthead. 
Thence you not only behold all the 
Lakes, but also many of the noblest 
ranges of the Westmoreland, Lanca- 
shire, and Cumberland mountains. 
There is not, perhaps, such another 
splendid prospect in all England. The 
lake has indeed much of the character 
of a river, without, however, losing its 
own. The Islands are seen almost all 
lying together in a cluster below 
which all is loftiness and beauty 
above, all majesty and grandeur. Bold 
or gentle promontories break all the 
banks into frequent bays, seldom 
without a cottage or cottages embow- 
ered in trees ; and while the whole 
landscape is of a sylvan kind, parts 
of it are so laden with woods that you 
see only here and there a wreath of 
smoke, but no houses, and could almost 
believe that you are gazing on the 
primeval forests. 

Lunch over, and your Surrey friends 
off to Coniston with a laughing and 
tearful farewell, you wheel away to Lo- 
wood. But be persuaded and go round 
by Troutbeck Chapel. Your way lies 
up a narrow vale, with a stream deep 
down and picturesquely wooded, with 
frequent holm -grounds nooks, in 
which build cottages, according to 
your own fancies, and let them melt 
away like dew- webs in the sunshine 
Avoid both Grecian and Gothic archi- 
tecture and let the whole building, 
as you love us, be on the ground- 

Passing a snug way-side cottage, 
railed Cook's-House, and turning sud- 
denly to tlig left, you come gazing 

Hints for the Holidays. No, I. 


along the magnificent terrace of Mil- 
lar-ground, and then descending into 
the soft or solemn shadows of the Ray- 
rigg woods, like our first parents, 

Who, hand in hand, with wandering steps, 

and slow, 
Through Eden took their solitary way, 

you find yourself unconsciously re- 
turned to Bowness, the Port of Para- 

Now, very probably, not a single 
person in the whole party has admired 
the long vale-village of Troutbeck, 
Leaving the splendours of Winder- 
mere, of which now but a single gleam 
is visible, you may be pardoned for a 
feeling of disappointment in a place so 
shut up and secluded, and you glance 
somewhat impatiently at the much- 
be-praised picturesqueness of the many 
chimneyed cottages, rejoicing in their 
unnumbered gables, and slate-slab 
porticos, all dripping with roses and 
matted with the virgin's-bower. To 
feel the full force of the peculiar beauty 
breathin g over these an tique tenements, 
you must understand their domestic 
economy. Now you are in perfect 
ignorance of it all, and have not the 
faintest conception of the use or mean- 
ing of any one thing you see, roof, 
eaves, chimney, beam, props, door, 
window, hovel, shed, and hanging 
staircase, being all huddled together, 
as you think, in unintelligible con- 
fusion ; whereas they are all precisely 
what and where they ought to be, anil 
have had their colours painted, forms 
shaped, and places allotted by wind 
and weather, and the perpetually but 
scarcely felt necessities of the natural 
condition of mountaineers. 

Understanding, however, and en- 
joying as much as you can of Trout- 
beck, after an hour's ramble in lane 
and alley, you again collect your scat- 
tered forces on the hill above the cha- 
pel, and proceed towards Lowood, the 
most beautifully situated inn in this 
world, and that is a wide word. It is 
likewise an excellent inn, both for bed 
and board, and the party that leaves it 
without passing there an afternoon 
and a night, must be a party of sa- 
vages, and, in all probability, canni- 

A few years ago, a grove of stately 
pines stood on the shore of Lowood- 
bay. The axe has been laid unspa- 
ringly to the root, and but two, three, 
or four survive, There mav be more 

Hitih for the Holidays. No. 1. 

for we never had heart to count them, 
remembering us of their murdered 
t'otn peers. It is as absurd to ban gen- 
tlemen of landed and wooded property 
for felling their own trees, as for reap- 
ing their own corn ; but the truth is, 
that the trees we speak of belonged to 
Mankind at large, and no person was 
entitled to put them to death, with- 
out an order signed by the Repre- 
sentative (at the approaching election 
a sharp contest is expected) of the 
Human Race. 

Here it is that you must see Win- 
dermere in sunset. Her broad bosom 
still and serene in the evening light 
and not a sound in the hush of Nature 
but that of your own dipping oars 
you fix your eyes in a trance of so- 
lemn enthusiasm on the glowing and 
gorgeous west, where cloud and moun- 
tain are not to be named in the be- 
wilderment of the golden glory that 
confuses earth with heaven. 

We are, after all that has been ru- 
moured to the contrary, plain matter- 
of-fact men, have little or no unneces- 
sary talent for description, but love to 
call things by their right name bread 
bread, and the sun the sun. We shall 
never forget ourselves so far, we hope, 
as to attempt to describe either a sunset 
or a sunrise. Pretty work indeed has 
been made of that luminary in print : 
and in some late poetry, in particular, 
he has been so grossly flattered to his 
face, that to conceal his burning blushes 
he has been under the absolute neces- 
sity of hiding his head behind a 
cloud. No mode of worship he likes 
so well as calm, wordless, self-with- 
drawn silence the silence of life in- 
tenser than of death. Hush, there- 
fore, thou vain babbler ! Hush ! and 
speak not till the pomp of the pa- 
geant has faded and floated dreamily 
away within your imagination, and 
the delightful but less elevated beauty 
of the pensive twilight brings back 
thoughts and feelings of a character 
more akin to the flow of ordinary ex- 
istence. Soon aa the Evening-star, or 
any other star, comes shining through 
the blue light of the concave, you 
may begin, if you are so disposed, 
gently to laugh, cheerfully to murmur, 
and gladly to sing, to breathe upon 
the voice-like flute, or bid the horn or 
trumpet startle the echoes on Langdale- 
Pikes, or within that one cloud, deep, 
pure, and settled as a snow-wreath, 
that frowns the head of the Great 

Gable, and is reflected in VVastwatei , 
loneliest of lakes, and all unhaunted 
by strife and stir of this weary world ! 

It would be easy to write a whole 
volume about such a village as Amble- 
side, where you are now sitting at 
breakfast in the Salutation Inn nay, 
we have three volumes written about 
it already a story, of which the scene 
is laid there lying in MS. and eager 
for publication. Meanwhile, we re- 
quest you to walk away up to Stock- 
gill Force. There has been a new se- 
ries of weather, to be sure, almost as 
dry as the New Monthly ; but to our 
liking, a waterfall is best in a rainless 
summer. After a flood, the noise is 
beyond all endurance. You get stun- 
ned and stupified till your head splits. 
Then you may open your mouth like 
a barn-door, and roar into a friend's 
ear all in vain a remark on the catar 
act. To him you are a dumb man. 1 a 
two minutes you are as completely 
drenched in spray as if you had fallen 
out of a boat and descend to dinner 
with a* toothache that keeps you in 
starvation in the presence of proVender 
sufficient for a whole bench of bishops 
In dry weather, on the contrary, like 
the New Monthly, the waterfall is in 
moderation ; and instead of tumbling 
over the cliff in a perpetual peal of 
thunder, why, it slides and slidders 
merrily and musically away down 
the green shelving rocks, and sinke 
into repose in many a dim or lu- 
cid pool, amidst whose foam-bells i* 
playing or asleep the fearless Naiad 
Deuce a headache have you speak 
in a whisper, and not a syllable of 
your excellent observation is lost ; 
your coat is dry, except that a few 
dew-drops have been shook over you 
from the branches stirred by the sud- 
den wing-clap of the cushat and as 
for toothache interfering with dinner 
you eat as if your tusks had been just 
sharpened, and would not scruple to 
discuss nuts, upper- and-lower-jaw~ 
work fashion, against the best crackers 
in the county. And all this comes ef 
looking at Stockgill Force, or any 
other waterfall, in weather dry as the 
New Monthly, or even not quite so 
dry, but after a few refreshing and 
fertilizing showers, that make the tri- 
butary rills to murmur, and set at 
work a thousand additional feeders to 
every Lake. 

However, with all this talk of dinner, 
It still wants several hours of that 


happy epocha 5n the history of the day , 
*o away, beloved readers and contri- 
butors^ in a posse comitatus to Rothay 
Bridge. Turn in at a gate to the right 
hand, which, twenty to one, you will 
find open, that the cattle may take an 
occasional promenade along the turn- 
pike, and cool their palates with a 
little ditch grass, and saunter along by 
Millar-Bridge and Foxgill on to Pelter 
Bridge, and, if you please, to Rydal- 
mere. Thus, and thus only, is seen 
the vale of Ambleside. And what a 
vale of grove, and glade, and stream, 
and cliff, and cottage, and villa, and 
village, and grass-field, and garden, 
and orchard, and But not another 
word, for you would forthwith compare 
our description with the reality, and 
seeing it how faint and feeble, would 
toss poor Maga into the Rothay, and 
laugh as she plumped over a waterfall. 
The sylvan or say rather the fo- 
rest scenery (for tjhere is to us an in- 
describable difference between these 
two words) of Rydal Park, was, in 
memory of living men, magnificent, 
and it still contains a treasure of old 
trees. By all means wander away 
into those woods, and lose yourselves 
for an hour or two among the cooing 
of cushats, and the shrill shriek of 
startled black-birds, and the rustle of 
the harmless glow-worm among the 
last year's red beech-leaves* No very 
great harm should you even fall asleep 
under the shadow of an oak, while the 
magpie chatters angrily at safe dis- 
tance, and the more innocent squirrel 
peeps down upon you from a bough 
of the canopy, and then hoisting his 
tail, glides into the obscurity of the 
loftiest umbrage. Although it may 
be safely averred that you are asleep, 
you still continue to see and hear, but 
the sight is a glimmer, and the sound 
a hum, as if the forest-glade were 
swarming with bees, from the ground- 
flowers to the herons' nests. Refresh- 
ed by your dream of Dryads, follow 
a lonesome din that issues from a pile 
of wooded cliffs, and you are led to a 
waterfall. Five minutes are enough 
for taking an impression, if your mind 
be of the right material, and you carry 
it away with you farther down the 
Forest. Such a torrent will not reach 
the lake without disporting itself into 

Hints for the Holidays. No. I. 


many little cataracts; and saw ye ever 
such a fairy one as that flowing through 
below an ivied bridge into a circular 
basin overshadowed by the uncertain 
twilight of many-checkering branches, 
and washing the rock-base of a her- 
mitage, in which a sin-sickened or 
pleasure-palled man might, before his 
hairs were grey, forget all the guilt 
and the gratifications of the noisy 
world ! 

There is nothing to be seen from 
the windows of the Salutation Inn 
but a sweet glimpse of hills and trees, 
so, after dinner, bring down stairs 
your albums, and portfolios, and jour-i 
nals, and pass the evening within 
doors, composing with pen and pencil, 
in present, and for future delight, 
You must not always be on the move 
the spirit in which you visit such & 
country, is a far higher one than that 
of mere curiosity " strange fits of 
passion you have known," no doubt, 
when some insupportable beauty shone 
suddenly on your soul ; but the basis 
on which your feelings rest is affection, 
and you can be happy out of the sight 
of the beloved objects -just, sweetest 
of girls! as he who wins and weds thee 
will be happy at least after one moon 
has waned out of sight even of Thee, 
knowing that thou, while unseen, still 
art shining bright as a star in thy 
beauty, thy innocence, and thy hap- 
piness ! 

Our hope was, that these our Hints 
for the Holidays would have turned 
out to be a complete Guide to the Lakes 
but, afraid of being tedious, here 
we come to a close. Remember that we 
are still at Ambleside, and must not 
leave it till we have looked through 
the smiling face of the country into 
its very heart. No. II. will probably 
be a pleasanter article than even No. I. ; 
and we modestly beg that none of our 
dear subscribers will visit the Lakes 
till it comes out. Ne. III. will be 
published on the 1st of September, and 
the Initial Day of October will re- 
joice in Number Four and Final. The 
Holidays of all sensible people will 
soon after that close for a season, and 
we must think of something at once 
amusing and instructive for Christmas. 
God bless you all ! 



THERE sat an Owl in an old Oak Tree, 

Whooping very merrily ; 

He was considering, as well he might, 

Ways and means for a supper that night ; 

He looked about with a solemn scowl, 

Yet very happy was the Owl, 

For, in the hollow of that oak tree, 

There sat his Wife, and his children three ! 

She was singing one to rest, 

Another, under her downy breast, 

'Gan trying his voice to learn her song, 

The third (a hungry Owl was he) 

Peeped slyly out of the old oak tree, 

And peer'd for his Dad, and said " You're long 

But he hooted for joy, when he presently saw 

His sire, with a full-grown mouse at his claw. 

Oh what a supper they had that night ! 

All was feasting and delight ; 

Who most can chatter, or cram, they strive, 

They were the merriest owls alive. 

What then did the old Owl do ? 

Ah ! Not so gay was his next to-whoo ! 

It was very sadly said, 

For after his children had gone to bed, 

He did not sleep with his children three, 

For, truly a gentleman Owl was he, 

Who would not on his wife intrude, 

When she was nursing her infant brood ; 

So not to invade the nursery, 

He slept outside the hollow tree. 

So when he awoke at the fall of the dew, 
He called his wife with a loud to-whoo ; 
" Awake, dear wife, it is evening gray, 
And our joys live from the death of day." 
He call'd once more, and he shudder'd wher* 
No voice replied to his again ; 
Yet still unwilling to believe, 
That Evil's raven wing was spread, 
Hovering over his guiltless head, 
And shutting out joy from his hollow tree, 
" Ha ha they play me a trick," quoth he, 
" They will not speak, well, well, at night 
They'll talk enough, I'll take a flight." 
But still he went not, in, nor out, 
But hopped uneasily about. 

What then did the Father Owl ? 

He sat still, until below 

He heard cries of pain, and woe, 

And saw his wife, and children three, 

In a young Boy's captivity. 

He followed them with noiseless wing, 

Not a cry once uttering. 

They went to a mansion tall, 

He sat in a window of the hall, 

Where he could see 

His bewilder'd family ; 

And he heard the hall with laughter ring, 

The Owl. . 

When the boy said, "Blind they'll learn to sing ;" 

And he heard the shriek, when, the hot steel pin 

Through their eye-balls was thrust iu ' 

He felt it all ! Their agony 

Was echoed by his frantic cry, 

His scream rose up with a mighty swell, 

And wild on the boy's fierce heart it fell , 

It quailed him, as he shuddering said, 

" Lo ! The litle birds are dead." 

But the. Father Owl ! 

He tore his breast in his despair, 

And flew he knew not, recked not, where ! 

But whither then went the Father Owl, 

With his wild stare and deathly scowl r 

He had got a strange wild stare, 

For he thought he saw them ever there, 

And he scream'd as they scream'd when he inw them f*H 

Dead on the floor of the marble hall 

Many seasons travelled he, 

With his load of misery, 

Striving to forget the pain 

Which was clinging to his brain, 

Many seasons, many years, 

Number'd by his burning tears. 

Many nights his boding cry 

Scared the traveller passing by ; 

But all in vain his wanderings were, 

He could not from his memory tear 

The things that had been, still were theve. 

One night, very very weary, 

He sat in a hollow tree, 

With his thoughts ah ! all so dreary 

For his only company 

He heard something like a sound 

Of horse-hoofs through the forest boun^ 

And full soon he was aware, 

A Stranger, and a Lady fair, 

Hid them, motionless and mute, 

From a husband's swift pursuit. 

The cheated husband passed them by, 
The Owl shrieked out, he scarce knew why ; 
The spoiler look'd, and, by the light, 
Saw two wild eyes that, ghastly bright. 
Threw an unnatural glare around 
The spot where he had shelter found. 
Starting, he woke from rapture's dream, 
For again he heard that boding scream, 
And <f On for danger and death are nig))., 
When drinks mine ear yon dismal cry"- 
He said and fled through the forest fast ; 
The owl has punish'd his foe at last 
For he knew, in the injured husband's foe 
Him who had laid his own hopes low. 

Sick grew the heart of the bird of night, 
And again and again he took to flight ; 
But ever on his wandering wing 
He bore that load of suffering ! 
Nought could cheer him ! the pale moot)., 
In wnose soft beam he took delight, 

The Owt. . 

He look'd at now reproachfully, 
That bhe could smile, and shine,. while h - 
Had withered 'neath such cruel blight, 
He hooted her but still she shone 
And then away alone ! alone ! 

The wheel of time went round once more, 
And his weary wing him backward bore. 
Urged by some strange destiny 
Again to the well-known forest tree, 
Where the stranger he saw at night. 
With the lovely Lady bright. 

The Owl was dozing but a stroke 
Strong on the root of the sturdy oak 
Shook him from his reverie 
Ht- looked down, and he might see 
A stranger close to the hollow tree f 
His looks were haggard, wild, and bad 
Yet the Owl knew in the man, the lad 
Who had destroyed him ! he was glud ! 

And the lovely Lady too was there. 
But now no longer bright nor fair ; 
She was lying on the ground, 
Mute and motionless, no sound 
Came from her coral lips, for they 
Were seal'din blood ; and, as she lay, 
Her locks, of the sun's most golden glean) 4 
Were dabbled in the crimson stream 
That from a wound on her bosom white 
(Ah ! that Man's hand could such impress 
On that sweet seat of loveliness) 
Welled, a sad and ghastly sight, 
And ran all wildly forth to meet 
And cling around the Murderer's fi'ci 

He was digging a grave the Bird 
-Shriek'd aloud the Murderer heard 
Once again that boding scream, 
And saw again those wild eyes gleam 
And " Curse on the Fiend !" he cried, and flm ^ 
His mattock up it caught and hung 
The Felon stood a while aghast 
Then fled through the forest, fast, fast, fast ! 

The hardened Murderer hath fled 

But the Owl kept watch by the shroudless Ue.f.1, 

Until came friends with the early day, 

And bore the mangled corse away 

Then, cutting the air all silently, 

He fled away from his hollow tree. 

Why is the crowd so great to-day, 
And why do the people shout " huzza t' 1 
And why is yonder Felon given 
Alone to feed the birds of Heaven ? 
Had he no friend, now all is done, 
To give his corse a grave? Not one ! 

Night has fallen. What means that cry ;* 
It descends from the gibbet high 
There sits on its top a lonely Owl, 
With a staring eye, and a dismal scowl ; 
And he screams aloud, " Revenge is swett ' 
His mortal foe is at his feet! 

Litter from London* 



Town and country Sights and smells Parliament prorogued Town thinning- 
Row at Epsom races Putting down of the lottery Brighton Waterton Den- 
ham u Sketches in Portugal " Visit to Exeter 'Change Lions fed Vauxhall 
Carl Von Weber. 

LONDON is to me the Tabernacle 
of Baal. Never write another word, 
if you love justice, in favour of land- 
owners or fanners. A price is it they 
want for growing corn and cabbages r 
they ought to pay a tax rather 
the unreasonable rogues ! lor permis- 
sion to live in any place capable of 
producing them. 

Blessed be the sun the sky the 
breeze the grass the wood the 
water, and the day which carries me 
towards the sight of all these which 
will be the day after to-morrow ! 
The devil seems to possess, I think, 
more than usual, for the last fort- 
night, the people of this place : or 
else- it is that I am in an ill humour, 
for this last fortnight, more than 
usual. In the country, men, if they 
labour, seem, as it were, to labour at 
their leisure; or in their toils plough- 
ing and sowing in the open air there 
is nothing that strikes one as painful 
or offensive. Man the agriculturist 
is always healthy and cheerful ; but 
as the trader or manufacturer ! I 
protest I never see a face in town, rich 
or poor, that is not marked with some 
sort of care or anxiety ! And for 
repose, even where the opportunity 
exists, it is an enjoyment of which 
the people are physically incapable. 

Every soul here will be doing ! If 
he has no business of his own, he must 
attend to somebody else's. The first 
thing I saw when I went to my win- 
dow this morning was a funeral. Some 
unhappy wretch was going to his 
grave and he could not go even there 
without everybody that he met in the 
street turning round to accompany 
him. About twelve o'clock, there was 
an alarm of "fire" somewhere, and 
an lf engine" passed. This seemed 
quite irresistible! A general scam- 
per, male and female, took place from 
every quarter ; and the only check upon 
the general delight seemed to be Tin 
apprehension that it might be " not a 
house, after all," that was going to be 
burned down, but " only a chimney." 
Walking out after this towards Covent 
Garden, I met the "prisoners' cara- 

van" (that carries the thieves) coming 
away from Bow Street. The proces- 
sion here was gradually dropping off, 
evidently with regret ; but there was 
no more to be seen the malefactors 
had been deposited at the " office." 
But luckily, as it turned towards Dru- 
ry-lane theatre, Mr Macready the actor, 
or Mr Wallack, came out who went 
off, of course, with a " Tail " as long as 
a Highland chieftain's after him im- 
mediately. Getting higher up town,, 
towards the New Road, I passed the 
Extinguisher Church, in Langham 
Place, and saw no one looking on there, 
though a carriage stood at the door, as if 
for a wedding. Such an extraordinary 
circumstance struck me ; so I waited 
till the party came out mentioning 
that I was an observer of nature to 
see if I could find out the occasion of 
it ; when the bridegroom politely ex- 
plained the seeming miracle, by di- 
recting my attention to the squeak of 
" Punch," about a hundred yards dis- 
tant, whose trumpet I had heard be- 
fore, but had not attended to not be- 
ing aware that he had been privately 
hired to perform there all the while of 
the nuptial ceremony ! 

"The. fumes are infinite inhabit 
here too !" Accum, the chemist, who 
analyzed everything, with all his skill 
never could have analyzed the smell 
that I smell at this moment. There 
is a gas-pipe to begin with has just 
burst below me in the street. This 
accident has narrowed the passage in 
the road, and a soap-lees waggon is 
disputing with a scavenger's cart which 
shallgo first, under my window. Mean- 
time, a light breeze from the south ac- 
commodates me with all that can be 
spared from the mud at the bottom of 
the Thames, and from the coke- burn- 
ers' yards on the farther bank of it. 
M y opposite neighbour " pickles" to- 
day he is an oilman ; and there is gin 
taking in, in cans, at the public-house 
next door to mew My own landlady 
pours as much musk and lavender- 
water upon herself in two minutes as 
would serve to bring a whole nunnery 
out of hysterics for a month ; and the 


Letter from London. 

hot sucking-pigs are just sewing up, 
because it is two o'clock, at the cook's 
shop round the corner in Catherine 
Street ! Compassionate me though 
you do live in Edinburgh ! If I were 
a Catholic, I could get thif? made a 
" penance" of, and put it all an pied 
de la croix; but a good Protestant en- 
dures purgatory, and finds himself 
none the nearer heaven for it. As I 
have been condemned, however, for 
the last six weeks, to suffer for my 
sins if not to expiate them in this 
place, I may as well turn my annoy- 
ance to some account, and let you know 
what is going on in it. 

Parliament prorogued on the 1st of 
June. The last talking in the Com- 
mons, was an attack by Tierney upon 
the Currency of Scotland. " Tout va 
hien" this was the opinion of Mon- 
tesquieu " lorsque V argent repre- 
sents si parfaitement les chose.*, qu'on 
pent avoir les choses des qu'on a I 'ar- 
gent ; et lorsque les choses represente 
si parfaitement I'argent qu'on petit 
avoir I'argent des qu'on a les choses" 
Unless a law is to be passed, making 
all dealings between parties, under pe- 
nalty, matters of ready-money pay- 
ments or barter, I don't well see why 
men should be compelled to adopt a 
costly symbol of credit, who are sa- 
tisfied with an inexpensive one, ha- 
ving that inexpensive one sufficient- 
ly guaranteed to them just as well, 
or rather better. Corn question car- 
ried (as of course you know) by a 
strong majority in the Lords; and 
people looking forward confidently to 
a change in the whole system next 
year. No party very well pleased with 
Mr Jacob's report ; one side being in- 
credulous that corn coming from Ger- 
many will be at so high a price as he 
states, and the other very angry to find 
that it will come no cheaper. Upon 
one point in his account, the limited 
degree of supply which he thinks Po- 
land and Prussia, with a regular de- 
mand from England, would be able to 
send us, I think, taking his own state- 
ments as evidence, the " reporter" ra- 
ther miscalculates. But, you have 
enough discussion I dare say upon this 
subject, from persons who know more 
about it than I do< -and who don't find 
it very easy to come to any entirely 
satisfying conclusions about it either. 

Town thinning, of course, fast ; 
time coming to Macadamise Piccadilly, 
and hotel-keepers grumbling heavily 
at the shortness of the " season." Com- 



forted something by the reflection that 
the muster in the next Parliament will 
be full and early, as the new candi- 
dates who are returned, will naturally 
be impatient to exercise their pri- 
vileges ; and those who are thrown 
out will come up (which will answer 
as well) to present petitions against 
their successful opponents. Bond-street 
pretty full still very fairly full for 
the time, and ridiculous. Regent- 
street looking a little Rag- fairish, ow- 
ing to the haberdashers all ticketting 
their old stocks of silk at half price, to 
sell them before the French come in. 
On the first of next month the change 
begins, and there will certainly be a 
great run for French, or " imitatior: 
French " articles, for the first year ; 
but our dealers, upon the whole, seem 
pretty easy ; I suspect that the old 
trade will go on our ladies will pay 
for French goods, God bless them ! and 
carry home English ones which is as 
it should be. 

Great row this year at Epsom races ? 
and much injustice done, in my opi- 
nion, to Mr Crockford and his friends ; 
who were not at all convicted of un-^ 
derhand dealings, but only suspedted 
of the same a distinction which, on 
the (t turf, ' as in some other places, 
makes a great deal of difference. For 
my own part, I was in hopes that they 
had cheated, and would still receive, 
because that has been the principle a 
good deal recognised lately in the city. 
And, besides, when I see a man of 
high rank and ample fortune, setting 
his large means perhaps a property of 
twenty thousand pounds a-year to 
ruin a poor rogue who games for a live- 
lihood, and has not probably five hun- 
dred pounds to lose in the world,'! 
think the gentleman on the "flash 
side " is incomparably the more deser- 
ving person of the two, and I wish him 
success accordingly. In this 'affair, 
however, I believe most of the people 
who were at first concerned in the out- 
cry, had wit enough afterwards to 
perceive, that to be too nice was to de~ 
stroy their own trade in future. So the 
bets were paid ; the matter was admit- 
ted to be all right, and my friend C 
when I left the room at Tattersall's on 
the ' ' settling day," was marking away 
on the " book" in high spirits, with a 
pile of bank notes, at least to the amount 
of fifty thousand pounds, before him 

Three hundred thousand pounds,, 
however, won and lost upon one race, 
which is the calculation as to the stakes 

Letter from London. 

nt Epsom, might make us look almost, 
I believe it was apprehended, like a 
gaming people ; and so, to retrieve the 
national character, we have, with ex- 
cellent judgment, put down that too 
long tolerated abomination, the Public 
Lottery. " Lotteries," says Mr Good- 
luck, in a mourning bill, with a broad 
black edge, " Parliament has decreed 
must end for ever on the 18th of Ju- 
ly !" All the " contractors," as may 
be supposed, are in despair., The peo- 
ple who write the puffs are talking of 
a claim for " compensation ;" and the 
old men that used to walk about with 
the boards on their backs, say that 
every trade in the country if this 
Ministry lasts will be brought to ruin. 
I confess, I think myself, that look- 
ing to our general habits and arrange- 
ments the putting down of the Lot- 
tery in deprecation of " gaming," does 
show a little like affectation. To put 
down gaming as a practice, every man 
knows to be impossible. To prevent 
the existence of established common 
gaming-houses, we find to be impossi- 
ble. I will not speak of the dealings 
on the Stock Exchange, because there 
is a fashion to call the gaming there 
but, while half the leading 

people in the country are winning am 
losing enormous sums of money every 
year at public races it being noto- 
rious, as regards any argument of the 
advantage from keeping up our breed 
of horses, that two thirds of the money 
is betted by persons who keep no run- 
ning horses at all ; to make it a merit, 
or a point of conscience, the abolishing 
Lotteries, while such a system as this 
is in activity, does seem to me to sa- 
vour very strongly indeed of hum- 

I have not one word to say why 
Lotteries should be instituted ; but 
we found them existing; and they 
raised something in the way of reve- 
nue ; and this was raised in a way not 
at all felt by the people ; and upon a 
scheme free from all the objections to 
which the practice of gaming (as a 
system) will apply. Everybody must 
be aware, that all the common trans- 
actions of life are, in fact, transac- 
tions of gaming. What is a man's go- 
ing into trade the mere opening and 
stocking of a new shop but a specu- 
lation of chance ? What is the pur- 
chase, by a publisher, of an author's 
book, but a speculation very hazar- 
dous ? How, ia fact, are all our great 

mercantile fortunes notoriously made, 
but by gaming speculations, constant- 
ly of the most dangerous description, 
and often with inadequate means of 
responsibility in case of loss ? I grant, 
that the objection to gaming as a sys- 
tem, does not apply to the majority 
of these dealings, viz. that the game 
played is wholly and necessarily un- 
productive of advantage to society ; 
but the year that abolishes the Lotte- 
ries we find raises up the joint-stock 
companies; and, from the mischiefs 
commonly attendant upon the prac- 
tice of gaming, the scheme of the 
Public Lottery is incomparably more 
free than the scheme of the Stock Ex- 

The true objection to the existence 
of the gaming house, is not that a 
man may walk into such a house ana 
lose a stake of twenty guineas (for this 
he may do without going into the 
house at all, by tossing up a halfpen- 
ny at the door) but the real mischief 
is, that he plays at a game which 
(like the game of the Stock Exchange, 
or of the race course) is continuous ; 
at a game, in the course of which he 
becomes excited ; and at which, ha- 
ving lost one stake, the passion is in- 
flamed, the means are ready, and he 
goes on and risks another. 

There would be very little mischief 
done by playing at hazard, if a man, 
after he had won or lost one main, 
could not play for another until a month 
or six weeks afterwards. He would 
grow cool probably within such pe- 
riod, and be able to consider, whether 
it was advisable to play any more at 
all. And in the Lottery as it stood 
we had all this advantage, and more. 
The whole proceeding was void of the 
dangerous spirit of " play;" it was 
cold and methodical. The player did 
not himself become an actor in any 
game, nor see any game played ; nor 
live, in many instances, within a hun- 
dred miles of the place where the 
game was played. He was fully pro- 
tected from fraud. When he had lost 
his stake, if he was angry, he might 
get pleased again ; for he could not 
go on there was no other Lottery (at 
soonest) for the next two months- 
Something too much of this perhaps 
I could not say a word about esta- 
blishing a Lottery ; but I think the 
killing the existing one was a piece of 
cant. The " raffles" at the watering- 
places, which go on from morning till 


night and which are, as regards the 

equity of the game played, monstrous 

robberies seem to me, of the two, to 

have been more worthy of legislative 


Speaking of " watering-places/' and 
" raffles/' and so forth, puts me in 
mind of Brighton, which is the most 
horrid place upon the face of the earth ; 
there are stories that the King does 
riot mean to go to the Pavilion any 
more. In which event, may the rats 
(who are likely to be its sole inha- 
bitants) have mercy upon that cala- 
mitous-looking range of new buildings 
they call " Kemp Town" which looks 
to me like nothing in the world but 
a great barrack, built upon a site which 
was so barren as not to be available 
for any earthly purpose else. 

Indeed, what carries people to Brigh- 
ton I never could understand J for, 
certainly, as regards any approach to 
peacefulness, or the air of the coun- 
try about it, you had incomparably 
better live at Charing Cross. The 
" Steyne !" were you ever there ? 
it is a brick-paved alley, about thirty 
feet wide, with " raffle" shops on one 
side of it, and iron rails on the other. 
The Pavilion! this is now so built 
upon in every direction, as hardly to 
have any chance of a peep at the sea 
remaining ! Then all day long there's 
no cessation every ten minutes fresh 
coachfulls keep " arriving" from Cock- 
aigne ! On a Saturday, the" influx of 
company" is appalling to think of! 

" There's lofty Mrs Wick, the chandler's 

wife ; 
And Mrs Bull, the butcher's imp of 


And about they walk " doing a bit 
of grandeur" all day on Sunday ; and 
go up to London again " Fare out- 
side, 8s." full gallop all the way 
on Monday. 

And then you may guess the kind of 
trade this produces in the town ! The 
sort of accommodation these people of 
passage get, whom their entertainers 
know under all treatment will come, 
and under no treatment will stay. I 
came in, the first time I was at Brigh- 
ton, from Hampshire. I had come 
round the coast. I had seen Ports- 
mouth during the war, and thought 
that I knew something but I was to 
be taught better. 

Drove in a hack -chaise to one of 
:he inns I forget what was the name 

Letter from London. 


of it, but it was somewhere upon the 
" cliff " one of the " view" houses, 
where you may see a fishing-boat with 
a telescope, if you look sharp, one- 
half hour ; and see the same boat> 
without a telescope, if you look sharp 
again, in the next half hour. 

Saw the landlady, who was a pretty 
woman and yet, though pretty, cor- 
rupted by the general tone of the 
place. Literally true ! knew I would 
not grumble, and used her beauty to 
impose upon me. I have ever since be- 
lieved, and do believe it possible, that 
there may be truth in that property, 
attributed by some writers to the air 
of the West Indies to wit, that men's 
honesty will not keep there, if they 
happen to carry any out with them. 
Never was cheated by a pretty woman 
before in all my life ! except in France, 
where the women (generally) are ras- 

Small, close, cooped-up sitting-room j 
rather smoky, because the wind blew 
down the chimney from the sea ; and 
smelt I don't know how the fact was 
as if there was a tom-cat either lived 
in, or visited the house. 

Shown an equally vile bed-room 
up a great many pair of stairs ; and, 
when that would not do, shown an- 
other rather worse. N.B. This is a 
mode of giving you your choice not 
confined to Brighton. 

Dressed, and inquired about dinner. 
No fish but mackerel, which I despise. 
Nothing to be got, that I could re- 
duce to a certainty, but a veal cutlet, 
or a lamb chop ; and I hate steaks 
and chops as I hate the devil only 
worse. Waiter, with his hair dressed 
grotesquely, asked if I would take " as- 
paragus," or " a potato." Cloth very 
neat ; plates hot ; silver forks ; bfct 
the devil of anything to eat ! Brought 
me a chop that weighed half an ounce ; 
and after the second, together not a 
mouthful, asked " if I would have any 
more !" Desired them to dress the 
whole sheep, or rather the flock^ 
and all the vegetables in the county. 
Appetite lost in ill humour. Could 
not eat when more was dressed. Tarts 
sour as verjuice. Wine ! Sherry they 
call it ! Water vinegar Cayenne 
pepper sugar -and Epsom salts. 
Gentleman who dined in the same 
coffee-room, said to another, te Not a 
bad glass of wine !" as he tasted his- 
What an inexpressible happiness ii 
must be to be a beast ! 


Walked along the 

meant to stay a day or two, to try if 
I could get lodgings. All the people 
seemed rampant, in boots and spurs, 
and white hats, and riding in go-carts, 
or upon three-legged horses. Looked 
at half a dozen lodgings ; saw that the 
owners were quite wretched for fear 
they should not ask all the money I 
had got. Would not take any ; and 

Letter from London 
cliff," having the chirping of the birds, with his un- 

wholesome gossip ! The rascal has the 
impertinence, presumptive, of a bar- 
ber, a fiddler, or a dancing-master. 
Hark ! how he will talk you to the 
guard, of leaders, wheelers, and long 
stages ! of weather, crops, potatoes, 
politics, and hailstones, and what he 
had for breakfast at the " Spread 
Eagle," the last time he came that way ! 

llt*vl ilUL. UlllVL HUt ttirvo **HY y **** j-je*^*\^ IAAXX ***wv -- 

made up my mind not to stay at all. How again he jests with the servant- 
Then the next morning, " by coach," maid of the " MissTratts ! and there 

comes a laugh that pierces to your 
very marrow ! How talkative the vul- 
gar is en masse! He should have kept 
geese upon a common now, this ruffian. 
And yet, a hundred to one, our ge- 
neral education" has made him clerk 
to an attorney ! 

Read some of Waterton's book, the 
" Wanderings," which was very plea- 
santly reviewed in the Quarterly. A 
very extraordinary production ! The 
riding upon the crocodile must be 
meant as a hoax; there is so much 
good sense in other parts of the book^ 
that it can't be anything else. And 
the style, too, is peculiarly good, for a 
man who is not an author by profes- 
sion : A great deal of it is lively and 
pointed, and some of it very elegant. 
The same gift may be observed in 
Major Denham's book ; which is got 
up with considerable taste and clever- 
ness. If it be done by the Major 
himself, it shows a combination of ta- 
f _,, lents in one individual, making such 

one who " knows the road," is the journeys, and constructing such para- 

as Pepys would say, to London. 
Awoke at six ! Cursed " six" by my 
gods, and all coaches that started at 
such an hour. " Boots" waked me ; 
the wretch was one mass of velveteen 
and blacking ! and smelled of oil he 
was saturated with it, worse than a 
South-sea whaler. Coach loaded when 
I got down stairs. Monsters all ! 
Book a delusion, Mrs " Delmore" 
that I had counted on something a 
mumbling old frippery of ninety ; and 
the two " Miss Pratts" urchins been 
out of town for " the meazles," in the 
care of " uncle Thomas," and a maid 
servant ! Well ! as Tobias says in the 
Stranger, " There is another, and a 
better world !" 

But, beyond the odour of " Boots," 
or the presence of an old woman 
where you expected a young one, of 
all visitations that can be inflicted 
upon you, within that Pandora's box 
outdone, a public conveyance the 
having a practised traveller with you, 

most crucifyingly horrible ! Between 
Crawley and London, you can't pass a 
show-box, but this villain can tell you 
how long it is built, and the pedigree 
of the man that owns it ! He knows 
the landlord's name at the inn, stop 
where you will; the house he came 
from last ; the number of his children ; 
and the time when his brother was 
hanged ! The coachman is always 
" Mister," or " Dick" so and so, with 
this wretch; the bar-maid always 
Betty." He prefers the outside" 
of a coach to the " in," at " any 
time," holds a drop of " dogs nose" 
(beyond rum or brandy) the sovereignst 
thing a 'man can take to " keep the 
cold out with ;" and has a great- coat 
" at home," that stood a fortnight's 
rain once without bring wet through ! 
Oh ! it is hideous to have a pernicious 
polypus like this, poisoning the little 

food there is the sweet air of the 
elds and of the gardens drowning 

graphs the physical and the intellec- 
tual not often to be met with. 

Looked into the last Quarterly, and 
liked it much. Sound, and yet viva- 
cious. Found I had read the article on 
the Poor Laws which is a very cle- 
ver one piecemeal, all the week be- 
fore, in half a dozen evening and Sun- 
day newspapers; wondering all the 
while how the devil they got so much 
knowledge upon the matter. As we 
stand now, the reading public is com- 
pletely divided into classes; after a joke 
or a thought is worn out in one circle., 
it is still fresh and good for ano- 

Took up another book, called "Sket- 
ches in Portugal," or some such title 
done with pictures before the author 
of which Mr Waterton crocodile and 
all must hide his diminished head. 
What do you say to being shaved in 
the Peninsula ? But you shall have 
th story in the writer's own words. 


Letter from London, 

(t To return to Portuguese barbers, 
I remember one near Alcantara [[Al- 
cantara is a parish in Lisbon^ re- 
nowned for his dexterity ; and to the 
English who resided in Lisbon in the 
years 1809 to 1811, the circumstance 
must be familiar. It happened zw- 
variably, that when a well-dressed man 
(homme de gravata lavada) came into 
his shop to be shaved, he would take 
off' his head instead of his beard let 
Him down through a trap-door, on which 
his chair had been purposely placed, 
and be ready in a trice to repeat the 
operation on the next customer, while 
his wife was occupied in disposing of 
the patient's clothes." 

If " gravata lavada" i. e. clean linen, 
was in anything like common request 
in Portugal at the time referred to, this 
barber must have made a fortune at 
this trade pretty rapidly. But our 
author meets with wholesale people in 
all professions, and wholesale doings 
wherever he goes. At Setubal, a little 
fishing village on the Tagus, he is pre- 
sent during the Carnival, when it is 
the custom of the Portuguese, among 
other sports, to throw oranges at one 
another for diversion ; and he sees 
there as many oranges scattered about 
the streets, which people had been 
throwing at one another, as <( would 
suffice, at least, to load^/we or six ves- 
sels of two hundred tons burthen /" 
Dickens and daisies a man who has 
seen such things as these what a gen- 
tleman he would be to show at a fair ! 
Supposing these oranges now to be 
sold at ten for a farthing; the quantity 
thrown away would be worth rather 
more than four thousand pounds. 

But the oranges carried me away 
from my purpose. Major Denham's 
travels put me in mind of lions and 
such ferocious beasts. I went to Exe- 
ter Change the other night to see the 
lions fed a sight, I'll promise you, 
worth attention. I would not give a 
pin to see unhappy animals (miscalled 
" wild") as we generally look at them 
in cages dull, sleepy, sluggish, or, at 
best, only a little fretful from the sense 
of unmerited confinement. But, when 
excited by an amorous inclination, the 
sight of a bone, or any other interest- 
ing casualty Ca ira ! I am not sur- 
prised that the Roman Emperors gave 
their lions Christians -(whom they 
held in no more estimation than I 
would Cockneys)-^to eat. But you 

shall hear. Listen, Christopher only 

I went in about a quarter of an hour 
before " feeding time" just, I may 
say, as the cloth was laid ; everybody 
very restless and anxious ; great flou- 
rishing of tails, low stifled growling, 
and rapid passaging to and fro against 
the bars of the dens, by the junior 
branches of the company three glo- 
rious young lionesses and a lion with 
a general spring to the front every 
time the commander of the legs of beef 
stirred from his place, obviously con- 
scious that dinner could not be a very 
great way off, though not certain to a 
minute (as Chuny was dead, who al- 
ways knew what o'clock it was) about 
the time. At length the ceremony 
commenced ; and then, even in the 
certainty that he was secured, it was 
hardly possible to look at the grown, 
lion, " Nero," (all old lions, I believe, 
are called " Nero,") without a dispo- 
sition to get a " little farther" from 
the cage in case " anything should 

His roar, when a pole was placed up- 
on the piece of meat which had been 
thrown to him, resembled no sound 
that I had ever heard before. It was 
not a sustained or continued tone ; 
but a short, rapid, staccato repetition 
upon one note a sort of half cough 
and half bark not produced by any 
movement of the mouth, but issuing 
obviously and directly from the throat; 
and like to nothing so much that I can 
instance as the hollow, deep, quick 
rolling which is produced by the dis- 
charge of artillery, in a sharp running 
fire, at a small distance ; or still more 
in the shooting down if you ever 
heard it of a cart-load of paving- 
stones ; or by the continued falling of 
heavy masses of some slightly sono- 
rous material one over another. 

The spring, too, of the animal con- 
veyed, what I never fully appreciated 
before, a sense of the utter hopeless- 
ness, with the best-chosen weapons, 
of a man's making any resistance in 
case he were attacked by such a brute. 
I had been of another opinion when I 
saw that lion of Wombwell's fight at 
Warwick ; but there must have been 
some peculiarity about him that was 
not understood. He was a fine, hand- 
some, well- grown, well-looking ani- 
mal ; but the " Nero " of Exeter 
Change ! the best dog ever bred in 


England, that received cue blow from 
his fore-paw, would never rise to fight 
again. I should be strongly inclined 
to bet that his spring alone would 
bring down an ox. 

Visited the den of the late " Chuny " ; 
and conversed with his late proprie- 
tor upon his mishap ; who assured 
me that he would never have an ele- 
phant up two pair of stairs again. Had 
he only lived upon a ground floor, 
Chuny, it is thought now, might have 
been saved ; but the Jews in the change 
underneath (who expected him to come 
through) made such a clamour ! 
Every man must do what he likes 
with his own but / would not have 
killed him for all the old-clothes-men 
in Christendom. When his death, 
however, was resolved on, the object, 
of course, became to dispatch him with 
as little suffering as possible ; and a 
i( field piece" was suggested as the 
readiest way ; but it was found im- 
possible, the proprietor told me, in all 
London to get one. He sent to all 
the gun-smiths in the Strand asking 
tor a " field-piece," but they had no 
such thing. Some one said that per- 
haps Mr Barber Beaumont, as he lived 
at a " fire" office, might do something 
for them, but they did not succeed 
there ; then they sent to all the wharfs 
on the Surrey side of the river, which 
are in the habit of " saluting" when 
the Lord Mayor goes by in his barge, 
&c. c. ; but those guns, it was found, 
would not be safe to carry ball, as they 
were made only to be used with pow- 
der. And at last, the man sent up, 
he said, to Covent Garden and Drury 
Lane theatres, where, he had heard, 
they had pieces of all sorts ; but they 
sent him back word, that they had 
none such as would suit his pur- 
pose. So, then as sixteen ounces 
make a pound it seems they thought 
they could not do better than have re- 
course to muskets. 

Was shown a cabinet of monkeys, a 
sort of creatures that I have always 
contemplated with great delight and 
attention, and am convinced that (af- 
ter the inhabitants of Africa are civi- 
lized, and the negroes in our own co- 
lonies are emancipated) something 
more than people are aware of may be 
done for them. One baboon had a 
wife with him in his cage ; and I ne- 
ver saw any person with a better ge- 
neral notion of matrimonial discipline 
in my life! He kept her always crouch-. 

Letter from London. 

ed up in a corner, while visitors were 
present ; and if ever she ventured a 
little way out to get a nut, or any 
other indulgence, he gave her the most 
immense box on the ear imaginable, 
and converted the nut to his own use. 

In another hutch was a female ape, 
with a son about two months old; 
whose only delight in the world seem- 
ed to be tickling his mother with a 
long straw when she wanted to go to 
sleep. As soon as the honest matron 
lay down, and curled herself round to 
take a little nap, this unlucky urchin 
began with his long straw, poking her 
under the ear from the farthest corner 
of the habitation. By and by, after 
enduring a great deal, the old lady 
jumped up with a yell, and dashed 
him furiously on the floor of the hutch, 
taking away the long straw, and break- 
ing it into a hundred pieces ; then, as 
doubting if he was hurt, picked him 
up again, and examined him carefully 
all over ; coaxed him, caught a flea or 
two, and let iiim loose to begin his 
antics again, after the manner of mo- 
thers in general. 

While this was going on below, a 
monkey in a cage a little over head 
was reaching down with all his might 
to take off the hat of a gentleman who 
stood before me. And another, still 
higher up, enraged at being overlook- 
ed in the distribution of gingerbread, 
gave a loud sudden scream to attract 
attention, and then flung a handful of 
saw-dust in the eyes of the person who 
looked up at him. 

Transeant simice. " Vauxhall" was 
opened. First night, absolutely the 
most ridiculous scene in the world ! 
The present proprietors of Vauxhall 
Gardens, are the people of the " Pa- 
tent Wine Company," or some such 
institution I believe in Fleet Street, 
who have taken these gardens no 
bad notion for the sake of a vent for 
the article in which they deal. Be 
this as it may, Vauxhall this year was 
to have done everything ! No more 
songs by Miss Wilkiris, and Mrs Wil- 
kins ! Braham, Vestris, Miss Stephens, 
De Begnis, Spagnoletti they wanted 
Pasta all the first English people, 
and some of the Italians, were " en- 
gaged!" and folks were to pay six- 
pence a-piece more for the admission. 
When mark the uncertainty of all 
" sublunary" enjoyments, especially 
in a climate like that of England \ 
On the morning of the 59th of May, 


Letter from London' 

that very night the " Season" was to 
begin after a fortnight's continued 
fair weather before down came a 
rain, which promised to last for a week 
without ceasing ! It was so deijse, that 
the geese about Lambeth Marsh flew 
to the tops of the steeples through it, 
and thought they were swimming! 
It was heavy enough, not merely to 
have " drowned the cocks," as Lear 
has it in the play, but the hens into 
the hargain! Adieu, three hundred 
pounds of good receipt ! Adieu, two 
hundred pounds of profit upon arrack 
punch, and tea, and wine ! It came 
not after people had started that 
would not have been so had, for when 
folks have set out upon a party of 
pleasure, it is not easy to turn them 
back ; but it came from noon from 
the very morning steady slow 
thick increasing ! The clouds that 
hung over the whole city looked like 
the black waters of a midnight sea ! 
One gloomy level of unbroken dark- 
ness ; no light no shade no break- 
ing no distinction no pause ! 

The concert-room was cold and chil- 
ly. The few lamps that were lighted, 
spit sputtered and expired. The 
boatmen at the " water-gate" sucked 
their quids, as people are said to drink 
patriotic toasts at tavern-meetings 
the memory of Tom Paine/ and so on 
~" in solemn silence !" The hackney 
coachmen that had assembled in Ken- 
nington Lane resolved double fare 
would not do under such circum- 
stances they would not carry people 
home upon any terms that night ! 
Roast ducks rued the day. Fowls grew 
white in the face at the thought of 
not being eaten. Mr Simpson walked 
about in full dress and despair ! 
forty years Master of the Ceremonies 
at these " Gardens," and had never 
seen such an evening ! only doubting 
on which tree it wou!4 he most be- 
coming that he should hang himself, 
and fortunately could not succeed in 
making up his mind. 

Then the singers! they had to 
warble, like Orpheus of old, to the 
woods ! for there was no audience, 
except a few people of the neighbour- 
hood, fetched in extemporally, with 
great-coats and 'umbrellas, for com- 
pany. The double bass has been rheu- 
matic ever since ; the big drum had 
to he " tapped" (but it was for the 
dropsy); and most of the wind in- 
struments were rendered asthmatic for 

life. And, to conclude, some vile dog ? 
by way of consolation amid the gene- 
ral calamity, was hard-hearted enough 
to labour out a sort of pun upon the 
connexion of the " Garden" proprie- 
tors with the company in Fleet Street : 
he was not quite sure, he told Mr 
Simpson, on the first night, what to 
say about their wine; but certainly 
they were very lavish in the dispen- 
sation of their water. 

# * * * * * 

The mention of Miss Stephens's 
name and Braham's, was naturally di- 
recting my thoughts to the Theatres ; 
and by a most singular casualty, at 
the very moment that I was going to 
write the name of " Carl Von Weber," 
comes a note from a friend, to tell me 
that he is DEAD ! 

" Life's but a walking shadow," 
And poor Weber's reign has been a brief 
one ! I saw him not more than four 
nights since, the last time I think that 
he appeared in public, conducting the 
performance of his own Frieschutz 
overture, for the henefit of Miss Pa- 
ton ! This is terrible work. 

I intended, four months ago, to try 
at a criticism upon his later perform- 
ances, but now it is hardly possible ; 
and perhaps the less so, because I had 
in some sort denied the peculiar merit 
of the Oberon his last production. 
The fact is, there area sort of persons 
in the world, whose very concurrence 
in an opinion, even that one has, in- 
clines one to abandon it a kind of 
people who slaver every man with ex- 
aggerated praise that happens to stand 
pretty well established in honour and 
popularity ; in the idea that they get 
their own precious opinions, and his 
reputation, whether their stuff he ei- 
ther silently despised or contradicted, 
as far as the fools among mankind are 
concerned, mentioned together. A 
knot of these worthies, relying upon 
the success of the Freischulz, had 
fixed upon Weber the moment he 
came to England ; and accordingly, no 
sooner was the Oberon produced, which, 
with a few splendid things in it, was 
a dreadfully dull opera, than straight- 
way open ye me the whole cry of self- 
constituted critics, with a filthy yelp of 
laudation, just as nauseating probably 
to the poor man who was the unhappy 
object of it, as to the public who were 
condemned to hear it ; and the result 
was, that people's anger at such hasty 
impertinence was excited, and one or 


two decent persons, John Bull, I think, 
the first, struck at the performance 
perhaps harder than it merited. 

For the comparison which has been 
attempted to be set up between Weber 
and Bishop, it is very absurd, and 
quite unnecessary. There was no 
more reasonable need supposing both 
artists to be equally powerful that 
that each should be able to excel in 
the style of the other, than that Sir 
Walter Scott, because he is an emi- 
nent poet, should be able to write a 
book like Don Juan, or that Lord By- 
ron (if he were alive) could produce 
the counterpart of Marmion, or the 
Lay of the Last Minstrel. I know 
nothing personally of Weber or of 
Bishop. I felt very kindly towards 
Weber, because he seemed to be an 
extremely modest, though enthusias- 
tic man; whereas musical people in 
general, and indeed (( show- people" 
of all kinds, are apt to be great cox- 
combs and bores. But, certainly, as 
regards the guantity of popular music 
known in this country, and composed by 
Bishop and Weber, the balance is in 
favour of Bishop twenty times over. 

It is a favour to any man of real 
talents like Weber, to save him from 
being talked trash about by little peo- 
ple. His Oberon there are delight- 
ful things in, though they are thinly 
scattered. The Freischutz, I think, 
and must continue to think, is full of 
first-rate genius from beginning to 
end, and the overture equal to any 
piece of instrumental music take it 
from what quarter you will, ancient or 
modern extant. How poor Weber 

Letter from London. 

ever composed such an opera as Oberon 
though it be not the greatest hit in 
the world under his manifold bodily 
sufferings, if we did not know the 
force of sterling mind in surmounting 
all obstacles, would seem inconceiva- 
ble ; and no persons will be more in- 
clined to regret his loss, as a man of 
the rarest talent, than those who re- 
fused, in the zenith of his popularity, 
to place that talent above its proper 

And, farther, I don't know that I 
have anything to say ; for this talking 
about poor Weber has put me in il I 
spirits for jesting. We have little in 
the way of novelty stirring just at 
this moment, but the business of the 
Elections ; and, there, not a great deal 
more than the general course of out- 
rage, and blackguardism, and non- 
sense, and abuse, which goes to make 
a drunken foolery of that undertaking, 
which deserves more serious consider- 
ation at the hands of the country. 
Waithman will come in for the city, 
and Wilson for South wark. Cobbett is 
held to have small chance at Preston ; 
there are people, however, already 
elected, who have little, if any, more 
thanhis respectability, without a fifty- 
thousandth portion of his talent. The 
fc Mr Waken eld" you mention, I have 
seen a poor silly creature, as ever ex- 
isted. Instead of being committed for 
a " capital offence," he ought to have 
been sentenced to be shown for a week 
in some perfumer's window in St 
James's street, and then suffered to go 
about his business. TITUS. 

London, Wth June 




I HAPPENED to pass the entire of 
the winter of 1775, and part of the 
wintry months of 1776, in London, 
being then a very young man, nearly 
ef the same age with Richard Brinsley 
Sheridan. How far I was competent 
to form a judgment of theatricals, you 
already know from the first letter of 
this series, containing some account of 
the incomparable Roscius. I do well 
remember the coming-out of the 
Duenna at Covent Garden, for I was 
present on the second or third night of 
its performance, as well as at many 
other times ; and can bear furl testi- 
mony to the prodigious applause with 
which it was received from first to 
last of its long run. One mode of 
promoting success was by Sheridan 
judiciously adopted, from the previous 
management of Gay in the Beggar's 
Opera : who, instead of having re- 
course to the musical genius of Italy, 
then understood and relished only by 
a few amateurs, or fashionables who 
pretended to be amateurs, had select- 
ed for his opera several of the most 
favourite and well-known national airs, 
to which he skilfully adapted the 
words of his songs. This contributed 
very much, no doubt, to recommend 
it to a British audience ; but the great 
attraction was the felicitous turn of 
the satire, the lucky and ingenious 
assimilation of the heroes of Newgate 
to the primates of the court, a hint 
suggested by Swift, to whom and to 
Pope he was probably indebted for 
more than has been acknowledged. 
As a drama, and especially as a comic 
drama, it stands peculiarly distinguish- 
ed from all others, of modern date at 
least, in being from begim.vng to end 
a severe satire upon men and manners, 
rendered still more poignant by direct 
reference to courts and ministers. The 
resemblance it bears to Swift's pecu- 
liar vein of humour, a resemblance I 
think exhibited in no other composi- 
tion of Gay, though several of them 
even among his fables are of a satirical 
nature, strengthens the suspicion of 
the author's obligations to the Dean 
of St Patrick's; who, in the verses on 
his own death, thus speaks of him : 

" In my own humorous, biting way, 
J blush to be outdone by Gay:" 

alluding obviously, I think, to the 

Beggar's Opera. Yet, if the suspect- 
ed aid was really given, the secret has 
been too well kept to justify us in de- 
priving Gay of a credit, which no per- 
son of his own time seems to have had 
the least idea of supposing that he 
shared with any contemporary wit. 
Swift, indeed, was the man in the 
world best qualified to keep such a 
secret ; but it seems next to an im- 
possibility that it should not have 
transpired through some other chan- 
nel, or that there should have been no 
allusion to it in any of their letters. 

The only thing against which satire 
is particularly pointed in the Duenna, 
is the sensual indulgence and hypocri- 
sy of the monastic life an institution 
then little known or regarded by the 
good people of England. It owes its 
success to its truly comic merits, and 
a vivacity of witty dialogue, equalled 
only by Congreve, which, even with- 
out the music, were sufficient to com- 
mand applause. The introduction of 
Leoni, then a very favourite singer, 
required some management. Mr Moore 
discovered among Sheridan's papers, 
that the part intended for Isaac's 
friend, first called Moses, contained 
much more dialogue than was given 
to Don Carlos, for which he cannot 
well account. I can assist him. Leoni 
could sing English, but could not 
speak it. The little that he had to say 
he could barely pronounce so as to be 
intelligible ; but it was too trifling to 
attract notice, and the music of his 
voice made ample amends for the de- 
ficiencies of his articulation. This ren- 
dered him unfit for any length of dia- 
logue, and Sheridan showed much in- 
genuity in contriving to give him so 
much to sing, and so little to say. 1 
do not remember to have heard a 
voice resembling Leoni's ; it was more 
like the tones of a fine oboe, than 
those which proceed from the human 
pipe. Mr Moore seems to wonder, 
that the printed edition of the Duenna, 
as, caricatured in Dublin, for so it 
really was, should nevertheless have 
possessed a correct copy of the songs. 
This, too, I can resolve. The songs 
were printed off, and sold, for about 
sixpence, at the doors of the theatre 
every night, by the fruit-women and 
other followers of the stage ; and pro- 
bablv from the verv circumstance of 

Mtminiscences, No. 111. 

Leoni's imperfect pronunciation of the 
words, for without such a clue it 
would have been impossible for the 
nicest ear to collect their sense, he 
might as well have been singing Ger- 
man or Italian. It is, indeed, an ex- 
ample that should be followed in every 
new opera ; for few performers possess 
the happy gift of true marked expres- 
sion, of making the words as clear to 
the understanding, as the sound is 
pleasing to the ear. 

" In order to counteract (says Mr 
Moore) this great success of the rival 
house, Garriek found it necessary to 
bring forward all the weight of his 
own best characters; and even had 
recourse fo the expedient of playing 
off the mother against the son, by re- 
viving Mrs Frances Sheridan's comedy 
of the Discovery, and acting the prin- 
cipal part in it himself. In allusion 
to the increased fatigue which this 
competition with the Duenna brought 
upon Garriek, who was then entering 
on his sixtieth year, it was said by an 
actor of the day, that the old woman 
would be the death of the old man !" 

To all who, like me, were living 
witnesses of the occurrences here al- 
luded to, the foregoing quotation must 
appear as ridiculously absurd, as it is 
notoriously untrue. That understand- 
ing and judgment, the operation of 
which was not here, as in political 
matters, overlaid by the malevolence 
of party spirit, might have sufficed to 
show the ingenious author, though he 
was not an eye-witness, that it was 
absolutely impossible that what he 
relates could be true, notwithstanding 
the potent authority of an unknown 
and anonymous actor. The very sub- 
ject on which he was writing furnish- 
ed internal evidence of its falsehood ; 
for at that very time Garrick's inten- 
tion to retire was generally known, 
and, shortly after the Duenna made 
its appearance, Sheridan was in treaty 
with him for the purchase of his pa- 
tent. In none of the letters congra- 
tulatory of the opera's great success, 
is there the smallest allusion to any 
uneasiness felt, or any exertion made, 
on the part of Garriek, to encounter 
or counteract the formidable compe- 
tition, as he chooses to call it. No such 
thing was ever thought of, because for 
no such nation was there the smallest 
foundation . London afforded audiences 
for both houses, and nothing but the 
want of sufficient attraction ever pre- 
vented both from being filled. An 

overflow in either, when the rival 
house presented no particular induce- 
ment, was always serviceable to the 
other ; because it threw into it several 
who would not otherwise hare left 
home, but who, having gone to see a 
play, might think k better to take the 
minor entertainment than return with- 
out any theatrical gratification. Mr 
Garrick's nights during the season, 
which some knew, and all suspected 
would be his last, were always the 
same. He acted on Wednesdays and 
Fridays ; nor could I ever discern the 
smallest difference in the number of 
spectators, or the quality of his cha- 
racters, between the weeks preceding 
and the weeks following the exhibition 
of Sheridan's opera. 4 s f ar as * could 
form a judgment, the crowd which 
pressed for entrance was greater at the 
close than at the beginning of the sea- 
son, that is, when the Duenna was in 
full career ; not because he " brought 
forward all the weight of his own best 
characters," but because it was then 
universally known that he intended to 
retire from the stage, and such as had 
only heard of his fame were naturally 
desirous to avail themselves of an op- 
portunity that would never recur. As 
to choice of characters, Mr Moore may 
take my word for it, that though he 
might be more admired in one than 
another, any character he chose to re- 
present was sufficiently attractive to 
ensure an overflowing house. As an 
instance of this attractive power, I 
shall relate an incident in which I had 
a personal concern. One night, in the 
month of January or February 177ft, 
I was prevailed on by a fashionable 
friend to go with him to one of the 
front boxes, where he had with diffi- 
culty secured a place. Though we 
went early, the house was already 
crowded, the lobby filled with com- 
pany unable to find entrance, and 
the door-way, close to which I sat, 
extremely thronged. Among the strag- 
glers was a young man, making great 
but vain efforts to enter. I heard him 
say, " Well, this is very hard. I came 
from York for no ofher purpose than 
to see Mr Garriek ; I shall be obliged 
to leave town to-morrow to join my re- 
giment, now abroad ; and, in conse- 
quence of being ten minutes too late, 
1 am disappointed." A compassionate 
gentleman, of athletic form, who stood 
beside me, heard the words, and, join- 
ing his strength with mine, we suc- 
ceeded, not without much difficulty. 


Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 

m forcing a passage for the despairing 
officer, whose gratitude for our ser- 
vices could not have been expressed 
more warmly had we obtained him an 
advance of rank in the army. The 
reader may hence form a judgment of 
the formidable nature of that compe- 
tition which poor David Garrick so 
laboriously toiled to counteract ! 

For the ingenious thought of " play- 
ing off the mother against the son, by 
the revival of the Discovery, and ta- 
king on himself to act the principal 
part in it," we are, I presume, indebt- 
ed to the happy imagination of the 
writer. That Mr Garrick played Mr 
Anthony Bromville is true, for I have 
seen him in it; but whether before 
or after the Duenna's appearance I do 
not recollect, perhaps both. That 
he made it a principal part by his 
playing it, is also true ; but it never 
was one of his popular characters, be- 
cause there were few who could relish 
and appreciate its peculiar humour, 
viz. that of an aged gentleman return- 
ing the romantic passion of the vieille 
eour. I know no character of his which 
elicited less of clamorous applause. 
His performance of it during the- run 
of the Duenna, might more justly be 
deemed a compliment to the genius of 
that family, which could thus afford 
the highest entertainment to two great 
London audiences on the same night. 
But why call it reviving ? this term, 
I conceive, applies only to piays of an- 
cient date, some of which are occa- 
sionally revived. The Discovery was 
comparatively a new play, written by 
a lady, who, if alive in the year 1775, 
could hardly be called an old woman. 
It was well received both on and off 
the stage, and Mr Garrick often amused 
himself and the public by acting a 
part of which no other player well 
understood, or was able to exhibit the 
humour. It was, moreover, one of 
the least fatiguing of his manifold 
characters, a circumstance rather un- 
favourable to the biographer's notion 
of that increased toil and exertion 
which the Duenna so unfortunately 
imposed upon him. Even admitting 
that this Opera had diminished his 
profits by a few hundreds, of what 
sort of consequence could that be to a 
man abounding in wealth, without a 
child on whom to bestow it, in the 
sixtieth year of his age, and about to 
retire from that profession, of which, 
for so many years, he had been the 

unequalled, and perhaps unequalable, 
honour and ornament? 

Indulgence is certainly due to his 
biographer for an error into which he 
could not possibly have fallen, had he 
been old enough to appreciate theatri- 
cal talent in the year 1775. His de- 
sire of doing full justice to the merits 
and respectability of the Sheridan fa- 
mity, is fair and laudable, bu<t does 
more credit to his friendship than to 
his judgment. In the second page of 
his book, he mentions " the competi- 
tion and even rivalry which the father 
of Richard Brinsley so long maintain- 
ed with Garrick." Tom Sheridan the 
rival and competitor of David Garrick ! 
Yes, as Shadwell was of Dryden, or an 
ordinary commodore of Horatio Vis- 
count Nelson ! The one, not only at the 
head of his profession, but confessedly 
the greatest actor that ever appeared on 
the British stage, the other a sensible 
and judicious player, who filled seve- 
ral parts in tragedy respectably, but in 
one only (or rather in one scene, viz. 
King John and Hubert) acknowled- 
ged to have no ruperior. Sheridan 
invited Garrick to assist him in Dub- 
lin, of whose stage he was then mana- 
ger, at a very early period of the lat- 
ter's life, even then confessing the full 
superiority of his powers. While Gar- 
rick remained, the houses were crowd- 
ed to such suffocating excess, (the 
weather being warm,) that many suf- 
fered by a sickness which was called 
the Garrick fever. With such sup- 
port, though but for a short season, 
Sheridan no doubt filled his pock- 
ets ; but what did he do when this 
only equal performer was gone ? The 
final result of his managership was 
bankruptcy, or something little short 
of it. Richard Brinsley himself might 
have corrected his biographer's error. 
From his monody on Garrick may be 
collected the opinion he entertained of 
the British Roscius, an opinion most 
unequivocally excluding all idea of 
competition or rivalship between Gar- 
rick and Sheridan. In one of his let- 
ters at this time (while preparing the 
Duenna for the stage) he says, " my 
father was astonishingly well" received 
on Saturday night in Cato I think it 
will not be many days before we are 
reconciled." This expression seems 
to imply some surprise at his very fa- 
vourable reception in a favourite part, 
and would hardly have been used had 
he been speaking of on who was abb 


jRemimscenccs. Ao. ///. 

to maintain a competition with Gar- 
rick, and who, besides, had been long 
absent from his former London friends 
and admirers. Sheridan was indeed 
always well received, as his sterling 
merit deserved, but his powers of at- 
tracting an audience were not of the 
highest order. I saw him play Cato 
in that very year to very thin houses. 
His theatrical character has been ac- 
curately drawn by Churchill in the 
Rosciad, who, with more than usual 
candour, does justice to his excellen- 
cies without exaggerating his defects. 
Of that rough and vigorous satirist the 
praise may be always depended on, 
but not so the censure. He has been 
most cruelly unjust to the celebrated 
Spranger Barry, one of the most fasci- 
nating actors, in many parts, who ever 
delighted or adorned a theatre. He 
indeed, though infinitely inferior in 
the extent and versatility of his powers, 
might with some reason have been 
called a rival and competitor of Gar- 
rick. Nature had bestowed on him 
advantages rarely united in one person, 
a tall and elegant figure, a beautiful 
countenance, and a most mellifluous 
voice. In Romeo, he disputed the 
palm with the accomplished Garrick 
himself; in Lear, he approached to an 
equality ; and in Othello and Alexan- 
der the Great, he shone unrivalled. 
Churchill's observation on Sheridan 
might have been reserved for him 
whose great obligations were to boun- 
teous nature 

Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone, 
Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own. 

Mrs Barry too, it is but fair to say, 
was, in general acting, among the very 
first actresses of that day; in the 
heart-rending scenes of tragedy fully 
equal, and sometimes, I had almost 
said, superior to Mrs Siddons herself. 
It is not generally known, but unless 
I mistake very much, it will be found 
true, that this latter great actress and 
amiable woman, appeared about this 
time on the boards of Drury Lane in 
an inferior cast of characters proba- 
bly she was not then aware of her own 
great powers. But enough of theatri- 

I cannot, however, take leave of his- 
trionical reminiscences thus suggested, 
without some farther notice of that in- 
genious fellow-countryman, by whose 
biographical publication they have 
been awakened. But am I not guilty 

of a misnomer ? We cannot, I think, 
strictly call him compatriot, who has 
withdrawn himself from our shores, 
and robbed the land of his birth and 
affection of all the advantage derivable 
from personal excellence and pecuniary 
expenditure. To a poor country the 
latter is of some moment, though un- 
accompanied with any inheritance 
save that of virtue, and his patriotic 
excellencies may well enough be spared 
amidst the redundancy of similar 
worth and talent which he has left be- 
hind. But, though absent in body, 
he is, I shall be told, present in spirit, 
true, he is. Of this spiritual visita- 
tion, we possess unquestionable proof 
in the pacific, sentimental, conciliatory, 
and benevolent romance entitled Me- 
moirs of Captain Rock. This exquisite 
and veracious production is not only 
an apology for, but a justification of 
his absence. Of other absentees, un- 
fortunately over numerous, we iway, 
we must lament and deplore the loss ; 
of that of him who threw his fire- 
brand among materials already too in- 
flammablenever. That the torch 
has been extinguished without the 
quantum of nocturnal illumination 
contemplated by the pyrotechnical 
com pounder, is a failure for which 
he has not the smallest cause of self- 
reproach it was not his fault. 

Longinus I think it is, who ad- 
vises a writer to avail himself of esta- 
blished models of composition, and 
when about to commit his thoughts 
to paper, to consider how such or 
such an author would probably have 
written. Sheridan's Irish biographer 
seems to have had this precept under 
view in some degree at least, but ra- 
ther in style than in sentiment, for in 
the latter they are frequently at vari- 
ance. Sheridan's political creed was, 
unfortunately as it should seem for 
himself, taken from the Whigs, and 
the active warmth of his heart rivetted 
the early attachment he had formed 
to some very eminent men of that 
headstrong and turbulent party. That 
he became sensible of his error there 
is abundant reason to believe ; but un- 
happily for his comfort, his character, 
his peace of mind, and perhaps, I may 
add, of his country, it came too late. 
It is, however, due to his fame to ac- 
knowledge, that there were moments 
when the strength of his understand- 
ing burst the fetters of his bondage. 


Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 

and the sense of what he owed to his 
country and his King, triumphed over 
his habitual subjection to the domina- 
tion of a party. This, in the eyes of 
his biographer, is an inexpiable of- 
fence, and no wonder. Infallibility 
is the test and basis of his religious 
and political creed, and consistency 
obliges him to consign to disgrace and 
condemnation here, if not hereafter, 
the blind and infatuated mortals who 
presume to think otherwise. Yet 
were there, for I remember the time 
right well, many whom the world call- 
ed honest, respectable, and wise, who 
did venture to give poor Sheridan the 
highest credit for what they esteemed 
his voluntary, honourable, and manly 
support of government, on some most 
trying and critical emergencies ; on 
occasions which found the selfish, the 
envious, and the disappointed seekers 
of place and power, skulking in their 
pantry holes, or wanting courage to 
face the storm that threatened desola- 
tion and distraction to their country. 
But what of that? The modern 
Samson who scattered fiery brands, 
not in his enemy's country, but his 
own, is pleased to be of a different 
opinion, and against his authority what 
patriot will contend ? 

With respect to style, a certain imi- 
tation or resemblance of Sheridan's is 
sufficiently obvious in the pages of his 
biographer ; not, however, in exact 
conformity with the suggestion of 
Longinus, which had reference to the 
beauties, not to the defects, of the 
model. Mr Moore censures, and not 
without justice, that profusion of con- 
ceits, tropes, figures, and metaphori- 
cal illustrations which the redundancy 
of Sheridan's wit was always pouring 
forth, with too frequent disregard of 
strict propriety and good taste. 

Strange to say, however, he mis- 
takes the faults he reprehends, and, 
though less copious in their use, is 
more extravagant in their application. 
Most of Sheridan's figurative embel- 
lishments., were viva voce effusions, 
and however unable to sustain the cri- 
tical judgment of a cool reader, power- 
fully impressive on the admiring list- 
eners. But what does his biographer? 
In a grave, critical composition, is- 
suing from the calm recesses of the 
study, he has, in spite of the " nunc non 
erat hie locus" of Horace, given us fre- 
quent patches of the purple vestment., 
" purpureus late qui splendcat unus 


et alter assuitur pannus." One of pe- 
culiar eccentricity now meets my eye, 
while reading an account of Sheridan's 
anxiety to secure the success of the 
Duenna. Linley 's great judgment in 
arranging and directing the musical 
department, he justly conceived to be 
of most material import, the more es- 
pecially as the Covent Garden theatre 
did not appear to be well provided 
with instrumental performers. " As 
to the state of the music, (thus he 
writes to his father-in-law,) I want 
but three airs, but there are some 
glees and quartets in the last act, 
which will be inevitably ruined, if we 
have no one at least to set the per- 
formers in the right way." Of Leoni, 
he says, in another letter, " he sings 
nothing well but in a plaintive and 
pastoral style, and his voice is such as 
appears to me to be always hurt by 
much accompaniment." What he 
means by setting the performers in the 
right way, he explains in another place, 
by observing, that for want of a Mas- 
ter, (a director like Linley,) " every- 
body sings there according to their own 
ideas, or what chance instruction they 
can come at." On these observations 
his biographer thus comments : " In 
the instructions thus given by the 
poet to the musician," (in fact it was 
the poet who wanted the musician's 
instructions,) <f we may perceive that 
he somewhat apprehended, even in 
the tasteful hands of Linley, that pre- 
dominance of harmony over melody, 
and of noise over both, which is so 
fatal to poetry and song, in their pe- 
rilous alliance with an orchestra." I 
am inclined to believe, that, however 
perilous the alliance between vocal 
and instrumental music in a concert 
or theatre may be, the situation of the 
former would be much more perilous 
without it, and that Sheridan was as 
far from apprehending " the predo- 
minance of harmony over melody," 
(matters quite distinct,) " and of noise 
over both, from the tasteful hands of 
Mr Linley," as he would, were he 
now alive, be of forming a guess by 
what metaphor this terrible predomi- 
nance would be illustrated. " In- 
deed," says this able biographer, " in- 
deed, those Elephants of old that used 
to tread down the ranks they were 
brought to assist, were but a type of 
the havoc that is sometimes made both 
of melody and meaning, by the over- 
laying aid of accompaniments" ! ! ! 


Reminiscences. No. III. 

A quintette of singers trampled down 
and overlaid by an orchestra of ele- 
phants ! What a happy simile would 
it have been for the ingenious au- 
thors of Chrononhotonthologos, or Tom 
Thumb see what it is to have writ- 
ten oriental epics, and become ac- 
quainted with elephantic types. One 
thing at least is made very clear by 
this hypercritical illustration, viz. that 
it is no difficult matter to make a havoc 
of meaning. 

Another extraordinary instance (and 
of oriental origin also) of what is in- 
tended for superfine illustration, occurs 
in that part which treats of Sheridan's 
intercourse with his present Majesty, 
then Prince of Wales. As certain ve- 
nomous creatures are reported to carry 
with them antidotes tor their own 
stings, so it may be said of this and 
other productions of the same school, 
that they contain within themselves a 
refutation of their own slander. I am 
clearly of opinion, that any intelligent 
reader, previously unacquainted with 
the subjects of this piece of biography, 
would even, from its own relation of 
tacts, be induced to regard the Prince 
of Wales as the sincerest, most gene- 
rous, and most constant of all the 
friends with whom Sheridan's (pro- 
bably unfortunate) introduction to a 
higher sphere had made him acquaint- 
ed. Yet, either from some unaccount- 
able obliquity of intellect, some blind 
and bigot ted attachment to the de- 
basing level of vulgar democracy, or 
some mortifying repulse, which the in- 
eolent obtrusiveness of plebeian vanity 
might have brought upon itself, we are 
presented with the following figurative 
elucidation of the baneful effects of 
royal friendship : 

" So fatal too often are royal friend- 
ships whose attraction, like the load- 
stone rock in Eastern fable, that drew 
the nails out of the luckless ships that 
came near it, steals gradually away the 
strength by which character is held 
together, till at last it loosens at all 
points, and falls to pieces a wreck !" 

Of this precious simile, calculated 
to dazzle Cockneys, and delight Radi- 
cals, it is hardly necessary to point out 
the inappropriateness and the malice. 
. The act of " stealing gradually away," 
is as unfitly typified by an operation 
of great and almost momentary vio- 
lence, as the beneficence of Sheridan's 
royal patron and truest friend is re- 
presented to be the cause of his ee- 

centricities, his extravagance, and his 
ruin ! From Sheridan's misfortune, 
admitting the possibility of the assign- 
ed reason, Tommy Moore enjoys a for* 
tunate exemption. His cockboat is 
proof against the Loadstone of Loyalty. 
The rock which can both draw and 
sharpen his spikes belongs to a very 
different class, and of the metallic 
qualities mixed up in his character, 
unless perhaps we except brass, iron 
will be among the most permanent in- 

For every extravagance of Sheri- 
dan's, his biographer can find some 
excuse, for every fault some pallia- 
tion, against all accusations he can 
offer some defence, save only the crime 
of faithful attachment to the person 
and interests of his royal master ! And 
what is the offence so heinously and 
unpardonably committed ? Alas, it is 
not that the fidelity of the subject 
amounted to slavery to the prince, for 
this Sheridan's own manly lettersopen- 
ly and honourably disclaim ; No, 
the unforgivable crime is, that he was 
too faithfully loyal to see that prince 
degraded into the slave of a party, 
whose insatiable thirst for power would 
allow no equal even in their king, and 
who would accept the reins of govern- 
ment on no other condition than that 
of unlimited concession on the part of 
royalty*, and of rendering himself a cy- 
pher even in his own household ! If any 
blame is imputable to that royal per- 
sonage, it is that of too much conde- 
scension. He was willing to consent 
to any terms. But from this humi- 
liation he was saved by the dignified 
firmness of a few friends, and the sub- 
sequent convictions of his own intel- 
lectual reflection. This is the real state 
of the case, and so notorious at the 
time, a time strongly imprinted on ray 
own recollection, that it needed little 
acquaintance or intimacy with courts 
or statesmen to ascertain its truth. I 
do not say that Mr Percival would 
never have been prime minister, be- 
cause I think his integrity and his ta- 
lents might have ultimately reached 
thai station ; but I do say that he would 
not have come in as he did, had thos 
who called themselves the Prince's early 
friends behaved with common grati- 
tude, decorum, propriety, and respect. 

On the life of this extraordinary 
man my own countryman and con- 
temporary, for we were born within 
the same year, I an^ as a reminiscent. 


Richard Krinsley Sheridan } <5yc. 

tempted to oifer some further remarks, 
for though not acquainted with him, 
I was well acquainted with the times 
and the scenes in which he performed 
so conspicuous a part. Mr Moore's book 
is, upon the whole, agreeably written, 
interesting, and minute in detail, some- 
times, perhaps, a little too much so. 
J think there has been rather too co- 
pious an exposition of his loose papers 
and fragments; and am inclined to 
think, that among those withheld, some 
more worth producing than what he 
has given, might easily be found. 
Had I been among the jfriends who 
committed those papers to abiographer, 
I should certainly have refused to ac- 
quiesce in so full and indiscriminate a 
publication. The fac-simile of his 
hand- writing is particularly reprehen- 
sible, intending, as it should seem, to 
show us, not how he could write, but 
how he could scribble. It is so com- 
mon for writers of verse to scratch out 
their first thoughts with a careless and 
rapid pen, and afterwards to correct 
and refine, that his doing so could be 
nothing new. Of this, therefore, a 
small specimen would have sufficed, 
and he should not have given a fac- 
simile of his worst penmanship, with- 
out adding one of his more correct. 

One circumstance relating to his 
early years seems hard to be recon- 
ciled with credibility. We are told by 
his biographer, that at eight years old 
he was pronounced, " by the common 
consent both of parent and preceptor-, 
a most impenetrable dunce." These 
peremptory pronouncers of dulness 
being moreover highly distinguished 
for philological taste and knowledge ! 
After this follows a curious passage. 
Two or three years afterwards Richard 
is sent " to Harrow School, Charles 
being kept at home as a fitter subject 
for the instructions of his father, who, 
by another of those calculations of 
poor human foresight which the Deity 
called Eventus by the Romans" (qu. 
Roman Catholics, for the Roman 
Deity was called Fortuna,) " takes 
such wanton pleasure in falsifying, 
considered his elder brother as des- 
tined to be the brighter of the two 
brother stars," (he might have call- 
ed them, hibernice, twins, the idea be- 
ing suggested by Castor and Pollux.) 
Now, to a common understanding, an 
opposite conclusion would, I think, 
have presented itself. For surely a 
lad sent to a school &o celebrated as 


Harrow, would seem more likely to 
be put in the way of future fame and 
splendour, than he who was kept at 
home to learn English grammar and 
play-acting under the auspices of old 
Tom Sheridan. But how can we ac- 
count for the different sentences pro- 
nounced upon him in Ireland and Eng- 
land, and that within the course of 
three years ? In one he was an " im- 
penetrable dunce," and in the other 
a boy of most winning disposition and 
great talents, but great idleness, and 
this too in the opinion of two of the 
best judges in Great Britain, Dr Parr 
and Dr Sumner; an opinion which 
the aforesaid Deity Eventus, contrary 
to custom, so amply justified. Could 
English air have wrought so wonder- 
ful a change ? I know indeed that it 
encourages and rewards Irish talent, 
but I did not before hear that it was 
necessary to produce it. The bio- 
grapher seems to have been too hasty 
in charging Messrs Whyte and Sheri- 
dan with passing a sentence which 
certainly could prove nothing but their 
own precipitancy of judgment or total 
want of penetration. His conversation 
even then could not have been that of 
a dunce, and that intelligence of eye 
which he possessed in so eminent a 
degree was alone sufficient to tell them 
that he was only an idler. 

The nature of Sheridan's genius is 
by no means singular. P'ew persons 
who have been at schools and colleges, 
or much conversant with literary his- 
tory, will fail to have found many 
parallels. Swift was undistinguished 
in his early days, and what was con- 
sidered as dulness, arose probably frora 
his dislike of the studies prescribed,, 
and his contempt of those who pre- 
scribed them. Of Curran I can from 
my own knowledge say the same. He 
made no figure in college, and was 
much more inclined to ridicule than to 
respect the grave and learned sages 
under whose instruction he was placed. 
They saw little in the great future 
advocate but pertness and contumacy ; 
but it was impossible to hold a free and 
familiar conversation with him for half 
an hour without being struck by the 
vivacity of his mind, and the power of 
his expression. Universities teach deep 
and various knowledge, they afford ex- 
cellent ground for the exercise of wit 
and imagination, but they do not con- 
fer either. Hence it sometimes hap- 
pens that those by whom these quali- 

Reminiscences. A T o. ///. 

ties are eminently possessed, under- 
valuing that knowledge which they 
do not seem to themselves to want, are 
inclined to dislike, and perhaps despise, 
the graver personages by whom it is 
communicated. In the end, however, 
they never fail to discover the unfortu- 
nate rashness of that judgment which 
fondly hoped that wit would be a suc- 
cedaneum for knowledge. The ground 
so lost is hardly ever regained. 

Sheridan certainly could not have 
disliked or despised such men as Dr 
Sumner and Dr Parr, but he disliked 
everything in the shape of a task, and 
well knowing that he could not com- 
pete with clever boys who were dili- 
gent, without being diligent himself, 
was satisfied to have his inferiority 
put down to the score of idleness. He 
was expected to possess genius, and that 
at the time was enough for boyish am- 
bition. In everything but lessons he 
seems to have taken a lead, being not 
only loved but admired by all his school 

Every reader must be pleased with 
Dr Parr's letter it gives a lively and 
excellent account of the subject of it, 
and moreover intimates a persuasion 
that the father of Sheridan was fully 
aware of his son's talents and capacity ; 
a matter of easy belief, for had he been 
an " impenetrable dunce," it was the 
greatest of all follies to have sent him 
to Harrow. That his circumstances 
would not allow old Sheridan to leave 
him there longer, is much regretted by 
the Doctor, and probably by the young 
man himself in after times ; for under 
such tutors he could not have failed 
to lay in a good stock of useful and 
valuable knowledge. Of classic lore, 
however, he did possess, if Dr Parr is to 
be believed, who speaks from personal 
knowledge, more than his biographer, 
who can only speak from opinion, is 
willing to allow. " It was not," says 
Air Moore, " one of the least of She- 
ridan's triumphs, to have been able to 
persuade so acute a scholar as Dr 
Parr, that the extent of his classical ac- 
quirements was so great as is here re- 
presented, and to have thus impressed 
with the idea of his remembering so 
much, the person who best knew how 
little he had learned." 

Here again I must be at variance 
with the biographer. How a young and 
ingenuous mind could have looked for 
triumph in a falsehood injurious and 
dishonourable to himself, is not easy to 

conceive, in the first place ; and, in the 
second, Dr Parr was not one of those 
plodding, common-place tutors on 
whom boyish plausibility could i m- 
pose, or who could in any case mistake 
the pertness of ignorance for the pos- 
session of knowledge. He admits the 
irregularity of his pupil, but their fre- 
quent conversation and intercourse left 
no doubt on his mind respecting the 
improvement he considers him to have 
made. Indeed, it seems impossible 
that a taste and imagination like She- 
ridan's should have been at all ac- 
quainted with Homer, Horace, and 
Virgil, without a desire to improve 
that acquaintance, not with the accu- 
racy of a critic or commentator, but 
for the delight such study could not 
fail to communicate. That he did not 
deserve the name of a scholar is, how- 
ever, a point I am perfectly willing to 

Sheridan's immethodical eccentri- 
city has led his biographer into a 
strange error, and induced him to as- 
scribe to nature what nature could not 
possibly bestow. Nature gives but the 
materials,- she places the ore in the 
mind, but it is art that gives the value 
and the polish. Conscious of, and con- 
fiding too proudly in his own powers, 
Sheridan would learn in no way but 
his own ; and that he did so to a very 
considerable degree, considering his 
giddy and playful disposition, appears 
not only from the fame he acquired as 
a speaker and writer, but from the ac- 
count of the biographer himself. Dr 
Parr's illustration of his peculiarities 
sets the mode in a very clear light, yet 
Mr Moore tells us that, " of this ad- 
vantage" (namely, the instruction of 
his father and other masters in Lon- 
don), " however, it is probable only 
the elder son availed himself, as Rich- 
ard, who seems to have been deter- 
mined to owe all his excellence to na- 
ture alone, was found as impracticable 
a pupil at home as at school !" Yet of 
this child of nature alone, it is in the 
succeeding sentence said, " that how- 
ever inattentive to his school lessons at 
Harrow, he had already distinguished 
himself in poetry, which is the first 
exercise in which the young athletap 
of intellect try their strength." This 
is not like leaving everything to na- 
ture there is certainly some art and 
labour too in making verses, as the 
biographer himself well knows. And 
besides this, " his friend Halhcd anJ 


Richard Brinslty Sheridan, 

he had in conjunction translated the 
seventh Idyl and many of the lesser 
poems of Theocritus." It is not very 
likely that a youth, voluntarily enga- 
ging in such exercises, should be such 
a Grecian ignoramus as his biographer 
is pleased to represent him ; nor is it 
altogether probable that his time in 
London, though he might be indispo- 
sed to profit by the dry lectures of 
Kerr and his father, was thrown away, 
and that he read nothing, because he 
did not read the prescribed lessons. 
The union between him and Halhed, 
a young man of singular talents and 
endowments, is a sufficient proof of 
improvement as well as power, for 
Halhed would not have so joined him- 
self with a mere unlettered idler. Poor 
Halhed's fate is a melancholy one. He 
returned (if I remember right) from 
India with improved fortunes, but im- 
paired reason. One of the most elo- 
quent speeches, or rather compositions, 
I ever read, was delivered by him in 
the House of Commons, in support of 
a ridiculous prediction published by 
one Brothers. It was heard with deep 
silence, and deeper sorrow. No ob- 
servation was made, and being un se- 
conded, the motion of course fell to 
the ground. What became of him 
afterwards I have not heard. 

Sheridan's wit and vivacity, as well 
as the nature of his connexions and 
situation, almost necessarily directed 
him to the Stage, and among his scat- 
tered papers were found many drama- 
tic sketches, of some of which he sub- 
sequently availed himself. On one of 
these, afterwards transplanted into 
what Mr Moore calls the Farce of the 
Critic, the biographer thus moralizes : 
" Thus it is too, and little to the glory 
of what are called our years of discre- 
tion, that the life of the MAN is chief- 
ly employed in giving effect to the 
wishes and plans of the boy." Thus it 
is too that the ambition of pointing a 
sentence often leads a writer to trans- 
gress the limits of sense. Had he sub- 
stituted indiscretion there would have 
been a meaning, for there are who, 
though they don't want talents, are 
boys all their lives. The glory of what 
is, and can alone be called mature dis- 
cretion, consists, I apprehend, in zm- 
teaching the man the follies of the. boy, 
and in instructing the ripened under- 
standing " to put away childish things." 
Years of discretion were, I am afraid, 
what poor Sheridan never attained. 



Instances of petty plagiarism from 
himself and others, are often brought 
against Sheridan by his poetical bio- 
grapher ; in some cases, I suspect, to 
show the extent of his own reading. 
From himself he was certainly at full 
liberty to take without the crime of 
stealing ; and not to borrow occasion- 
ally from others, on subjects much 
handled, is perhaps impossible. In 
Sheridan's own observation (preface 
to the Rivals) he might have found 
the finest apology : " Faded ideas float 
on the mind like half-forgotten dreams, 
and imagination, in its most suspicious 
moments, becomes suspicious of its 
offspring, and doubts whether it has 
created or adopted." To persons pla- 
ced in the same situation the same 
thoughts will naturally occur, and it 
was little worth the critic's while to 
seek a precedent from the thought in 
one of his beautiful songs, that he 
could not tell how long his love would 
last, because he knew not the length 
of his life. I suppose every ardent 
young lover feels and often makes the 
same declaration. The value of the 
thought is in the peculiar elegance and 
delicacy of the expression. Among 
Sheridan's far-fetched conceits, he 
mentions his comparing " serenaders 
to Egyptian embalmers extracting the 
brain through the ears." It certainly 
is not farther fetched than some of his 
own (as I have already showed), and 
much less inappropriate. The thought, 
according to Moore, is not Sheridan's, 
but Halhed's. I can, however, assert, 
though the thought might also have 
occurred to Halhed's own mind, that 
I have seen it in some author much 
older than either. The idea, in the 
Critic, of stealing other men's thoughts 
as gipsies do children, and disfiguring 
them, in order that they may pass for 
their own, is, in the biographer's re- 
marks, taken from Churchill, who 
perhaps borrowed it from some one 
else. It is a very happy one. Were 
dramatic authors to be confined to 
their own inventions, the range of the 
drama would be limited indeed. She- 
ridan must have read, at an early age, 
many works of this kind, as well as 
much of light literature. That he im- 
proved on what he imitated will easily 
be allowed, and all that honest criti- 
cism can expect is, not to be a servile 

Sheridan's. singular! ties seem to have 
accompanied him in everything, even 

in love and fighting. Of his two re- 
markable duels, neither of which are 
very clearly narrated, we have some- 
what too much. The silent progress 
of his love, his long unsuspected at- 
tachment, the young lover's romantic 
trip to France, and all the circum- 
stances from the commencement to 
the conclusion, are very curious, and 
very interesting. Such lovers so rare- 
ly meet, except in the fictions of the 
poet or novelist, that when they do, 
a well-written and accurate account 
of all the incidents attending their 
union must be highly attractive, and 
can hardly be too long. Of the poeti- 
cal effusions to which their mutual 
passion gave rise, the biographer has 
been too sparing, the more especially 
since what are called the Works of 
Sheridan are, in reality, only his dra- 
matic works, and should have been EO 
called. For the complete accuracy even 
of these, he tells us, in some part of 
the biography, that he is not answer- 
able. Why, then, commit them to the 
press, under the sanction of his im- 
primatur, and with a preface signed 
by himself? The life certainly should 
have accompanied the edition, and in 
that edition all Sheridan's poetical 
works should have been included. 
The reasons assigned for delaying the 
biographical part are mere puff -the 
true one no doubt is, that the works 
were called for by the public the 
booksellers would not wait and the 
biographer was unprepared. There 
are several errors in the plays, parti- 
cularly in the Duenna. 

Having already offered some com- 
ments on matters preceding Sheridan's 
becoming manager of Drury Lane 
Theatre, I proceed to those which fol- 

The biographer wonders that She- 
ridan, now become a manager, should 
think of reviving Vanburgh s comedy 
of the Relapse, under the name of a 
Trip to Scarborough. The only won- 
der, I think, is, that a play should ap- 
pear among his works, to which he 
has no more pretensions as an author 
than Colley Cibber had to Richard 
the Third, which he adapted to the 
stage, with some very slight additions 
of his own. There were, however, 
strong managerial reasons for its in- 
troduction. In the first place, it cost 
him no trouble ; in the next, it was 
well fitted for his company, by whom it 
:was excellently performed ; and, in the 

.s. NO. in. 

last, it gave au opportunity of produ- 
cing, in one night, three most remark- 
able actresses, Mrs Abington, Miss 
Farren, and Mrs Robinson the first 
at the very top of her profession for 
comic humour the second, of sur- 
passing loveliness and elegance and 
the third, one of the most beautiful 
women in London. Moore's mode of 
introducing the subject is worth quo- 
ting, as a specimen of that figurative 
affectation which he so often repre- 
hends in Sheridan. 

"In reading the original play, we 
are struck with surprise that Sheridan 
should ever have hoped to be able to 
defecate such dialogue, and, at the 
same time, leave any of the wit, whose 
whole spirit is in the lees, behind. 
The very life of such characters as Be- 
rinthie is in their licentiousness and 
it is with them, as with objects that 
are luminous from putrescence, to re- 
move their taint is to extinguish their 
light !" I cannot indeed say, that this 
simile, or metaphor, is far fetched, for 
one has not a great way to go for im- 
purity, but it is incorrect and extra- 
vagant. Lord Foppington and Miss 
Hoyden had formerly been great fa- 
vourites, and Sheridan hoped, that a 
little pruning would restore them to 
favour, aided by the reinforcement of 
so many other characters ; but he had 
no idea of any literary credit from 
the revival, or of enrolling the Trip to 
Scarborough among his own produc- 
tions. It was a temporary expedient, 
and, as well ns 1 remember, success- 
ful. Miss Farren and Mrs Robinson 
were brought forward afterwards in 
a trifling entertainment called The 
Camp, merely to gratify the public 
with a sight, of such elegant and beau- 
tiful females, for they did little more 
than appear on the stage, and their 
appearance was always attractive. 

The sketches out of which The 
School for Scandal grew at last into so 
finished a comedy, are interesting, and 
show, according to the biographer's 
just, but not very novel observation, 
the pains and patience which even ge- 
nius must employ to produce a perfect 
composition. Of these, however, he 
has given rather too much, nor has he 
forgot to adorn his remarks on the 
gradual process of the work, with me- 
taphorical illustrations. " It cannot 
fail," he says, " to interest deeply all 
who take delight in tracing the alche- 
mv of genius, and in watching the 


Richard Britixley Skendan, &JE. 

first slow workings of the menstruum 
out of which its first transmutations 
arise." This, however, is not enough, 
and presently after we are favoured 
with an illustration of a different cha- 
racter, and which, lying deeper, is more 
obscure. " Patience must first explore 
the depths where the pearl lies hid, 
before genius boldly dives and brings 
it up full into light." For my own 
part I should have beeri satisfied with 
the first, for I find myself more puz- 
zled than edified by the second, fol- 
lowed as it is by a rather unintelligi- 
ble exception : " There are," he says, 
*' some striking exceptions to this rule> 
and our own times have witnessed 
more than one extraordinary intellect, 
whose depth has not prevented their 
treasures from lying ever ready within 
reach." The question is, how are 
those treasures of genius to be ob- 
tained ? for when once possessed, they 
must, of course, be within reach of 
the possessor. " Patience," says this 
biographer, quoting from Button, " is 
power ;" or (as another French writer 
has explained his thought) " Patience 
seeks, and Genius finds" intimating, 
I presume, that pains and perseve- 
rance are necessary to enable genius 
to produce excellence. The materials 
on which genius works, are observa- 
tion, study, and knowledge ; the trea- 
sury of the mind must be filled before 
the owner can draw any riches from 
it ; and it is the property of genius 
alone to render the stock available to 
the attainment of durable and eminent 
reputation. Does not the critic's first 
illustration militate a little against his 
second? no uncommon thing, indeed, 
in such figurative dealers. In the 
first, Genius is an alchemist, slowly 
and laboriously transmuting the cheap 
into the precious. In the second, he 
is a bold diver for pearls, when pa- 
tience had previously explored the 
depth at which they lay hid. This 
having been successfully ascertained, 
he has only to dive boldly whenever 
he wants one. The alchemist and the 
pearl diver are mighty different sorts 
of operators if genius be in its pro- 
cess similar to one, my dulness cannot 
see how it can be like to the other. 
But it seems there are some pearl- 
fishers to whom kind nature spares 
the trouble of diving, and for whom 
the pearls always float at the top. 
These, as he justly observes, are very 
rare exceptions, and it would have 

been but kind to have produced one 
of them, as I feel very much disposed 
to doubt the fact. The allusion, as I 
suspect, was to Edmund Burke, and 
perhaps also to SamuelJohnson. They 
did, indeed, draw readily from the 
mental store, but the treasury was 
first filled, not without much patience 
arid pains. Yet, in poetic composi- 
tions at least, of which both were very 
sparing, I think it highly probable 
that they acted like others. But they 
were prudent enough to keep only fiiir 
copies, and to do, what Sheridan's 
carelessness omitted burn the rest. 

The biographers remarks on the 
gradual elaboration of this highly-fi- 
nished comedy ate generally just and 
interesting, but perhaps unnecessarily 
copious. It affords an easy solution of 
what, to my knowledge, excited at the 
time general surprise, viz. why he who 
could write so well, and whose dra- 
matic efforts were sure to be so at- 
tractive to the public, and profitable to 
himself, did not write more. Good sense 
and good taste forbade him to bring 
forward anything unworthy of his ge- 
nius, and degrading to his character ; 
and experience showed him that dra- 
matic compositions of study must re- 
quire a degree of mental labour, and 
toilsome perseverance, invincibly re- 
pugnant to his natural indolence and 
love of pleasure. To a man so highly 
gifted, and whose knowledge of men 
and things embraced a very wide cir- 
cle, subjects for the comic muse could 
never be wanting ; but his disposition 
revolted against the difficulties of the 
task. Had he loved money as well as 
he loved praise, he would have stuck 
to the drama even after he had been 
drawn into the vortex of politics. But 
he made a name, and was content with 
it. I doubt if we should ever have had 
" the Critic," but for the gratification 
of a little pique against a very worthy 
man, who had as great a passion for 
writing as Sheridan for pleasure, Rich- 
ard Cumberland. In this there was 
less difficulty, for the model was pre- 

Eared to his hand. I can tell, also, that 
e borrowed more than his biographer 
was aware of. I remember to have 
read a little entertainment of a similar 
kind, brought forward, I believe, for 
Mrs Clive's benefit, and, if I mistake 
not, written by Mr King, in which 
that inimitable actress, who was Lady 
Patronessof the rehearsal, amused the 
audience very much by describing the 

actors, herself in particular, as Mr Puff 
does in the Critic. I think, by the by, 
that Mr Puff's shrewdness as a " ways 
and means" character, is not very com- 
patible with his tragic absurdity. The 
extravagance of tragic writers in Charles 
the Second's days was justly ridiculed 
by the satirical lash of the witty Duke 
of Buckingham, but no writers of She- 
ridan's time were fairly subject to si- 
milar reproach. They might have been 
deficient in dramatic genius, but they 
were not guilty of dramatic absurdi- 
ties. Puff's character, as at first ap- 
pears, would render him much more 
likely to ridicule than to write the 
tragedy of " the Spanish Armada." 
But the defect of judgment in the au- 
thor is covered by the glittering man- 
tle of his wit. A similar inconsistency 
appears, I think, in the character of 
Partridge in Tom Jones, from whose 
first interview and dialogues with his 
master we are prepared to expect much 
more of the wag, and much less of the 
simpleton. He is certainly made con- 
ducive to the reader's entertainment, 
but his character is by no means sus- 
tained, qualis ab imo, with the same 
skill and happiness of that of his re- 
nowned prototype DonQuixote'ssquire, 
the amusing and inimitable Sancho. 

It seems now thought, that in the 
lively rake of the School for Scandal, 
Sheridan was drawing a picture of him- 
self ; and that there are some points of 
resemblance, is obvious. But at the 
time it came out, the general opinion 
was, that another person sat for the 
picture, whom it resembled much more, 
and who was known to be the idol of 
Sheridan's admiration, the celebrated 
Charles Fox. Sheridan had spent no 
fortune ; he was busily employed in 
making one ; nor was he, at least at 
that time, known as a trafficker with 
Jews, or an associate of fashionable and 
deep-playing gamblers. All these cir- 
cumstances, added to the identity of 
the Christian name, concurred to fix 
the dramatic cap upon the head of one 
so exactly qualified to wear it his 
friend Fox. 

Of these two remarkable men, so 
like in many points of wit, genius, and 
disposition, how different were the ter- 
minating scenes of life ! Had human 
judgment ventured to predict their for- 
tunes when they first began to be dis- 
tinguished in the world, it would pro- 
bably have reversed their fate, doom- 
ing the dissipated, dissolute, and ap- 

No. III. CJuly, 

parently incorrigible Fox, to an end 
commensurate with his wild career, 
and gilding the last days of the other 
with riches, with happiness, and with 
fame. Nature had bestowed upon Fox 
great talents, and education had culti- 
vated them ; he was also born to ho- 
nour and to fortune. These, governed 
by prudence, would necessarily have 
led to the highest distinctions of the 
state, to all that the fondest votaries of 
wealth and glory can desire. But 
there was a time when the indulgence 
of dissipated and profligate habits seem- 
ed to point him out as a man whom 
even his talents, rank, and personal 
attractions, could not rescue from vice, 
from misery, and from ruin. The so- 
ciety of an amiable and accomplished 
wife might have gradually weaned him 
from pleasure, and pursuits destructive 
alike to health and fortune ; but Sultan 
Solyman would as soon have thought 
of marrying, or combining his love to 
one fair favourite, as Charley Fox, at 
the time I speak of. Now, how was it 
with Sheridan ? He had to make his 
fortune: he was born to none, and 
therefore wanted that only temptation 
to extravagance into which his friend 
had fallen. He had married the wo- 
man of his heart ; a woman, too, who, 
in beauty and accomplishments, was 
considered to be unrivalled. Though 
inheriting no property, he was in pos- 
session of genius amply sufficient to 
supply the want ; he knew well how 
to employ it successfully ; and when 
he became manager, had, as the vulgar 
phrase is, the ball at his foot. Besides, 
it was reasonable to suppose that a for- 
tune got by labour would be more va- 
lued, and better preserved, than one 
descending by inheritance. Yet Fox 
in some measure redeemed the errors 
of a voluptuous and extravagant youth, 
by leaving the vain and busy "world, 
and seeking the comforts of domestic 
tranquillity in literary retirement, and 
the company of a wife (for he did 
marry at last) whom he wisely chose, 
not for wealth, beauty, or connexion, 
but for good temper and good sense. 
On poor Sheridan's melancholy and 
inglorious end it is too painful to dwell. 
He too had the advantages which con- 
nubial union is capable of imparting, 
had he with equal prudence availed 
himself of them. His biographer en- 
ters into pretty large details of that me- 
lancholy period,withholding, however, 
one of those unfortunate failings which 

Richard Br ins ley S her id an } $c. 

degraded him more in the estimation 
of the respectable than his debts and 
his imprudence, namely, addiction to 
strong liquors. How such a mind 
could so debase itself, it is hard to say. 
Possibly it was a consciousness of this 
wretched, but unconquerable habit, 
which induced him to decline the 
Prince's offer of a seat in Parliament. 
To appear there, as I fear he too fre- 
quently did towards the close of his 
political life, would have reflected some 
portion of disgrace on his royal patron. 
What talents, what friendship, what 
patronage, could support a man thus 
wilfully devoting himself to shame and 
degradation ? Mr Moore labours to 
throw the weight of all his closing 
miseries on the desertion of his friends. 
Alas ! he had been first deserted by 
one who ought to have been, instar om- 
nium, the first and best of friends- 
himself. This unfortunate propensity 
easily accounts for that disordered state 
of the digestive powers, and incapacity 
of the stomach to receive nourishment, 
which, notwithstanding his natural 
strength of constitution, accelerated, 
as it hardly ever fails to do, his disso- 
lution. Many a melancholy instance 
of similar acceleration have I known, 
and that in constitutions which nature 
had rendered capable of resisting every 
other violent and irregular subversion 
of its powers. 

But Sheridan's repugnance to the 
labour of dramatic composition was not 
the sole cause of his relinquishing it. 
His brilliant imagination, ready wit, 
and powers of expression, pointed him 
out as a valuable parliamentary acqui- 
sition to that party, with the primary 
leaders of which his public fame and 
convivial qualities had procured him 
an intimacy. The opportunity thus 
offered was too tempting to be resisted 
by a young man, conscious of possess- 
ing the talents which could adorn, 
though deficient in the knowledge 
which should accomplish, the states- 
man. The dramatic pursuit afforded, 
indeed, a certain road both to reputa- 
tion and riches ; but what were these 
in comparison with the transporting 
hope of winning the applause of an 
admiring senate, and gradually rising 
to the honours and emoluments of the 
state ? Jn a mind like his, rendered 
still more ardent by flattery and ap- 
plause, prudence had little chance of 
success in a struggle with ambition. 
The applause due to wit and eloquence 


of the highest quality he did indeed 
attain, but found, too late, that he had 
not been equally fortunate in choosing 
the way to station and emolument, the 
ultimate object of -his senatorial ambi- 
tion. Disappointment, however, ac- 
cording to hi& biographer, resulted not 
from want of wisdom in his choice, 
but from the rectitude by which that 
choice was directed. Like Cato, he 
embraced the right cause, and that it 
turned out to be not the victrix, but 
the victa, was not his fault. Truly I 
believe so, nor of his friend Fox nei- 
ther, than whom,-r~witness his India 
bill and his North Coalition no minis- 
ter ever more ardently aspired to be 
victor, not of Parliament alone, but of 
King and people also. But whether it 
was the worse or the better party, the 
truth is, that he had no option to 
make, except that of not coming into 
Parliament at all. Under that party 
he enlisted, and, being bound to its 
support, could not, in propriety of 
speech, be called an independent se- 

But, his biographer would rejoin, 
though a party no doubt it was, yet 
it was one which no great or good 
man could hesitate to embrace ; for it 
was composed of all that was magna- 
nimous, sapient, virtuous, and disin- 
terested, within the realm. It was a 
party that looked upon kings as cy- 
phers, as all patriots should do. 16 
was a party that had no other possible 
object in view but the public good, 
and a little compensation for their 
own trouble. It was a noble and li- 
beral party ; with one remarkable ex- 
ception, that would have welcomed 
Gallic reformists as brothers. It was 
a party that would have thrown down 
the pillars of obsolete establishments, 
and erected a new and splendid edi- 
fice on Universal Suffrage, and the 
Rights of Man. It was a party that 
would have opened the sluices of the 
state to the inundations of Radicalism, 
and let in a blessed tide of peace, 
plenty, liberty, and happiness, into 
oppressed, enslaved, unthriving, and 
ill-governed England. It was a party 
which one William Pitt, whose nar- 
rowness of mind could only be equalled 
by his selfishness and arrogance, was 
not only mulish enough to oppose, 
but, by some unaccottn table fatuity 
in the people, strong enough to put 
down. All this it certafnly was ; and, 
therefore, it can be no wonder that an 


Reminiscences. A'o. ///. 

adherent so enlightened and attached 
as Sheridan's little biographer, should 
whimper and whine over its unfortu- 
nate downfall. For mark the conse- 
quence. The principles laid down by 
the aforesaid William Pitt have been 
followed up to this very hour ; nay, 
Fox himself, when he did come in, 
after his rival's ever-to-be-lamented 
length of ministerial sway, was neces- 
sitated to tread in the same steps. 
Immense sums have been expended 
to preserve what prejudiced fools call- 
ed the glory and independence of the 
British Empire ; the nation is prodi- 
giously in debt ; the Church of Rome 
lias been unable to send her represen- 
tatives to the Imperial Parliament; 
and last, though not least, the Tories 
are lords of the ascendant ! All this 
is very melancholy, no doubt, and what 
have we in compensation for it ? A 
mere nothing. Military and naval re- 
nown, such as even Britain could never 
boast before ! a feather ! Manufac- 
tures, industry, commerce, unbound- 
ed wealth, internal peace, and general 
prosperity ; things below the notice 
of reformers and radicals! A great 
accession of colonial settlements and 
foreign possessions ; useless and ex- 
pensive encumbrances ! National ce- 
lebrity, unequalled among the empires 
of the world; Vox et preterea nihil! 
In short, what Mr Pitt contemplated, 
and thought no sacrifice too great to 
purchase, has been attained. What 
might have resulted from a defeat of 
his measures, and a dereliction of his 
plans, no man can positively say, 
though many think it not very diffi- 
cult to conjecture. For my own part 
I am not dissatisfied with things as 
they are ; nor do I believe that there 
is a single man of wealth, wisdom, 
and character, even of Moore's own 
party, who is not in his heart of the 
same opinion. 

The biographer's observations upon 
the Monody on Garrick are, I think, 
upon the whole just, though some- 
times perhaps hypercritical. One is 
rather surprised to see an author so 
very fond of tropes, figures, and per- 
sonifications, as himself, brand, with 
the name of " false taste," some per- 
sonifications of Sheridan, which to 
me appear by no means destitute of 
either beauty or propriety. 

" Jf dying excellence deserves a tear," 

is one, and he points to another in one 
of the Duenna s songs, 

" As some fond widow o'er he* babe deploring, 
Wakes its beauties with a tear." 

I have certainly been tasteless enough 
not only to pass them without cen- 
sure, but to consider them as legiti- 
mate flowers in the garden of poetry. 
The former, I think, would be badly 
exchanged for the simple name, 
" If dying Davy Garrick claim a tear;" 

the latter, I believe, will find few re- 
prehenders amongst either the judges 
or the lovers of poetic composition. In 
fact, I doubt if either of them can 
strictly be called personifications. The 
following, however, is an apposite re- 
mark, tf It is only by concentrating 
his rays upon one point that even ge- 
nius can kindle strong emotion ; and, 
in order to produce any strong effect 
in the present instance on the audi- 
ence, Garrick himself ought to have 
been kept prominently and individu- 
ally before their eyes in almost every 
line. Instead of this, the man is soon 
lost in his art," &c. 

This is very true ; and hence the 
Monody, though a beautiful specimen 
of Sheridan's serious poetic talent, did 
not long continue to interest the au- 
dience. It was not among the theatri- 
cal beauties which decies rcpetita pla- 
cebit. That he did not happen to view 
the subject with the eyes of his bio- 
grapher is the more to be regretted, 
because so fair an opportunity was lost 
of consigning the various excellencies 
of Garrick to poetic immortality. His 
praise, however just, is too general to 
afford the reader any distinct idea of 
the actor's peculiar merits, and extra- 
ordinary powers. He might have made 
his Lear, his Richard, his Macbeth, 
contrasted with a few of his more re- 
markable comic parts, to borrow poetic 
phrase, " live in description, and look 
fresh in song." A picture-work of this 
kind, executed with the full power of 
Sheridan's talents, would have been 
not only a delightful morfeau for the 
auditors in whose minds the recollec- 
tion of Garrick's various parts was so 
strongly impressed, but perhaps the 
best memorial of him that could be 
transmitted to posterity. This, per- 
haps it will be said, was not in his 
power ; for it seems he told somebody 
he had never seen Garrick act. I am 
just as willing to believe that he had 
never seen Westminster abbey or St 
Paul's. A wit is not always to be ta- 
ken at his word ; he might have mid 

Richard Brinsleg Sheridan, 


so to excita surprise, or get rid of im- 

Sheridan, according to his biogra- 
pher, was more fortunate than Alex- 
ander the Great ; and as such supe- 
riority may riot readily occur to readers 
who have not seen Moore's book, they 
shall have it in his own words, " He 
may therefore here (*. e. with the 
world) be said to have closed his ac- 
co\int with literature, when not only 
the glory of his past successes, but 
the hopes of all he might yet have 
achieved, were set down fully, and 
without any risk of forfeiture, to his 
credit ; and instead of being left, like 
Alexander, to sigh for new worlds to 
vanquish, no sooner were his triumphs 
tn one sphere of action complete, than 
another opened to invite him to new 
conquests." It may be wrong in me 
to find fault with an illustration so 
much in our national taste, but to 
others a parallel between two cases and 
persons so utterly dissimilar will seem 
odd enough. There was, indeed, one 
part in their characters somewhat 
alike, which the reader of these pages 
will be at no loss to discover, and to 

But it is not quite true, that his li- 
terary and dramatic account was here 
closed ; for we find him, some years 
after, bringing out a very successful 
production under the auspices not of 
his old favourite the comic, but of the 
tragic muse, the drama of Pizarro. 
This, indeed, is called a translation 
from the German ; but it will be found 
to have undergone many improve- 
ments from his masterly hand, and to 
have been adorned with some addition- 
al beauties of his own. I know it has 
been the fashion with critics of this 
biographer's stamp, to charge this tra- 
gedy with inflated diction, and decry 
it as altogether unworthy of Sheridan's 
genius. It is time to rescue it from 
the envy and malevolence of such cri- 
tics. The style, I believe, appears in- 
flated only because it is not metrical ; 
and, appearing to the eye as plain 
prose, many seem disposed to think, 
that it ought to be common prosaic 
language, not considering, that the 
genius of the tragic muse always de- 
mands a more elevated diction, as well 
as a more refined expression of senti- 
ment, than is admitted in common 
parlance. In either of these it certain- 
ly does not soar to higher extravagance 

than his admired oratorical effusions 
on the great trial of Hastings, and it 
has less of their figurative and far- 
fetched ornaments. Cora's song, of 
which the biographer has given a 
mangled fac-simile, is eminently beau- 
tiful; her character, that of Elvira, 
of Rolla, and, indeed, of all, are drawn 
with great force, sustained with great 
skill, and productive of powerful ef- 
fect. I do not know any performance 
that made a deeper impression, or was 
more cordially greeted with the ap- 
plause of numerous and respectable 
audiences, at the time of its appear- 
ance, as well as many years after. 
Such approbation would hardly have 
been bestowed, at the close of the last 
century and beginning ef the present, 
upon false sentiment and bombas tic dic- 
tion. To me, and to many others, whose 
judgment had much more weight 
than mine, it displayed an unexpected 
reach of dramatic talent, and inspired 
a hope, that he to whom Thalia had 
been so bounteous of her favours, 
would enrich the English stage with 
some contributions from the treasury 
of her rival, but not her enemy, Mel- 
pomene. We hoped that he would 
become, in writing, what his friend 
Garrick was in acting, one who " to 
their noblest characters would do equal 
honour;" and if praise and profit could 
have been effectual persuasives, he 
wanted neither. 

But we need be at no loss to account 
for a torrent of censure and abuse 
which flowed, not from the pure foun- 
tain of honest criticism, but from the 
polluted streams of angry politics. A 
play, inculcating attachment to our old 
and venerated establishments, as well 
as steady loyalty to the King, impla- 
cable hatred to invaders, under the 
name of Reformists, and a resolution 
to fight and die, joro arts et facts, was, 
in the eyes of certain great men, bad 
enough, let it come from whom it 
may. What then, must it have been, 
issuing from the pen, and dictated by 
the feelings, of a Whig ? But Sheri- 
dan, with all his faults and failings, 
had too good a head, and too honest a 
heart, to be long the dupe of the in- 
vidious, or the tool of the virulent. 
He had, like many others, been impo- 
sed upon by the plausibility of demo- 
cratic professors, but he saw his error, 
and was not ashamed to avow his re- 
traction. He saw at length the ruin- 

Reminiscences. No. III. 

ous tendency of measures, whose ob- 
ject was to revolutionize, under the 
name of reform, and he applied the 
powerful energy of dramatic influence 
to counteract it. He loved and vene- 
rated his good old King, though the 
Whigs hated him, and though the ob- 
noxious William Pitt was his prime 
minister. When we reflect on all 
these heinous misdemeanours, we shall 
cease to wonder at the little mercy 
Pizarro has experienced at the hands 
of certain critical dissectors, now that 
the author is no longer able to appear 
as his own vindicator ; though truly 
such strictures as we see here, were 
he even living, might, like the Jew in 
the Duenna, find sufficient protection 
in their insignificance. One trifling 
passage is quoted as too figurative, and, 
by some strange mistake, I don't choose 
to call it malicious intention, another 
is given, for the purpose of throw- 
ing ridicule on this obnoxious pro- 
duction. I quote the exact words from 
the second edition, vol. ii. p. 288. 
" Even that scene where Cora describes 
the f white buds' and ( crimson blos- 
soms' of her infant's teeth, which I 
have often heard cited as a specimen 
of Sheridan's pure ornament, is in- 
debted to this unknown paraphrast 
for the whole of its embroidery ! ! !" 
The words are these they occur in 
a dialogue between Alonzo and Cora, 
where she describes the transports of 
a mother after the birth of her first- 
born. " When first the white blos- 
soms of his teeth appear breaking the 
crimson buds that did incase them 
that is a day of joy !" This I look 
upon to be a pretty striking image, 
one of those happy thoughts which 
unite the obvious and the novel, nor 
can I find anything in the whole scene 
which is not accordant with the pa- 
rental feelings of the young, the sen- 
sitive, the tender, and the innocent. 
The real embroiderer is not the au- 
thor, but the commentator, whose 
fancy gives the child of his creation 
white gums and scarlet teeth ! But 
what may we not expect from an ima- 
gination that can people orchestras 
with elephants, make nail-drawers of 
kings, &c. &c., and while recording 
the exuberant sallies of Sheridan's 
wit, slily insinuate, by his own supe- 
rior figurative extravagance, how much 
the genius of " departed excellence" 
is surpassed by that of its poetical bio- 
grapher ! 

It is amusing enough to hear him 
talk of " the heroic dignity which 
Kemble used to infuse into the celebra- 
ted speech of Rolla" ! ! ! from which 
we are, of course, to infer that all this 
heroic dignity was due to the actor, 
independent of the poet. So Cato's 
celebrated soliloquy owed all its value 
to Booth, Addison having merely given 
the thoughts and the language ! Ex- 
cellent criticism indeed! Yet have I 
seen that celebrated speech of Rolla 
adorn the walls of many a chamber, 
the possessors of which had never seen 
John Kemble. In truth, he must 
have been a poor reciter indeed, whose 
enunciation could rob it of heroic dig- 
nity, more especially in the times for 
which it was written. It is not, in 
fact, the false taste of that or any 
other part of the play, which renders 
it obnoxious to the critical biographer, 
but its purport the inexpiable crime 
of loyalty. Had it been written on 
opposite principles, had the hero been 
a republican insurgent, directing the 
thunders of his eloquence and his 
arms against the old possessors of opu- 
lence and power, and inciting the 
people, not to reverence or protect the 
person and authority of theirxking, 
but to sacrifice both at the altar of po- 
pular liberty, though such a play might 
not have been thought quite suited to 
the general taste of the British people, 
how would it have been applauded by 
the disciples of modern Whiggery ! 
Little would be objected to it on the 
score of inflated diction or overcharged 
ornaments. It might, to be sure, be 
deemed a little too warm for the gene- 
ral coldness of British feelings ; but 
then all must confess the sentiments 
to be grand, and the language sublime 
and beautiful ! The jaundiced eye is 
not the only one that can discolour 

I do not know whether the author 
may not have found in Europe one 
crowned head which his champion 
might have been allowed by this bio- 
grapher to defend with " heroic dig- 
nity." That, however, stands upon 
a higher title, and reigns by right di- 
vine. How it comes to number Whigs 
among its supporters, it is not easy to 
conceive, for where it does exercise 
plenary authority, neither civil nor re- 
ligious liberty does or can flourish. To 
suppose a nation really free, and at 
the same time submissive to papal au- 
thority, is to suppose a contradiction, 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan, $c. 


because every true son of the church 
must, in the most important of all hu- 
man concerns, both think and speak 
as she wills and directs ; a thing alto- 
gether incompatible with human free- 
dom. But, I shall be told, France is 
a free country if she be, a point I 
don't pretend to give a decided opinion 
upon, it is because the influential in- 
habitants despise her dogmas, and are 
Roman Catholics only in name. What 
the leaders of Gallican liberty thought 
some years since of the compatibility 
of Catholicism with freedom, we may 
learn from that memorable decree of 
the Convention, by which Christiani- 
ty, known to them only as the religion 
of Rome, was abolished. The national 
religion was restored, or rather the re- 
storation of it was proclaimed by Buo- 
naparte, not because he had any re- 
spect for it himself, but because it was 
conducive to bis own private ends. As 
this hero is reputed to have been a fa- 
vourite with the Whigs, it is not im- 
possible that they may imitate his po- 

Among the impromptus of Sheri- 
dan's ready pen, one has escaped the 
notice, not the mem&ry, of his biogra- 
pher he remembers to have heard of 
it but too well. On the memorable 
night in which Drury-lane Theatre 
was profaned by the attempted assas- 
sination of George the Third, an at- 
tempt, the alarm and agitation of 
which seemed to be deeply felt by 
every breast, save that of Majesty 
alone, Sheridan, ever in attendance 
when the King visited the theatre, 


stepped into the green-room, and in a 
few minutes the vocal and instrumen- 
tal performers came forward and sung 
God save the King, with the following 
additional stanza : 

From every latent foe, 

From the assassin's blow, 
Thy succour bring ; 

O'er him thine arm extend, 

From every ill defend 

Our Father, King, and Friend, 
God save the King ! 

The cool intrepidity of Old George, 
the presence of mind which assured 
him that it was no more than one of 
those frenzied or fanatical attacks to 
which greatness is always liable, and 
the secure confidence he so evidently 
reposed in the affections of his sub- 
jects, contributed to redouble the ac- 
clamations with which the national 
anthem was received by the audience. 
The extempore verses, known at once 
to have come from the manager, seem- 
ed particularly gratifying to their feel- 
ings, and drew bursts of the loudest 
and most sincere applause that ever 
perhaps was heard in a theatre. This 
may be too trifling an anecdote for 
such " heroic dignity" as Tommy 
Moore's ; and for an omission so con- 
sistent with his principles, it would 
perhaps be too severe to censure him. 
Those who have not learned to exclude 
royal virtues and loyal sentiments 
from their notions of heroism and dig- 
nity, will, I think, be of opinion, not 
only that it is worth relating, but that 
it should never be forgotten. 

(To be Concluded in next Number.) 


42 Acted Charades. No. IV. 


No. IV. 


A Hair-dresser 's Shop. 
FRIZZLE solus, dressing a wig. 

Frizzle. So ! This is a most delicate piece of workmanship ! Confoundedly 
clever. The hairs are woven better by half than they grow in the skin more 
regular like and the curl it takes ! and the fine oily gloss ! and the colour ! 
It's a pleasure to put such a wig out of hand a wig, as the poet says, ' ' beat- 
ing nature." Zounds ! I wonder people are such fools as to wear their own 
hair! That curl a little more to the left, to give a sort of carelessness so. 
To be sure, though I say it that should not say it, there is not an artist of 
more genius in my line in the whole West End. It must be confessed, though, 
that few men have had my advantages. 'Prenticed in Piccadilly placed for 
improvement in Regent Street a foreign tour two days at Calais three days 
hang this straggling lock ! It won't sit becoming ! I've a great mind to clip 
it. No ; that'll do. That's quite corny fo, as the French say. The old gene- 
ral won't know his yellow wizen phiz in this wig. But then the wig, poor 
thing ! if it could but see how much better it sits on this wooden head than 
ever it will on his battered skull, it would be sorry enough to go. Ah, my 
dear wig, I'm really sorry to part with you ! One more touch one more look ! 
Ah, it will never look BO well again ! The wooden head for ever ! 


A Phrenologist's Study. Casts, Boxes, and Skulls, arranged round the Room. 

Dr Brain. Well, my good Mrs Atkins, I see that you have brought your 
son to be examined. 

Mrs Atkins. Yes, sir, if you will have the goodness. Children are a great 
pleasure, but then they are a great care ; and a widow, especially, a lone wo- 
man, cannot help feeling anxious about setting them out in life. To be sure, 
I have only my twins, a girl and this boy but still it is a great trouble. One 
does not know what is fittest for them, poor things ! 

Dr Brain. Phrenology is precisely what will ease that trouble, Mrs Atkins. 
Our discoveries tend particularly to that point, by observing and following the 
natural indications. My friend Mr Hewson, I think, sent you to me ? 

Mrs Atk. Yes, sir ; he told me that by looking at the boy's skull Take 
off your hat, William ! and feeling the bumps 

Dr Brain. Organs, my good madam ! Call them organs ! 

Mrs Atk. I beg your pardon, sir ; I will. Mr Hewson said, that by feeling 
his bump organs, I mean you would be able to tell me what to do with 
him. I should like to bring him up to the grocery line, like his father, and take 
him into the business at a proper time ; but the boy, it seems, has read a fool- 
ish book, called Robinson Crusoe, and is wild to go to sea. Why don't you 
take your hat off, William, and let the Doctor look at your organs ? He won't 
hurt you, child. For all he's so bold and full of tricks, the boy's as shame- 
faced before company as his sister. Hold yourself up, William. 

Dr Brain. How old is the young gentleman ? 

Mrs Atk. Twelve, come next Michaelmas. He's but a shrimp of a thing, 
in spite of his great spirit ; too puny by half for a boy. Fanny and he are so 
alike, that if it were not for their clothes, we should never know them asun- 
der. But I suppose, Doctor, that's only their faces? I take it their bumps 
I beg pardon -organs are quite different ? 

Dr Brain. Undoubtedly, my good Mrs Atkins. Difference of sex is attend- 
ed with difference of faculty. The perceptive organs, for instance, are usually 

Charades. No. IV. 43 

more developed in women ; the reflective, in men. This is quite a boy's fore- 
head. Come, sir, let me feel. I shall do you no harm. 

The Doctor feels the child's head; Mrs ATKTNS walks about the 
room loo/ting- at the casts, and talking- to herself. 

Mrs Atk. Dear me, how ghastly these faces look, as if they had been chop- 
ped off just under the chin ! Were the poor people all beheaded, I wonder ! 
Perhaps they're taken from the French folks long ago that were guillotined ! 
That skull looks, for all the world, like a horse's. Have horses bumps like 
Christians ? Oh, the wonderful works of nature ! 

Dr Brain. A large distinctiveness a prodigious combative-ness firmness 
strongly developed adhesiveness small. Really, Mrs Atkins, this boy is the 
most striking instance of the truth of our science that I have ever met with in 
the thousands that I have examined. I never saw the propensities so strongly 
indicated. Let him go to sea by all means indeed, it would be of no use if 
you were to try to keep him at home. With such zjirmness, and sensativeness 
large, he would certainly run away. Besides, it would be a thousand pities. 
Here are all the organs that make a great warrior ; a superb distinctiveness a 
finer combativeness than Lord Nelson ! I should like to have a cast of the boy. 

Mrs Atk. Ah, well-a-day ! 

Dr Brain. Acquisitiveness strong too ! 

Mrs Atk. Ay ay what's that ? 

Dr Brain. Why, it means a desire to possess ; which, in a boy, probably 
shows itself in a love of marbles, and apples, and nuts, without being very 
scrupulous as to the means by which they are acquired. 

Mrs Atk. Oh, it's a wonderful art ! See, William, how the Doctor finds you 
out ! Yes, he I take shame to say it, but the boy stole all the apples off our 
nonpareil tree last year; and we can't keep a gooseberry in the garden for 
him. I can trust his sister anywhere, she's such a good little quiet thing but 

Dr Brain. Never fear, Mrs Atkins ; it's an excellent organ, under proper 
government, and will turn to a desire to capture Dutch spice ships and Spa- 
nish argosies. You must send him to sea. 

Mrs Atk. Ah, well-a-day ! But, Doctor, how is it that you can tell all these 
things ? 

Dr Brain. Why, look here, my good madam ! Do you see that projection on 

the side of Just here, Mrs Atkins here, my good lady. If I had another 

child, I could show you what I mean in a moment. 

Mrs Atk. Run and fetch your sister, William. 

Dr Brain. Ay, then I can explain the difference. I'll venture to say there 
is not such a combativeness why don't you go for your sister, my little man, as 
your mamma bids you ? 

Mrs Atk. Why do you stand there like a simpleton ? Go for Fanny this mo- 

Child. Pray, mamma, don't be angry, I am Fanny. 

Mrs Atk. Oh, dear me ! Dear me ! This is one of William's unlucky tricks ! 
Get out of my sight, you good-for-nothing hussy. What will the Doctor say 
to be made such a fool of ! 

Dr Brain. Make a fool of me, Mrs Atkins I I should like to see the person 
that could do that. It is not all the tricks of men, women, and children, that 
can put down phrenology. But I give you warning, my good madam, that 
whatever trouble you may have with your son, you will have more with your 
daughter. I was never mistaken in my life, and there are organs in that little 
noddle fit to belong to Joan of Arc. Good morning, Mrs Atkins ! She'll fol- 
low the drum, I tell you ; or, very likely, go to sea herself. Good-morning, 
ma'am. Make a fool of a phrenologist, indeed ! ^Exeunt. 


A Breakfast Room in MORDAUNT'S House, 

MORDAUNT and a Servant. 

Mordaunt. Take away the breakfast things. Is the man that Sir David 
Onslow wrote about as a footman, come yet ? 

44 Acted Cliaradcfi. No. IV. 

Servant. Yes, sir. 

Mor. What does he look like ? 

Serv. Rather lumpish and stupidish, sir. 

Mor. Lumpish and stupidish! Show him up. fcExit Servant.^ Lumpish 
and stupidish ! a pretty character Hevers gives of his new fellow-servant. 
Let's see again what Sir David says. ^Reads.^-" My dear friend, your 
inquiry for a trusty servant arrived in a lucky hour. My sister has just parted 
with one who answers exactly to your description. Her only reason for dis- 
missing him is, that he was not quick enough. But she's a woman, and un- 
reasonable of course." Well said, my trusty old bachelor ! Where was I ? 
Oh, t( unreasonable of course. He's the son of a tenant of mine, and might 
be trusted with untold gold, knows London, and has been used to travelling. 
His name is Zachary Boult." Now, but that Sir David's geese are all swans, 
and that this is a tenant's sonOh, here he comes ! 


Stupid and lumpish enough, in all conscience ! Well, Zachary ! Don't stand 
swinging the door in your hand that way, but come in. You lived, I under- 
stand, with Mrs Delville, Sir David Onslow's sister In what capacity ? 
Why don't you answer, instead of twirling your hat about ? Have you no 
tongue ? Can't you speak ? 

Zachary. Yes, sjr. 

Mor. Well then In what place did you live with her r 

Zac. AtMaybush. 

Mor. Maybush ! pshaw ! In what situation ? 

Zac. By the great pond. 

Mor. Did ever man hear ! I want to know what department you filled in 
her family ? Don't you understand ? or won't you understand ? 

Zac, Anan ! 

Mor. Intolerable ass ! Were you footman, butler, gardener, or groom ? Did 
you clean the horses ? Can't you speak, I say ? 

Zac. No, sir. 

Mor. Did you wait at table ? 

Zac. Yes, sir. 

Mor. You were footman, then, I presume ? Why could not you say so 
before? (Aside) What a dolt it is ! I don't think he can possibly do, but I'll 
just give him a trial out of compliment to my friend Sir David. You can de- 
liver a message, I suppose ? Sir David says you've been used to London 
(Aside) I'll certainly give him a trial 'Twill be but civil. Hark ye, Zacha- 
ry ! Run to Miss Pindentia Claver ing's, in Holies Street anybody will tell 
you the number and say, that I regret it will not be in my power to attend 
her conversazione to-night, as I am obliged to go immediately out of town ; 
then step on to Devonshire Place, with my compliments to Mr Macknight, 
and beg that he'll dine with me to-day at seven ; and be sure to inquire after 
Mrs Macknight and the baby. 

ZACHARY is going, MORDAUNT calls him back. 
Stay ! Do you remember the message ? Where were you to go first ? 

Zac. To Miss Miss Pin 

Mor. Pindentia Clavering it is a long name. Well, and where r 

Zac. Holly Holly Place 

Mor. Holies Street. And what were you to say there? 

Zac. That you'd come and conversation her folks to-night. 

Mor. Dolt ! That I can't come to her party to-night going directly out of 
town. Well, and where were you to go besides ? 

Mor. Don't stand scratching your head, idiot ! To Mr Macknight's, in De- 
vonshire Place, and ask 

Zac. Madam and the child to dinner. 

Mor. Fool ! To invite him to dinner, and inquire after Mrs Macknight and 
the child. Now go Stay you can read ? I'll write down the names and 
addresses (Writes and gives ZACHARY ths paper.) -Miss Pindentia Claver- 

Acted Charades. No. IV. 4-5 

ing, Holies Street Mr Macknight, Devonshire Place. Now, you can make 
no mistake. Why don't you go, as I ordered you ? 

ZACHARY is going, but returns. 

Zac. I'm to tell Mr Mac Macknight you're going out of town, and to ask 
at t'other place after Miss and the baby ? 

Mor. Out of my sight, incorrigible idiot ! Out of my house, I say ! Sir 
David must have thought me as great a fool as yourself, when he sent you in- 
to it. ^Exit ZACHARY.;] Thank Heaven I'm rid of him ! Now to describe 
his protege' in one word to my friend Sir David ! [Exit* 

No. V. 


A Dining-Room in a Country Mansion. 

( The Baron is engaged in stirring, and otherwise superintending tht contents of 
a saucepan on the fire.} 

Mr Collins. It does not signify talking, Baron ! You do as you like, of course, 
in my house Liberty Hall ! No lady to interfere with you. But I cannot 
help saying that you are spoiling the perch. 

Baron. My very goodt friendt, you know noding of de mattere. 

Mr C. Nothing of perch ! Have not I been a " brother of the angle" any 
time these thirty years ? Are not these very fish of my catching ? And were 
they not half an hour ago leaping alive in my basket, little dreaming, poor 
things, that they should ever be turned into water zootse or whatever you 
call your confounded slop ? Know nothing of perch \ 

Bar. Noding of de cookery. To cache is von ding to vat you call drese is 

Mr C. A pretty dressing truly ! But did not Philips, my housekeeper I 
suppose you'll admit that she knows something of cookery ? 

Bar. No she vas know noding eider. 

Mr C. Philips know nothing ! Really, my dear Baron, I should have thought 
that the dinners which you hare done me the honour to eat in this house might 
have carried with them a practical conviction, that the cook who dressed them 
was no ordinary kitchen drudge. But the dressing of perch is no disputed 
point in the gastronomic science no " debateable land." All the world knows 
that they ought to be fried with Scotch oatmeal in fresh butter. Not that 
I care for the dish I never touch it But being the produce of my own rod, 
I have a kindness for the fish, and don't like to see them spoilt. Now, if yoti 
had suffered Philips to fry them you'll allow that Philips can fry, I suppose ? 

Bar. Mistress Phileppe is very clevere. It is rnoche pitce dat she do not be 
feite to make water zootse. Here is de recepe in her own book Lissenne 
(reads.} " First cache yore fish, den " 

Mr C. Trash ! Trash ! Philips knows that no cook would stay long in my 
house, who dressed fish acording to that recipe. 

Bar. Will you ring de bell? (Mr COLLINS rings.) De water zootse is 
almost be do. (A servant enters, and goes to assist the. BARON.) Stay you 
will nocke down de pot. I will take it op. 

Mr C. What do you want ? 

Bar. A deepe dishe, and two plaite, and bread, and boottere, and* parsley, 
if you please, sare. (Exit Servant, and returns immediately with the tiling* 
required by the BARON.) It is moche pi tee you have no Hambro' parsley, 
my goodt friendt ! I can get you some from de graite inn at Maine ; dey keep 
in deir gardenne on purpose for de water zootse. Now my dishe is dont-. 
Eat, and taste how nice it is^soupe and fishe and all. Taste a lectel in vcu> 

46 Acted Charades. No. V. 

Mr C. Taste ! My dear Baron, I don't want to put you out of conceit of 
your luncheon but the sight's enough for me. No tasting, thank ye. You 
don't really mean to eat all that slop of fish liquor ? 

Bar. Ohless you will lete me give you a leetel. Now, my goodt friendt, 
onely von leetel drope, von drope in de ladel. 

Mr C* I ! Heaven forbid I should spoil your appetite, my dear Baron, but 
I'd as soon take a ladleful out of the hog-tub. He's actually discussing the 
whole concern ! fish, fish liquor, bread and butter, and parsley, a precious 
luncheon ! For my part, I shall never conceit the sight of a perch again, dead 
or alive. Even in the pond they'll have a twang of that infernal water zootse. 


A Lady's Morning Apartment. 

Mrs CUTHBBRT and EMILY, a girl of twelve years old, who is standing by a cage, 
with a dove at one end of the room. 

Emily. Oh, mamma ! mamma ! Pray, come here, my dear mamma ? 

Mrs Cuthbert. What is the matter, Emily ? 

Em. My dove, mamma, my dove ! My beautiful dove ! 

Mrs C. It is not dead, I hope ? 

Em. Oh, mamma, it's dying. Can't we do anything to help it ? Only see 
how it droops its poor pretty head ; and the bright scarlet eye, so like the Cor- 
nelian you showed me the other day, is almost closed, and the wing hanging 
down, and the soft plumage stained and rumpled, and the dark ring round itu 
neck ruffled and displaced. Oh it must die, my poor pretty dove ! 

Mrs C. Nay, Emily, it is reviving. See, it is gathering itself up. No ! you 
are right, it is really dying shivering and gasping, and rocking on its perch. 
One faint quiver the death quiver and now it falls dead, poor bird ! quite 

Em. Everything that I love is sure to die. It was but a few days ago that the 
nasty cat killed the other dove. I'll never have a bird again. 

Mrs C. I was afraid that this one would not live long after it had lost it* 

Em. Ought not we to have got another, mamma? Why did not we get 
another ? 

Mrs C. That would not have saved it, Emily. These beautiful creatures 
have within them the beautiful instinct of constancy, and are faithful in life 
and in death. Don't cry so, dearest. Come with me to the greenhouse, and 
Richard shall bury your poor favourite under the great myrtle. Did you never 
hear the old Italian story of the Pot of Basil ? I'll read it to you this evening. 
And we'll bury your poor faithful bird ; and your brother Henry shall write 
its epitaph. Think how he'll celebrate the tender bird that died* of love and 
grief! Your dove will be as famous as that of Anacreon. Come, my own 
Emily, dry your eyes, and come with me to the greenhouse. [Exeunt* 


An Hotel in Plymouth. 
HARCOURT and CORBYN, meeting. 

Corbyn. Ha ! Tom ! How d'ye do? I'm glad to see thee, faith ! I did not 
think to be so glad to-day ; for poor Sophy and the little ones are just gone 
and parting I won't talk of it Oh, it's a terrible tug to the heartstrings, 
and makes a man's throat feel as if he was choking. But I won't talk of it. 
How has the world gone with you ? 

1 826.3 Acted Charades. No. V. 4? 

Harcovrt. Passably. 

Cor. I'm almost as glad to see thee as if poor Sophy but we won't talk of 
that now. Where have you been these two years ? I have not set eyes oh you 
since the poor old Zenobia was paid off, and we were turned adrift on the wide 
world. What .quarter of the globe have you been in ? 

Har. Cruising about France and Italy. Civil people, Jack, and a fine cli- 
mate ; but nothing like old friends and old England. The women, to be sure, 
are handsome, and tight rigged. 

Cor. Handsome ! Zounds, you have never seen my Sophy ! If you had only 
come an hour sooner and yet her dear eyes were swelled out of her head with 
crying you'd not have seen half her beauty. 

Har. I'd have given a quarter's pay, Jack, to have seen the wife of your 
heart, beautiful or not. 

Cor. Would you ? You are just the good fellow you always were. Many 
a time Sophy and I have talked of Tom Harcourt ; of the pranks we played 
together when we were Mids on board the Ardent we were sad wicked young 
dogs, Tom ; of the drubbing we gave the Yankees in the dear old Zenobia, and 
of your good nursing when the splinter wounded my leg you see I'm a little 
lame still no^woman could have nursed me more tenderly not even her dear 
self. Many a time has Sophy laughed and cried at the name of Tom Har- 
court. Poor Sophy ! I won't talk of her any more only somehow I can't 
help it. 

Har. I like to hear of her. Where did you first meet ? 

Cor. At Harry Morris's You remember Harry Morris? I went to spend 
a month with him as soon as I came ashore, just, as he said, to recover my land 
legs ; and there was Sophy on a visit to Mrs Morris. I fell in love with her 
the moment I saw her sweet face, not altogether on account of its prettiness, 
pretty as she is, but because she seemed so good and so merry, such a kind, 
innocent, laughing creature. Before the end of the week I had popped the 
question, and before the month was out we were married. 

Har. And her friends, did they consent ? 

Cor. Why, there was a little difficulty. Her parents were dead, and her 
uncle, Sir Charles, (for she's a baronet's niece,) talked of the offers she had 
refused, and the offers she might still expect, and lectured, and quarrelled, 
and threatened never to see her again. But Sophy was of age, and stood firm. 
And now the old gentleman, who is really a good sort of man, is quite recon- 
ciled. We had neither of us much money ; but her little joined to my little, 
and the hope of a war, and her good management, kept all things comfortable, 
God bless her ! Oh, if you could but have seen us in our little cottage in the 
midst of the Devonshire hills Such a kesp ! Can't you run over and see her ? 
It's only twenty miles off The walls all covered with roses, and passion flow- 
ers, and jessamine all within so neat and bright then the little ones two 
such cherubs ! and the mother an angel. Oh, she has made my home a Pa- 
radise, Harcourt ! Do go and see her. I wish I could go with you ; but I 
can't, for I am under orders. 

Har. So am I. 

Cor. What ship ? 

Har. The Alfred. 

Cor. The Alfred, Captain Hanley ? 

Har. The same. 

Cor. Well, that is a comfort ! That is a blessing ! To think of our sailing 
together again ! Give me your hand Tom. The man I love best in the world ! 
To think of our meeting in the same ship ! 

Har. I am as glad of it, Jack, as you can be for your life. 

Cor. I'll write and tell Sophy directly. Shake hands again, Tom I'll write 
to her instantly. 

Har. And tell her that we'll talk of her every day, and drink her health 
every evening. 

Cor. You're the best fellow on earth, Tom. To think of our meeting ! 

Acted Charades. No. VL 
No. VI. 


A Lady's sitting-room. 
Mrs LESLIE and HORATIA at Work. 

Horatia, singing. 

The sun is careering in glory and might, 
Mid the deep hlue sky and the cloudlets white ; 
The bright wave is tossing its foam on high, 
And the summer breezes go lightly by ; 
The air and the water dance, glitter, and play 
And why should not I be as merry as they ! 

The linnet is singing the wild- wood through ; 
The fawn's bounding footstep skims over the dew ; 
The butterfly flits round the flowering tree ; 
And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee. 
All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay 
And why should not I be as merry as they ! 

Mrs Leslie. Really, Horatia, I am quite shocked to hear you singing that 
song at such a moment. 

Horatia. What moment, mamma ? 

Mrs Les. Look at your work. 

If or. My work ! I'm making a new dress : Is there anything in that to pre- 
vent my singing ? (Singing.') 

" The linnet is singing the wild- wood through ; 
The fawn's bounding footsteps skim over the dew." 
Nothing in a new dress to prevent singing surely ! 

Mrs Les. Only look at the material. 

Hor. Crape. Very pretty wear. (Singing') 

" The butterfly flits round the flowering tree ; 
And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee." 
No pleasanter summer wear than crape. I prefer it to any. 

Mrs Les. Ay, but look at the colour. 

Hor. The most becoming that can be to a fair complexion. You know, 
mamma, you yourself say that I never look so Well as in mourning. (Singing-*) 
" All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay" 

Mrs Les. Just think of the cause of that mourning. 

Hor. My grandpapa is dead. (Singing.) 

t( And why should not I be as merry as they ! 
And why should not I be as merry as they !" 

Mrs Les. You are an incorrigible girl, Horatia. I thought that you had had 
more feeling. 

Hor. Oh, mamma ! mamma ! don't think that I want feeling, proper feel- 
ing. But why should I be sorry for grandpapa ? How could I be sorry for 
him if I would ? Never saw him in my life, except once that my aunt Del- 
raont took me to his house when I was a little, little girl, and then he tossed 
me from him as if I had been a viper,--! remember it as freshly as if it had 
happened yesterday ! I never even saw his handwriting, but on the envelope 
to a letter of poor papa's, which he sent back torn in two. And did he not 
turn that dear papa out of doors, for marrying you, my own dear mamma ? 
And you to expect me to be sorry for him ! 

Mrs Les. But natural affection. 

Hor. Don't talk of natural affection for such a tyrant as that. He had none. 

Mrs Les. Still, Horatia, he was your grandfather. 

Hor. Yes. But depend on it, mamma, he would not have been my grand- 
father if he could any way have helped it. 

Mrs Les. The immediate ancestor to whom you owe an honourable name 
two honourable names ; for your baptismal appellation was given in compli- 
ment to him. 

Hor. Yes ; and, not being able to unchriRten me, he half unehristened him- 


1826.;] Acted Charades. No. VI. 49 

self for you know, mamma, that as soon as he heard of that unlucky nomi- 
nation, he cashiered his own first name of Horatio in favour of his second 
name of Matthew, to the infinite puzzlement of friends and servants, court 
registers and court guides, and was actually called Sir Matthew Leslie to his 
last hour. 

Mrs Lcs. Well ! If you have no respect for him as ytmr own grandfather 
and certainly you have made out a stfong case remember that he really 
acted as a parent to your favourite cousin Horace Delmont. 

Hor. Ay, mamma But if he had lived, Horace must have married the 
great heiress Miss Ludlow, or he would have heen turned out of doors like 
poor papa Now oh, mamma, think of that ! (Singing.} 

" All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay- 
And why should not I be as merry as they !" 
Think if poor Horace had been forced to marry Miss Ludlow instead of 

Mrs Lex. Instead of his dear liltle cousin. Why, it would have been a sad 
thing, Horatia, a very sad thing. Nevertheless, I don't like this singing oVeV 
crapes and bombazines ; it is not seemly. 

Hor. When may I sing, mamma ! Ah, there's Horace coming ; I must go 
and meet him. 

^Kisses her mother and runs off, humming the air of the song. 

Mrs Les. All blessings go with thee, for the sweetest and gayest creature 
that ever made the joy of a mother's heart. Only she really should not sing 
till she has got her mourning off. It is not seemly. 


A Glade in a Forest Moonlight* 


Mor. What a night, and what scenery ! Was ever vapour so soft, so trans- 
parent, and so silvery, as those small clouds that flit about the moon ? And 
the edges'of light which surround the larger and darker masses, how bright 
and how beautiful are they ! Did you ever see a lovelier sky ? 
Ell. Very lovely. 

Mor. Then the effect of the moon-beams on this forest glade ! How they 
sleep on that broad oak, and dance in the tiny rivulet, that swells from amidst 
the convolved and snaky roots, 'and goes winding and gurgling along the tract 
like a thing of life ! And how the shining bark of the weeping birch stands 
out like a stem of silver, whilst the delicate branches, as they flutter in the 
night-breeze, cast a tremulous and glancing shadow on the ground beneath ! 
Is it not beautiful ? 

Ell. Eh? Yes; I believe so. 

Mor. You believe so ! And see how the holly leaves glitter above the tall 
fern, which waves round us in such wild profusion a lower forest ! Is it not 
enchanting? And that deep shadowy perspective, the intricacy, the involution, 
the mystery, which makes so much of the charm and the character of forest 
scenery. You don't enjoy it, Elliott ! You, whom I have heard declaim for 
an hour together on a pollard by the side of a pond, or an elm tree overhanging 
a rustic bridge, or any such common-place picturesqueness ; and here's a piece 
of fairy land, that sets even such a rattlepate as I am exclaiming, and when 
one asks you if it be beautiful, you say, I believe so ! Only look at that clus- 
ter of glow-worms Elliott, what can you be thinking of? But your true lover 
is ever a lover of nature ; basks in the moonshine, and revels in the forest. It 
is his proper atmosphere. What can you be thinking of? 

Ell. Simply, my dear Morland, that, however delightful this place may 
be, it would be still more delightful if one of the fairies you talk of would 
have the goodness to guide us home again. For, in my humble opinion, we 
are lost. 

Mor. Never fear. 

" I know each glade, and every alley green, 

Dingle and bosky dell- ~" 

By Jove, Elliott, you are right ! I thought we had cojne back to the great oak, 
from which the avenue branches, which leads ua straight to Kinley Lodge, 

60 Acted Charades. No. VI. LJuly, 

It's just such a tree. But there is no spring welling out from the roots of the 
Kinley oak. 

Ell. Neither is there any sign of an avenue here. Nor, indeed, as far as 
I can sec, of any path whatsoever. We edged ourselves, if you remember, 
through one of these thickets. I think that to the left. 

Mor. No : this to the right. I think to the right. Never mind. We are 
lost. Take the matter quietly, man, instead of wandering about in that dis- 
consolate manner, frightening the birds from their nests, by beating the bushes, 
and treading upon the poor pretty glow-worms and putting out their lamps. 
Be peaceable. I shall have the worst of the adventure, inasmuch as I shall 
certainly get disinherited by my good aunt Mrs Elizabeth Morlarid, for keep- 
ing bad hours whilst an inmate of her mansion, or rather for staying out all 
night (for we shall hardly get back before morning) in, as she will truly assert, 
bad company ; for worse company than you at present, I think, can hardly 
be founcl. If the fair Helen Mayne were to see you in this mood ! 

Ell. Are you sure, Morland, that you have lost your way ? 

Mor. Certain. But what need you mind ? You have no maiden aunt to 
look after your false steps you are a mere guest of the good admiral's no- 
body to take care of you, nobody to lecture you, nobody to rave if you sleep 
out twenty nights ; whilst I 

Ell. And you really think that we shan't get home before morning ? 

M or. Morning ! I rather apprehend that we shall never get home again. 
I don't imagine that we shall find our way out ; and I doubt, even if any one 
thinks it worth while to look after us, whether he will find his way in, 
though, I take it, the forest is the last wilderness in which we shall be sought 
for. Mrs Elizabeth is far more likely to have us cried in the next town, or 
to advertise us in the London papers, under the head " missing," with our 
names and marks, like two stray pointers. 

Ell. Do, pray, be serious. 

Mor. Certainly. It is a most grave subject. Twenty years hence, per- 
haps, we may turn up in the shape of the remains of two unfortunate gentle- 
men, who 

Ell. Hark! Is that a clock ? 

Mor. It's an owl, the clock of the forest. 

Ell. Morland, I beseech you, leave jesting. If you could but imagine 
how important it is to me to reach Kinley by a certain time ! Can you guess 
at the hour ? 

Mor. My repeater will tell us. (Strikes his watch.) Half past ten. 

Ell. Gracious heaven ! my prospects are ruined for ever ! I am a wretch 
for life ! the most miserable of wretches ! he who might have been the hap- 

Mor. That tone is too genuine and too passionate to be trifled with. But 
how, my dear Elliott, can this little difficulty, which must end with the night, 
affect your happiness ? 

Ell. You know Helen Mayne ? 

Mor. Yes ! yes ! and your passion for her. All the world knows that, the 
proud beauty herself included. But she is so nice, and so coy, and so high, 
and so cold. What of Helen Mayne ? 

Ell. We arc staying in the same house ; and this morning I ventured, 
for the first time, to put my love for her into words. 

Mor. Ay ? And she listened ? 

Ell. Yes; she, the coy, the haughty Helen Mayne, listened and blush- 
ed, and stood a while in abashed silence, then turned slowly away ; and when 
I seized her hand and pressed for an answer, faltered that she was going out 
for the day, but should be back by eleven ; and then she broke from me. 
And not to meet her ! she the rich, the high-born, the beautiful Helen Mayne ! 
the admired of all eyes ! the -coveted of all tongues ! the beloved of all hearts ! 
she to have made such a concession ! and if you had but heard the tone ! If 
you had but seen the blush ! If you could image to yourself how divinely her 
unusual softness became the coy beauty ! And to fail her now ! 

Mor. You shall not fail her. I will find the way. How in the name of 
Heaven camu you to' be wandering in the fort&t on such a night r 

1825.3 Acfed Ch ara des. No. 11. 51 

Ell. To beguile the hours. And you promised to be my guide. 

Mor. But to trust such a guide as me ! Never mind though, my good fellow ! 
I will find the way. And depend on it, since Helen Mayne likes you well 
enough to have made this half appointment, that you'll be the happy man 
whether you keep it or not. But I'll find the way, I'll be sure to find the 
way. We must set about it now in good earnest. To the right ! I am sure, 
to the right. 


A Circulating Library in a Country Town. 

SELL, and Miss COUNTER, the Mistress of the Shop. 

Letitia. If you please, Miss Counter, can I have the Magazine ? 

Miss Counter. No, ma'am, the coach is not come in. 

Colonel. You are to save me a copy, remember, Miss Counter. 

Mrs Page. Ay, true ; this is the first of the month. Let me have yours 
when you have done with it, Colonel. 

Mrs Oliver. You promised that I should have one of the copies first, 'Miss 

Mr Combe. So you did me. Have you only two copies ? 

Miss C. Only two at present, sir. But, perhaps, Miss Letitia 

Let. No, I can't let you have it first, Mr Combe, because grandmamma is 
so fond of it. There's nothing else in the world that puts her into a good hu- 

Co!. She's a woman of sense. 

Let. Ay, but, Colonel, it only comes out once a-month ! Oh, if it would but 
come out once a-week especially when grandmamma has the gout, 

Mr C. You should read her the back numbers. 

Let. So I do. 

Col. A wonderfully clever number the last, in spite of there being no Noctes 
The Metempsychosis 

Let. What a hard word ! Hard words are so disagreeable. 

Col. But it was capital. Don't you think the story was capital, Miss Le- 
titia ? 

Let. Yes, certainly only is it quite right to bring in the devil ? Grand- 
mamma says 

Col. Depend on it, your grandmamma's mistaken. Then the Smugglers ! 

Let. Ay, the Smugglers ! If you had but seen how grandmamma cried ! 

Col. And Mansie Wauch ! 

Let. You should have seen how grandmamma laughed. 

Col. And the Acted Charades. 

Let. Grandmamma can't make them out. 

Col. Not make them out ! I shall be exceedingly happy, Miss Letitia, to 
perform Matchlock with you any evening you like for her information she 
may read the part of Colonel Goodwin herself; or, if you prefer Marriage 

Let. Dear me, Colonel, you are such a strange man ! 

Mr C. Here's the coach ! 

Mrs P. Passed without stopping. 

Miss C. We send the boy to meet the coach, sir, as far as the King's Head, 
and he's generally here first. 

Enter Boy, with a Parcel. 
Ay, James, that's right. But how came the parcel untied ? 

Boy. Why, Mrs Welles and Mr Gregory had got it from the coachman be- 
fore I reached the head but they only took a Magazine a-piece. 

Col. A Magazine ! The Magazine ! Maga's abstracted ! Look, Miss Coun- 
ter both copies gone ! 

Mrs O. A highway robbery ! 

Mr P. A rank abduction ! ! 

Mr C. Robbing the Mail ! ! ! 

Let. Dear me ! what will my grandmamma say ? 

Col. Why, that sending to Coventry's too good for them and so it is, 

^Exeunt in ft passion. 

The Omen, 


THE Muse of Fiction has of late 
considerably extended her walk ; and 
it will probably be admitted, that she 
has lent her counsel to authors of 
greater powers, and more extended 
information, than those who detailed 
the uninteresting Mejnoirs of Jenny 
and Jemmy Jessamy, and the like 
tiresome persons. The grave humour 
of Fielding the broad comedy of 
Smollett thelaboured pathos of Rich- 
ardson the sentiment of Mackenzie 
and Sterne are of course excluded 
from this comparison. But even these 
distinguished authors seem to have 
limited the subjects of fictitious com- 
position to imaginary incidents in pri- 
vate life, and to displaying the influ- 
ence of the ordinary passions of man- 
kind the world in which they and the 
readers lived, could show parallel in- 
stances of the adventures narrated, 
and characters to match in some de- 
gree with the personages introduced. 
But the modern novelists, compelled, 
perhaps, by the success of their pre- 
decessors, to abandon a field where the 
harvest was exhausted, have, many of 
them, chosen elsewhere subjects of a 
different description. We have now 
novels which may take the old drama- 
tic term of Chronicles ; bringing real 
and often exalted persons on the stage ; 
adorning historical events with such 
ornaments as their imagination can 
suggest ; introducing fictitious charac- 
ters among iaich as are real, and as- 
signing to those which are historical, 
qualities, speeches, and actions, which 
exist only in the writer's fancy. These 
historical novels may operate advanta- 
geously on the mind of two classes of 
readers ; first, upon those whose at- 
tention to history is awakened by the 
fictitious narrative, and whom curio- 
sity stimulates to study, for the pur- 
pose of winnowing the wheat from the 
chaff, the true from the fabulous. Se- 
condly, those who are too idle to read, 
save for the purpose of amusement, 
may in these works acquire some ac- 
quaintance with history, which, how- 
ever inaccurate, is better than none. 
If there is a third class, whose delight 
in history is liable to be lessened by 

becoming habituated to the fairy-land 
of fiction, it must be confessed, that to 
them the historical romance or novel 
runs risk of doing much harm. But 
the readers liable to suffer by this per- 
version, are supposed to be but few 
in number, or, indeed, to merge al- 
most entirely in the second class, since 
the difference is but nominal betwixt 
those who read novels, because they 
dislike history and those who dislike 
history, because they read novels. 

It is not, however, of historical no- 
vels that we are now about to speak, 
but of another species of these pro- 
ductions which has become popular in 
the present day, and of which the in- 
terest turns less upon the incidents 
themselves, than upon the peculiar 
turn of mind of the principal person- 
age who is active or passive under 
them, and which character is not like 
Mackenzie's " Man of Feeling," a pic- 
ture improved from nature, but has 
something in it so exaggerated, as to 
approach the verge of the grotesque 
or unnatural. In such works, it is 
the character of the individual, not 
the events of the tale, which consti- 
tute the charm of the writing. There 
is a strong resemblance betwixt the 
novel of character, and what was call- 
ed, in the seventeenth century, plays 
of humour, when the interest consist- 
ed in observing how particular inci- 
dents worked upon those of the dra- 
matis personae, to whom was assign- 
ed, a natural or acquired peculiarity 
of sentiment and taste, which made 
them consider matters under a dif- 
ferent light from that in which they 
appeared to mankind in general. The 
Morose of Ben Jonson, whose passion 
it is to have everything silent around 
him, the Volpone, and almost all the 
principal characters of that able and 
learned dramatist, are influenced by 
some over-mastering humour, which, 
like the supposed influence of the pla- 
net under which he was born, sways 
and biasses the individual, and makes 
him unlike to the rest of his species, 
even in the events most common to 

Mr Godwin has been one of the 

The Omen. William Blackwood, Edinburgh ; and T. Cadell, London. 

1826/3 The Omen. 

masters in the novel of character, a 
title which we rather choose than that 
of humour, which has now acquired 
an almost exclusive comic meaning. 
The morbid sensibility of Fleetwood, 
and the restless speculating curiosity of 
Caleb Williams, are instances of his ta- 
lent in that department. There is, per- 
haps, little general sympathy with the 
over-strained delicacies of Fleetwood, 
who, like Falkland in the School for 
Scandal, is too extravagant in his 
peculiarities to deserve the reader's 
pity. On the other hand, few there 
are who do not enter into and under- 
stand the workings of the mind of Ca- 
leb Williams, where the demon of 
curiosity, finding a yo,uth of an active 
and speculative disposition, without 
guide to advise, or business to occupy 
him, engages his thoughts and his 
time upon the task of prying into a 
mystery which no way concerned him, 
and which from the beginning he had 
a well-founded conviction might prove 
fatal to him, should he ever penetrate 
it. The chivalrous frenzy of Falk- 
land, in the same piece, though per- 
haps awkwardly united with the cha- 
racter of an assassin, that love of 
fame to which he sacrifices honour 
and virtue, is another instance of a 
humour, or turn of mind, which, like 
stained glass, colours with its own pe 
culiar tinge every object beheld by 
the party. 

In the elegant little volume which 
forms the subject of this article, we 
find another example of the novel of 
character, and indisputably a good 
one. The theme which he has chosen, 
as predominating in his hero's mind, 
a youth of a gentle, melancholy, ab- 
stracted disposition, is a superstition 
as connected with an anxious and 
feverish apprehension of futurity a 
feeling which, though ridiculed at one 
time, reasoned down at another, and 
stubbornly denied upon all, has, in 
one shape or other, greater weight 
with most men than any is willing to 
admit of himself, or ready to believe 
in another. 

Men of the most different habits 
and characters in other respects, re- 
semble each other in the practice of 
nursing in secret some pet supersti- 
tion, the belief of which, though often 
painful to them, they cherish the more 
fondly in secret, that they dare not 
for shame avow it in public ; so that 
many more people than the world in 


general is aware of, hold similar opi- 
nions with that of a distinguished sea- 
officer of our acquaintance, who, ha- 
ving expressed his general disbelief of 
all the legends of Davy Jxmes, Flying 
Dutchmen, and other mystic terrors 
of the deep, summed up his general 
infidelity on the subject with these 
qualifying words, " One would not, 
to be sure, whistle in a gale of wind." 

The reader will easily imagine that 
we do not allude to the superstition of 
the olden time, which believed in 
spectres, fairies, and other supernatu- 
ral apparitions. These airy squadrons 
have been long routed, and are banish- 
ed to the cottage and the nursery. 
But there exists more than one spe- 
cies of superstition entirely distinct 
from that which sees phantoms, a dis- 
ease or weakness of the mind not 
to be cured by Dr Alderson, or analy- 
zed by Dr Hibbert amongst which 
is pre-eminent that which supposes 
our mind receives secret intimations 
of futurity by accidents which ap- 
pear mysteriously indicative of co- 
ming events, by impulses to which 
the mind seems involuntarily subject- 
ed, and which seem less to arise from 
its own reflections, than to be stamped 
and impressed on the thoughts by the 
agency of some separate being ; this 
constitutes the peculiar superstition of 
the hero of the Omen. The events 
which he meets are all of a natural 
and ordinary character in themselves ; 
it is the sensations of the augur by 
whom they are interpreted, which 
gives them an ominous character. 

This tendency to gaze beyond the 
curtain which divides us from futuri- 
ty, has been the weakness of many 
distinguished names. Buonaparte se- 
cretly believed in the influence of his 
star Byron had more than one point 
of superstitious faith Sheridan had 
that horror of doing anything on a Fri- 
day, which is yet common among the 
vulgar ; and he took his late son Torn 
away from Dr Parr's school, because 
he had dreamed he had fallen from a 
tree and broken his neck. Other in- 
stances might be produced ; some are 
no doubt affected, because to entertain 
a strange and peculiar belief on parti- 
cular subjects, looks like originality of 
thinking, or, at least, attracts atten- 
tion, like the wearing a new and whim- 
sical dress in order to engage public 
notice. But those whom we have 
named were too proud, and stood too 

The Omen. 

high to have recourse to such arts; 
they are the genuine disciples, to a 
certain extent, of the mystic philoso- 
phy, which the author of the Omen 
thus describes. 

" Why are we so averse to confess to 
one another, how much we in secret ac- 
knowledge to ourselves, that we believe 
the mind to be endowed with other fa- 
culties of perception than those of the 
corporeal senses ? We deride with world- 
ly laughter the fine enthusiasm of the 
conscious spirit that gives heed and cre- 
dence to the metaphorical intimations of 
prophetic reverie, and we condemn as 
superstition, the faith which consults the 
omens and oracles of dreams; and yet, 
who is it that has not in the inscrutable 
abysses of his own bosom an awful wor- 
shipper, bowing the head and covering 
the countenance, as the dark harbingers 
of destiny, like the mute and slow pre- 
cursors of the hearse, marshal the advent 
of a coming woe ? 

" It may be that the soul never sleeps, 
and what we call dreams, are but the en- 
deavours which it makes, during the 
trance of the senses, to reason by the 
ideas of things associated with the forms 
and qualities of those whereof it then 
thinks. Are not indeed the visions of 
our impressive dreams often but the me- 
taphors with which the eloquence of the 
poet would invest the cares and anxieties 
of our waking circumstances and rational 
fears? But still the spirit sometimes re- 
ceives marvellous warnings ; and have we 
not experienced an unaccountable per- 
suasion, that something of good or of 
evil follows the visits of certain persons, 
who, when the thing comes to pass, are 
found to have had neither affinity with 
the circumstances, nor influence on the 
event ? The hand of the horologe indexes 
the movements of the planetary universe j 
but where is the reciprocal enginery be- 
tween them ? 

" These reflections, into which I am 
perhaps too prone to fall, partake some- 
what of disternperature and disease, but 
they are not therefore the less deserving 
of solemn consideration. The hectical 
flush, the palsied hand, and the frenzy of 
delirium, are as valid, and as efficacious 
in nature, to the fulfilment of providen- 
tial intents, as the glow of health, in 
the masculine arm, and the sober induc- 
tions of philosophy. Nor is it wise, in 
considering the state and frame of man, 
to overlook how much the universal ele- 
ment of disease affects the evolutions of 
fortune. Madness often babbles truths 
which makes wisdom wonder." 

The facts by which this theory is 
illustrated are few and simple. The 
author is one of those whose " sense 
of being is derived from the past;" 
who do not look forward to form 
splendid pictures of the future, but 
dote, with the constancy of infatua- 
tion, on those which exist in the gal- 
lery of memory. He does not form 
his conjectures of the future by com- 
paring it with that which is present, 
but by auguries derived from events 
long passed, and deeply engraved upon 
the tablets of recollection. 

These are of a solemn mystic air 
and tragic character. His infant years 
recall a vision of a splendid mansion, 
disturbed by signs of woe and violence, 
and the joyous remembrances of his 
childish play are interrupted by recol- 
lection of a wounded gentleman, and 
a lady distracted by sorrow. There are 
traces of a journey the travellers, 
says the author, 

" arrive at the curious portal of a turret- 
ted manorial edifice : I feel myself lifted 
from beside my companion, and fondly 
pressed to the bosom of a venerable ma- 
tron, who is weeping in the dusky twi- 
light of an ancient chamber, adorned 
with the portraits of warriors. A breach 
in my remembrance ensues; and then 
the same sad lady is seen reclining on a 
bed, feeble, pale, and wasted, while sor- 
rowful dams-als are whispering and walk- 
ing softly around." 

The author then finds himself resi- 
ding by the seaside, under charge of an 
old lady. Here he meets a solitary stran- 
ger who resides in the neighbourhood, 
and notices the child with much and 
mixed emotion ; but being apparently 
recognized by Mrs Oswald, he disap- 
pears from the neighbourhood ; and 
Mrs Oswald, finding the boy retained 
deeper impressions concerning his in- 
fantine years than she thought desira- 
ble, sets out with the purpose of pla- 
cing him at school. In their journey 
they met a magnificent but deserted 
mansion ; and the manner in which 
the author describes the reflections 
thus awakened, forms a good specimen 
of the style and tone of the whole 

" In seeking my way alone back to the 
vestibule, I happened to enter a large 
saloon, adorned with pictures and mirrors 
of a princely magnitude. Finding myself 
in error, I was on the point of retiring, 
when my eye caught a marble table, on 
which stood a French clock between two 
2 ' 


gilded Cupids. The supporters of the 
table were curiously carved into such 
chimerical forms as belong only to heral- 
dry and romance. 

" As I looked around at the splendid 
furniture with wonder and curiosity, some- 
thing in the ornaments of that gorgeous 
table arrested my attention, and made a 
c'hilly fear vibrate through my whole 
frame. I trembled as if a spectre of the 
past had been before me, claiming the 
renovation of an intimacy and communion 
which we had held together in some pre- 
Adamite state of being. Every object in 
that chamber I had assuredly seen in an- 
other time ; but the reminiscence which 
the sight of them recalled fluttered my 
innocent imagination with fear. 

" A door, opposite to that by which I 
had entered, led to the foot of a painted 
marble staircase. I moved tremblingly 
towards it, filled with an unknown appre- 
hension and awe. I could no longer doubt 
I was in the same house where, in infancy, 
I had witnessed such dismay and sorrow ; 
but all was dim and vague ; much of the 
record was faded, and its import could 
not be read. The talisman of memory 
was shattered, and but distorted linea- 
ments could be seen of the solemn geni 
who, in that moment, rose at the sum- 
mons of the charm, and showed me the 
distracted lady and the wounded gentle- 
man, whose blood still stained the ala- 
baster purity of the pavement on which I 
was again standing." 

He makes no stay at this mansion, 
but is placed at a private school, 
where he forms an acquaintance with 
Sydenham, the natural son of a per- 
son of high rank, and goes down to 
his father's house with him to spend 
the holidays. Here occurs one of those 
touches of scenery and description, well 
drawn and not overcharged, which we 
consider as evincing the author's taste 
as well as his powers. 

" The old magnificence of the castle, 
a rude and vast pile, interested me for the 
two first days. 

" It stands on the verge of a precipice, 
which overshadows a smooth- flowing 
river. Masses of venerable trees surround 
it on the other three sides, from the midst 
of which huge towers, with their coronals 
of battlements, and clokes of ivy, look 
down upon the green and bowery villagery 
of the valley, with the dark aspect of ne- 
cromancy, and the veteran scowl of ob- 
durate renown. It is indeed a place full 
of poesy and romance. The mysterious 
stairs, and the long hazy galleries, are 
haunted by the ever-whispering spirits of 

The Omen. 

echo and silence ; and the portraits and 
tapestries of the chambers make chivalry 
come again." 

Now, considering how much has been 
of late said about old castles, we think 
there is great merit indeed, in convey- 
ing, in a few and appropriate phrases, 
the poetical ideas connected with the 

At B Castle he meets a Mr Oak- 
ley, in whom he recognizes the stran- 
ger of the sea-coast, and, considering 
it as certain that he must be connect- 
ed with the mysteries of his own fate, 
he forms, together with his young 
companion, a scheme to penetrate into 
the secret. This is disconcerted by the 
duke, Sydenham's father, who imparts 
to his son information to be carefully 
concealed from the party principally 
concerned. The effect on their boyish 
intimacy is natural and well described. 
Upon Sydenham's return from the in- 
terview with the duke, 

" A spell was invoked upon his frank- 
ness ; and while he appeared in no mea- 
sure less attached, yea, even while he 
showed a deeper feeling of affection for 
me, (for I often caught him looking at 
me with pity, till his eyes overflowed,) it 
was but too evident that he stood in awe 
of my unhappy destiny, and beheld the 
spectre which ever followed me, the 
undivnlged horror, of which my conscious 
spirit had o-nly the dim knowledge, that 
dread and bodements sometimes so won- 
derfully and so inexplicably give." 

The author is removed successively 
to Eton, and to Oxford ; but (which 
seems rather improbable), although 
indulged in a large scale of expense, 
he receives no communication respect- 
ing his real fortune or rank in society. 
An eclaircissement on this point is pre- 
maturely forced forward, by one of 
those chances which govern human 
life. While he witnesses the play of 
Hamlet, the incidents of which sym- 
pathize with the gloomy forebodings 
of his own spirit, and with the recol- 
lections of his infancy, his eye sudden- 
ly falls on Mr Oakley ; and the emo- 
tions which that mysterious person 
evinces, press upon him the conviction 
that his own history resembled that of 
Hamlet. "Shakespeare," he ex- 
claimed to Sydenham, who, notwith- 
standing his reserve, was still his com- 
panion, " has told me that my father 
was murdered." 

" Sydenham grew pale, and lay back 
in his chair in astonishment. 


The Omen. 

" * Nay more,' cried I, he has told me 
that the crime was caused by my mother.' 

" Sydenham trembled and rose from 
his seat, exclaiming, ' Is this possible ?' 

" ' Yes, and you have known it for 
years ; and that Mr Oakdale is the adul- 
terous assassin ?' " 

This discovery brings forth an ex- 
planation, which is undertaken by his 
maternal uncle, as he proves to be, 
General Oglethorpe. The author proves 
to be the heir of two considerable estates, 
and of those mansions which had im- 
pressed their appearance so strongly on 
his infantine imagination. His father 
had been killed or desperately hurt by 
Mr Oakdale, who had fled; his guilty 
mother had gone into farther irregula- 
rities. The veteran exacted a promise 
that he would never inquire after his 
mother ; and, after a visit to his ma- 
ternal seat, and to the ancient resi- 
dence of his father, the young rnaii 
agrees to his uncle's proposal that he 
should go abroad for some years. 

" Those who look to freits," says 
the old Scottish proverb, with the 
sagacity which we boast as national, 
"freits (that is omens) will follow 
them." The morbid sensibility of 
young Oglethorpe, for such we sup- 
pose is his name, though never dis- 
tinctly mentioned, detects allusions 
to his own misfortunes in incidents 
which he meets with on the road, and 
even in the fantastic rack of clouds 
which drive along the sky. The rea- 
soning of a person who is disposed to 
read references to his own fate in what 
passes in heaven, or in earth around 
him, is poetically given in the follow- 
ing passage : 

" Surely it is the very error of our na- 
ture, a fantasy of human pride, to suppose 
that man can be wisely ruled by his rea- 
son. Are not all our sympathies and an- 
tipathies but the instructions of instinct 
the guide which we receive direct, ori- 
ginal, and uncorrupted from Heaven ? 

" It may be, that we cannot, like 
choughs and ravens, and the other irra- 
tional and babbling oracles of change 
being so removed by habit from the pris- 
tine condition of natural feeling predict 
from our own immediate sensations, the 
coming of floods and of thunder-storms, 
nor scent, like the watch-dog, the smell 
of death, before the purple spot or the 
glittering eye have given sign of the fatal 
infection ; but have v we not an inward 
sense that is often gladdened and sadden- 
ed by influences from futurity, as the 

strings of the harp arc prophetical of the 
mood and aspect of to-morrow ? Shak- 
speare has exquisitely described his belief 
in this philosophy : 

The southern wind 

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, 
And by his hollow whistling in the leaves, 
Foretells a tempest and a hlust'ring day. 

And I believe myself to be possessed of 
the faculty whose power consists of this 
hereafter sort of discernment ; Syden- 
ham used to call it my genius." 

The subject of our tale is detain- 
ed at Hamburgh, by an acquaintance 
formed with an English officer of rank, 
General Purcel, and his lady, but chief- 
ly by the charms of their daughter Ma- 
ria. The beauty and accomplishments 
of this young lady, and still more the 
delicacy of her health, and the apparent 
frail tenure on which she holds these 
gifts, are calculated to make a deep im- 
pression on the heart of the youthful 
visionary, whose temperament was as 
melancholy as his feelings were tender. 
Of course he becomes the lover of Ma- 
ria, but experiences the strongest and 
most startling opposition on the part of 
Mrs Purcel, who, seeming on the one 
hand much, and even passionately at- 
tached to her daughter's admirer, de- 
clares herself, on the other, vehement- 
ly opposed to his suit. She is prevent- 
ed from giving the grounds y her ob- 
jections by some of those interruptions 
which are usually employed in roman- 
ces to prolong the embarrassments of 
the dramatis personae, and which per- 
haps are not in the present case very 
artificially interposed. Considering, 
as it proves to be the case, that Mrs 
Purcel was the guilty mother of the 
hero of the tale, and thus witnessed 
the dreadful scene of her son making 
love to her daughter, it is impossible 
that she could have left to chance an 
explanation of such tremendous im- 
portance. So, however, it is ; and 
General Purcel conceiving the objec- 
tions of his wife to be founded on some 
frivolous aversion, or yet more capri- 
cious, and perhaps guilty, attachment 
to the lover of Maria, gives his consent 
to their private marriage. General 
Oglethorpe is written to for his appro- 
bation. Instead of answering the letter, 
the veteran comes to town, to explain, 
doubtless, the fearful mystery, but ex- 
pires ere he can discharge the task. 
The private marriage is then resolved 
on, and is in the act of proceeding in 
the very church where the bodv of the 

The Outfit, 

deceased General Oglethorpe had been 
just interred. 

" That such an unnatural mixture of 
irreconcilable rites should ever have been 
consented to by a creature so full of ten- 
derness and of such unparalleled delicacy 
as Maria, is not the least wonder in our 
dismal story; but she was fastened to the 
same chain by which I was drawn on. It 
was thought by us that the horrible stra- 
tagem of joining the funeral and the wed- 
ding together would never be suspected 
by Mrs Purcel." 

But Mrs Purcel had heard the in- 
telligence. She bursts on the cere- 
mony, and astounds them by the out- 
cry, " Brother and sister brother and 
sister !" " I heard no more," conti- 
nues the ill-fated narrator ; ff the edi- 
fice reeled around me and there is a 
hiatus in my remembrance a chasm 
in my life." The melancholy tale con- 
cludes thus : 

" Ten years have passed since that 
dreadful morning, and I have never open- 
ed my lips to inquire the issues of the 
event; but one day, about two years ago, 
in visiting the English cemetery at Lis- 
bon, I saw on a marble slab, which the 
weather or accident had already partly 
defaced, the epitaph of Maria. The re- 
mainder of my own story is but a tissue 
of aimless and objectless wanderings and 
moody meditations, under the anguish of 
the inherited curse. But all will soon 
be over : a tedious hectic that has long 
been consuming me, reluctantly and 
slowly, hath at last, within these few 
days, so augmented its fires, that I am 
conscious, from a sentiment within, I 
cannot survive another month ; I have, 
indeed, had my warning. Twice hath a 
sound like the voice of my sister, startled 
my unrefreshing sleep : when it rouses 
me for the third time, then I shall awake 
to die." 

The objection readily occurs to this 
tale, that the events are improbable, 
and slightly tacked together ; but in 
these respects authors demand, and 
must receive, some indulgence. It is 
notperhaps possible, at the same time, 
to Reserve consistency and probabili- 
ty, |md attain the interest of novelty. 
Thl| reader must make the same al- 
lo\wices for such deficiency, as are 
grarfed to the seenist, or decorator of 
the drama. We see the towers which 
are described as being so solid in their 
structure, tremble as they are advanced 
or withdrawn, and we know the massy 
and earth-fast rocks of the theatre are 
of no stronger material than painted 

Vor.. XX. 

pasteboard. But \ve grant to the dra- 
matist that which must be granted, if 
we mean to allow ourselves the enjoy- 
ment of his art ; and a similar conven- 
tion must be made with the authors of 
fictitious narratives, and forgiving the 
want of solidity in the story, the read- 
er must be good-natured enough to 
look only at the beauty of the painting. 
It is perhaps a greater objection, that 
the nature of the interest and of the ca- 
tastrophe ischangedin the courseof the 
narration. We are at first led to ex- 
pect that the author had subjected the 
interest of his hero to that gloomy and 
inexorable deity, or principle, in whom 
the ancients believed, under the name 
of Destiny, or Fate, and that, like Ores- 
tes or Hamlet, he was to be the desti- 
ned avenger of his father's injuries, or 
of his mother's guilt. Such was the 
persuasion of the victim himself, as 
expressed in several passages, some of 
which we have quoted. But the course 
of the action, the point upon which 
our imagination had been fixed, at the 
expense of some art, is altogether de- 
parted from. No more mention is 
made of Mr Oakdale, and though a 
fatal influence continues to impel the 
destined sufferer into most horrible 
danger, yet it is of a kind different 
from that which the omens presaged, 
and which the hero himself, and the 
reader, on bis account, was induced to 
expect. For example, he meets on his 
road to Harwich with the funeral of a 
man who had been murdered, much in 
the same circumstances as those which 
attended thedeathof his own father,and 
which, while they indicate a bloody 
catastrophe to the story, bear no refe- 
rence to that which really attends it. 
But although these objections may 
be started, they affect, in a slight de- 
gree, the real merits of the work, which 
consist in the beauty of its language, 
and the truth of the descriptions in- 
troduced. Yet even these are kept in 
subordination to the main interest of 
the piece, which arises from the me- 
lancholy picture of an amiable young 
man, who has received a superstitious 
bias, imposed by original tempera- 
ment, as well as by the sorrowful events 
of his childhood. 

In this point of view, it is of little 
consequence whether the presages on 
which his mind dwells, concur with 
the event ; for the author is not refu- 
ting the correctness of such auguries, 
but illustrating the character of one 
who believed in them. 

The tendency to such belief is, we 
believe, common to most men. There 
are circumstances, and animals, and 
places, and sounds, which we are natu- 
rally led to connect with melancholy 
ideas, and thus far to consider as being 
of evil augury. Funerals, churchyards, 
the howling of dogs, the sounds of the 
passing bell, are all of a gloomy cha- 
racter, and, calamitous, or at least un- 
pleasing in themselves, must lead, we 
are apt to suppose, to consequences 
equally un pleasing. He would he a 
stout sceptic who would choose, like 
the hero of our tale, to tack his wed- 
ding to the conclusion of a funeral, 
or even to place the representation of 
a death's-head on a marriage-ring ; and 
yet the marriage might be a happy one 
in either case, were there not the risk 
that the evil omen might work its own 
accomplishment by its effect on the 
minds of the parties. 

But besides the omens which arise 
out of natural associations, there are 
superstitions of this kind which we 
have from tradition, and which affect 
those who believe in them merely be- 
cause others believed before. We have 
all the nurse has taught of presages by 
sparkles from the fire, and signs from 
accidental circumstances, which, how- 
ever they have obtained the character 
originally, have been at least generally 
received as matters of ominous pre- 
sage ; and it is wonderful in how many, 
and how distant countries, the com- 
mon sense, or rather the common non- 
sense, of mankind, has attached the 
same ideas of mishap to circumstances 
which appear to have little relation to 
it ; and not less extraordinary to dis- 
cover some anoien t Roman superstition 
existing in some obscure village, and 
surprising the antiquary as much as 
when he has the good. luck to detect 
an antique piece of sculpture or in- 
scription on the crumbling walls of a 
decayed Scottish church. 

Day-fatalism, which has been so 
much illustrated by the learned and 
credulous Aubrey, or that recurring 
coincidence which makes men connect 
their good and evil fortunes with par- 
ticular days, months, and years, is ano- 
ther of the baits by which Superstition 
angles for her vassals. These fatali- 
ties, which seem to baffle calculation, 
resemble, in fact, what is commonly 
called a run of luck, or an extraordi- 
nary succession of good or evil, beyond 
hope or expectation. Such irregulari- 

The Oinfn. QJuly, 

ties in the current of events are neces- 
sary to prevent human beings from 
lifting the veil of futurity. If the or- 
dinary chances of fortune were not 
occasionally deranged, or set aside by 
those unexpected caprices of her power, 
Demoivre and his pupils might ap- 
proach nearly to the rank of pro- 

In a third species of presage, our own 
mind, as we have hinted, becomes our 
oracle, and either from the dreams of the 
night, or the recollections of the day, 
we feel impressed with the belief that 
good or evil is about to befall us. We 
are far from absolutely scorning this 
species of divination, since we are con- 
vinced that in sleep, or even in pro- 
found abstraction, the mind may ar- 
rive at conclusions which are just in 
themselves, without our being able to 
perceive the process of thought which 
produced them. The singular stories 
told about dreams corresponding to the 
future event, are usually instances and 
illustrations of our meaning. A gen- 
tleman, for instance, is sued for a ruin- 
ous debt, with the accumulation of in- 
terest since his father's time. He is 
persuaded the claim had been long 
settled, but he cannot, after the ut- 
most search, recover the document 
which should establish the payment. 
He was about to set out for the capi- 
tal, in order to place himself at the 
mercy of his creditor, when, on the 
eve of his journey, he dreams a 
dream. His father, he thought, came 
to him and asked the cause of his me- 
lancholy, and of the preparations which 
he was making for his journey ; and 
as the appearance of the dead excites 
no surprise in a dream, the visionary 
told the phantom the cause of his dis- 
tress, and mentioned his conviction 
that this ruinous debt had been al- 
ready settled. " You are right, my 
son," was the answer of the vision, 
" the money was paid by me in my 
lifetime. Go to such a person, for- 
merly a practitioner of the law, now 
retired from business, and remind him 
that the papers are in his hands. If 
he has forgotten the circumstance of 
his. having been employed by me on 
that occasion, for he was not ray or- 
dinary agent, say to him, that he may 
remember it by the token that there 
was some trouble about procuring 
change for a double Portugal piece 
when I settled my account with him." 
The vision was correct in all points. 


The slumbering memory of the ex- 
attorney was roused by the recollec- 
tion of the doubloon,- the writings 
were recovered, and the dreamer 
freed from the prosecution brought 
against him. 

This remarkable story we have every 
reason to believe accurate matter of 
fact, at least in its general bearings. 
Now, are we to suppose that the course 
of nature was interrupted, and that, 
to save a southland laird from a pa- 
trimonial injury, a supernatural warn- 
ing was deigned, which the fate of 
empires has not drawn forth ? This 
we find hard to credit. Or are we, on 
the other hand, to believe, that such 
coincidences between dreams and the 
events which they presage, arise from 
mere accident, and that a vision so 
distinct, and a result which afforded 
it so much corroboration, were mere- 
ly the effect of circumstances, and 
happened by mere chance, just as two 
dice happen accidentally to cast up 
doublets ? This is indeed possible, but 
we do not think it entirely philo- 
sophical. But our idea is different 
from both the alternative solutions 
which we have mentioned. Every 
one is sensible, Ithat among the stuff 
which dreams are made of, we can 

Otncn. &9 

recognise broken and disjointed rem- 
nants of forgotten realities wtoich dwell 
imperfectly on the memory. We 
are of opinion, therefore, that, in 
this and similar cases, the sleeping 
imagination is actually weaving its 
web out of the broken realities of ac- 
tual facts. The mind, at some early 
period, had been, according to the 
story, impressed with a strong belief 
that the debt had actually been paid, 
which belief must have arisen from 
some early convictions on the subject, 
of which the ground-work was de- 
cayed. But in the course of the watch- 
es of the night, fancy, in her own time 
and manner, dresses up the faded ma- 
terials of early recollection. The idea 
of the father once introduced, natu- 
rally recalls to memory what the 
dreamer, at some forgotten period, 
had actually heard from his parent ; 
and by this clue he arrives at the 
truth of a fact, as he might have done 
at the result of a calculation, though 
without comprehending the mode by 
which he arrived at the truth. 

The subject, if prosecuted, wquld 
lead very far, and farther perhaps 
than is warranted by the subject of 
these remarks. It is possible, how- 
ever, we may one day return to it. 

No. III. 


IT is the fate of modest merit to be overlooked in this " working-day world ;" 
and, in my enumeration of the dramatis persona? of our " Midsummer Night's 
Dream," I believe I omitted to mention one of the most interesting, as well as 
the most highly gifted, viz. a young German mineralogist, who was to be, at 
an early hour the following morning, the travelling companion of the little 
Baron, on a tour through the north of Europe. 

His uncommon taciturnity, and shrinking timidity of manner, secured for 
him an exemption from the ordeal of narration, till / had excused myself on 
the score of my extreme youth and ignorance of the world when I arrived at 
Geneva; and till the banker's son had sheltered himself under the plea of never 
having quitted his native city, not very fertile in adventure, and every incident 
of which was too well known to the audience to form the subject of a " veilUe 
du chateau." All eyes then turned to the geologist; and the first spark which 
accident taught the savage to draw from the cold pebble under his feet, could 
hardly have caused him more surprise than we experienced, on beholding the 
latent fire which blazed out in the keen blue eye of the disciple of Werner, 
(apparently as much at home in the bowels of the earth as fishes are proverbi- 
ally said to be in the water,) while giving us, from ocular demonstration, the 
history of a Wedding under Ground. 

ON the conclusion of my studies at 
the mineralogical college of Freyberg, 
I was made very happy by being 
named one of a party commissioned 
fo visit the most celebrated mines of 

Europe, to procure information re- 
specting recent discoveries, and col" 
lect specimens for the Museum. 

No one, but a mineralogist, can 
imagine the heart-felt pleasure with 

Tales of the Wedding. Ao. 111. 


which we Cimmerians descend into 
the bowels of the earth, and follow 
nature into those recesses which none 
but the progeny of an Eve would ever 
have dreamed of exploring. But, 
though prepared to find in these sub- 
terranean abodes some of the most 
gorgeous spectacles the eye can wit- 
ness, as well as the utmost horrors 
imagination can paint, it certainly was 
not in quest of romantic adventure 
that I penetrated their fathomless 

Such, however, in countries where 
the mines are employed as places of 
punishment, are by no means uncom- 
mon ; and I never shall forget the im- 
pression produced on my mind by the 
celebrated history of Count Alberti's 
confinement in the horrible quicksilver 
mines of Idria, as narrated to me on 
the spot by a grey-headed miner, in 
whose childhood it had occurred. 
Though the rank and favour of that 
accomplished young nobleman, and 
the dismal transition from the splen- 
dours of a court, and the smiles of an 
empress, to condemnation for life to 
subterranean drudgery of the most 
pestiferous nature, lend to his history 
a deeper and more terrific interest than 
can attach to the comparatively ob- 
scure adventures of the pair of youth- 
ful lovers, the denouement of whose 
little romance it was my good fortune 
to witness in the Hungarian mines of 
Schemnitz, I must trust to your in- 
dulgence, and the singularity of the 
scene of these nuptials, to atone for 
the deficiency. 

Besides that superior order of nobles, 
or magnates, who, from wealth and 
extent of possessions, are more than 
nominal princes, there exists in Hun- 
gary a class of almost equally noble 
blood, but dilapidated fortunes, who, 
disdaining all professions save that of 
arms, have no means of increasing their 
substance but by alliances with the 
free merchants, who are beginning ra- 
pidly to acquire riches and considera- 
tion in the larger cities. Such mar- 
riages, among the cadets especially of 
the poorer nobles, are not urifrequent ; 
and while they are tolerated by the 
privileged race, who occasionally con- 
descend to them, they are eagerly 
oourted by that, till lately, oppressed 
and contemned class, who cheerfully 
make large sacrifices to accomplish 

s in S - a beautiful girl, 

the only daughter of a Polish mer- 
chant, (half suspected to have in his 
veins some of the blood of Israel,) 
who, in addition to her father's well- 
filled coffers, possessed personal at- 
tractions enough to draw around her 
a host of younger brothers, whose 
pedigrees outweighed their purses. 
Among these the heart of Ida Ste- 
phanoff soon declared in favour of Ca- 
simir Yaninsky, one of the first and 
most ardent of her suitors, and just 
such a gay, gallant sprig of nobility 
as was likely to make a deep impres- 
sion on the daughter of a grave and 
penurious trader. 

Although the sole patrimony of 
Casimir was his sword, there were 
circumstances which inclined old Ste- 
phanoff to concur in his daughter's 
preference of the youth over others 
similarly situated. There was still a 
email estate in the family, and the el- 
der brother of Casimir, though mar- 
ried, was childless. Here was some- 
thing of a reversionary prospect ; and 
as Casimir was unquestionably the 
most rising young man among Ida's 
suitors, she and her father, during 
some happy months, saw him with 
the same favourable eye. His consent 
was formally given, and a time not 
very far distant fixed for the mar- 
riage, when a nobleman, who had 
been for many years absent from his 

estate in the neighbourhood of S ., 

unexpectedly returned, and, having 
accidentally seen Ida at a village fes- 
tival, made to her father such dazzling 
overtures as entirely overset the old 
Jew's fidelity to his previous engage- 
ments, and even his regard for the 
feelings of his daughter. What these 
were, on being informed of the pro- 
posal, may be better imagined than 
described. Graf Metzin was an elder- 
ly man, of peculiarly forbidding ap- 
pearance and austere manners ; and 
having already contrived to get rid of 
two wives, he had brought with him 
a sort of Blue-Beard reputation, by 
no means calculated to win the affec- 
tions of even a disengaged maiden. 
But then he was not only rich, but 
enjoyed considerable credit at court ; 
and had returned to Hungary with a 
degree of delegated influence, if not 
positive authority, which rendered his 
alliance infinitely desirable to a man 
in trade. 

Stephanoff^ though standing suf- 
jicicntly in awr of the fiery Yaninsky 


A Wedding under Ground. 

and his family, not abruptly to with- 
draw his promise, began to long 
earnestly for the means of breaking it ; 
and this Graf Metzin proposed to fur- 
nish by possessing himself as if by 
force of the person of Ida, and appa- 
rently reducing her father to consent 
to a union which it was out of his 
power to prevent. The plot was not 
difficult of execution. Ida and her old 
nurse (her mother had been long 
dead) were surprised in a rural ex- 
cursion by a body of the Count's ser- 
vants, and lodged in his old castle, 
where, by every demonstration of re- 
spectful affection which his harsh na- 
ture permitted, he strove to reconcile 
the high-spirited girl to her state of 
durance. What she felt did not tran- 
spire beyond the enchanted walls ; but 
Casimir moved heaven and earth to 
procure her release, and was only re- 
strained by sincere affection for the 
child, from wreaking his vengeance on 
her despicable parent. 

Dreading the resentment which he 
was conscious of deserving, Stephanoff 
feigned to be inconsolable for the loss 
of his daughter, and solicited permis- 
sion to reclaim her by force ; but the 
local authorities, overawed by Graf 
Metzin, and indeed apprised privately 
that he acted in concert with her 
father, to break off an idle match be- 
tween two unadvised young people, 
declined interfering, and it became 
evident that the farce would soon end, 
like so many others, in the marriage 
of the chief actors. 

This Casimir was determined to 
avert, and legal means being beyond 
his reach, he was not deaf to the 
demon, who, in their absence, threw 
in his way some of a very opposite 
character. Urged almost to madness 
by a pathetic billet which Ida had 
found means to convey to him, he 
availed himself of an accidental ren- 
contre with a band of freebooters, 
(some of whom are still to be found 
lurking in all the mountainous parts 
of Hungary,) to engraft on their pre- 
viously formed plan of plundering his 
rival's castle, the rescue of his be- 
trothed, during the confusion of the 
attack. The morality and loyalty of 
this measure may easily be called in 
question; but there is yet in these 
countries a sufficient smack of barbar- 
ism to make retaliation be considered 
perfectly justifiable ; and a young man 
just robbed of his mistress., may pri- 


haps be excused for not respecting his 
rival's money-bags. To his person 
there could be no injury meditated, 
as the time fixed was that of his ne- 
cessary absence with part of his house- 
hold, in attendance on a provincial 
assembly. The hazard of the enter- 
prise was considerable, as Graf Metzin 
had a tolerably numerous establish- 
ment ; however, their attachment was 
riot deemed such as to prompt a very 
vigorous resistance, and the young 
temporary bandit, and his more prac- 
tised associates, marched gaily to the 

There had, however, been treachery 
somewhere ; for in passing through a 
thick wood on the skirts of the Count's 
property, they were intercepted by a 
troop of soldiers, (who had long been 
aware of the existence of the brigands, 
and on the look-out for them,) and 
with the exception of one or two, were 
surrounded and made prisoners. 

Yaninsky, in thus joining, at the 
instigation of passion and despair, a 
band of robbers, had so far remember- 
ed his own and his family's honour, 
ar> to exact from his comrades, in case 
of any disaster, the most implicit vow 
of secrecy as to his real name and con- 
dition ; he therefore suffered himsolf 
to pass as one of the band, but his 
youth, and the testimony of even his 
hardened companions to his compara- 
tive innocence, marked him for the 
milder punishment of the mines, while 
the captain and one or two more, (who, 
to say truth, little deserved Casimir's 
self-reproaches for perhaps accelera- 
ting their fate,) expiated their former 
crimes on the scaffold. 

As for Yaninsky, though he at first 
congratulated himself on being con- 
ducted for trial to a distant part of the 
province, where he was not likely to 
be recognized ; yet the consequent 
impossibility of conveying to Ida any 
tidings of his fate, formed the chief 
aggravation of his situation ; and ha- 
ving reason to fear she must have re- 
ceived his hasty information of her 
meditated rescue, the thought of her 
anxiety added bitterness to his own. 

The mines, however, to which he 
was condemned for two years, were 
within three or four days' journey of 
S , and among their frequent vi- 
sitants, hope whispered one might ere 
long be found to communicate tidings 
of his personal safety, and unabated 


Ida, meanwhile, had gathered from 
Graf Metzin's own triumphant ac- 
count of his castle's escape from 
spoliation, corroboration of her own 
fears that Casimir was implicated ; 
and during some days which elapsed 
ere the fate of the prisoners was de- 
cided at the capital of the district, 
she suffered agonies of suspense, 
which half inclined her to avow her 
suspicious, and redeem, by the sacri- 
fice of her own hand, that life, which 
she was sure Casimir would not stoop 
to purchase at the expense of his 

At length her persevering, though 
still courteous jailor, brought her the 
almost welcome intelligence of the 
sentence of death pronounced upon 
three ringleaders, (none of whom, being 
men advanced in life, and of well- 
known atrocity, could possibly be 
Casimir,) and of the condemnation for 
various periods to the mines, of the 
rest, among whom, her heart whisper- 
ed, he would certainly be found. 

To effect her escape and join him, 
became now her sole object. To re- 
place herself under the inefficient and 
unwilling protection oft her father, 
would, she knew, be fruitless, as, from 
the tenor of his few letters since her 
captivity, she saw he was at least an ac- 
complice in it, and might enforce her 
hated marriage with an urgency which 
would leave her in the end no alterna- 
tive but a flight, less disgraceful from 
the power of a ravisher, than from a 
father's ostensible protection. Her 
nurse, who, in all but mental cultiva- 
tion, had performed a mother's part 
towards the early orphan, and who 
loved her with all a mother's fondness, 
entered into her views with almost 
youthful enthusiasm, and a plan at 
length suggested itself for accomplish- 
ing her escape. 

All parts of Hungary, it is well 
known, swarm with gipsies ; and no- 
where, perhaps, is that migratory 
race more largely tolerated and less 
oppressed. Bands of them are gene- 
rally in some degree settled, as far as 
their habits permit, on each consider- 
able estate ; and, forbearing from all 
depredations on that privileged terri- 
tory, enjoy a sort of tacit countenance 
from the proprietor. Metzin, as an 
alien from his country, and a harsh 
repulsive character, was no great fa- 
vourite among his Zingari, whom he 
''<>rb;<de to niter his castle, and bauish- 

Tales of the Wedding. No. 111. 

ed from some of their immemorial 

Old Natalia, little doubting that 
amid this acute and vindictive tribe 
she might secure coadjutors, could she 
once open a communication with them, 
feigned gradually to lend a more will- 
ing ear to Graf Metzin's endeavours 
to conciliate her, and to be won over 
by his arguments in favour of the 
match with her nursling. 

She then confided to him that much 
of Ida's pertinacious adherence to her 
cngagement with Casimir, arose from 
an early prophecy of one of the gifted 
race of Zingari, that she would marry 
a younger son of the best blood in 
Hungary, and, after many trials, would 
lead with him a long and happy life ; 
and suggested, that, from a mind na- 
turally inclined to superstition, the 
impression could only be effaced by a 
counter prediction by a yet more expe- 
rienced and authoritative sibyl. Such 
a one, she knew, was to be found 
among the Count's territorial Egyp- 
tians, and in return for the communi- 
cation, she received, as she expected, 
a commission to talk over the old bel- 
dame, and put into her mouth such an 
oracular response as should suit the 
purposes of her lord. 

Delighted with this first step to- 
wards liberty, and satisfied that the 
prophetess owed the Count a sufficient 
grudge to enter cheerfully into any 
scheme to outwit him ; Natalia held 
with her a long conference, during 
which she found in Miriam a coad- 
jutress beyond her most sanguine 
hopes. It was agreed that, to prevent 
suspicion, the sibyl should at first con- 
fine herself to giving, in presence of 
the Count, mysterious intimations of 
his happy destiny, and afterwards so- 
licit opportunities to confirm in pri- 
vate the impression on the still waver- 
ing mind of the young betrothed. 

Ida, duly prepared for the farce, 
received the gipsy at first with con- 
tempt and indignation, but, as if irre- 
sistibly overpowered by the solemn 
eloquence of the skilful fortune-teller, 
gradually listened with more compla- 
cency to her gorgeous promises of a 
wealthy, as well as noble spouse, un- 
bounded honour, and a numerous pro- 
geny, contrasted with a faithless and 
penniless lover, doomed by the desti- 
nies to a violent and premature death, 
Sufficient remaining incredulity was 
of course manifested to render future 

A Wedding under Ground. 

visits necessary, but the Count, though 
unsuspicious of any plot, did not yet 
feel confidence enough in the staunch- 
ness of his Zingari ally, to trust her 
with any possible revocation of her 
oracle. He therefore chose to be pre- 
sent when she again entered the cas- 
tle, and this obliged her to exert some 
ingenuity in communicating to Ida the 
positive intelligence she had that day 
received, of Casimir's actual sojourn 
in the Mines of Schemnitz. 

In addition, therefore, to all her 
former asseverations, that the stars 
had irrevocably decreed the union of 
Ida with a rich and adoring suitor, 
she advanced towards her, and resum- 
ing her hand with an air of peculiar 
solemnity, exclaimed, in a manner 
fully calculated to excite her attention, 
" It has this day been revealed to me, 
that when you again meet your perfi- 
dious lover, it will not be upon earth !" 

These ominous words at first made 
Ida start, but the gipsy's earnest 
tone and gesture, and an almost imper- 
ceptible glance of her wild dark eye, 
taught her to look for a le?s obvious 
meaning ; and, with a joyful alacrity, 
from which the Count drew the most 
flattering; hopes, she exclaimed, in re- 
ply, " Well, mother ! I see you are a 
prophetess indeed ! there is nothing, 
however deep, which you cannot fa- 
thom !" The gipsy, thus made a ware 
that she was understood, ingratiated 
herself so far with the Count, by her 
adroitness, as to procure free ingress 
to the chateau ; stipulating, however, 
for permission to bring with her an 
orphan grandson, from whom she 
never willingly separated, as he was 
apt, when out of her restraining pre- 
sence, to get into mischief, besides 
which, his musical powers on the 
hurdy-gurdy and Jew's harp, would, 
she was sure, serve to dissipate Ida's 
remaining melancholy, and pave the 
way for a new love. 

Miriam generally contrived to pay 
her visits towards the dusk of evening, 
a time when she said the mind was 
more open to mysterious impressions, 
and the influence of the stars (which 
even, while she thus tampered with 
their supremacy, she more than half 
believed) peculiarly powerful. She 
and her grandson insensibly became 
such privileged personages as to pass 
in and out from the turret assigned to 
Ida and her nurse, without exciting 
anv observation ; and no sooner was 


this the case, than Miriam and Nata- 
lia began to put in execution their 
project of transforming Ida into a very 
tolerable fac simile of young Zekiel, 
by means of the well-known gipsy 
dye for the skin, and a suit of boy's 
clothes, introduced piece by piece, un- 
der his grandame's tattered mantle. 

The resemblance was quite sufficient 
to have deceived more suspicious ob- 
servers, and Ida's fears for any possi- 
ble evil consequences to her poor se- 
cond self being obviated by seeing him 
safely descend a rope-ladder with all 
the agility of his tribe, and swim the 
moat with the ease of an amphibious 
animal, she with a beating heart and 
trembling limbs followed her gipsy 
conductress to the gates. Natalia, 
who could with no great difficulty 
have found a pretext for accompany- 
ing her beyond them, insisted witli 
maternal devotion on remaining be- 
hind to carry on for a day or two the 
farce of the supposed illness of her 
charge, and gain time for the fugitive 
to reach the mines. 

Once arrived there, she strongly ad- 
vised Ida to reveal her sex and condi- 
tion | to the Bergrichter, or director, a 
humane and benevolent man, through 
whose interposition she trusted Casi- 
mir's release and her union with him 
might be effected, though the power 
of Graf Metzin, and the paramount 
influence of parental authority, might 
render it a hazardous measure. Ida, 
however, once happily beyond the ha- 
ted walls, could think of nothing but 
increasing her distance from them, 
and was disposed to consider the deep- 
est mine in Hungary with her lover a 
welcome refuge from tyranny above 
ground. She was too sanguine and 
inexperienced to foresee the many dif- 
ficulties in her path, or even her own 
want of resolution to brave them, when 
it should come to the point; and it- 
was not till conducted by Miriam with- 
in a short distance of the mines, and; 
instructed by her to act the part of a 
gipsy boy, a runaway from his tribe 
for supposed ill treatment, that her 
heart died within her, and she half 
wished herself even at Metzinska 
again ! 

When ushered into the presence of 
the director, the half-formed project 
of confession quickly expired upon her 
lips, unequal alike to utter either the 
truth or the falsehood she had medi- 
tated. Had his manners been" less; 

Tales of (/if Wedding* 


gentle and encouraging, she must in- 
fallibly have sunk beneath his glance ; 
and had the dye on her skin been one 
jot less deep, her blushes must have 
betrayed her. The tears, however, 
which she shed abundantly, only 
seemed to attest the truth of the inco- 
herent story she at length faltered out, 
of a cruel stepmother, and dislike to a 
vagrant life; but. the compassion they 
excited had nearly frustrated all her 
plans, by inducing the director to pro- 
pose easy labour and personal attend- 
ance above ground to so young a crea- 
ture, instead of the confined air and 
laborious drudgery of the mine. 

Never did poor culprit more ardent- 
ly petition for release from that Cim- 
jrnerian bondage than Ida now did to 
be permitted to endure it ; and here 
again the plea which her awakened 
self-possession taught her to urge, in 
the natural dread of being traced and 
kidnapped by her gipsy relatives, found 
ample corroboration from the wild 
alarm which really filled her bosom, 
and lent energy to her supplications. 
Nor was she far from the truth in as- 
serting, that above ground, for some 
time at least, she could not for a mo- 
ment fancy herself safe. 

Yielding, therefore, to her childish 
but pardonable terrors, the humane 
director promised to carry her down 

himself to the mine of N , which, 

from its difficulty of access, and con- 
siderable distance from the more open 
and frequented ones of that celebrated 
district, was appropriated to the invo- 
luntary residence of convicts, and was 
rendered, by the same circumstances, 
a safer abode for a fugitive than those 
spacious, nay, almost splendid exca- 
vations, where royalty itself has fre- 
quently penetrated in commodious 
equipages, by an almost imperceptible 
descent, and where the daily and hour- 
ly egress of thousands of free labour- 
ers of both sexes would have lent dan- 
gerous facilities eitheT for the escape 
of the criminal, or the recognition of 
the innocent. 

The mine of N was as yet ac- 
cessible only by the appalling and often 
hazardous conveyance of the bucket ; 
and fancy may easily picture the dread 
and horror with which a timid girl, 
even under the animating influence of 
love and hope, found herself suspend- 
ed over earth's centre, and lowered in- 
to its almost fathomless abysses. 
She had already descended, by steep 

and slippery ladders, for nearly a hun- 
dred feet, without entirely losing thu 
welcome glimmer of receding day, 
when, at a huge door, whose dingy 
aspect seemed fitted for an entrance 
into the infernal regions, she perceived 
two figures, half naked, and as black 
as ink, each of whom held in his hand 
a faggot of lighted fir, and, thus 
equipped, might have passed for one 
of Pluto's pages. 

By these appalling satellites, the 
director and his trembling protegee 
were invested with dresses of conge- 
nial blackness, and, amid deafening 
shouts and muttered ejaculations, Ida 
found herself suddenly seized by one 
of the goblin grooms, who, unceremo- 
niously throwing a rope round her, 
prepared to fasten her to the slight- 
looking bucket, which, with dizzy hor- 
ror, she saw swinging in mid air, to 
receive her and her rude conductor. 

It required a thought of Casimir to 
induce her to enter the frail vehicle 
within which she was ordered to seat 
herself, while the Stygian guide, mere- 
ly resting on the edge, held the rope 
with one hand, and with a pole in the 
other kept the bucket clear of the nu- 
merous projections which might have 
proved fatal to its safety. There was 
an awful pause of a few moments ere 
the machinery above was put in mo- 
tion to accelerate their descent, during 
which the miner, secretly enjoying 
his companion's silent terror, cried, 
" Cheer up, my little fellow ! we shall 
be at the bottom in a trice; that is 
(crossing himself), if it please St Ni- 
cholas to give us a good journey. But 
we always make new comers fast to 
the bucket since the ugly accident 
which befel a poor little girl, some 
half dozen years ago. She had a lover 
in the mine, it would seem, amd, poor 
simple thing ! nothing would serve her 
but she must be down to seek him."- 
(ITere they began to descend with al- 
most breathless rapidity.) "She had 
either no guide, or one as awkward as 
herself: so, you see, the bucket was 
caught and upset by that point of rock 
we are just passing, and the poor girl 
pitched out on yonder narrow shelf 
below, where she clung, God knows 
how, for more than half an hour, till 
we get ladders spliced together, and 
picked her off more dead than alive. 
You may believe it was her lover who 
brought down his frightened turtle ; 
he got a pardon, and she a pension ; 


A Wedding under Ground. 


so, you see, all's well that ends well, 
and here we are safe at the bottom, St 
Nicholas be praised !" 

Ida^while she shuddered at the fear- 
ful tale which had thus doubled the 
horrors of her passage, could have 
blessed the miner for the bright omen 
held out by its happy termination. 

She now rejoined the director, and 
passing partly through galleries sup- 
ported by timber-work, and partly 
through vaults hollowed in the rock, 
arrived at a vast hall, whose extremi- 
ties the feeble light of many torches 
failed to illumine. It was supported 
by pillars of ore, and surrounded by 
seats of the same material, on which 
they paused tor a moment's repose. 
They then proceeded to still greater 
depths now saluted by burning exha- 
lations from the furnaces and forges 
used for preparing tools, whose heat 
scarce permitted the workmen to bear 
the scantiest clothing now almost fro- 
zen by subterranean currents of air, 
rushing with tempestuous violence 
through narrow cavities, till they ar- 
rived at the lowest gallery, eleven 
hundred feet under ground, where the 
pitchy darkness, the yet more dismal 
light from distant fires, the swarthy la- 
bourers, black as the ores they worked, 
partially discovered by the sparks pro- 
ceeding from their own hammers, the 
noise of all this labour, and of the hy- 
draulic engines for drying and venti- 
lating the mine, together with the 
horrible figures which from time to 
time rushed past her with torches in 
their hands, made Ida for a moment 
doubt whether she had not descended 
rather too near to Tartarus. 

Emotions so new and strange were, 
however, soon absorbed in still stronger 
dread of not meeting Casimir, or of a 
premature discovery from his hasty 
recognition of her in circumstances 
so overpowering. Feeling, however, 
pretty confident thather disguise would 
shield her for the present from even 
a lover's eye, she made a strong effort, 
and endeavoured to summon to her 
own aid the courage requisite for sus- 
taining the spectacle of her beloved 
Yaninsky's humiliating condition. 

The director-in- chief, whom chance 
had alone brought this day to visit 

the mine of N , and whose stay 

below was necessarily brief, consign- 
ed Ida, on leaving the mine, to the 
resident overseer (a person fortunate- 
ly for her, of advanced years and 


mild deportment), with directions to 
employ Zekiel (the name Ida had 
borrowed with her dress for the occa- 
sion) only in the light labour of ga- 
thering those minute fragments of ore, 
which were overlooked in removing the 
larger masses to the furnace. " You 
will of course, as a father yourself," 
added the worthy director, " see, that 
what good his vagrant education may 
have left in him suffers as little as 
possible from temporary intercourse 
with your reprobate crew, among 
whom you have probably some minor 
offender conscientious enough to look 
after a boy. When the danger of pur- 
suit from his tribe has subsided, you 
may send him to me at Schemnitz, 
where I will enter him a student at the 
College of Mines ; and who knows," 
added he, kindly patting on the head 
the trembling novice in dissimula- 
tion, " but he may have cause to bless 
through life his dark sojourn in the 
mine of N !" Another silent bless- 
ing from the heart of Ida hailed the 
cheering presage ! 

Evening was far advanced when she 
was left alone in the great hall with 
the good inspector, and, deriving cou- 
rage from his parental behaviour, she 
timidly requested leave to accompany 
him in his rounds through the upper 
and less dismal galleries, where she 
was to commence her task on the mor- 
row. They had traversed the greater 
part of the immense excavations with- 
out her recognizing among the swarthy 
groups, who pursued their labours, 
the well-known form of Casimir, and 
Ida's fears began to predominate over 
her hopes, when the overseer, turn- 
ing into a new gallery, bade her ob- 
serve its direction, and certain marks 
on the roof and pillars of ore, by 
which it was distinguished. kf Here," 
said he, " I chiefly intend you to 
pursue your occupation. The young 
miner who superintends this gallery 
is, though a convict, of superior man- 
ners and regular conduct, and. I know 
not any part of the mine where a boy 
of your age may be trusted with so 
little danger of evil communication." 

So saying they advanced ; and at 
the further end of the dimly-lighted 
vault, Ida, with almost irrepressible 
emotion, descried Casimir busily en- 
gaged in directing half-a-dozen men 
to remove a large mass of extraneous 
matter, xvhich impeded the further 
progress of the shaft. Ida involun- 

Tales of the Wedding: No. III. 

tarily fell back, that the beating of 
her heart might not become audible 
to the inspector. He advanced to- 
wards Casimir, coolly approved of his 
proceedings, and then beckoning for- 
ward the trembling Ida, " Stephan," 
said he, (a name which Casimir had 
adopted as Ida's patronymic) " here 
is a boy whom the Berg-richter has 
picked up from among the gipsies. 
His orders are to work him lightly ; 
and, above all, to keep him from mis- 
chief. You are a steady young fel- 
low, and with you I think he will 
learn no harm. Take him to your 
mess this evening, and at roll-call I 
will come for him. He shall sleep 
with my little Adolf, who is afraid of 
spirits in the mine at night since his 
elder brother left us." Then turning 
to Ida, " Zekiel, I give you in that 
young man a friend and protector if 
you quit his side it will be at your 
own peril, and you will repent it." 
(C Heaven forbid !" thought Ida. 

Who would be so superfluous as to 
describe Ida's feelings, while the hasty 
and incurious glance of Casimir rested 
on her metamorphosed form, and his 
cold, yet gentle voice, uttered words 
of soothing and encouragement to the 
gipsy boy ? Who cannot fancy her 
feverish impatience while the awk- 
ward miners tardily obeyed the direc- 
tions of Casimir, and its almost un- 
governable height, as she watched their 
retiring steps along the dreary corri- 
dor ? Yaninsky fortunately lingered 
to see all safe for the night, yet she 
half feared he would follow before her 
parched lips could utter his name in 
an almost inaudible whisper. 

Low as it was, it found an echo in 
the heart of Casimir. He looked up 
like one awakened from a dream; 
caught one glance of a radiant eye 
which sorrow could not quench nor 
art disguise, and swift as thought was 
in the arms of Ida ! Who that had 
seen that wild and long embrace in 
which the swarthy miner held the 
gipsy boy, had dreamed that under 
those lowly weeds were shrouded the 
bravest heart and noblest blood in 
Hungary, and the loveliest of its high- 
souled, though low-born maidens ? 

After the first few moments of uri- 
mingled ecstasy, Casimir, for whose 
character some weeks of solitude and 
reflection hacl done much, had leisure 
to consider the singular and distress- 
ing situation in which love for him 

had placed his bride, and to bless 
Heaven for the opportune relief af- 
forded under it by the intended kind- 
ness and patronage of the inspector, 
and the society of his infant boy. This 
he briefly explained to Ida, as they 
slowly and reluctantly approached the 
great hall, where the miners were mus- 
tered, previous to the return to upper 
air of all save the convicts (who alone 
slept under ground) and the evening 
meal of the latter. 

Ida shrunk from the bare idea of 
appearing in the rude assembly ; but 
Casimir (after allowing the miner?, 
who had been present when the di- 
rector delivered her to his charge, to 
precede them by a few minutes, and 
thereby preclude embarrassing inqui- 
ries) conjured her to take courage, 
and not betray by unnecessary fears 
a secret which love itself had nearly 
failed to penetrate. In efforts to over- 
come this natural repugnance, time 
had insensibly elapsed, when a shrill 
whistle echoing through the galleries, 
seemed to strike Yaninsky with a sud- 
den agony of terror, wholly unac- 
countable to Ida, whom he hurried 
along with a breathless rapidity which 
rendered inquiry impossible. They 
had proceeded but a few paces, when 
a tremendous explosion burst on Ida's 
ear, like the crash of an absolutely 
impending thunderbolt, accompanied, 
too, with a sudden glare, which il- 
lumed the whole subterranean terri- 
tory, but in an instant vanished, lea- 
ving them in total darkness, the con- 
cussion of the air having extinguish- 
ed the torches. This darkness was 
interrupted only by the fitful flashes 
from succeeding discharges, of which 
the light lasted only for a moment, 
while the sound was long and terri- 
bly reverberated by a thousand echoes. 
The vaults cracked, the earth shook, 
the arched recess into which Casimi: 
on the first alarm had instinctively 
dragged Ida, trembled on its rocky 

To her, the noise of the bursting 
rocks, the sulphureous smoke in whicb 
she was enveloped, and the sense of 
suffocation it occasioned, suggested the 
idea of some awful natural convulsion , 
and though life had seldom been sweet- 
er than during the few preceding mo- 
ments, yet death with Casimir lost 
half its terrors ; but to him, who knev; 
the artificial cause of the mimic thun- 
der, and its imminent danger to thnse 


A Wedding under Ground* 

unprotected from its effects, who knew, 
also, that his own fond inadvertence 
had exposed his Ida to the peril of pe- 
rishing by the actual workmanship of 
his own hands, the few minutes during 
which the awful scene lasted seemed 
an age of anxiety and terror. The 
mute devotion with which she clung 
to his side, and resigned herself to 
whatever might be the result of so 
terrific an adventure, enhanced the re- 
morse he felt for having endangered 
a life so invaluable ; and it was not 
till all fears had subsided, and silence 
again resumed her reign, that he found 
breath to explain to Ida, that the pe- 
culiarly impenetrable nature of the 
strata in this mine, rendered frequent 
blasting with gunpowder necessary; 
and that the period usually chosen for 
this hazardous operation, was during 
the meals of the workmen, when they 
were exempted from danger by being 
collected in one safe and central hall. 

Towards this they now proceeded, 
guided through the gloom by the rude 
mirth of the guests, who rallied Ca- 
simir on his supposed design of amu- 
sing himself with the terrors of his 
young protege. The imperfect light 
ikvoured Ida's efforts to encounter, 
with tolerable calmness, such slight 
scrutiny as the fatigued and hungry 
group had leisure to bestow; but it 
was not till the motley group, assem- 
bled ardund the rude board, were tho- 
roughly engrossed by their repast, that 
she ventured to raise her downcast 
eyes, and as they wandered in pity 
or disgust over the ferocious or the ab- 
ject amid his lawless associates, to rest, 
at length, with unmingled admiration 
on the noble form and dignified coun- 
tenance of her lover. She thought she 
had never seen him to such advantage ; 
not even when, gaily running his riehly 
caparisoned steed, with a plumed brow 
and a glittering vest, he shone (in her 
eyes at least) the brightest star in the 
Emperor's proud train at the opening 
of the Diet ! And it was love, love for 
Ida, that had robbed ttfe brow of its 
plume, and the vest of its bravery ; 
ay, and sadder still, the cheek of its 
bloom, and the eye of its radiance: 
but what are these to the mute elo- 
quence of the pale cheek and languid 
ey, when they speak of reckless con- 
stancy, and faith unshaken by suffer- 

It was with *i strange mixture of re- 
to leave Casirnir. and repug- 

nance to remain a moment longer in 
the Pandemonium he inhabited for 
her sake, that Ida tore herself from 
her lover to obey the summons of the 
inspector, a worthy old Swede from 
Sahla, who had been attracted from 
his own country by tha mineralogical 
reputation of Schemnitz, and engaged 
for a short period to superintend some 

new workings in the mine of N , 

and introduce processes of his inven- 
tion peculiarly applicable to the na- 
ture of the strata. 

As they went along, the tender fa- 
ther could not forbear expatiating with 
parental delight on his child. "Adolf," 
said he, " is wild with joy at the idea 
of having a companion. Poor little 
fellow, I rashly, perhaps, promised his 
dying mother never to part from him, 
and foolish compliance with that pro- 
mise has made me keep him with me 
even here; where, though we have 
been three weeks under ground, his 
health, thank God, has been excellent, 
though his spirits have threatened to 
fail latterly, especially at nights, from 
the foolish tales he hears from the 
miners of Cobolds and Bergmannchen. 
Do, Zekiel, try and get them out of his 
little head : But, hark ye, do not give 
him any of your Zingari notions of 
palmistry and divination in their stead, 
else the remedy will be worse than the 
disease I" 

Ida could only snake her head, afraid 
to trust her voice with a reply, when 
a beautiful fair-haired boy of five years 
old came bounding to meet them, and 
threw himself into his father's arms, 
evidently startled by the dusky hue 
of the new friend he had so ardently 
longed to See. A second glance at 
Ida, and her sweet smile, however, 
conquered the first impression, and 
taking her by the hand, he hurried 
her playfully forward. A turn in the 
great gallery suddenly brought before 
them an object so new and unexpected 
to Ida, that she could scarce forbear 
exclaiming when she found herself at 
the door of the inspector's house, a 
log-hut, neatly and substantially con- 
structed. Adolf, remarking her won- 
der, exclaimed, with all the conscious 
superiority of infant knowledge, " Ah ! 
if you only saw Sahla ! papa's house 
there is a palace to this, and there are 
streets, and houses, and a windmill I 
Oh ! this is a shabby mine, not to be 
compared to dear Sahla !" 

As he spoke they entered the 

Tales of ike Wedding. No. 111. 


which consisted of two apartments, 
one of which, filled with books and 
instruments of science, was occupied 
by the inspector, while the other, a 
sort of kitchen, was prepared for the 
use of the children. Adolf, after in- 
sisting on sharing with his new play- 
mate (whose slight figure gave her, in 
male attire, an absolutely childish ap- 
pearance) a supper, somewhat more 
inviting than the rye bread and black 
beer she had left behind, complained 
of being sleepy ; and the inspector, 
pronouncing a grave blessing on his 
infant head, (in which the good man 
included his worse than orphan com- 
rade,) retired to his own apartment. 

No sooner was his father gone, than 
little Adolf, forgetting his drowsiness, 
began to tell a thousand stories about 
Cobolds and Mineknockers, and good 
people ; all of whom, he said, he saw 
or heard every night, and from whose 
visits he hoped the society of a com- 
panion would release him. Ida, too 
heavy at heart to laugh at the childish 
list of supernatural acquaintance, had 
recourse to her rosary ; and recom- 
mending to the little Lutheran (who 
had never before seen such a play- 
thing) to say a prayer for every bead 
till he fell asleep, put him to bed, avail- 
ing herself of his still unconquered dis- 
like of her complexion, to spread her 
own mattress at a little distance on 
the floor. 

Here, at length, sleep visited her 
wearied frame, and her slumbers (bro- 
ken only occasionally by the infant 
voice of Adolf, muttering his childish 
but efficacious orisons) continued, till 
she herself was conscious they had 
been protracted, and, on opening her 
eyes, fully expected to be rebuked by 
the bright blaze of day. 

It was a painful moment that re- 
Called her, by the darkness around, 
to a sense of her situation ; but impa- 
tient to meet Casimir, of whom she 
had as yet enjoyed but a transient 
glimpse, conquered her dejection; and, 
striking a light, she awoke her little 
companion, and giving him his break- 
fast, (her share of which she reserved 
to partake it with Casimir,) she con- 
signed him to his father, and awaited 
the arrival of her lover, who had pro- 
mised to come and conduct her to the 
scene of their mutual labours. The 
sight of kirn in his coarse miner's dress, 
the paleness of confinement, increased 
by the rays of the lamp he held in his 

hand, proved almost too much for her r 
but his unaltered smile cheered her ; 
and there was a radiance in his bright 
black eye since yesterday, that spoke 
of hope and happiness ! 

Casimir was able to contrive that 
they should be uninterrupted during 
a great part of this day, and it was 
spent in discussing their prospects, and 
weighing the advantages held out by 
continued concealment or immediate 
discovery. The former, exposed to 
irksome confinement and inevitable 
delay ; but the latter threatened pos- 
sible destruction to their hopes, and 
was therefore more formidable. The 
inspector, though a worthy and hu- 
mane man, must, as a parent, enter- 
tain high ideas of parental authority, 
and was not likely to sanction the 
union of an only child without the 
consent of her father ; nay, would pro- 
bably insist on delivering her up to 
him immediately. It was, therefore, 
advisable to endeavour to secure an 
interest in his breast, by continued 
kindness to his child; and they agreed, 
at all events, to defer discovery till the 
approaching festival should bring down 
to the mine a priest, to whom, in con- 
fession at least, if not otherwise, the 
secret might be confided. 

During the intervening month, Ca- 
simir and Ida (whose tete-a-tete$ were 
usually confined to a few short mo- 
ments in proceeding to, or returning 
from their labours) indemnified them- 
selves for the restraint imposed by the 
presence of their parties, by establish- 
ing, through the interesting child by 
whom they were almost constantly ac- 
companied, a medium of intercourse 
as delightful as it was unsuspected. 
Tales of love and chivalry related by 
Casimir, (and which soon eclipsed in 
the mind of his young auditor the 
fairy and goblin legends of ruder nar- 
rators,) found a no less enthusiastic lis- 
tener in Ida, who saw in her lover the 
hero of every romance, and read in the 
perils each experienced for his mis- 
tress, a faint reflection of the heroic 
daring of her own devoted Casimir ; 
while Ida's encomiums on love and 
constancy, nay, sometimes even her 
heartfelt expressions of fond attach- 
ment to the child on whom they were 
sincerely lavished, were interpreted as 
more than half addressed to one, who 
might have found it difficult under 
other circumstances to extort them. In 
short, that mental sunshine, which is 

A Wedding under Ground. 

altogether independent even of the 
smiles of nature, played BO brightly 
across their darkling path, that each 
viewed with awe and anxiety the ap- 
proach of a period which might restore 
them to light and liberty, at the possi- 
ble expense of at least a temporary se- 

The festival which was to decide 
their fate (one of the most solemn of 
the Romish church), occurred during 
our visit to the Mining district, and 
we were advised on no account to quit 

N without witnessing the brilliant 

spectacle of the illumination of the 
mine, and the performance of high 
mass in its lofty and spacious chapel, 
whose intrinsic magnificence might 
put to shame the richest shrines of our 
upper world. 

We went down early in the morn- 
ing, that the previous splendours of day 
might not rob the subterranean spec- 
tacle of any of its brilliancy ; and high- 
ly as my expectations had been raised, 
they were not disappointed. The blaze 
of the torches, reflected by the innu- 
merable particles of silver ore that lined 
the roof and walls of the galleries, was 
absolutely dazzling; while the deep 
shadows beyond their immediate in- 
fluence would have been studies for a 

The chapel, when we first looked 
into it, at that early hour, was crowd- 
ed with miners waiting for admission 
to the confessional ; among the last of 
whonij I remembered seeing a very 
dark but handsome boy leaning against 
a pillar, in evident agitation, I had 
followed the inspector into some dis- 
tant workings, to see various effects of 
light and shadow and natural pheno- 
mena, rendered more apparent by the 
increased illumination, and did not 
return till a bell had given notice of 
the approaching commencement of 

The crowd in the chapel was rather 
increased than diminished ; but it had 
spontaneously divided, leaving at the 
altar only the venerable white-haired 
priest, before whom knelt a handsome 
young miner, and the same slender 
dusky boy, whose dark skin was now, 
however, mocked, and betrayed to be 
factitious, by a redundant profusion of 
the finest flaxen hair, which swept as 
he knelt on the dark rocky floor of the 

Murmurs and whispers ran around 
the assembly ; and oil seeing the in* 


spector advance, the priest, in a digni- 
fied voice, inquired if any impediment 
prevented the administration of the 
sacrament of marriage to the pair now 
kneeling to receive it ; long affianced 
in the sight of Heaven, and thus mi- 
raculously brought together to com- 
plete a violated contract? No one 
presumed to contravene or question 
the propriety of the ordinance, till the 
half-fainting bride, blushing through 
all her nut-brown dye, glanced at her 
strange habiliments, and with maiden 
modesty faltered, " No, not in these !" 

The appeal was irresistible, and as 
soon as mass had been celebrated, a 
messenger was dispatched by the kind 
inspector, to the village above, for a 
female peasant's dress of the country, 
in which Ida looked absolutely en- 

It was not alone a bridal dress that 
this embassy procured. It brought 
friends to grace the nuptials, whom 
fate had strangely conspired to bring 
that day to N . 

Ida had conjured the gipsies to 
lighten as soon as possible her father's 
anxieties, by acquainting him with her 
safety, though not with her retreat ; 
but the communication had been de- 
layed, and it was only the appearance 
of the faithful Natalia, who had re- 
mained concealed for some time after 
her escape from the castle of Metzin- 
ska, that at length led him to a know- 
ledge of his daughter's fate. With a 
heart softened by long anxiety and pa- 
rental remorse, he was now arrived at 
the mouth of the mine, followed by 
the faithful nurse, and attended by the 
reconciled Yaninski, who had also at 
length gained tidings of their brother 
(whom they concluded in a foreign 
country with his bride), from one of 
the banditti who had escaped on the 
seizure of the others, and was glad to 
purchase indemnity on his return to 
his native country by such interesting 

The Yaninski were amply'furnished 
with pardons and letters of rehabilita- 
tion. Stephanoff came loaded with 
wealth to reward his daughter's bene- 
factors, and rich dresses to adorn her 
person but it was in the peasant's 
dress of the mining district that she 
gave her hand to Casimir, and in that 
dress she has sworn to keep the an- 
niversary of her 


The Inquisition of Spain. 




Au OUT three centuries and a half 
have now elapsed since there existed 
in Spain a regularly- organised Crimi- 
nal Tribunal, charged with the prose- 
cution of Heretics ; and yet, up to a 
very recent period, no exact history 
had appeared of its origin, its establish- 
ment, and its progress. Several wri- 
ters, foreigners as well as native Spa- 
niards, had, indeed, treated of the In- 
quisitions established in different parts 
of the Catholic world, and more par- 
ticularly of that of Spain ; but, for 
reasons to be afterwards explained, all 
of them were destitute of that accu- 
rate knowledge of the subject which 
the public have a right to expect from 
those who undertake to write history. 
This observation applies to the His- 
:oire des Inquisitions, which appeared 
in the course of the seventeenth cen- 
tury, and also particularly to the work 
of M. Lavallee, published at Paris in 
1809, under the title of Histoire des 
Inquisitions Religieuses d'ltalie, d'Es- 
pagne, et de Portugal, which, the au- 
thor assures us, is little more than a 
translation of a work that he pretends 
to have discovered at Saragossa. The 
former is, in truth, a sort of historical 
romance, sprinkled over with a small 
portion of truth, which, however, it is 
impossible to separate from the mass 
of fiction with which it is embellished-; 
while the latter, in the four books 
devoted to the Spanish Inquisition 
(4th, 6th, 9th, and 10th), contains 
the history, of only six trifling prose- 
cutions before the provincial Tribunal 
of Valladolid, and is, moreover, filled 
with historical errors, so palpable and 
gross as to impair the author's credit, 
even in regard to matters that were 
probably consistent with his personal 
knowledge. Nor are the Spanish and 
Portuguese writers deserving of greater 

confidence. Neither has the learnea 
and unfortunate Macanaz, in his una- 
vailing Apology, nor the Monk Mon- 
teiro of Lisbon in his History of the 
Inquisition of Portugal, nor the ano- 
nymous Spaniard who published at 
Madrid, in 1803, an Historical and 
Juridical Discourse on the Origin, Pro- 
gress, and Utility of the Holy Office 
of the Inquisition, nor, indeed, any 
other native writer of the Peninsu- 
la, prior to Llorente, succeeded in 
tracing a distinct outline of the se- 
ries of events which led to the in- 
stitution of this formidable Tribunal, 
far less in giving an authentic account 
of its progress, and of the influence it 
has exerted upon the character of the 
people and the government. Indeed, 
the Spanish authors themselves are 
not agreed either as to the period of 
its establishment, or the circumstances 
by which that memorable event was 
attended. Bernaldez and Hernando 
del Pulgar, though contemporaries, 
differ in this respect, in their Chroni- 
cles of the Catholic Kings j* and the 
same observation applies to Illescas,1 
Zurita,^ lloman, Garibay, jl Para- 
mo,^! Ortiz,** and Ferreras,Tt each 
of whom is at variance with the others 
on this simple point of chronology. 

.But if these authors have been un- 
able to settle the question as 'to the 
exact period from which the Holy Of- 
fice dates its commencement, still less 
have they succeeded in giving us any 
certain information as to the peculiar 
organization of that tremendous insti- 
tution. The reason of this must be 
sought for in the nature of the Holy 
Office itself. No prisoner of the insti- 
tution ever obtained a sight of his own 
process, far less of tfcat instituted 
against another. All he could learn in 
regard to his individual cause was con- 

Hernando del Pulgar, Cronico delos Reyes Catolkos, c. 17 ; Bernaldez, ejusd. tit. 

f Illescas, Hist. Pontifical, torn. ii. 1. 6. 
| Zurita, Annales de Arragon, toin. iv. 1. 20, c. 49, an. 1485. 
$ Roman, Hepublicas del Mundo, torn 1,1. 5, c. 20. 

. . j| Garibay, Compendia Historicd de Espagna, torn. ii. 1. f?, c. 29; 1. 38, c. 12 
37; 1. 19, c. 1. 

\ Paramo, De Origins et Progressu Tnyuisitionis, 1. ii. c. 2. 
** Ortiz, Annales de Sevilla, 1. 12, an. 1478. 
ff Ferrcras, Hi&t. de Espagna> siglo 15, pt. 11 

The Inquisition of Spain, 

fined to such inferences as he might 
deduce from the interrogatories which 
he was compelled to answer, and from 
the extracts of the depositions of the 
witnesses, which, at a certain stage of 
the proceedings, were communicated 
to him; at the same time that the 
names of the witnesses, and all cir- 
cumstances of time, place, and per- 
sons, which might lead the accused to 
discover his accuser, as well as every 
part of the evidence favourable to his 
defence, were carefully concealed from 
him ; according to the maxim of the 
Holy Office, that the accused must 
confine himself to answering the diffe- 
rent heads of accusation, and that it 
belonged to the judge, in the discharge 
of his duty^ to compare the answers of 
the prisoner with those parts of the 
evidence which were favourable to his 
defence, and to give such effect to both 
as, in his wisdom, he might think fit. 
This mode of conducting procedure in 
the Inquisition explains the reason 
why Philip Limborch and other au- 
thors of perfectly good faith have 
failed to produce an authentic history 
of the Holy Office. Their principal 
sources of information were first the 
relations of prisoners, who, in every 
case, were entirely ignorant of the 
real grounds upon which they had 

been prosecuted; and, secondly, the 
meagre details contained in the works 
of Eyemerick, Paramo, Pegna, Care- 
na, and some other Inquisitors, who 
were interested in concealing the truth. 
It is hardly surprising that nothing 
satisfactory was produced by men 
who laboured under such disadvan- 
tages, and that an authentic history 
of the most infamous Tribunal which 
ever existed upon earth, and which 
systematically shrouded its proceed- 
ings in darkness, continued long an al- 
most hopeless desideratum in the ge- 
neral literature of Europe. 

The period, however, at length ar- 
rived when the mystery was to be dis- 
pelled. In the year 1809, Joseph Buo- 
naparte, who had just assumed the 
title of King of Spain, published a de- 
cree, abolishing the Inquisition in thai 
country ; and that the nature of the 
Holy Office might be no longer un- 
known to the world, the archives of 
the Council of the Supreme, and of 
the Inquisition of the Court, were in- 
trusteu, by order of Joseph, to D, 
Juari Antonio Llorente, who had been 
himself an Inquisitor, and had been 
for many years occupied in collecting 
materials for a history of the Inquisi- 
tion,* that he might carry his original 
design into execution. Spain could 

* Llorente was bora at Rincon del Soto, near Calahorra, in Arragon, in the year 
1756 ; and at the age of fourteen received the clerical tonsure from the hands of th 
Bishop of Calahorra. In 1773, he went to Saragossa, to study law, by which was 
then understood the Institutes of Justinian and the Pandects, and in 1776 he took 
his bachelor's degree. He next applied himself to the study of the canon !a\v, was; 
ordained a priest by his diocesan in 1779, and soon after repaired to Valencia, to re 
ceive the bonnet of a doctor of laws. In 1781, he was admitted advocate before the Su- 
preme Council of Castille, and the following year was appointed Proctor-General oi 
the Bishopric of Caiahorra. In 1785, the Tribunal of the Holy Office at Logronc 
chose him its commissary; and having proved, in compliance with the standing rule 
of the Inquisition, that his family, for three generations back, had incurred no pu- 
nishment for heresy, nor were descended from Jews, Moors, or heretics, he entered 
upon office. Senor Llorente likewise applied himself with some success to preaching, 
till, in 1788, the Duchess of Satamayor, first lady to Louisa, Queen of Charles IV. 
appointed him her Consultor dc Camara ; in which capacity he must have given greas. 
satisfaction, for the Duchess subsequently nominated him one of her testamentary 
executors, (in conjunction with Grandees, Bishops, and Members of the Council of 
Castille,) and also tutor to the present Duke of Satamayor, one of the richest pro- 
prietors of Spain. At the commencement of 1789, the Inquisitor-General, D. Au- 
gustin Rubin de Cevallos, Bishop of Jaen, appointed Llorente Secretary-Gc 
ro the Inquisition, a post which he held till 1791, and which placed ut his disposal th 
archives of the Holy Office which he was one day to disclose to the world. Cevallos 
having died in 1792, D. Manuel Abad-y-la- Sierra, Bishop of Astorga, and Archbi- 
shop of Seiimbria, was appointed his successor; and being a man o; an enlightened 
mind, he immediately cast his eyes upon Senor Llorente, as a proper person to assist 
him in digesting a plan he had formed for introducing some important modifications ir,< 
.he internal constitution and forms of procedure of the Inquisition. But a Court in- 
trigue displaced the honest Inquisitor before he could carry his project into effect- 
Not disconcerted by this untoward accident, Llorente pursued his labours, and had 

72 The Inquisition of Spain. 

not have supplied an individual better tion to the subject, Senor Llorente 
qualified for the honest discharge of was enabled to produce his Critical 
thisimportant trust. During two years, History of the Inquisition oJ'Spain,from 
Several persons were employed, under the epoch of its establishment by Ferdi~ 
Senor Llorente's direction, in copying nand V. till the reign of Ferdinand 
or extracting the original pieces which VII. ; a work which has entitled him 
were found in the archives. All the to the eternal gratitude of the friends 
criminal processes, with the excep- of true religion and rational liberty, 
tion of those which, either from their and which has already gained for its 
importance and celebrity, or from author the honourable agnomen of 
the quality of the persons prosecuted, The Suetonius of the Inquisition. 
seemed to belong to history, were With this invaluable book, there- 
burned ; but the registers of the re- fore, as our guide, with most of the 
solutions of the Council, the royal or- elder authorities on the subject under 
donnances, the bulls or briefs of Rome, our eye, and with some privata infor- 
the memoranda relative to the Tribu- mation which we have been fortunate 
nal, and the informations on the ge- enough to obtain, we shall endeavour 
nealogies of the employes of the Holy to lay before our readers, I. A view 
Office, were carefully preserved and of the mode of procedure observed in 
arranged according to their respective all the Tribunals of the Holy Office* 
dates, and the subjects to which they throughout Spain ; II. Anecdotes of 
referred. From these materials, toge- distinguished individuals who have 
ther with those which he had been fallen victims of this diabolical tyran- 
occupied in collecting since the year ny ; and, III. Some remarks on the 
1789, when he first turned his atten- political degeneracy which this Tri- 

completed a scheme, the object of which was nothing less than to give full publicity 
to the hitherto dark and mysterious proceedings of the Holy Office, when the sudden 
fall of that able and enlightened minister, Jovellanos, who had encouraged him to 
persevere, utterly ruined the project Llorente now found himself in danger of fall- 
ing a victim to that tribunal of which he was a member, but which his projected re- 
form had rendered his mortal enemy. The plan had been found among the papers 
of the ex-minister, and Llorente bad aggravated his fault by paying his respects to 
Jovellanos as he passed through Callahorra to the place of his exile. By some for- 
tunate accident, however, probably through the interest of some secret friends of the 
fallen minister, he escaped with the mild punishment of a fine and a short imprison- 
ment ; but he continued in disgrace till 1805, when he was recalled to Madrid, to en- 
gage in some historical inquiries, which interested the government, nominated Ca- 
non of the Metropolitan Church of Toledo, and the year after instituted Ecclesiastical 
Chevalier of the Order of Charles III., after having given the requisite proofs of no- 
bility. On the invasion of Spain by the French, in 1808, he joined the party of Jo- 
seph Buonaparte, who appointed him a Counsellor of State, and, as has been already 
mentioned in the text, placed at his disposal the archives of the Holy Office, that he 
might prepare a history of the Inquisition. He shared the fortunes of his master ; 
and on the expulsion of the French from Spain, he retired to France, leaving behind 
him the whole of his property, which was confiscated. At Paris, he who had been 
a dignitary of one of the richest churches in the Romish communion, Counsellor of 
State to the brother of Napoleon, director of the national property, and distributor ot 
the royal bounty, considered himself fortunate in gaining an honourable pittance by 
instructing young Frenchmen to repeat the accents of that fine Castillian tongue, of 
which Raynal has said : " Qiielle estedatante comme For, et sonore commel' argent." 
Chiefly occupied with literary pursuits, he continued to reside in the French capital 
till the end of 1822, when the intrigues of a junto of ultra fanatics procured an order 
commanding him to quit Paris in three days, and France without delay. He obeyed, 
but this abrupt and violent expulsion from his adopted country was to him like a se- 
cond exile. He reached Madrid on the 1st or 2d of February 1823, and on the 5th 
of the same month, fell a victim to the fatigue and chagrin to which he had been so 
cruelly condemned. Besides his Critical History of the Inquisition, Senor Llorente was 
the author of several other works, the principal of which are, Political Portraits of the 
Popes, and Memoirs for a History eftke Spanish Revolution, with Justificatory Documents, 
by M. Nellerto (the anagram of Llorente). It is to this work that Dr Southey has been 
indebted for a large portion of the materials from which he composed his account of 
the Spanish Revolution. fc 



The Inquisition of Spain. 

bunal has entailed on every country 
where it has been fully established, 
and suffered to act without any effi- 
cient control. 



entering upon this branch of our sub- 
ject, it may be necessary to premise, for 
the information of those who are unac- 
quainted with the history of this Tri- 
bunal, that the pretext for its original 
establishment was furnished by the 
wars carried on for the extirpation of 
the Albigenses. Alarmed by the first 
dawn of those opinions which after- 
wards ushered in the full light of the 
Reformation, Pope Innocent III. ap- 
pointed a commission for the prosecu- 
tion and punishment of heretics in 
Gallia Narbonnensis (which included 
the provinces of Languedoc, Provence, 
Dauphine, and Savoy) ; and this was 
followed by the establishment of an 
Inquisition, in that country, in 1208. 
LLORENTE, Crit. Hist, of the Inquisit. 
1. 2. art. 2 and 3. Innocent died in 
1216, and was succeeded by Hono- 
rius III. who, eager to tread in the 
footsteps of his predecessor, and to 
share with him the glory of extirpa- 
ting heretics, organized an Inquisi- 
tion in Italy ; but it was reserved for 
his successor Gregory IX., who mount- 
ed the Papal throne in the year 1227, 
to give to it the definite form of a tri- 
bunal, with a set of constitutions for 
regulating its procedure. Under the 
same Pontificate, and, according to 
Llorente, somewhere about the year 
1232, Spain received the benefit which 
had been already conferred on Gaul 
and Italy, though not without consi- 
derable opposition on the part both of 
the nobility and people ; for it is no 
less remarkable than true, that the 
country, over which the Holy Office 
lias exercised more than three centu- 
ries of unrelenting despotism, was that 
in which its establishment was most 
firmly resisted, and where it was the 
slowest in taking root. Of the mode 
of procedure observed in this ancient 
tribunal, and of its progress during 
the course of the 13th and 14th cen- 
turies, it is unnecessary to say any- 
thing in this place. It will be enough 
to state, that it was not till the reign 

of Ferdinand V. and Isabella, by whose 
marriage Arragon was united to Cas- 
tille, that the Inquisition assumed the 
peculiar form and character which it 
afterwards maintained even down to 
the period of its abolition under Jo- 
seph Buonaparte. Under the pretext 
of punishing the apostacy of the Spa- 
nish Jews, who had been converted to 
Christianity, these Princes systema- 
tised the constitution, and extended 
the powers of the Holy Office, erect- 
ing an imperium in the heart of their 
dominions, which was destined to con- 
trol and defy the government of the 
state, to arrest the progress of im- 
provement, exclude the lights of sci- 
ence and philosophy, paralyze the 
powers of industry, and insulate Spain 
as a den of bigotry and darkness, in 
the midst of nations prosperous under 
the benign lights of knowledge and 
civilization. It is this Inquisition 
which has domineered over that un- 
happy country, from the year 1481 
till our own day, when it was sup- 
pressed with the approbation of all 
Europe. Happy, if that abolition had 
been effectual 1 The odious monster 
has, however, once more reared its 
head, under the fostering and paternal 
care of the most contemptible despot 
who ever disgraced a throne, or ren- 
dered a nation miserable. But the 
consolation is, that it cannot survive 
its patron. Let us now attend to the 
mode in which its procedure was con- 
ducted, taking as our guide the Or- 
donnances of 1561, promulgated by 
Valdes, the eighth Inquisitor- General, 
and constituting what may be consi- 
dered the corpus of Inquisitorial Law. 
1. Denunciation. The procedure of 
the Holy Office commences with De- 
nunciation, or some information which 
supplies its place, such as the disclo- 
sure which incidentally results from a 
deposition given before the Tribunal 
in another cause ; and when the de- 
nunciation or deposition is signed, it 
takes the form of a declaration, in 
which the delator, after having sworn 
to speak the truth, points out, by 
name or otherwise, those individuals 
whom he believes or presumes capa- 
ble of deposing against the person or 
persons denounced.* The witnesses 
thus indicated are examined.; and 

* Limborch, who compiled his History of the Inquisition from the best materials 
to which he had access, but who, nevertheless, is frequently in error, owing to the 

7 he Inquisition c>f 

Impositions, in conjunction \vilh 
that of the first witness, or delator, 
Form the summary information or pre- 
paratory instruction. Anonymous de- 
nunciations are received with the same 
avidity, and acted upon precisely in 
the same manner, as those givenunder 
the sanction of a name ; and though, 
by the constitution of the Holy Office, 
an information upon oath suhjects the 
informer, if his charge prove to be 
calumnious, to the same punishment 
\vhich would have been inflicted upon 
the denounced had he been condemn- 
ed, yet the Inquisitors have, in no in- 
stance, awarded this punishment ; on 
the contrary, the accuser is invariably 
admitted as a witness against the ac- 
cused ; and in the rare instances in 
which the latter has been able to over- 
come all the obstacles, systematically 
accumulated against a proof of inno- 
cence, and to rebut triumphantly the 
charge brought against him, the In- 
quisitors have invariably interfered, 
by every means, to protect the con- 
victed calumniator from the punish- 
ment decreed by their own statutes 
against him. * Experience indeed 
taught them, that, under such a sanc- 
tion, few persons would be disposed 
to appear as accusers; and, as their 

policy has always been to encourage 
denunciations, they soon found it ex- 
pedient to dispense with a law which 
would have rendered the Holy Office 
nearly inoperative. They were also 
led to adopt this course by their fa- 
vourite maxim, that the Holy Office 
cannot err ; for it must be evident that 
this maxim would have appeared ab- 
solutely ridiculous, bad they, in al- 
most any instance, suffered a prisoner 
to demonstrate his innocence, or, 
which comes to the same thing, the 
guilt of his accuser, and had they 
given effect to their own law by suh~ 
jccting the latter, when he failed to 
make good his charge, to the punish- 
ment of retaliation. 

Denunciation was never more fre- 
quent than at the approach of the 
Easter Communion, when the con- 
fessors imposed it as a sacred duty up- 
on such of their penitents as said they 
had seen, heard, or learned anything 
U'hicJt either was, or appeared to be, 
contrary to t/ie Catholic Faith, or to 
the rights of the Inquisition. This 
abuse of what the Catholics denomi- 
nate the Sacrament of Confession, for 
the purpose of encouraging the ba- 
sest tendencies of the human heart, 
was solemnly authorized by the pub- 

circumstance of having been obliged to trust to the statements of prisoners, or the 
partial revelations of Inquisitors interested in perplexing everything connected with 
the Holy Office, has supposed (vol. II. ch. 5, 6, 7, 8) that there are three methods 
of beginning a process before the Tribunal of the Inquisition, 1, by Inquisition ; 2, 
by Accusation ; and 3, by Denunciation, When the process begins by Inquisition, the 
delator, according to him, appears before the Tribunal, and says that he does not 
come in the character of an accuser or denouncer, but merely for the purpose of re- 
lating that he has frequently heard it reported by grave and reputable persons that 
such a one has said or done some things contrary to the Catholic Faith, or the rights 
and privileges of the Tribunal. When the process begins by accusation, the accuser 
reports to the Inquisitor some crime committed by another ; upon which the latter 
inquires whether the former will proceed in the affair by accusation or not ; and if 
the answer be in the affirmative, he is to be admonished by the Inquisitor that he 
renders himself liable to the punishment of retaliation, unless his proof be good ; 
after which he presents his accusation in writing, and so the process begins. But 
if the delator says that he will riot accuse but denounce, and that he does this through 
fear of incurring the penalty of excommunication incurred by those who fail to dis- 
cover things pertaining to the Faith within the term prescribed, then the Inquisitor 
prepares himself to make inquisition ; and so the process in this way begins. Thus 
far Limborch, who, from the imperfect state of his information in regard to the 
form of process before the Inquisition, has erroneously supposed three varieties 
of one and the same mode of instituting proceedings to be three different and distinct 
modes; which supposition is plainly incorrect, as indeed appears on the face of his 
Ovvn statement. The real method pursued is that mentioned in the text, on the au- 
thority of Llorente, who, as we have already seen, was himself an Inquisitor. 

? " Le delateur est admis commq temoin, au mepris des regies de droit j et on ne 
lui applique pas la peine due au calomniateur, lorsqti'il est reconnu comme teJ." 
LIOBENTE, Hist. Crit. de flnq. II. 298. 


The Inquisition of Spain. 

lie reading in all the churches, during 
two Sundays of Lent, of an ordinance 
issued by the Inquisition, enjoining 
the denunciation within six days of 
all persons suspected of heresy, under 
pain of incurring mortal sin and the 
higher excommunication ; anathema- 
tising those who should suffer the 
prescribed period to elapse without 
appearing before one of the tribunals, 
to emit a declaration of all that they 
had seen, heard, and learned of the 
nature above-mentioned; and sub- 
jecting such as should prove refrac- 
tory, to the most horrible canoni- 
cal censures, " aussi indignes," says 
Senor Llorente, " du lieu ou on les 
faisait entendre, qu appostes a I'csprit 
de I'Evangile" The consequence was, 
that many persons, recollecting certain 
loose or unguarded speeches they had 
heard, and which, in their simplicity 
or ignorance, they had never dreamt 
of considering heretical, began to feel 
uneasy at not having revealed them ; 
their confessors were made the confi- 
dants of their disquieting scruples ; 
and these worthies seldom lost any 
time in transmitting to the Inquisi- 
tion, the information disclosed by 
their penitents. When he, who had 
anything of this sort to communicate, 
could write, he reduced his declara- 
tion to writing himself; when he 
could not write, his confessor prepa- 
red it in* his name. This measure 
was so rigorously prescribed, that it 
was held obligatory on the nearest re- 
latives of the person denounced. Thus, 
the father and the child, the husband 
and the wife, were mutually denoun- 
cers and denounced, because the con- 
fessor refused to grant absolution till 
they had, within the specified time, 
ob tempered the ordinance of the In- 

2. Inquest. When the tribunal of 
the Inquisition has decided that the 
actions or speeches denounced, are of 
such a nature as to require an Inquest 
for establishing them by proof ; and 
when the declaration on oath of the 
denouncer, accompanied by the cir- 
cumstances above-stated, has been re- 
ceived, the next step is, the examina- 
tion of the persons who have been 
cited as cognisant of the matters set 
forth in the declaration, and who are 
compelled to swear that they will ob- 
serve the most profound secrecy re- 
garding all that may be asked of them. 


Not one of these witnesses, however, 
is informed of the subject in regard 
to which he is called upon to depone ; 
he is only asked, generally, if he has 
either seen or heard anything which 
might appear to be contrary to the 
Catholic Faith, or to the rights and 
privileges of the Inquisition. In en- 
deavouring to answer this vague and 
insidious interrogatory, it almost in- 
variably happens that the witness, ig- 
norant of the real purpose for which 
he has been called, recollects facts fo- 
reign to the case actually before the 
tribunal, and implicates persons not 
yet denounced, but whose names and 
residences he of course makes known. 
He is then closely examined in regard 
to the circumstances which he has 
unwittingly revealed, as if to speak to 
these had been the special purpose 
for which be was cited ; and it is only 
when nothing more canbe extracted 
from him thereanent, that the Inqui- 
sitors direct his attention, as it were 
by pure accident, to the affair actually 
before them. This accidental depo- 
sition takes the place of a formal de- 
nunciation ; an act therepf is engross- 
ed in the records of the Tribunal ; and 
a new process is commenced against 
individuals, hitherto unsuspected, and 
whom this detestable artifice of inter- 
rogation has compromised. In cases 
where the witness can neither read 
nor write, the consequences that re- 
sult in the course of the process from 
his implied denunciation are the more 
serious, that his declaration is taken 
down by the hand and at the plea- 
sure of the commissary or registrar, 
who commonly contrives to fulfil his 
task by aggravating the charges, as 
far as that can be done, by giving 
an arbitrary interpretation to the im- 
proper or equivocal expressions em- 
ployed by the rude and illiterate per- 
son under examination. It is doubt- 
less true, that the declaration emitted 
by a witness is read to him immedi- 
ately after it is taken down, and that, 
at the end of four days, it is read to 
him a second time, in the presence of 
two priests, who are not attached to 
the Inquisition, though bound by oath 
to observe the strictest secrecy : But 
this does not better the situation of 
the denounced, because rude and ig- 
norant witnesses, appalled by the cir- 
cumstance of having been called in 
any way before a Tribunal of Terror, 

The Inquisition of Spain. 


never fail to approve of what has been 
taken down, although they neither 
comprehend its direct import, nor can 
fathom the purposes to which the 
diabolical ingenuity of the Inquisitors 
may pervert it. The evil is still greater 
where three persons conspire to de 
stroy a fourth ; for if, after one has 
tendered his denunciation, the two 
others, mentioned in that instrument 
as co-witnesses, be interrogated in 
support of it, the denounced is utter- 
ly undone, since the concurring testi- 
mony of three witnesses (the accuser 
being always one) establishes a com- 
plete proof even against innocence, 
a proof, the effect of which it is im- 
possible to take off, by reason of the 
impenetrable secrecy in which the 
whole procedure is enveloped, unless, 
indeed, the accused be saved by the 
occurrence of some extraordinary cir- 
cumstance, as has sometimes happened 
even in the history of the Holy Office. 
" A great portion of these abuses 
would have been avoided," says Senor 
Llorente, " if the commissaries had 
been penetrated with the importance 
of their duties. But these instances 
have always been extremely rare, and 
they are generally found performing 
the functions of judges at a stage of 
the process where their misconduct 
cannot fail to be attended with the 
most disastrous consequences. The 
only persons competent to act as com- 
missaries are either clerical juriscon- 
sults, or lay doctors, or licentiates in 
law, men who, by their education and 
habits, are duly qualified for weigh- 
ing the inconveniences that may re- 
sult from contenting themr-elves with 
detached propositions, and for putting 
to witnesses, agreeably to the rules of 
evidence recognized in other tribu- 
nals, all the questions necessary to 
elicit the true sense of the articles de- 
nounced. Unfortunately, almost all 
the commissaries are grossly ignorant 
of law, because, having no salaries, 
their places are commonly sought for 
only by ecclesiastics who have no 
other views than to dive into the se- 
crets of the Inquisition, or to with- 
draw themselves from the jurisdiction 
of their bishops; a circumstance which 
has singularly favoured the libertinism 
of some commissaries and notaries of 
the Holy Office, and which has fur- 
nished the author of Gil Bias, and 
*?ther writers of that class, with maU 


ter for several scandalous episodes, in 
which they introduce personages, in* 
quisitors, or commissaries of the Holy 
Office, or those who pretend to be 
such, and who assume the name solely 
for the purpose of executing with 
more facility their projects of plunder 
or debauchery. No author would 
have ventured to admit similar scenes 
into a work of pure fiction, if he had 
not found the originals in history ; 
which brings to our recollection the 
Quid rides ? of the poet, the friend 
of Augustus, The author of Cornelia 
Bororquia has set down a tissue of 
calumnies, and the same thing may 
be said of the author of the French 
work, entitled La Gusmanade, on the 
subject of the imputations he has cast 
on Saint Dominic; but neither the 
one nor the other would have carried 
matters to such a pitch of exaggera- 
tion, if it had not been proved by the 
archives of the Council of the Supreme, 
that disorders and abuses of this sort 
have been committed more than once 
in the very bosom of the Inquisition 
itself." -Hist. Crit. de Vlnq. I. pp. 

3. Censure by Qualificators. When 
the Tribunal has examined the Pre- 
liminary Instruction, and discovered 
therein sufficient reason to induce it 
to proceed, it straightway addresses a 
circular to all the other tribunals of 
the province, to the end that, if there 
exist in their registers any charges 
against the denounced, these may be 
transmitted to it for the purpose of 
forming part of this process. This 
proceeding is called the Review of the 
Registers. Extracts are made from 
them of the suspected propositions 
imputed by witnesses to the accused ; 
and if the same proposition be report- 
ed by two or more tribunals in differ- 
ent terms, which will almost always 
occur, it is held to be as many distinct 
propositions advanced on different ac- 
cusations. The whole, together with 
the primary charge or charges, is then 
referred by the Inquisitors to theolo- 
gians, Quafificators of the Holy Office, 
whose business it is to write at the 
bottom whether the propositions sub- 
mitted to them merit theological een- 
sure as heretical, as smacking of 
heresy, or as conducive to heresy, 
and whether they give reason to believe 
that the person who uttered them ap- 
proves of heresy, or is only suspected 

1826 ^ 

The Inquisition of Spain. 

of that crime :; in which last case they 
roust determine whether the suspicion 
be slight, grave, or violent. The de- 
liverance of the Qualificators deter- 
mines the mode of proceeding against 
the denounced up to the moment when 
the process is prepared for definitive 
sentence, at which time they are also 
informed of all that has transpired 
since the first reference, and which is 
calculated either to fortify or invali- 
date the decision formed on the Pre- 
paratory Instruction. The Qualifica- 
tors are bound by oath to observe se- 
crecy ; consequently, no great incon- 
venience could have arisen from in- 
trusting them with the original docu- 
ments, the perusal of which would 
have enabled them the better to under- 
stand the nature of the propositions 
denounced, the sense in which the 
witnesses supposed them to have been 
advanced, and the particular form 
which these witnesses gave to their 
declaration. Had such course been 
pursued, it can hardly be questioned 
that the Qualificators^ would often 
have recognised the distinct proposi* 
tions enregistered as in reality a con- 
sequence of the mode in which the wit- 
nesses expressed themselves, not a fair 
translation of the sentiments ascribed 
to the accused ; and this consideration 
could not have failed to affect ma- 
terially the second part of their de- 
liverance, namely, the judgment form- 
ed of the internal and secret sentiments 
of the accused. But the Inquisitors, 
accustomed to make a mystery of their 
conduct, imagine they render their 
authority more imposing by conceal- 
ing from the whole world the grounds 
of the prosecution, and the name of the 
individual implicated ; and they think 
they justify themselves by alleging, 
that the Qualificators are better able 
to form an impartial judgment, when 
they are kept in ignorance of the name 
and quality of the accused, as well as 
those of the witnesses. This, how- 
ever, is not the only or the greatest 


evil that results from the course pur- 
sued by the Inquisition ; there is an- 
other, tho magnitude of which may 
be conjectured from the fact now to 
be stated ; which is, that the Quah- 
faators are generally, we might ra- 
ther say always, scholastic theologians, 
trained up in utter ignorance of true 
systematic theology, imbued with 
false ideas, and ready to carry their 
superstition and fanaticism to the 
fullest, of denouncing as heretical all 
that they themselves have not studied 
or do not understand. Hence it is not 
uncommon to find them directing their 
theological censures against propositions 
which are to be found in the works of 
the greatest ornaments of the Catholic 
Church, and qualifying as a heretic, or 
as violently suspected of heresy, the 
learned Catholic, who, possessing an 
extent of erudition a thousand times 
greater than their own, had advanced 
propositions, contrary, it may be, to 
the received doctrines of modern times, 
but in perfect accordance with those 
which had been supported by the most 
learned of the Fathers, and the most 
celebrated of the ancient Councils. 
This preposterous policy has proved 
a fertile source of injustice in a mul- 
titude of instances, as the reader may 
discover by referring to Llorente's 
work ; and, which is most deplorable, 
it has generally been men eminent for 
their talents, their learning, and their 
virtue, who have fallen victims to the 
brutal ignorance and bigotry of the 
Qualificatory. In confirmation of what 
is now stated, we may refer to the case 
of Carranza, Archbishop of Toledo, 
Primate of all Spain, and to that of 
Antonio Perez, Minister and First 
Secretary of State to Philip II. 

4. Prisons. When the propositions 
referred to the theologians have been 
qualified as heretical, or as suspected, 
to a greater or less degree, of heresy, 
the Procurator Fiscal presents a requi- 
sition craving a mandate of arrest* for 
seiaing and committing the person of 

* The Inquisitors sign the mandate of arrest, and direct it to the Grand Alguazil 
of the Holy Office, whose business it is, with the aid of \\iefamiliars, to put it in 
execution. When the denunciation is one of formal heresy, this measure is immedi- 
ately followed by the sequestration of all the real and moveable property belonging 
to the denounced ; and for this purpose the Alguazil is always accompanied by the 
Registrar of Sequestrations, and the Receiver of Goods, or Treasurer, who seques- 
trate and make out an inventory of the property of the denounced. All the ex- 
penses of his apprehension, and of his subsistence during the period of his confine- 
ment in the prisons of the Holy Office, arc defrayed from Us own means, which art 


the accused to the secret prisons of the 
Holy Office. The Tribunal has three 
sorts of prisons, public, intermediary, 
and secret. The public are those in 
which the Holy Office confines per- 
sons who, without being guilty of any 
crime against the Faith, stand accused 
of some offence, the punishment of 
which belongs by privilege to, and is 
within the jurisdiction of, the Inquisi- 
tion. The intermediary are destined 
for the reception of those employes of 
the Holy Office who have committed 
some crime or have been guilty of 
some fault in the exercise of their 
functions, without, however, incurring 
either the taint or suspicion of heresy. 
Persons confined either in the public 
or intermediary prisons have the right 
of communicating with their relations 
and friends without, unless the In- 
quisitors, in conformity with the law 
common to all the tribunals, ordain 
them to be put in secret. The secret 
prisons are those where heretics, or per- 
sons suspected of being heretics, are 
shut up, and where they can hold no 
communication except with the judges 
of the Tribunal, and that, too, only in 
the cases provided, and with the pre- 
cautions appointed by the constitutions 
of the Holy Office. It would be diffi- 
cult to conceive anything more truly 
frightful than these cells; not that 
they are at present such as they have 
been described, deep, moist, filthy, 
pestiferous dungeons, unfit for the re- 
ception of the most atrocious criminals. 
On the contrary, whatever they may 
have been in former times, we believe, 
that, at present, they are, in general, 
good vaulted chambers, well lighted, 
free of humidity, and in which the 
detenus may even take a little exercise. 
But what renders these prisons truly 
terrible is, that no one ever enters 
them without being eternally lost in 
public opinion. The in famia juris at- 
taching, or which at least ought to at- 
tach, to the convicted felon, is as no- 
thing to the infamia carceris, with 
which the unhappy wretch who nas 
entered the secret prisons of the Holy 

The Inquisition of Spam. 

Office, is indelibly stigmatized. In 
Spain, all other modes and kinds of 
infamy merge in this. The murderer, 
the assassin, or the parricide, is less an 
object of horror and detestation than 
the unhappy being consigned to this 
dreadful prison for an imaginary of- 
fence consisting in mere matter of 
opinion, in which, too, it is more than 
probable that he has not deviated one 
iota from the true standard of the 
Faith, as fixed by its ablest expound- 
ers. In his own estimation and in 
that of his countrymen, the galley- 
slave, condemned to wear iron on his 
limbs for life, is respectable when 
compared with him, however innocent, 
who has inhabited the dens of inef- 
faceable ignominy and shame. What 
must be the reflections, what the 
agonies of spirit, endured by the 
miserable being consigned to these 
abodes of worse than death ? He is 
kept in utter ignorance of the state of 
the process of which he is the object ; 
he is denied the consolation of seeing 
and conversing with the person ap- 
pointed to defend him ; during the 
winter months he is during fifteen 
hours of the twenty-four in utter 
darkness, for no prisoner is allowed to 
have light after four o'clock in the 
afternoon, nor before seven o'clock in 
the morning ; he is exposed to all the 
rigours of cold in a retreat where the 
cheerful blaze of a fire was never 
seen ; and, to aggravate and envenom 
these miseries, he is conscious that his 
name is blasted for ever, and that 
should he escape from his dungeon, 
the basest and most abandoned of man- 
kind will shun his society, regarding 
him as tainted with deeper infamy 
than themselves. Is it wonderful, 
then, that after the first paroxysms 
have subsided, the minds of the un- 
happy prisoners should become a prey 
to inexpressible dejection, the natural 
companion of profound and continual 
solitude, and that they should at length 
settle down into a hopeless and sullen 
despondency, from which the rack is 
sometimes insufficient to rouse them ?* 

converted into money as occasion requires, Ordonanccs de 1561 ; and when we take 
into view, that, in point of delay, even the English Court of Chancery must yield 
the palm to the Inquisition, it may easily be imagined how this will operate to the 
dilapidation, if not utter extinction, of the property of the accused, even if it had at 
first been very considerable. We may add, that the salaries of the different officers 
of the Tribunal are also paid from this legalized plunder. 
* Some writers have asserted that prisoners of the Inquisition are loaded with 


The Inquisition nf Spain. 

5. First audiences. During each of 
the three day? immediately following 
the imprisonment of the accused, he 
is granted an audience of monition, 
as it is technically called, for the pur- 
pose of engaging him to speak the 
truth without reserve, in regard to all 
that he has himself done or said con- 
trary to the faith ; and also in regard 
to all that he can impute to others of 
a similar nature ; and in order to sti- 
mulate him to be communicative, he 
is informed that if he com ply faithfully 
with the injunction laid upon him, lie 
will be treated with leniency and for- 
bearance, but, on the contrary, if he 
prove obstinate or recusant, that he 
\vill experience the utmost rigour of 
law. The grounds upon which he has 
been arrested are carefully concealed 
from him ; he is merely assured that 
no one is committed to the prisons of 
the Holy Office without sufficient evi- 
dence of his having spoken against the 
Catholic Faith, and that it is for his 
interest to confess frankly, before de- 
cree of accusation be passed, all the 
sins of this sort which he has commit- 
ted. Thus admonished, some prison- 
ers admit themselves to have been 
guilty of the facts (we cannot s;iy 
charges) contained in the preparatory 
instruction alone ; others confess to 
more, and others again to less ; gene- 

rally, however, they declare, that their 
conscience does not reproach them with 
anything, but that if the Inquisitors- 
will order the depositions of the wit- 
nesses to be read to them, they will 
consult their memory, and make a 
frank avowal of all the faults which 
they remember having committed. At 
the present stage of the procedure this 
request is never complied with.* 

Another practice of the Inquisition 
consists in interrogating the accused 
on his genealogy and connexions. The 
object of this is to find out afterwards, 
by the registers whether any members 
of his family, either in the direct or col- 
lateral line, had incurred punishment 
on account of the crime of heresy ; for 
in the event of the fact proving to be 
so, it is held as fortifying the suspi- 
cion, that the accused approves in his 
soul of the error imputed to him, and 
that he inherits the erroneous doctrines 
of his ancestors. With a similar view 
of eliciting something to give counte- 
nance to the charge preferred against 
him, the accused is compelled to recite 
the Pater, the Credo, the Articles of 
the Symbol, the Decalogue, and some 
other doctrinal formulas ; and if he is 
either ignorant of them, or has forgot 
them, or blunders in his recitation, the 
presumption that he has erred in the 
faith acquires thereby additional force. 

fetters in the shape of chains, manacles, iron collars, and such like apparatus; but 
this is incorrect the prisons of the Holy Office are too strong to require any such 
accessaries iri the way of security, and sufficiently peopled with real horrors without 
calling in the aid of such as are purely imaginary. The fact is, that fetters are em- 
ployed only on rare occasions, and for very particular reasons. For example, in the 
year 1790, the hands and feet of a Frenchman, a native of Marseilles, (of whom 
some account will be given in the sequel,) were heavily ironed ; but this measure 
was had recourse to for the purpose of preventing him from committing suicide, 
which he had previously attempted. Unfortunately the precaution proved fruitless ; 
but it would be both unjust and false to represent as a common practice the method 
adopted in cases of a peculiar or extraordinary kind such as that now mentioned, 
which, moreover, is the only instance of a prisoner being ironed that fell under Llo- 
rento's observation during the whole period of his connexion with the Inquisition. 
Hist. Crit. de I' Ing. I. 301. 

* The partizans of the Inquisition (some of whom are to be found even in this 
free and glorious country) maintain, that the practice of urging the accused to cri- 
minate themselves, though contrary to the principles of administrative justice recei- 
ved in every civilized nation, is attended with the advantage of abridging the course 
of procedure, while it saves the Inquisitors the pain of awarding so severe a punish- 
ment as they wguld otherwise have been obliged to decree in the definitive sentence, 
in all those cases, at least, where reconciliation is admissible. We do not conceive 
it necessary to do more than merely state this most miserable apology. Certain it 
is, that whatever promises may have been made to prisoners to induce them to cri- 
minate themselves, these unhappy individuals can neither expect to escape the dis- 
grace of the San Benito and the Auto-da-fe, nor to save their property and their ho- 
nour, if they avow themselves formal heretics; for sad experience has shown that 
there is no wretch in human shape so faithless and false as a Spanish Inquisitor, 


In a word, the Inquisition, in the 
course of the proceedings, avails itself 
of every expedient which promises to 
make the accused appear really guilty 
of some offence against the Catholic 
faith ; and as if flagrant injustice was 
not sufficiently detestable without the 
addition of hypocrisy and blasphemy, 
all this is carried on under a semblance 
of compassion and charity, and (hor- 
rescimus refcrentes /) in the name of 
Jesus Christ ! 

6. Charges. When the formality 
of the three audiences of monition has 
been gone through, the Procurator Fis- 
cal forms his demand in accusation 
against the prisoner, conformably to 
the charges contained in the instruc- 
tion and although the facts deposed 
to amount to no more than a semiplena 
probatio, they are set forth in that in- 
strument as if they had been complete- 
ly proved. Nor is this the most illegal 
part of the proceeding. Instead of ana- 
lysing methodically the result of the 
information, and other preliminary 
steps, and of applying to each head of 
accusation the peculiar character or 
description that belongs to it, the Fis- 
cal, imitating the method practised in 
making out an extract of the proposi- 
tions to be submitted to the Doctors 
for qualifications, multiplies the arti- 
cles of his Requisition in exact confor- 
mity thereto ; so that, in processes 
where the accusation ought to be con- 
fined to a single head as, for exam- 
ple, having maintained this or that 
tenet contrary to the faith five or six 
charges are arrayed against the accu- 
sed, who, by this manoeuvre, is repre- 
sented as having advanced, on different 
occasions, so many heretical or sus- 
pected propositions ; and this is done 
without any other foundation than the 
different modes in which different wit- 
nesses have related the substance of 

Inquisition of Spain. 


the one conversation which has given 
rise to the prosecution. 

This detestable Machiavelism is ne- 
cessarily productive of the most fatal 
consequences. It distracts and con- 
founds the mind of the accused at the 
moment when the reading of the 
charges takes place ; and if he be de- 
ficient in address, presence of mind, 
and intelligence, he is certain to get 
bewildered, under the impression that 
he is accused of several distinct crimes. 
The natural result is, that in replying 
to one article or head of accusation, the 
third for example, he gives a version 
of the facts charged against him, dif- 
fering probably, in the terms and in 
some of the circumstances, from that 
which he had proponed in answering 
to the second ; and as the same trivial 
discrepancy (which all human tribu- 
nals, the Inquisition alone excepted, 
consider as the infallible index of sin- 
cerity) will not fail to be remarked in 
the replies to the other articles, the 
respondent is thus artfully and cruelly 
led to contradict himself, and to arm 
the Fiscal with new charges to aggra- 
vate and fortify those already prefer- 
red ; it being an invariable rule so to 
construe answers of the nature now 
described, and to hold the accused as 
having departed from the truth in his 
responses. Is it wonderful that even 
intrepid innocence should almost inva- 
riably get entangled in the meshes of 
this diabolical jugglery ? * 

7. Torture. But what follows is 
even still more horrible than this ; for 
although the prisoner in the three aw- 
diences of monition may have avowed 
all that the witnesses have deposed 
against him, and more, still the Fiscal 
terminates his requisition by alleging 
that, notwithstanding the admonition 
given him to speak the truth, accom- 
panied with the promise of grace in 

* If the definitive judgment of the Tribunal be followed by an Auto-da-fe, the 
merits, as they are called, that is, the heads of accusation, and an extract of such of the 
proceedings as the Inquisitors choose to be known, are publicly read at the com- 
mencement of the ceremony. Thus, by multiplying the counts charged against the 
prisoner, all of which are solemnly read on this occasion, the unhappy wretch is 
made to appear in the light of one who has committed a great number of distinct 
crimes ; and the ignorant multitude applaud the sentence pronounced against him 
as an act of clemency, far short of the punishment due to so great a criminal. So 
that the artful mode of constructing what we may loosely call the indictment, serves 
the double purpose of entrapping the accused, and of imposing upon the public the 
notion of his aggravated guilt, and of the clemency of his judges, who have perhaps 
condemned him to the flames for an offence of which he is innocent. Verily, if the 
Devil himself did not preside in the fabrication of this machinery, he \sfunctus officio, 
and an abler demon has taken his place. 



The Inquisition of Spain. 

case of compliance, the accused has 
been guilty of concealment and denial 
of facts, that he is therefore impeni- 
tent and obstinate, and ought without 
delay to be put to the torture. If the 
Inquisitors be of opinion that the ac- 
cused has not made an unreserved con- 
fession, they ordain him to be put to 
the rack accordingly ; and though lat- 
terly this^has been less frequently ap- 
plied than in the earlier times of the 
Tribunal, yet the law authorising it 
continues in full force to the present 
hour, and every prisoner, without ex- 
ception, is threatened with the question 
at the particular stage of the process 
to which we have arrived. " Je ne 
m* arreterai point," says Senor Llo- 
rente, " a decrire les divers genres de 
supplices exerces par ordre de 1' Inqui- 
sition sur les accuses, cette tdche ayant 
fte remplie avec beaucoup de exactitude 
par un grand nombre d' hisforiens. Je 
declare, a cet egard, qu' aucun d'eux 
ne peut etre accuse d'exaggeration." 
We will endeavour to supply what Se- 
nor Llorente has ex consulto omitted, 
from the most faithful of those histo- 
rians to whose general accuracy, in 
this respect, he bears testimony. 

The method of torturing, and the 
degree of torture now or lately em- 
ployed in the Spanish Inquisition, will 
be sufficiently understood from the 
history of Isaac Orobio, which Lim- 
borch took down from his own mouth. 
This man, who was a Jew and a doc- 
tor of physic, had been delated to the 
Inquisition as an Israelite (a crime of 
the greatest magnitude in their eyes), 
by a Moorish servant of his own whom 
he had flogged for thieving ; and four 
years after this he was again accused 
by a secret enemy of another fact which 
would have clearly established his de- 
scent. On this second charge he was 
committed to the secret prisons of the 
Holy Office, where he remained three 
whole years; and after undergoing 
several examinations, in the course of 
which the crimes charged against him 
were disclosed with a view to his con- 
fession, he was at length, in conse- 
quence of his obstinate denial of them, 
carried from his cell to the chamber of 


torture. This was a large apartment 
under ground, vaulted, hung round 
with black cloth, and dimly lighted 
by candles placed in candlesticks fas- 
tened to the wall. At one end, there was 
an inclosed place, like a closet, where 
the Inquisitor in attendance and the 
notary sat at a table ; so that the place 
seemed to poor Orobio the very man- 
sion of death, everything being calcu- 
lated to inspire terror. Here the In- 
quisitor again admonished him to con- 
fess the truth before being put to the 
torture ; and when he answered that 
he had already told the truth, the In- 
quisitor formally protested, that, since 
he was so obstinate as to expose him- 
self to the question, the Holy Office 
would be innocent of whatever might 
happen, and that, in case of lesion, 
rupture of members, or death, the 
fault would rest wholly with himself. 
This protest being extended in order 
to form part of the proces-verbal, they 
put a linen garment over his body, 
drawing it so very close on each side 
as almost to squeeze him to death ; 
and when he was on the verge of ex- 
piring, they suddenly slackened the 
sides of the garment, by which, as re- 
spiration returned, and the blood be- 
gan again to circulate, he suffered the 
most excruciating pain. At this stage, 
he was again admonished to confess 
the truth, in order to avoid further 
torments; but, persisting in his de- 
nial, they tied his thumbs so tight 
with small cords,* that the extremities 
immediately swelled, and the blood 
spirted out from under the nails. This 
done, he was placed with his back 
against a wall, and fixed upon a little 
bench. Into the wall were fastened 
little iron pullies, in which ropes were 
inserted, and tied round several parts 
of his body, particularly his arms and 
legs ; then the executioner drawing 
the ropes with his whole force, pinned 
Orobio to the wall, so that his hands 
and feet, especially his fingers and 
toes, being cut by the ligatures, put 
him to the most exquisite pain, and 
seemed to him as if they had been dis- 
solving in flames. In the midst of 
these torments, the executioner sud- 

* The Spanish Inquisitors do not seem to have hit upon thumbtidns, which their 
brother savages of Moscovy could have supplied them with, and which would have 
answered the purpose even more effectively and expeditiously than the cords. If 
Dalyell and Lauderdale had happened to have been Catholics, the torture-rooms of 
Spain would unquestionably have been furnished with this neat little instrument. 


The Inquisition of Spain. 


denly jerked the bench from under 
him, so that the miserable wretch hung 
suspended by the cords, the weight of 
his body drawing the knots still tight- 
er, and thus increasing his agony. He 
endured this for sometime, after which 
he was taken down and subjected to a 
new kind cf torture. An instrument 
like a small ladder, made of two up- 
right pieces of wood and five cross ones 
sharpened before, being placed over 
him, the executioner struck it in a pe- 
culiar manner and with such violence 
against both his shins, that he recei- 
ved at the same instant five blows on 
each, in consequence of which he faint- 
ed away. After he recovered, the last 
torture was inflicted on him. The tor- 
turer having tied ropes round Orobio's 
wrists, put them round his own back, 
which was covered with leather, then 
falling backwards, and putting his 
feet up against the wall, he drew them 
with all his might till they cut through 
the unhappy man's flesh, even to the 
very bones. This torture was repeated 
thrice, the ropes being successively 
tied round his arms about an inch or 
thereby above the former wound, and 
drawn with the same violence. But it 
happened, that as the ropes were draw- 
ing the second time, they slid into the 
first wound, which caused so great an 
effusion of blood, that he seemed to 
be dying. Upon this, the surgeon in 
attendance was sent for from an ad- 
joining apartment, and asked whether 
the patient had strength enough to 
undergo the remainder of the tortures, 
a question which is always put when 
death is apprehended, because the In- 
quisitors are considered guilty of an 
irregularity if their victim should ex- 
pire in the midst of his torments. The 
surgeon, who was far from being an 
enemy to Orobio, answered in the af- 
firmative, and thereby preserved him 
from having the tortures he had al- 
ready endured repeated on him ; for 
his sentence was that he should suffer 
them all at one time, and if the opi- 
nion of the surgeon had induced the 
Inquisitor to desist, through fear of 
occasioning death, all the tortures, 


even those already endured, must have 
been successively inflicted to satisfy 
the sentence. Wherefore, the torture 
was repeated the third time, and then 
it ended, after which Orobio was bound 
up in his own clothes and carried back 
to prison, and was scarce healed of his 
wounds in seventy days. And inas- 
much as he emitted no confession un- 
der his torture, he was condemned, not 
as one convicted, but suspected of Ju- 
daism, to wear the Sun Benito, or ha- 
bit of infamy, for two whole years, 
and thereafter to perpetual banish- 
ment from the kingdom of Seville.* 

There is another kind of torture, 
employed by the Spanish Inquisition, 
which has been very fully described 
by Llorente in his account of the case 
of De Salas/h and by Gonsalvius, in 
his work entitled te Sancton Inquisitio- 
nis Hiapanicce Aries aliquot detectce." J 
This is called torture by the Escalera 
or Burro, which is analogous to the 
French Che valet and the English Wood- 
en Horse. The instrument by which 
it is inflicted consists of wood, made 
hollow like a trough, so as to contain 
a man lying on his back at full length, 
and is without any other bottom than 
a round bar laid across, which, more- 
over, is so situated that the back of 
the person to be tortured must rest 
upon the bar, instead of the bottom of 
the trough, while, by its peculiar con- 
struction, his feet are raised much 
higher than his head. When the pa- 
tient is placed in this apparatus, his 
arms, thighs, and ankles, are made 
fast to the sides by means of small 
cords, which, being tightened by means 
ofgarrotSf or rackpins, (called by some 
the Spanish windlass,} in the same 
manner precisely as carriers tighten 
the ropes that fasten down the loads 
on their carts, cut into the very bones, 
so as to be no longer .discernible. 
Que sera-ce lorsgu'un bras nerveux vien- 
dra mouvoir et tourner le fatal billot ? 
The sufferer being in this situation, 
the most unfavourable that can be 
imagined for performing the function 
of respiration, there is inserted deep 
into his throat a piece of fine moist- 

* Limborch's Hist, cfthe Inqvisit. vol. II. c. 29. 

f Hist. Cril. deVlnquisit. vol, IL c, 2023. 

t The curious and. rare work published under this title at Heidelberg in the year 
1567, is the production of Raymundo Gonzalez de Montes, who has latinized his 
name into Reginaldus Gonzalmnus Montanus. He had some experience of the " ar- 
tifices" which he has so fully " deterred j" for we learn from himself, that in the year 
1558, he had the good fortune to escape from the prisons of the Holy Office at Se- 
ville, where he had been for some time confined on a charge of Lutberanism* 



Tke Inquisition of Spain, 

ewed linen, upon which an attenuated 
stream, or thread of water, descends 
from an earthen vessel, through an 
aperture so small that little more than 
an English pint is instilled in the 
course of an hour. In this state, the 
patient finds no interval for respira- 
tion. Every instant he makes an effort 
to swallow, hoping to give passage to 
a little air; but as the moistened li- 
nen is there to obstruct the attempt, 
and as the water enters at the same 
time by the nostrils, it is easy to con- 
ceive how this infernal contrivance 
must add to the difficulty of perform- 
ing the most important functions of 
life. Hence, when the question is 
finished, and the linen withdrawn 
from the throat, it is always soaked 
with blood, from the ruptured vessels 
of the lungs, or the parts adjoining. 

The mode of torture here described, 
was that employed on the Licentiate 
De Salas, mentioned above ; and as 
the proces-verbal of that operation has 
been given to the public by the Sue- 
tonius of the Inquisition, we shall in- 
sert it here. It will give a more lively 
idea of the proceedings, than we can 
pretend to have conveyed by the above 

" At Valladolid, the 21st of June 
1527, the Senor Licentiate Moriz, In- 
quisitor, having summoned to his pre- 
sence the Licentiate John Salas, cau- 
sed to be read and notified to him the 
sentence ordaining him to be put to 
the question ; the which reading be- 
ing finished, the said Licentiate Salas 
declared, that he had uttered none of 
those thing's of which he was accused j 
and incontinent, the said Senor Li- 
centiate Moriz having caused him to 
be conducted to the chamber of tor- 
ture, and stripped of his garments to 
the shirt, the said Salas was placed 
by the shoulders in the Escalera, or 
wooden horse of torture, where the 
executioner, Pedro Porras, fastened 
him by the arms and legs with hem- 
pen cords, eleven turns of which were 
coiled round each limb ; and while the 
said Pedro was thus binding him, the 
said Salas was several times admonish- 
ed to confess the truth, to which he 
replied, that he had never advanced any 
of these things ofwhiah he was accused. 
He (Salas) recited the symbol Qjuicun- 
gue vult, and several times returned 
thanks to God and Our Lady ; and the 
said Salas being still fastened, as has 
been already said, a piece of fine linen, 
moistened; was put upon his face ; and 

from an earthen vessel, containing 
about two litres, (nearly four and a 
half English pints,) pierced with a 
hole in the bottom, water to the extent 
of about a derni-lHre was poured into 
his nostrils and mouth ; and, notwith- 
standing thereof, the said Salas per- 
sisted in saying, that lie had advanced 
none of those things of which he was ac- 
cused. Then Pedro Porras made a turn 
of the garrot upon the right leg, and 
poured a second measure of water, as 
he had already done ; a second turn of 
the garrot was made on the same leg'; 
and, nevertheless, John Salas said, he 
had never ad van ced anything of the kind; 
and, being several times pressed to 
speak the truth, he declared, that he 
had never said that of which he was ac- 
cused. Then the Senor Licentiate Mo- 
riz having declared that the question 


ordered the torture to cease, and the 
accused to be removed from the Esca* 
lera." If this was only the commence- 
ment of the torture, how, in the name 
of God, was it to terminate ? That the 
reader may comprehend the full im- 
port of this phraseology, however, it is 
proper to mention, that the Council of 
the Supreme was frequently under the 
necessity of forbidding the employ- 
ment of torture oftener than once in 
the same process ; but that this prohi- 
bition was constantly defeated by the 
Inquisitors, who, when compelled to 
discontinue the question through fear 
of their victim expiring in their hands, 
had recourse to the abominable sophism 
of describing it as commenced, but not 
finished. Thus, if the physician or 
surgeon in attendance ordered the tor- 
ture to cease before the whole had been 
inflicted, and if the unhappy urchin 
did not die in his bed, as indeed often 
happened, of the consequences of what 
he had already suffered, his torments 
recommenced as soon as he recovered 
sufficient strength to undergo the ope- 
ration; and this, in the language of 
the Holy Office, was not a new torture, 
but merely a continual ionof the former ! 
It cannot be denied that the logic of 
the Inquisition was every way worthy 
of the conduct pursued by that Holy 
Tribunal, and that both would have 
reflected no discredit on a conclave of 
devils in Pandemonium, sitting in so- 
lemn deliberation how they might most 
effectually aggravate the miseries of 
the damned. 

And such are a few of the methods 
practised by the Inquisition, to extract 

The Inquisition oj Spain. 

the truth from the accused, as they are 
pleased to say, but in reality to force 
him, by the most powerful of all com- 
pulsitors, to criminate himself. In the 
rare instance, where the accused has 
sufficient physical force to resist the 
torments inflicted on him, and to per- 
severe in his denial, no decisive advan- 
tage rewards his fortitude ; for the 
judges, acting upon the maxim that 
the Inquisition cannot err, agree, in 
that case, to hold the preliminary de- 
positions as proof; and, after declaring 
him convicted and obstinate, proceed 
without delay to condemn him to re- 
laxation,* as a heretic of bad faith, and 
impenitent; the presumption of his 
guilt arising from his denial, joined to 
the demi-proafoffae information, thus 
acquiring, in the judgment of these 
monsters, the force of the most com- 
plete and conclusive evidence. So that 
if the accused, while undergoing the 
tortures of the question, admits the 
truth of the charges brought against 
him, he i.s convicted on his own confes- 
sion ; if he perseveres in his denial, 
his fortitude is construed a presumption 
of guilt sufficiently strong, when join- 
ed to the information, to constitute com- 
plete proof. Incidit in ScyHam qui vult 
vitare Charybdim. It often happens, 
however, that persons subjected to the 
question accuse themselves of crimes 
tney never committed, nor could com- 
mit, in order to obtain a cessation of 
torture. The records of the prosecu- 

tiona for magic, sorcery, enchantment, 
witchcraft, pactions with the Evil One, 
&c., sufficiently attest the truth of 
this ; men and women confessing them- 
selves guilty of impossible crimes, and 
narrating, with circumstantial minute- 
ness, the particulars of their imaginary 
interviews, and sometimes of their car- 
nal connexion with the Prince of Dark- 
ness. See particularly Senor Llorente's 
account of the " Secte des Borders," 
vol. III. p. 431, which is not the least 
interesting portion of his admirable 
work. When, during the question, the 
accused confesses a part or the whole 
of the facts charged against him, his 
confession is t^ken down by the notary 
in attendance, and the following day 
he is called upon either to ratify upon 
oath, or retract. In most instances the 
prisoners ratify their confessions, be- 
cause, if they dared to retract, their 
disavowal could have no other effect 
than to subject them a second time to 
the question ; and as persons whose 
fortitude have not proved equal to one 
trial will hardly expose themselves to 
a second, 4he force of the motive to 
adhere and ratify will be readily ac- 
knowledged. From time to time, how- 
ever, individuals have appeared who 
protested against their first declaration, 
stating, with the greatest sincerity, that 
they had emitted it to escape from in- 
tolerable anguish, and that it was false 
in every particular ; t but these unhap- 
py wretches speedily found occasion to 

* Relaxation is the act by which the Inquisitors deliver over a person convicted 
of heresy to the royal judge ordinary, that he may be condemned to a capital punish- 
ment, conformably to the law of the country. Sentence is passed as a matter of 
course. When the Inquisitors condemn a prisoner to relaxation, that is, to certain 
death, they never fail to supplicate mercy for him at the hand of the secular judge, 
who is bound to pass sentence upon him de piano, when handed over for that purpose 
by the Holy Office. Horrible hypocrisy ! 

f Nine hundred and ninety-nine, out of every thousand individuals, may be made 
to confess anything when suffering excruciating torture. It is well known, that du- 
ring the reign of James VII., our countryman Carstairs had been tortured by means 
of the thumbikins already mentioned. This instrument consisted cf two horizontal 
bars of iron, the lower of which, being attachable to a table or beam of wood, had 
two rods of the same metal fixed vertically in its extremities, and prepared to receive 
large nut screws, by means of which the upper bar, fitted with two holes, so as to 
move easily upon the upright rods, might be compressed when any substance was 
interposed between it and the lower one, fastened to the table or beam of wood, as 
already mentioned. The thumbs of the person to be tortured were placed between 
these bars, and, by turning the nut screws, the executioner could inflict at pleasure 
the most moderate or the most excruciating pain. Mr, afterwards Principal Carstairs, 
had experienced the power of this instrument, and yielded under the infliction. At the 
Revolution, the apparatus fell into the hands of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who 
made a present of it to the Principal ; and the latter happening, some time thereafter, 
to l>e in London, and to have the thumbikins along with him, King William, who was 
apprised of rhe circumstance, requested to see it. The Principal, of course, complied ; 
and, wishing to know the power of the instrument, his Majesty placed his thumbs 
between the bars, bidding Carstairs turn the screws. The divine did so, but turned 
the screws with that forbearance which a subject maybe supposed to exercise whei. 

Tkt inquisition of Spain, 

repent their frankness amidst new and 
more horrible torments, inflicted in 
every form which hellish ingenuity 
could invent, and protracted while 
sense or life remained. But we abso- 
lutely sicken over these details, and 
shall therefore desist, as our readers 
must have, hy this time, " supped full 
on horrors," and seek relief as anxious- 
ly as ourselves. 

8. Requisition. The Requisition, or 
Accusation of the procurator-fiscal, is 
never communicated to the accused in 
writing, lest, in the solitude of his 
prison, he should meditate on the dif- 
ferent articles therein charged, and 
prepare himself to rebut them by his 
answers. On the contrary, he is at 
this stage of the business conducted 
into the Hall of Audience, where, in 
the presence of the Inquisitors and the 
fiscal, a secretary reads the charges 
one by one in succession, stopping at 
the conclusion of each, and calling up- 
on the accused to answer upon the in- 
stant, whether or not it be conform to 
the truth. By this proceeding a snare 
is laid for the prisoner, who, knowing- 
no more of the accusation than what 
has just been read, perhaps in a very 
hurried and unintelligible manner, is 
necessarily compelled to answer with- 
out reflection, and thus, in all likeli- 
hood, to furnish the accuser with wea- 
pons that may be turned to his de- 
struction. France, we believe, is the 
only civilized country where the judges 
presiding in the courts of law endea- 
vour to surprise persons accused of 
murder, robbery, or other crimes 
against society, into an indirect ad- 
mission of their guilt ; and there is no 
enlightened or humane man, who, 
even in these instances, can approve 
of such a practice. But to resort to 
these stratagems in a Tribunal which 
pretends to be actuated solely by cha- 
rity, compassion, the love of God, zeal 
for religion and the salvation of souls, 
is to garnish injustice in the garb of 
blasphemous mockery, and at once to 


insult God and oppress his creatures 
Such, however, is the invariable prac- 
tice of the Holy Inquisition. 

9. Defence. After the reading of the 
libel, the Inquisitors ask the accused 
if he wishes to be defended ; and if he 
reply in the affirmative, copies are or- 
dered to be made of the accusation and 
answers. The list of the advocates of 
the Holy Office is then laid before him,, 
and he is called upon to name the in- 
dividual whom he wishes to undertake 
his defence. Prisoners sometimes 
claim the right of retaining counsel 
unconnected with the Tribunal, a de- 
mand which is contrary to no law of 
the Inquisition, provided the advocate 
selected take the usual oath of se- 
crecy ; but reasonable and just as this 
claim may appear, it has rarely been 
granted by the Inquisitors. Indeed 
it would be of no benefit to the accu- 
sed if it were ; for his counsel is never 
permitted to see the original process, 
or to communicate in private with his 
client. One of the clerks makes a 
copy of what is called the result of the 
preliminary instruction, in which he 
engrosses the depositions of the wit- 
nesses, omitting all mention of their 
names, of the circumstances of time 
and place, and of everything they have 
said favourable to the accused, and, also, 
taking no notice of the declarations of 
the individuals, who, after being in- 
terrogated, and urged by the Tribunal, 
have deponed Nihil novimus ; and this 
precious document, accompanied by the 
censure of the qualificators, and the 
demand of the fiscal an accusation, 
with the answers of the accused, is 
put into the hands of the advocate in 
Hall, where the Inquisitors have com- 
manded his attendance, and forms the 
whole of his instruction for the de- 
fence. He is then obliged to promise 
that he will undertake the defence of 
the accused, only if he is of opinion, 
after examining the document in ques- 
tion, that he has good grounds for so 
doing ; but, that if he is of a contrary 

lie squeezes the thumbs of a monarch. Accordingly, the King, who felt no great pain, 
reproached the Principal with pusillanimity in yielding to so slight a compulsitor ; 
upon which the latter, giving the screws an effective turn, forced his Majesty to roar 
out with pain, and instantly to admit, that, under such an infliction, a man might be 
made to confess anything. See a very amusing Note to Lord Fountainhall's Diary. 

Royas, who was an Inquisitor, says, (Simancas, P. II. Ass. 31, 300,) that he 
has frequently seen criminals confess when put to the torture, and after twenty-four 
hours retract their confession when they should confirm it ; and when tortured again^ 
confess again, and retract again, and repeat the same as often as they were tortured, 
This, however, must have been t rare occurrence. The Inquisitors did not generally 
relish such trifling, nor were they to be so easily hnmbugged out of their favourite 
diversion of gloating over the mangled limbs of their victims. 

The Inquisition of 

opinion, viz. that the accused has no 
good grounds of defence, he will use 
every means in his power to disabuse 
the latter, and persuade him to throw 
himself upon the mercy of the Tribu- 
nal, confess the crimes of which he has 
been guilty, with sincere contrition for 
having committed them, and demand 
to be reconciled to the Church. 

Wo venture to say, that human in- 
genuity never hit upon a series of ex- 
pedients more admirably calculated, 
not merely to cripple, but altogether 
to annihilate the means of a prisoner's 
defence. So perfectly self- evident dors 
this appear to us, that we deem all 
commentary superfluous. It is suffi- 
cient, therefore, to state, as a matter 
of fact, that the advocate appointed by 
the Inquisition seldom attempts any 
other defence than merely pointing out 
some slight discrepancies, if such exist 
(which is very rarely the case) in the 
evidence in proof of each action or 
speech charged against the accused. 
But as this, of itself, is of no avail, 
there being already a semi plena proba- 
tio of the crime, he commonly demands 
permission to communicate with the 
accused, in order to learn if it be his 
intention to except to the witnesses, in 
order to destroy, in whole or in part, 
the proof on record against him. If 
he answer in the affirmative, the In- 
quisitors cause a minute thereof to be 
made by the secretary, and issue an 
order for proceeding to the proof of the 
irregularity of 1he witnesses ; a con- 
temptible mockery, seeing the prisoner 
has no other clew to discover who and 
what these witnesses are, than such 
conjectural inferences as he may de- 
duce from the garbled excerpts of evi- 
dence contained in the document fur- 
nished to him for his defence. 

10. Proof. When a prisoner pro- 
tests for reprobators, (to use a Scotch 
law phrase,) this proceeding, on his 

part, renders it necessary to separate 
from the process the original declara- 
tions of the witnesses, as contained in 
the preliminary instruction, and to 
transmit them to the respective places 
where the said witnesses are domiciled, 
in order to their being submitted to 
what is called ratification. But this 
ceremony (for it is nothing more) is 
performed without the prisoner's know- 
ledge ; and as he is represented by no 
one upon the occasion, it is next to im- 
possible that he can ever succeed in 
discrediting a witness, even though 
that witness be notoriously his mortal 
enemy.* In order to see this more 
clearly, let us attend to the only course 
which, in his present situation, it is 
competent for the prisoner to pur- 
sue. We have already had frequent 
occasion to mention, that he is kept in 
profound ignorance of the names and 
designations of the individuals who 
have given evidence against him, as 
well as of every circumstance that 
might lead him to detect them. Mere 
conjecture is, therefore, his only re- 
source ; and it is needless to say what 
a miserable resource it is. He is or- 
dained to condescend on the indivi- 
duals whom he considers his enemies, 
to state specifically the reasons of ex- 
ception to each, and to write on the 
margin of each article the names of 
the persons who are to attest the facts 
upon which his exception is founded. 
When this is done, the Inquisitors, if 
they have no secret motive of opposi- 
tion, ordain these persons to be exa- 
mined. But as the prisoner acts with- 
out knowing what he is about, it often 
happens, that he excepts to persons 
who have not been witnesses, or who 
have given evidence in his favour, or 
who have not said anything against 
him ; in all which cases the articles of 
exception are passed over in silence. 
It is obviously by mere accident if he 

* " Si le temoin e'toit a Madrid au moment de 1'instruction, et s'il est ensuite 
all aux iles Philipines, il n'y a pas de terme arrete apres lequel le procureur fiscal 
soit oblig de presenter la declaration originale. Le cours de la procedure reste 
suspendue; et 1'accuse, sans soutien et sans consolation, est oblige d'attendre que 
ia ratification soit arrivee duforidde 1'Asie."- Llorente, vol. I. p. 313. The same au- 
thor informs us, that he knew a case in which the declarations of the witnesses were 
dispatched to Carthagena in South America, and th&tjive years elapsed before it was 
discovered that they had not reached their destination, the vessel which carried them 
having foundered at sea. " Qu'on imagine," he adds, " dans quelle situation 1'es- 
prit du prisounier devait etre ! Demandait-il a etre entendu pour se plaindre du re- 
tard qu' on mettait a son jugement, on ne lui faisait qu' une r^ponse anibigue : on 
Jui disait que le tribunal ne pouvait aller plus vite, par 1'effet de certaines mlsurEs 
dont il etait occupe. II est probable, que s'il avail su ce qui se passait, il eut con- 
tenti a se desister de sa recusatiori, pcur ne pas courir le risque du dflai effroyani 
(dent il ttaitmenacl." 


Tke Inquisition of Spain. 

ever hits upon his denouncers; and 
even this accident may be provided 
against ; for the real enemy of the ac- 
cused has only to select, as instruments 
of his vengeance, persons utterly un- 
known to the prisoner, and he is safe 
from all hazard of recusation, because 
it is impossible for a man to except to 
individuals whom he does not know. 
This manoeuvre has often been prac- 
tised with success, in order to take off 
claimants to property, the possession 
of which had been unjustly and frau- 
dulently usurped. But there are other 
cases in which the right of exception 
at random is of no avail. If, for ex- 
ample, the denunciation originate in 
fanaticism, superstition, scruples of 
conscience, or error, the denouncer 
and witnesses are generally persons to 
whom no valid exception can be taken ; 
for though the proceeding they have 
commenced may terminate in the ruin 
of the denounced, they cannot be ac- 
cused of being influenced by a direct 
intention to injure him, or, at least, 
such accusation, if propounded by way 
of exception, would be repelled as in- 
habile and calumnious. Several cases 
of this description are mentioned by 
Llorente.* It sometimes happens, 
too, that a fiscal, in order to destroy 
the effect of recusation, leads secret 
proof of the credibility of the witnesses 
in support of the accusation, before the 
period arrives at which it is competent 
tor the prisoner to except ; and as this 
proceeding, on the part of the prose- 
cutor, is always certain and easy, while 
the recusation of the prisoner is mere- 
ly a bow drawn at a venture, it is easy 
to see that the latter must, in this way, 
be foreclosed from the little benefit 
that might otherwise result from his 
miserable privilege. Nay, even if he 
happened to be so fortunate as to hit 
upon the witnesses who had been ex- 
amined against him, and to conde- 

scend upon other individuals ready 
to swear that these witnesses were not 
worthy of belief, still, in the case un~ 
der consideration, this would be pro- 
ductive of no advantage ; for, in all 
doubtful cases, the Inquisitors are al- 
ways disposed to credit the principal 
witness, unless he happens to be the 
declared enemy of the prisoner. 

1 1. Publication of the Ptoofs.When 
the proof is completed, tlie Tribunal 
(to use another Scotch law phrase) 
makes avizandum with the process, 
and decrees the publication of the evi- 
dence. Let not the reader be deceived 
by this phraseology. All that is meant 
by the publication of the proof is, that 
a garbled copy of the depositions, and 
other matters contained in the extract 
furnished for the defence, is read, in 
presence of the Inquisitors, to the ac- 
cused, who, at the conclusion of each 
article, is asked by the Secretary whe- 
ther he admits the truth of the whole, 
or only a part thereof, his answer, 
whatever it may be, being taken down, 
and appended to the article to which 
it refers : And when the whole of this 
farce is gone through, the accused, if 
he have not yet excepted to the wit- 
nesses, may still do so, in the way and 
manner pointed out under the prece- 
ing head. Supposing he declines to 
tender exceptions, and contents him-' 
self with merely answering the differ-* 
ent articles as they are read, it is ex- 
tremely probable that, by so doing, he 
only sinks himself deeper in the mire. 
From the isolated excerpts of the evi- 
dence, he can form no safe judgment 
of its general scope and bearing ; his 
former answers to the articles of the 
preliminary instruction form no part 
of what is read to him at the present 
stage of the case ; and as it is difficult, 
after the lapse of a considerable period, 
to recollect what took place in the 
midst of anxiety and trouble, a new 

* We shall select one by way of illustration. A young lady, influenced by some 
extraordinary scruple of conscience, denounced her lover to the Holy Office, little 
dreaming, we may suppose, of the consequences with which sucli a proceeding 
might be attended. Fortunately for both parties, however, she confided the secret 
to her confessor, who, being the friend of the youth, lost no time in apprizing him of 
his danger, and counselling him how to act in the critical situation in which: his pious 
mistress had placed him. Accordingly, the young man instantly repaired to the 
chambers of the Inquisition, and by a spontaneous confession, put an end to an affair, 
which, had it proceeded, would have infallibly led to his arrest in the first instance, 
and ultimately to the disgrace of appearing in an auto-da -fe, wearing the San Benito, 
or habit of infamy. In this case, it is clear, that but for the kind offices of the friendly 
ecclesiastic, the young man would never have dreamt of suspecting his mistress, and 
even, had he learned the truth, he could have taken no valid exception to her testi- 
mony. It is probable he took the hint, and aftenvards made love with more caution. 

The Inquisition of Spain. 


snare is thus laid for the prisoner, who 
Almost inevitably falls into contradic- 
tions, and thus does himself incalcula- 
ble mischief. For, be the discrepancy 
between his present and former an- 
swers ever so slight, it is sufficient to 
create a suspicion of duplicity, conceal- 
ment) or false confession, and may even 
serve as a pretext for refusing recon- 
ciliation, though earnestly solicited, 
or, if the Inquisitors are so minded, 
for condemning the unhappy victim to 
relaxation, that is, in plain terms, to 
the flames. 

12. Definitive Censure Iry the Qua- 
lificators. The publication of the 
proofs is succeeded by the definitive 
censure of the qualificators. In article 
S, we have already explained the cen- 
sure by qualificators ; and it is only ne- 
cessary to add, that, at this stage of 
the case, the original qualification, to- 
gether with an extract of the answers 
of the accused to the depositions of the 
witnesses, as communicated during the 
publication, are remitted to the same 
theologians, with instructions to qua- 
lify a second time the propositions de- 
nounced, to attend to the explanation 
thereof given by the accused, and to 
determine whether it has removed in 
whole or in part the suspicion of he- 
resy with which he is charged, or whe- 
ther, on the contrary, it has only ser- 
ved to fortify that suspicion, so as to 
justify a conviction of formal heresy, 
or, at least, of being suspected de vche- 
menti. And this second, or, as it is 
called, definitive qualification, forms 
the basis of the definitive sentence, 
which immediately follows ; a consi- 
deration which ought to inculcate ex- 
treme caution on the part of the qua- 
lincators, who, in many instances, are 
persons immeasurably inferior in ta- 
lent and learning to the accused, and, 
therefore, liable, if they act precipi- 
tately, to qualify as heretical doctrines 
maintained by the greatest lights of 
the Christian Church. But as igno- 
rance is always presumptuous, nothing 
of this kind is observed. In point of 
fact, they hardly give themselves the 
trouble of attending to a hurried read- 
ing of the documents submitted to 
them, and hasten to pronounce their 
judgment, which is the last important 
act of the procedure, the rest being 
mere matter of form. 

13. Sentence. The definitive quali- 
fication being returned by the Doctors, 
the ordinary diocesan is called in, that, 
with his assistance, the Inquisitors 
may determine the sentence to be pro- 
nounced. Anciently, doctors of law, 
with the title ofconsultorcs, performed 
the duty afterwards delegated to the 
diocesan ; but as they had only a de- 
liberative voice, the Inquisitors, who 
alone had a right to vote, invariably 
carried their point in all cases where 
opinion was divided. Nor had the 
accused then the right of appeal- 
ing from their judgment to the Coun- 
cil of the Supreme, conformably to 
what had been decreed by repeated 
Bulls of the Popes, although, notwith- 
standing the rule just mentioned, cir- 
cumstances sometimes occurred which 
rendered it necessary to have recourse 
to the Court of Rome. This being 
considered a prodigious hardship, a 
law was afterwards made, ordaining 
Provincial Inquisitors, before coming 
to a definitive judgment, to submit 
their opinion to the Council, in order 
to its being approved, modified, or al- 
tered at the pleasure of that body, or 
such instructions issued as might be 
deemed necessary in the circumstances 
of each particular case. Accordingly, 
when the decision of the Council was 
communicated to the Inquisitors, the 
latter proceeded to frame their judg- 
ment in conformity thereto, which 
judgment they pronounced in their 
own name, though it happened to be 
directly contrary to the opinion they 
had reported on the case to the supreme 
appellate jurisdiction. 

Before the reign of Philip III. sen- 
tences of absolution or acquittal were so 
rare in the Holy Office, that they bare- 
ly amount to the proportion of one in 
two thousand. This is easily account- 
ed for. The slightest doubt as to the 
complete innocence of the accused in- 
duced the qualificators to pronounce 
him suspected de levi, or in the lowest 
degree ; in consequence of which, the 
Inquisitors inflicted a punishment 
more or less grave according to circum- 
stances, and imposed on him an abju- 
ration of all kinds and forms of heresy, 
and in particular of that the suspicion 
of which was declared to attach to him, 
after which he was absolved from cen- 
sures ad cautelam* But if there ex- 

* When the prisoner is absolved ad cautelam, he falls on his knees, asks pardon of 
the Inquisitors, pronounces and signs the formula of abjuration, arid consents to be 
treated with the greatest severity, in the event of being again denounced for a simi- 
lar offence. 


The Inquisition of S 

isted no doubt whatever of the pri- 
soner's innocence, and acquittal ensu- 
ed, the names of his false accuser and 
of the false witnesses who had given 
evidence against him, were neverthe- 
less withheld, and he received no other 
public reparation for the wrongs he had 
endured, than the liberty of returning 
to his friends with a certificate of ab- 
solution ; a miserable compensation 
for all that he had suffered in his ho- 
nour, his person, and his property, by 
the machinations of some secret ene- 
my, thus effectually screened from jus- 
tice, and whom the certainty of impu- 
nity encouraged to renew his practices 
as often as he might think proper to 
do so. 

14. Reading and Execution of the Sen- 
tence. The punishments inflicted by 
the Holy Office on prisoners found 
guilty of the crimes charged against 
them, resolve into two classes ; Recon- 
ciliation, which includes every degree, 
from the slightest penance to impri- 
sonment for life in the dungeons of the 
Inquisition ; and Relaxation, which, 
as we have already explained, imports 
the delivery of the prisoner to the royal 
judge ordinary, that he may be con- 
signed to the flames. The latter pu- 
nishment is only inflicted on those 
who have been once reconciled, and 
have thereafter relapsed in to error; on 
persons convicted of formal heresy ; 
and sometimes on those who have been 
found violently suspected of haying em- 
braced heretical doctrines. The sen- 
tence, however, is not communicated 
to the prisoner till it is on the point 
of execution. When the time for this 
arrives, he is desired to prepare for the 
concluding ceremony, soon after which , 
muffled up in the San-Benito, with a 
paper mitre on his head, a rope of broom 
twisted round his neck, and a green 
wax taper in his hand, he is conducted 
from his dungeon to the auto-da-fe. 
The spot selected for the celebration 
of this infernal holocaust is generally 
at some distance from the city where 
the tribunal is established ; the multi- 
tude, who delight in such exhibitions, 
flock in crowds to the scene ; and that 
the intensity of ignominy may be 
screwed to theutmostpitch, the wretch- 
ed criminals are marched slowly, and 
by the most circuitous route, to the 
place of doom, On reaching, the grand 

theatre of sacrifice, the sentences are 
read, after which those admitted to 
reconciliation receive the public part 
of their punishment, generally flagel- 
lation, while those condemned to re- 
laxation are handed over to the secular 
arm, to be instantly committed to the 

We have thus completed the out- 
line we proposed to give of the course 
of procedure in all the tribunals of the 
Holy Office, from the moment of de- 
nunciation till that when the sentenc' 
is at once pronounced and executed 
and from the mere form of process, 
thus laid before the reader, we think 
it demonstrated, beyond the possibility 
of doubt, that the Inquisition is a prac- 
tical compound of every possible mode of 
injustice* The machinery by which it 
acts is constructed solely for the pur- 
* pose of entangling the accused, and 
rendering it next to impossible for 
him to establish his innocence. There 
is no rule of administrative procedure 
sanctioned by the practice of other tri- 
bunals, that is observed in this. Guilt 
is presumed from the very first ; to be 
accused and to be criminal are, in the 
logic of this infernal tribunal, synony- 
mous. Hence the prisoner is inces- 
santly urged to criminate himself; and 
when neither false promises nor real 
threats can induce him to do so, the 
torture is employed to enforce confes- 
sion. The laws of evidence received in 
other courts are violated here. Truth 
is invariably presumed to be on the 
side of the accuser ; the witnesses are 
examined in secret, and in the absence 
of the prisoner ; their evidence is ma- 
nufactured at the pleasure of the In- 
quisitors, all that tends to exculpate 
being carefully kept in abeyance ; a 
man's mortal enemy is admitted, with- 
out compunction, as an evidence 
against him ; and every obstacle is ac- 
cumulated in the way of him, who, 
to prove his innocence, attempts to 
discredit the witnesses for the prose- 
cution. In short, the procedure of 
the Inquisition is an inversion of every 
principle of justice, and the men who 
carry it into practice such as the pro- 
phet has described : for thtir feet run 
to evil, and they make haste to &/ied in- 
nocent blood; their thoughts arc thoughts 
of iniquity ; wasting ancTdestrwtiQi) art 
in their paths. 


90 Nodes Ambrosiance. No. XXVll- 





PHOC. ap. Ath 

\^This is a distich by wise old Phocylides, 
An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days ; 


An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis 
And a wry jit motto to put to our Noctes.^ 

C. N. ap. Amir, 



What a changed warld, sirs, since that April forenoon we druve doun to the 
Lodge in a cotch ! I cu'dna but pity the puir Spring. 


Not a primrose to salute his feet that shivered in the snow-wreath, 


Not a lark to hymn his advent in the uncertain sunshine. 


No a bit butterflee on its silent waver, meeting the murmur of the straight- 
forward bee. 


In vain Spring sought his Flora, in haunts beloved of old, on the bank of 
the shaded rivulet 

Or in nooks among the rocky mountains 


Or oases among the heather - 


Or parterrfs of grove-guarded gardens - ^ 


Or within the shadow of veranda - 


Or forest glade, where move the antlers of the unhunted red-deer. In sic- 
can bonny spats hae I often seen the Spring, like a doubtfu' glimmer o' sun- 
shine, appearing and disappearing frae amang the birk-trees, twenty times in 
the course o' an April day But, oh ! sirs, yon was just a maist detestable 
forenoon and as for the hackney-cotch - 


The meanest of miseries ! 


It's waur than sleepin' in damp sheets. You haena sat twa hunder yards 
till your breeks are glued to the clammy seat, that fin's saft and hard aneath 
you, at ane and the same time, in a maist unaccountable manner. The auld, 
cracked, stained, faded, tarnished, red leather lining stinks like a tan-yard. 
Gin' you want to let down the window, or pu't up, it's a' alike ; you keep 
ruggin' at the lang slobbery worsted till it cums aff wi' a tear in your haun , 
and leaves you at the mercy o' wind and weather then what a sharp and 
continual rattle o' wheels ! far waur than a cart ; intolerable aneuch ower the 
macadam, but, Lord hae mercy on us, when you're on the causeway ! you 
cou'd swear the wheels are o' different sizes ; up wi' the tae side, down wi' the 

1820.3 Node* Ambroxiana. No. XX VII. 01 

tither, sae that nae man can be sufficiently sober to keep his balance. Puch ! 
puch ! what dung-like straw aneath your soles ; and as for the roof, sae laigh, 
that you canna keep on your hat, or it '11 be dunshed down atower your ee- 
brees ; then, if there's sax or eight o' you in ae fare 


Why don't you keep your own carriage, James ? 


So I doa gig but when I happen to foregather wi' sic scrubs as you > 
that grudge the expense o' a yeckipage o' their ain, I maun submit to a glass- 
cotch and a' its abominations. 


How do you like that punch, James ? 


It's rather ower sair iced, I jalouse, and will be opt to gie ane the tooth- 
ache ; but it has a gran' taste, and a maist seducin' smell Oh ! man, that's 
a bonny ladle ! and you hae a nice way o' steerin' ! Only half-fu', if you please, 
sir, for thae wine-glasses are perfec tummlers, and though the drink seems to be, 
when you are preein't, as innocent as the dew o' lauchin' lassy's lip, yet it's 
just as dangerous, and leads insensibly on, by littles and wees, to a state o' 
unconscious intoxication. 


I never saw you the worse of liquor in my life, James. 


Nor me you. 


None but your sober men ever get drunk. 


I've observed that many a thousan' times ; just as nane but your excessively 
healthy men ever die. Whene'er I hear in the kintra o' ony man's being 
killed affhis horse, I ken at ance that he's a sober coof, that's been gettin' him- 
sel drunk at Selkirk or Hawick, and sweein' aff at a sharp turn ower the bank, 
he has played wallop into the water, or is aiblins been fun' lyin* in the middle 
o' the road, wi' his neck dislocate, the doctors canna tell hoo ; or ayont the wa' 
wi' his harns stickin' on the coupin-stane. 


Or foot in stirrup, and face trailing the pebbly mire, swept homewards by 
a spanking half-bred, and disentangled at the door by shriek and candle light. 


Had he been in the habit o' takin' his glass like a Christian, he wad hae 
ridden like a Centaur ; and instead o' bavin' been brought hame a corp, he 
wuld hae been staggerin' gaen steady into the parlour, wi' a' the weans rug- 
gin' ^at his pouches for fairin's, and his wife half angry, half pleased, helping 
him tidily and tenderly aff wi' his big boots ; and then by and by mixin 

him the bowster cup and then 


Your sober man, on every public occasion of festivity, is uniformly seen, soon 
after " the Duke of York and the Army," led off between two waiters, with 
his face as white as the table-cloth, eyes upwards, and a ghastly smile about 
his gaping mouth, that seems to threaten unutterable things before he reach 
the lobby. 


He turns round his head at the three times three, with a loyal hiccup, and 
is borne off a speechless martyr to the cause of the Hanoverian Succession. 


I wad; rather get fou five hunder times in an ordinar way like, than ance 
to expose myself sae afore my fellow- citizens. Yet, meet my gentleman next 
forenoon in the Parliament House, or in a bookseller's shop, or in Prince's 
street, arm in arm wi' a minister, and he bauds up his face as if naething had 
happened, speaks o' the pleasant party, expresses his regret at having been 
obliged to leave it so soon, at the call of a client, and ten to ane, denounces 
you to his cronies for a drunkard, who exposes himself in company, and is 
getting constantly into scrapes that promise a fatal termination, 

9t Nodes Ambtosiana:. No. XXV 11 Jlr. 

Hush } The minstrels ! 


Maist deiightfu' music ! O, sir, hoo it sweetens, and strengthens, and met - 
rifies as it comes up the avenue ! Are they Foreigners ? 

An itinerant family of Savoyards. 


Look at them Look at them ! What an outlandish, toosey-headed, wee 
sunbrunt deevil o* a lassie that, play in' her antics, heel and head, \vi' the tam- 
bourine. Yon's a darlin' wi' her thoom coquet coquettin' on the guitaur, and 
makin' music without kennan't a' the while she is curtshyin', and singin' wi' 
lauchin' rosy mouth, and then blushin' because we re glowering on her, and 
lettiri' fa' her big black een on the grun', as if a body were askin' for a kiss ! 
That maun be her younger sister, as dark as a gipsey, that hafflins lassie wi' 
the buddin* breast, her that's tinklin' on the triangle that surely maun be o* 
silver, sae dewy sweet the soun' ! Safe us, only look at the auld man and his 
wife ! There's mony a comical auld woman in Scotland, especially in the Hee- 
lans, but I never saw the match o' that ane. She maun be mony hunder year 
auld, and yet her petticoats as short as a play-actress dancin' on the stage. 
Gude legs too thin ancles, and a thick calve girl, wife, and witch a' in ane. 
and only think o't, playin' on a base drum ! Savyaurds ! Itjjll be a mountain- 
ous kintra theirs: for sic a lang-backed, short-thee'd, sinewy and muscular, 
hap-and-stap-jump o' a bouncin' body as that man o' hers, wi' the swarthy 
face and head harlequinaddin' on the Pan's-pipes, could never hae been bred 
and born on a flat But whish whish they're beginning to play some- 
thing pathetic ! 


Music is the universal language. 


It's a lament that the puir wandering creturs are singin* and playin' about 

their native land. I wush I may hae ony change in my pocket 


They are as happy in their own way as we are in ours, my dear James- 
May they find their mountain cottage unharmed by wind or weather on their 
return, and let us join our little subscription 


There's a five shillin' crown-piece for mine. 

And mine. 


And mine. 


I'll gee't to them. (Shepherd leaps out.} There, rny bonny blooniin' bru- 
nette with the raven hair, that are just perfectly beautifu', wanderin' wi' your 
melody hameless but happy, and may nae hand untie its snood till your bridal 
night in the hut on the hill, when the evening marriage dance and song are 
hushed and silent, and love and innocence in "their lawfu' delight lie in each 

other's arms If your sweetheart's a shepherd, so am I 


Hallo, Hogg no whispering. Here, give each of them a tumbler of punch, 
and God be with the joyous Savoyards. 


Did you see, sirs, hoo desperate thirsty they a' were nae wonner, singin" 
frae morn to night a' up and doon the dusty streets and squares. Yet they 
askt for nathing, contented creturs ! Hear till them singin' awa down the ave- 
nue " God save the King," in compliment to us and our country. A weel- 
timed interlude this, Mr North, and it has putten me in a gran' mood for a 


A '.OH:7 A 

Koctes ArnbrosiantK. No. XXVII, 
SONG Shepherd sings* 


WHEKB Yarrow rowes amang the rocks, 

An' wheels an' boils in mony a linn, 
A blithe young Shepherd fed his flocks, 

Unused to branglement or din. 
But Love its silken net had thrown 

Around his breast so brisk an' airy. 
And his blue eyes wi' moisture shone, 

As thus he sung of bonny Mary. 

" O Mary, thou'rt sae mild an' sweet, 

My very being clings about thee, 
This heart wad rather cease to beat, 

Than beat a lonely thing without thee. 
I see thee in the evening beam, 

A radiant glorious apparition ; 
I see thee in the midnight dream, 

By the dim light of heavenly vision. 

" When over Benger's haughty head 

The morning breaks in streaks sae bonny, 
I climb the mountain's velvet side, 

For quiet rest I get nae ony. 
How sweet the brow on Brownhill cheek, 

Where many a weary hour I tarry ! 
For there I see the twisted reek 

Rise frae the cot where dwells my Mary. 

" Whe/i Phoebus mounts outower the muir, 

His gowden locks a' streaming gaily, 
When morn has breathed its fragrance pure. 

An' life, an' joy, ring through the valley, 
I drive ray flocks to yonder brook, 

The feeble in my arms I carry, 
Then every lammie's harmless look 

Brings to my mind my bonny Mary. 

" Oft has the lark sung o'er my head, 

And shook the dew-draps frae her wing, 
Oft hae my flocks forgot to feed, 

And round their shepherd form'd a ring. 
Their looks condole the lee-lang day, 

While mine are fix'd an' canna vary, 
Aye turning down the westlan brae, 

Where dwells my loved, my bonny Mary. 

" When gloaming o'er the welkin steals, 

And haps the hills in solemn grey, 
And bitterns, in their airy wheels, 

Amuse the wanderer on his way ; 
Regardless of the wind or rain, 

With cautious step and prospect wary. 
I often trace the lonely glen, 

To steal a sight o' bonny Mary. 

'-' When midnight draws her curtain deep. 
And Jays the breeze amang the bushes. 

9* Noctes Ambrosiana;. No. XXVII. 

And Yarrow, in her sounding sweep, 

By rocks and ruins raves and rushes ; 
Then, sunk in short and restless sleep, 

My fancy wings her flight so airy, 
To where sweet guardian spirits keep 

Their watch around the couch of Mary 

" The exile may forget his home, 

Where blooming youth to manhood grew, 
The bee forget the honey-comb, 

Nor with the spring his toil renew ; 
The sun may lose his light and heat, 

The planets in their rounds miscarry. 
But my fond heart shall cease to beat 

When I forget my bonny Mary." 

Equal to anything of Burns'. 


Not a better in all George Thomson's collection. Thank ye, James God 
bless you, James give me your hand you're a most admirable fellow and 
there's no end to your genius. 


A man may be sair mistaen about mony things such as y epics, and trage- 
dies, and tales, and even lang-set elegies about the death o' great public cha- 
racters, and hymns, and odds, and the like but he canna be mistaen about a 
sang. As soon's it's doon on the sclate, I ken whether it's gude, bad, or meddliu' 
if ony o' the twa last, I dight it out wi' my elbow if the first, I copy't 
ower into write, and then get it aff by heart, when it's as sure o' no being lost 
as if it were engraven on a brass-plate ; for though I hae a treacherous memory 
about things in ordinar, a' my happy sangs will cleave to my heart till my dy- 
ing day, and I shouldna' wonder gin I was to croon a verse or twa frae some 
o' them on my death-bed. 


Once more we thank you, my dear James. There* the chill is quite gone 
and I think I have been almost as happy in this bowl as you have been in your 
inimitable lyric. 


What think you, Kit, of the Rev. Csesar Malan? 


What think you, Timothy, of his audience ? 


A French sermon in a chapel in Rose-street o' Embro' for purchasing the 
freedom o' a black wench in the West Indies ! He maun hae been a man o' 
genius that first started the idea, for it's a'thegither out o' the ordinary course 
o' nature. Was you there, Mr Tickler ? 


I was but you will pardon me, James, when I tell you how it happened. 
I was going to order a cheese at Mrs M f Alpine's shop, when I found myself un- 
expectedly walking in a hurried procession. Being in a somewhat passive 
mood, for the cheese had been a mere passing thought, I sailed along with the 
stream, and ere long found myself sitting in a pew between two very good- 
looking middle-aged women, in Dunstable bonnets, streaming with ribbons, 
and tastily enveloped in half- withdrawn green veils, that on either side de- 
scended to my shoulder. 


Mr North, did you ever ken ony chiel fa* on his feet at a' times like Mr 
Tickler ? He never gangs out to walk in the Meadows, or down to Leith, or 
roun the Calton, or up Arthur's Seat, or out-bye yonder to Duddistone, but he 
is sure to foregather, as if by appointment, wi' some bonny leddy, wha cleeks 
his arm wi' little pressing and then walks off wi' him , looking up and laugh= 

1826-3 Nodes Ambrosiancc. No. XX VI L 9&- 

ing sae sweetly in his face, and takin' half-a-dizzen wee bit triflin* fairy steps 
to ane o' his lang strides, till they disappear ayont the horrizon. 


But let us hear about Csesar Malan and the negro wench. 


It's the same way wi' him in the kintra at kirk or market. The women 

folk a' crowd round him like fascinated creatures 

Whom are you speaking of, James ? the Rev. Caesar Malan ? 


Na, na the Rev. Timothy Tickler, wha'll preach a better sermon than ony 
Genevese Frenchman that ever snivelled. 


Caesar, to my astonishment, began to speak French, and then I remembered 
the advertisement. I whispered to the Dunstable Dianas, that they must be 
my interpreters but they confessed themselves ignorant of the Gallic tongue, 


No ane in ten, ay twenty forty were able to make him out, tak my word 
for't. It's a very different thing parleyvouing about the weather, and follow- 
ing out a discourse frae the poopit in a strange tongue. But I'm thinking Mr 
Malan '11 be a gude-looking fallow, wi' a heigh nose and gleg een, and a saft 
insinuatin* manner 


A gentlemanly-looking man enough, James, and even something of an ora- 
tor, though rather wishy-washy. 


And then, och, och ! the shamefu' absurdity o' the subjec ! Thousans and 
thousans o' our ain white brithers and sisters literally starving in every ma- 
nufacturin' toon in Scotland, and a Frenchman o' the nameo' Caesar colleckin 
platefu's o' siller, I'se warrant, to be sent aff to the Wast Indies, to buy an 
abstract idea for an ugly black wench, wha suckles her weans out ower her 
shouther ! 


Why, James, that is the custom of the country. 


And an ugly custom it is, and maist disgustfu' ; at least when you com- 
pare't wi' the bosoms o' our ain nursing matrons. 

An odd reason, James, for charity 


Nae odd reason at a', Mr North. I mainteen, that at the present creesis, 
when thousands o' bonny white callans are tining the roses out o' their cheeks 
for verra hunger and thousands o' growin lassies sittin' disconsolate wi' cames 
sae trig in their silken hair, although they hae been obliged to sell their claes 
to buy bread for their parents and thousands o' married women, that greet 
when they look on their unemployed and starving husbands I mainteen, Mr 
North, that under such affecting, distressing circumstances o' our ain hame- 
condition, the he, or the she, or the it, that troubles their head about Wast 
India Niggers, and gangs to glower like a gawpus at a Gallic gull-grupper gol- 
laring out geggery about some grewsome black doudy stinking amang her 



I plead guilty, James. 


Were there nae white slaves, sir, about the door-cheek, haudin' out their 
hauns for an awmous ? Nae sickly auld widows, wi' baskets aneath their arms, 
pretendin' to be selling tape, and thread, and chap ballads or religious tracts, 
but, in truth, appealin' wi' silent looks to the charity o' the ingoers and out- 
comers, a' gossipin' about the Reverend Mr Caesar Malan ? 


What ! are there slaves in Scotland, James ? 


Amhrosiante. A'o. A'A'/7/. 


Ay ae half o' mankind, sir, are slaves a* ower the face o' the earth. I'm 
no gaun to blether about the Wast Indian question to a man like you, Mr 
North, wha kens a' the ins and the outs o't, better than ony abolitionist that 
ever sacrificed the sincerity o' his soul at the shrine o' East Indian sugar. 


Hear hear hear. Encore " The shrine o' East Indian sugar !" 


Speaking of the West India question, there is a great deal too much im- 
pertinence in Mr Coleridge's " Six Months' Visit." An old man like myself 
may with some difficulty be excused for occasionally drivelling about his rheu- 
matism, all the world knowing his martyrdom ; but who can endure this con- 
ceited mannikin, apparently because he is the nephew of a bishop, prating, in 
print, of his bodily infirmities, in a style that might sicken a horse or an 
apothecary ? 


Scotch and English puppies make a striking contrast. The Scotch puppy 
sports philosophical, and sets to rights Locke, Smith, Stewart, and Reid. In 
his minority he is as solemn as a major of two score sits at table, even du- 
ring dinner, with an argumentative face, and in a logical position and gives 
out his sentences deliberately, as if he were making a payment in sovereigns. 


Oh, man, how I do hate sic formal young chiels reason, reason, reasoning 
on things that you maun see whether you will or no, even gin you were to 
shut your een wi' a' your force, and then cover them wi' a bandage chiels 
that are employed frae morning to nicht colleckin' facks *>ut o' books, in that 
dark, dirty dungeon the Advocates' Leebrary, and that '11 no hesitate, wi' a 
breach o' a' gude manners, to correct your verra chronology when you're in the 
middle o' a story that may hae happened equally weel ony day frae the flood 
to the last judgment chiels that quote Mr Jeffrey and Hairy Cobrun, and 
even on their first introduction to Englishers, keep up a clatter about the 
Ooter-house chiels that think it a great maitte,r to spoot afF by heart an 
oraution on the corn laws, in that puir puckit Gogotha, the Speculative So- 
ciety, and treat you, ower the nits and prunes, wi' skreeds o' College Essays on 
Syllogism, and what's ca'd the Association o' Ideas chiels that would rather 
be a Judge o' the Court o' Session than the Great Khan o' Tartary himsel 
and look prouder, when taking their forenoon's airing, alang Prince's Street, on 
a bit shachlan ewe-necked powney, coft frae a sportin' flesher, than Saladin, at 

the head of ten thousand chosen chivalry, shaking the desert chiels 


Stop, James -just look at Tickler catching flies. 


Sound asleep, as I'm a Contributor. Oh ! man I wush we had a saut her- 
ring to put intil the mooth o' him, or a burned cork to gie him mistashies, or 

a string o' ingans to fasten to the nape o' his neck by way o' a pigtail, or 


Shamming Abraham. 


Na he's in a sort o' dwam and nae wonner, for the Lodge is just a verra 
Castle o' Indolence. Thae broad vine-leaves hingin' in the veranda in the 
breathless heat, or stirrin' when the breeze sughs by, like water-lilies tremblin' 
in the swell o' the blue loch-water, inspire a dreamin' somnolency that the 
maist waukrife canna athegither resist ; and the bonny twilight, chequering 
the stane floor a' round and round the shady Lodge, keeps the thochts confined 
wilhin its glimmerin' boundaries, till every cause o' disturbance is afar off", and 
the life o' man gets tranquil as a wean's rest in its cradle, or amang the gowans 
on a sunny knowe ; sae let us speak lown and no wauken him, for he's buried 
in the umbrage o' imagination, and weel ken I what a heavenly thing it is to 
soom down the silent stream o' that haunted world. 


What sav YOU to that smile on his far<\, James r 

1826.3 Noctet Ambrosiance. Ao. XXV 11. 9?' 


It's a gey wicked ane I'm thinkin' he's after some mischief. I'll put this 
raisin-stalk up his nose. Mercy on us, what a sneeze ! 

TICKLER (starting and looking round)* 

Ha ! Hogg, my dear fellow, how are you ? Soft soft I have it why that 

hotch-potch, and that afternoon sun But but what of Master Coleridge, 

is he a Prig ? 


Besides the counterfeited impertinence of my rheumatism, he treats the 
ladies and gentlemen who peruse his " Six Months' Visit" with eternal assu- 
rances that he is a young man that his stomach is often out of order and 
that he always travels with a medicine-chest and that he is a very sweaty 
young gentleman. 


That's really a disgustfu' specie o' yegotism. But is't true ? 


May I request you, James, to get me the volume. That's it beside Juno- 
There at the foot of yonder nodding bitch, 
That wreathes her old fantastic tail so low. 


Nine and saxpence for a bit volumm like that, and a* about the state o the 
author's stomach and bowels ! But let's hear some extracks. 


" I was steamed by one, showered by another, just escaped needling by a 
third, and was nearly boiled to the consistency of a pudding for the love of an 
oblong gentleman of Ireland," &c. 


That's geyan stupid, but excusable aneuch wut in a verra young lad anither 


" I went simply and sheerly on my own account, or rather on account of the 
aforesaid rheumatism ; for as every other sort of chemical action had failed, I 
was willing to try if fusion would succeed." " If Yorick had written after me, 
he would have mentioned the Rheumatic Traveller." " This book is rheuma- 
tism from beginning to end." " I rarely argue a matter unless my shoulders 
or knees ache." " I trust they will think it is my rheumatism that chides." 


I'm afraid that's geyan puppyish ; but still, as I said before, I can excuse a 
laddie anxious to be enterteenin'. Anither extrack. 


" I sat bolt upright, and for some time contemplated, by the glimmering'of 
the lantern, the huge disarray of my pretty den. I fished for my clothes, but 
they were bathing ; I essayed to rise, but I could find no resting-place for the 
sole of a rheumatic foot." 


Curse the whelp ! fling the book over the laburnums. 


There it goes. Go where he will do what he will Master Coleridge is 
perpetually perspiring during his whole Six Months' Visit to the West Indies, 
He must have been very unpleasant company- especially as he was a valetu- 
dinarian. Had he been in fine fresh health, it might have passed ; but what a 
nuisance a cabin passenger with the sallow and the sweating sickness ! 


Is he dead noo ? 


Not at all. 


That's maist inexcusable. 


He tells the world upwards of fifty times that he was at Eton and , 

98 NoctM Ambrosiam*. No, XXV1L 


What the devil is the meaning of all this botheration about the Diary of an 
Invalid ? Let the puppy keep in his own 4cennel. 


I believe my temper was a little ruffled just now by the recollection of an 
article in the Quarterly Review, of which this poor prig's performance was the 
text-book. All the quotations were most loathsome. Fowel Buxton is no 
great witch, but he has more sense and knowledge too in his little finger than 
this most perspiring young genius has in all his cranium. The Six Months' 
Visit should have been a book of Colburn's. 


Colburn has published many valuable, interesting, and successful books, 
within these few years, and I wish him that success in his trade which his 
enterprising spirit deserves. 


So do I, and here's " The Trade," if you please, in a bumper. 


The Tread The Tread The Tread Hurraw-- hurraw hurraw ! 


But if he persists in that shameful and shameless puffery, which he has too 
long practised, the public will turn away with nausea from every volume that 
issues from his shop, and men of genius, scorning to submit their works to the 
pollution of his unprincipled paragraph-mongers, will shun a publisher, who, 
contrary to his natural sense and honour, has been betrayed into a system, 
that, were it to become general, would sink the literary character into deep 
degradation, till the name " Author" would become* a byword of reproach 
and insult ; and the mere suspicion of having written a book, be sufficient 
ground for expulsion from the society of gentlemen. 


Colburn, James, must have sent puflffe of Vivian Grey to all the newspapers, 
fastening the authorship on various gentlemen, either by name or inuendo ; thus 
attaching an interest to the book, at the sacrifice of the feelings of those gentle- 
men, and, I may add, the feelings of his own conscience. The foolish part of 
the public thus set agoing after Vivian Grey, for example, puff after puff con- 
tinues to excite fading curiosity, and Colburn, knowing all the while that the 
writer is an obscure person, for whom nobody cares a straw, chuckles over the 
temporary sale, and sees the names of distinguished writers opprobriously 
bandied about by the blackguards of the press, indifferent to everything but 
the te Monish" which he is thus enabled to scrape together from defrauded 
purchasers, who, on the faith of puff and paragraph, believed the paltry catch- 
penny to be from the pen of a man of genius and achievement. 


As far as I know, he is the only publisher guilty of this crime* aud 

" If old judgments hold their sacred course," 

there will come a day of punishment. 


Among the many useful discoveries of this age, none more so, my dear 
Hogg, than that poets are a set of very absurd inhabitants of this earth. The 
simple fact of their presuming to have a language of their own, should have 
dished them centuries ago. A pretty kind of language to be sure it was ; 
and, conscious themselves of its absurdity, they palmed it upon the Muses, 
and justified their own use of it on the plea of inspiration ! 


Till, in course of time, an honest man of the name of Wordsworth was 
born, who had too much integrity to submit to the law of their linge, and, to 
the anger and astonishment of the order, began to speak in good, sound, so- 
ber, intelligible prose. Then was a revolution. All who adhered to the an- 
cient regime became in a few years utterly incomprehensible, and were coughed 
down by the public. On the other hand, all those who adopted the new theory 
observed that they were merely accommodating themselves to the language 
of their brethren of mankind. 

1826.;] Ncctet Ambrosiknce, No. XXVI 2 . 31 


Then the pig came snorting out of the poke, and it appeared that no sueh 
thing as poetry, essentially distinct from prose, could exist. True, that there 
are still some old women and children who rhyme ; but the breed will soon be 
extinct, and a poet in Scotland be as scarce as a capercailzie. 


Since the extinction, therefore, of English poetry, there has been a wide 
extension of the legitimate province of prose. People who have got any ge- 
nius find that they may traverse it as they will, on foot, on horseback, or in 


A Pegasus with wings always seemed to me a silly and inefficient quadru- 
ped. A horse was never made to fly on feathers, but to gallop on hoofs. You 
destroy the idea of his peculiar powers the moment you clap pinions to his 
shoulder, and make him paw the clouds. 

Certainly. How poor the image of 

" Heaven's warrior-horse, beneath his fiery form, 
Paws the light clouds and gallops on the storm," 

to one of Wellington's aid-de-camps, on an English hunter, charging his 
way through the French Cuirassiers, to order up the Scotch Greys against 
the Old Guard moving on to redeem the disastrous day of Waterloo ! 


Poetry, therefore, being by universal consent exploded, all men, women, 
and children, are at liberty to use ^hat style they choose, provided it be in the 
form of prose. Cram it full of imagery, as an egg is full of meat, If calkr, 
down it will go, and the reader be grateful for his breakfast. Pour it out 
simple, like whey, or milk and water, and a swallow will be found enamoured 
of the liquid murmur. Let it gurgle forth, rich and racy, like a haggis, and 
there are stomachs that will not scunner. Fat paragraphs will be bolted like 
bacon ; and, as he puts a period to the existence of a lofty climax, the reader 
will exclaim, " O, the roast beef of Old England, and, oh ! the English roast 


Well said, Tickler. That prose composition should always be a plain, un- 
condimented dish, is a dogma no longer endurable. Henceforth I shall show, 
not only favour, but praise to all prose books that contain any meaning, how- 
ever small ; whereas I shall use all vampers, like the great American shrike, 
commemorated in last Number, who sticks small singing-birds on sharp-pointed 
thorns, and leaves them sticking there in the sunshine, a rueful, if not a saving 
spectacle to the choristers of the grove. 


Haver awa', gentlemen haver awa, you'se hae a' your ain way o't, for ony- 
thing I care but gin either the tane or the tither o' you could write verses 
at a' passable, you would baud a different theory. What think you o' a prose 
sang ? What would Burns's " Mary in Heaven" be out o' verse? or Moore's 


' The Queen's Wake. 


It's no worth while repeatin' a' the nonsense, Mr North, that you and Tick- 
kr '11 speak in the course o' an afternoon, when your twa, lang noses foregather 
ower a bowl o' punch. But I've a poem in my pouch that'll pull down your 
theories wi' a single stanza; I got itfrae A this forenoon, wha kent I wasgaun 
to the Lodge to^my denner, and I'll read it aloud whether you wullor no but 
deevel tak it, I've lost my specs ! I maun hae drawn them out, on the way 
doun, wi' rny hankereher." I maun hae them adverteesed. 


There, James, mine will suit you. 


Yours ! What, glowerin green anes ! Aneuch to gi a body the jaundice ! 

100 Nodes Ambrosiaiicc. No. XXVI I. July 


Feel your nose, James. 


Weel, that's waur than the butcher swearing through his teeth for his knife, 
wi' hit in his mouth a* the while. Hae I been sittin wi* specs a' the after- 
noon ? 


You have, James, and very gash have you looked. 


Oo ! Oo ! I recollec noo. I put them on when that bonnie dark-haired, 
pale-faced, jimp-waisted lassie came in wi' a fresh velvet cushin for Mr North's 
foot. And the sicht o' her being gude for sair een, I clean forgot to tak aft 
the specs. But wheish here's an answer to your theories. 


WEEP not for her ! Oh she was far too fair, 
Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth ! 

The sinless glory, and the golden air 

Of Zion, seem'd to claim her from her birth : 

A Spirit wander'd from its native zone, 

Which, soon discovering, took her for its own : 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! Her span was like the sky, 
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright -, 

Like flowers, that know not what it is to die ; 
Like long-link'd, shadeless months of Polar light ; 

Like Music floating o'er a waveless lake, 

While Echo answers from the flowery brake : 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! She died in early youth, 
Ere Hope had lost its rich romantic hues ; 

When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth, 
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews 

Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze ; 

Her wine of life was run not to the lees : 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! By fleet or slow decay, 
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark 

The playmates of her childhood wane away ; 
Her prospects wither ; or her hopes grow dark ; 

Translated by her God, with spirit shriven, 

She pass'd as 'twere in smiles from earth to Heaven ; 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! It was not hers to feel 
The miseries that corrode amassing years, 

'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel, 
To wander sad down Age's vale of tears, 

As whirl the wither 'd leaves from Friendship's tree, 

And on earth's wintry M old alone to be : 
Weep hot for her ! 

1826.3 Noctcs Ambrosiane. No. XXVI I. 10 1 

Weep not for her ! She is an angel now, 

And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise , 
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, 

Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes : 
Victorious over death, to her appear 
The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year : 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! Her memory is the shrine 
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, 

Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, 
Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, 

Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light, 

Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night : 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! There is no cause for woe ; 

But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk 
Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below, 

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back : 
So, when a few fleet severing years have flown, 
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate and lead thee on ! 
Weep not for her ! 

Beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful indeed ! 

James, now that you have seen us in summer, how do you like the Lodge ? 


There's no sic anither house, Mr North, baith for elegance and comfort, in 
a* Scotland. 


In my old age, James, I think myself not altogether unentitled to the lux- 
uries of learned leisure Do you find that sofa easy and commodious ? 


Easy and commodious ! What ! it has a' the saftness o' a bed, and a' the 
coolness o' a bank ; yielding rest without drowsiness, and without snoring re- 


No sofa like a chair ! See, James, how I am lying and sitting at the same 
time ! carelessly diffused, yet 


You're a maist extraordinary feegur, Mr Tickler, I humbly confess that, wi' 
your head embedded in a cushion, and your een fixed on the roof like an as- 
tronomer ; and your endless legs stretched out to the extremities o' the yearth ; 
and your lang arms hanging down to the verra floor, atower the bend o' the 
chair-settee, and only lift up, wi' a magnificent wavje, to bring the bottom o' the 
glass o* cauld punch to rest upon your chin ; and wi' that tamboured waistcoat 
o' the fashion o' aughty-aught, like a meadow yellow wi' dandylions ; and 


Check your hand, and change your measure, my dear Shepherd. Oh I for a 
portrait of North ! 


I daurna try't, for his ee masters me ; and I fear to tak the same leebertie* 
wi' Mr North that I sometimes venture upon wi' you, Mr Tickler. Yet, oh 
man ! I like him weel in that black neckerchief: it brings out his face grandly 
and the green coat o' the Royal Archers giee him a Robin-Hoodish charao 

102 Nodes Ambrosiana;. No. XXVII. Jul y , 

ter, that makes ane's^ imagination think o' the umbrage o' auld oaks, and the 
glimmering silence o' forests. 


He blushes. 


That he does and I like to see the ingenuous blush o' bashfu' modesty on 
a wrinkled cheek. It proves that the heart's-blood is warm and free, and the 
circulation vigorous. Deil tak me, Mr North, if I dinna think you're some- 
thing like his majesty the King. 


I am proud that you love the Lodge. There ! a bold breeze from the sea ! 
Is not that a pleasant rustle, James, and lo ! every sail on the Frith is dancing 
on the blue bosom of the waters, and brightening like seamews in the sun- 
shine ! 


After a', in het wather, there's naething like a marine villa. What for dinna 
ye big a Yott ? 


My sailing days are over, ; but mine is now the ship of Fancy, who 
can go at ten knots in a dead calm, and carry her sky-scrapers in a storm. 


Nae wonder, after sic a life o' travel by sea and land, you should hae found 
a hame at last, and sic a name ! A* the towers, and spires, and pillars, and 
pinnacles, and bewilderments o' blue house-roofs, seen frae the tae front 
through amang the leafy light o' interceptin' trees and frae the other, where 
we are noo sitting, only here and there a bit sprinklin' o' villas, and then atower 
the grove-heads seeming sae thick and saft, that you think you might lie down 
on them and tak a sleep, the murmuring motion o' the never- weary sea ! Oh, 
Mr North, that you would explain to me the nature o' the tides ! 


When the moon-r- 


Stap, stap, I couldna command my attention wi' yon bonny brig huggin 
the shores o' Inch- Keith sae lovingly at first I thocht she was but. a breakin* 


Wave, cloud, bird, sunbeam, shadow, or ship often know I not one from 
the other, James, when half-sleeping half-waking, in the debateable and bor~ 
<der land between realities and dreams, 

" My weary length at noon-tide would I stretch, 
And muse upon the world that wavers by." 

Yet I never saw you absent in company, North. 

Nor, I presume, spit on the carpet. 


The ane's just as bad as the ither, or rather the first's the waist o' the twa. 
What right hag ony man to leave his ugly carcase in the room, by itsel', with- 
out a soul in't? Surely there could be nae cruelty or uncourtesy in kickin't 
out i' the door. Absent in company indeed ! 


Look at the ninny's face, with his mouth open and his eyes fixed on the 
carpet, his hand on his chin, and his head a little to the one side -in a fit of 


Thinking, perhaps, about ginger-beer or a raddish. 


Or determining which pair o' breeks he shall draw on when he gangs out 
to sooper, ^or his mind far awa in Montgomery's shop, tasting something 
sweet/ -or makin' profoun' calculation about buyin* a second-hand gig,-r-or 
thinkin' himsel' waitin' for a glass o' mineral water at St Bernard's Wftll, ot 
tryin' on a foraging-cap for sleepin' in cotche^ or believin' himsel stannin' 

Xoctes Ambrosiarut. No. XXVI I. 103 

at the window o' a prenUshop, iookin* at Miss Foote's pas *eu/, -or forgettin 
he's no in the kirk, and nae occasion to be sleepy, or deluded into a belief 
that he is spittin ower a brig-r-or 


Stop, James, stop. You are a whale running off with a thousand fathom 


- Thank ye, Mr Tickler. I was^beginning to get ower copious. But 

I wonner what made me think the noo o' the Author o' the Modern Athens, 
What for did na ye tak him through hauns, Mr North ? 


Because I think him a man of some talent ; and, for the sake of talent, I 
can overlook much, seeing that blockheads are on the increase. 


On the increase, say ye ? 


I fear so. Now, he is miserably poor and knowing that many dull dogs 
dine at shilling ordinaries (beef, bread, and beer, with some vegetables) regu- 
larly once a-day, when he, who is really a man of merit, can afford to do so 
only on Tuesdays and Fridays, he naturally gets irritated and misanthropical ; 
and what wonder, if, on the dinnerless afternoons, he writes what he would 
not commit on a full stomach, and much that he would sincerely repent of 
over a tureen of hotch-potch or a haggis ? 


You hear the rumbling of empty bowels, poor fellow, in his happiest pas- 


But wull you tell me that being puir's ony reason for being a blackguard ? 


You mistake me I did not say, James, that the author of Modern Athens 
is absolutely a blackguard. The usage, too, that he met with in his native 
country literally kicked out of it, you know, could not but ruffle and sour his 
temper ; and such is my opinion both of his head and heart, that, but for 
that unlucky application to his posteriors, I verily believe he might have been 
somewhat of an honest man, and a libeller merely of foreign countries. 


Weel it's verra gude in you, Mr North, to make sic an ingenious defence 
for the scoonrel; but I canna forgie him for abushV alike the lassies and the 
leddies o' Scotland. 


There are lassies and leddies in Scotland, my dear James, of whom you 
know nothing houses where, it is obvious from his writings, the author of Mo- 
dern Athens must have had his howf ; and really, when one considers from 
what originals he painted his portraits of Edina's girlery, the wonder is that 
his daubings are not even more disgusting than they are ; but the likenesses 
are strong, although his nymphs must have been unsteady sitters. 


Poor devil ! suppose we send him a few pounds 


I wad dae nae sic thing. You canna serve sic chiels by charity. It doe* 
them nae gude. Neither am I convinced that he would nae tell lees when he's 
no hungry. Yon was na a solid argument about the empty stomach. Sic a 
neerdoweel wad na scruple to utter falsehoods in the face o a round o' beef 
Cram him till he's like to burst, and he'll throw up onything but truth 
loosen his shirt-neck when he's lyin' dead-drunk on a form, and he'll uncon- 
sciously ettle at a lee in maudlin syllablings, till his verra vomit is a libel, and 
falsehood rancifies the fume o' the toasted cheese that sickness brings harlin' 
out o' his throat in a gin-shower aneuch to sicken a fulzie-man. 


Stop, James, stop that's out of all bounds - 


By the by, North, I have a letter from Mullion in my pocket, apologizing, 

104 Nodes Ambrosianoe. No. XXVII. July, 

I believe, for not dining here to-day. There it is, folded up in the Secretary's 
usual business-like style. 

NORTH (reading}. 
Why, it's an article. 


An article let's hear't. Mullion and me never agrees verra weel in com- 
pany ; but when he's absent I hae a great kindness for him, and naebody can 
dispute his abeelities. 


It seems a sort of parody. 


AIR" Battle of the Baltic" 

OF Wastle, Hogg, and North, 
Sing the glory and renown, 
And of Tickler, who came forth 

With his bald and shining crown, 
As their pens along our page brightly shone ; 
The knout and sereing brand, 
In each bold determined hand, 
While ODoherty japann'd 
Led them on. 

Turnipologist and Stot, 

All the breeds of Whiggish kine, 
Trembled when the streamers flew 

Over Blackwood's gallant line: 
The twentieth of October was the time : 
As they scoured proud Learning's path, 
Every blockhead dreamt of death, 
And Hunt held his stinking breath, 
For a time. 

But Maga's rage was flush'd 

In her garb of olive green ; 
And her foes, as on she rush'd, 

Wish'd for greater space between. 
" Pens of pluck!" the Tories cried, when each Gun, 
With wit, intellect, and nous, 
Did pound, pommel knaves, and souse, 
Like blithe kitten with poor mouse 
Making fun. 

They play ! they slay ! they flay ! 
While untooth'd for all attack, 
The old woman o'er the way 

To our cheer a scraugh gave back ; 
As sibyl-like she mutter'd our dark doom : 
Then fled with draggled tail ; 
While her young men took leg-bail, 
Raising ullaloo and wail 
In their gloom. 

189<kj A'ocfcs Arttbf'o.iiunae. ,\-o. XXVff. 10.5 

Blue ami Yellow was hail'd then, 

By our Editor so brave 
" We are victors, yet are men, 

And old Jeffrey we would save, 
From the wise at your prophecies who sueeze : 
Then bid Bryan Proctor beat 
To dramaticals retreat, 
And bring Hazlitt to our feet 
On his knees." 

Then the London blest our North, 

That he let the dull repose ; 
And the plaudits of his worth, 

Spake each Cockney through his nose, 
Glad to bundle off whole-skinned from the fray ; 
But all England laugh'd outright 
At their poor and piteous plight, 
And subscribers taking flight, 
Waned away. 

Now joy, bold comrades, raise ! 

For these tidings of our might. 
By this lamp, whose patent blaze 

Holds photometers in spite ; 
But yet, amid fun, fuddle, and uproar, 
Let us think of Tims, who keep- 
Hand on hinderland, and weeps 
That no golden grain he reaps 

From Victoire I- 
Lean pates ! to Whiggish pride 

Aye so faithful and so true, 
Who in pan of scorn were fried, 

With grey Jerry the old shrew : 
The Westminster's fond wings o'er you wave f 
While loud is Hazlitt's growl, 
And Hunt and Hone condole, 
Singing sonnets to the soul 
Of each knave ! 


ft spuns as gin it was gude but I'm sick o' a' that clan, and eanila be 
amused wi' even true wut wasted upon them ; besides, the dougs hao had 
their day hae died o' the mange, and been buried in the dunghill. 


There, my dear bard, conquer your disgust by a peep into this volume. 


Dog on't, Mr Tickler, gin I had na jooked there, you had felled me but 
oo ay ! a volumm o' Mrs Radcliffe's Posthumous Warks. Poems, too ! I'm 
sure they'll be bonny, for she was a true genius. 


Kit, smoke his eyes, how they glare ! 


The description Is just perfectly beautiftf'. Here's the way o' readin' out 


Ambrosian<L\ Yr>. XXVII. 

" On the bright margin of Italia' s shore, " 
Beneath the glance of summer-noon we stray, 
And, indolently happy, ask no more 
Than cooling airs that o'er the ocean play. 

" And watch the bark, that, on the busy strand, 
Washed by the sparkling tide, awaits the gale, 
Till, high among the shrouds, the sailor band 
Gallantly shout, and raise the swelling sail. 


" On the broad deck a various group recline, 
Touch 'd with the moonlight, yet half. hid in shade ; 
Who, silent, watch the bark the coast resign, 
The Pharos lessen, and the mountains fade, 

" We, indolently happy, watch alone 
The wandering airs that o'er the ocean stray, 
To bring some sad Venetian sonnet's tone, . 
From that lone vessel floating far away!" 


I wish you would review these four volumes, James, for next Number, 


Tuts What's the use o' revewin' ? Naething like a skreed o' extracts into a 
magazeen taken in the kintra. When I fa' on, tooth and nail, on an article about 
some new wark, oh, Mr North, but I'm wud when I see the creatur that's 
undertaken to review' t, settin' himsel wi' clenched teeth to {compose a philoso- 
phic creeticism, about the genius o' an owther that every man kens as weel as 
his ain face in the glass and then comparing him with this, and contrastin' 
him wi' that and informin' you which o' his warks are best, and which 
warst, and which middlin' balancin' a genius against himsel, and setting his 
verra merits against his character and achievements instead o' telling you at 
aince what the plot is about, and how it begins, and gangs on, and is wunded 
up ; in short, pithy hints o' the characters that feegur throughout the story, 
and a maisterly abridgement o' facts and incidents, wi' noo and then an eluci- 
datory observation, and a glowing panegyric ; but, aboon a' things else, lang, 
lang, lang extracts, judiciously seleckit, and lettin' you ken at aince if the 
owther has equalled or excelled himsel', or if he has struck out a new path, or 
followed the auld ane into some unsu specked scenery o' bonny underwood, or 

lofty standards or whether but I'm out o' breath, and maun hae a drink 

Thank you, Mr North that's the best bowl you've made yet. 


I never had any professed feeling of the super or preter-natural in a print- 
ed book. Very early in life, I discovered that a ghost, who had kept me in 
a cold sweat during a whole winter's midnight, was a tailor who haunted the 
house, partly through love, and partly through hunger, being enamoured of 
my nurse, and of the fat of ham which she gave him with mustard, between 
two thick shaves of a quartern loaf, and afterwards a bottle of small-beer to 
wash it down, before she yielded him the parting-kiss. After that I slept sound- 
ly, and had a contempt for ghosts, which I retain to this day. 


Weel, it's verra different wi' me. I should be feared yet even for the ninth 
part o' a ghost, and I fancy a tailor has nae mair ; but I'm no muckle af- 
fecket by reading about them an oral tradition out o' the mouth o' an auld 
grey-headed man or woman is far best, for then you canna dout the truth o r 
the tale, unless ye dout a' history thegither, and then, to be sure, you'll end 
in universal skepticism. 


Don't you admire the romances of the Enchantress of Udolpho? 

Xtctes Antbrouwno!. Nu. XXV 11, 10? 


I liac nae doubt, sir, that had I read Udolpho and her ither romances in 
my boyish days, that my hair would hae stood on end like that o' ither folk, 
for, by nature and education baith, ye ken, I'm just excessive superstitious. 
But afore her volumes fell into my hauns, my soul had been frichtened by a' 
kinds of traditionary terrors, and mony hunder times hae I maist swarfed wi' 
fear in lonesome spats in muirs and woods, at midnicht, when no a leevin 
thing was movin but mysel and the great moon. Indeed, I canna say that I 
ever fan' mysel alane in the hush o' darkened nature, without a beatin at my 
heart ; for a sort o' spiritual presence aye hovered about me a presence o' 
something like and unlike my ain being at times felt to be solemn and nae 
mair at times sae awfu' that I wushed myself nearer ingie-licht and ance 
or twice in my lifetime, sae terrible that I could hae prayed to sink down into 
the moss, sae that I micht be saved fraethe quaking o' that ghostly wilderness 
o' a world that was na for flesh and bluid ! 


Look James look what a sky ! 


There'll be thunder the morn. These are the palaces o* the thunder, and 
before day-break every window will pour forth lichtnin'. Mrs Radcliffe has 
weel described mony sic, but I have seen some that can be remembered, but 
never, never painted by mortal pen ; for after a', what is on y description by us 
puir creturs o' the works o' the Great God ? 


Perhaps it is a pity that Mrs Radcliffe never introduced into her stories any 
real ghosts. 


I canna just a'thegether think sae. Gin you introduce a real ghost at a', it 
maun appear but seldom seldom, and never but on some great or dread ac- 
count as the ghost o' Hamlet's father. Then, what difficulty in makin' it 
speak with a tomb- voice ! At the close o' the tale, the mind would be shocked 
unless the dead had burst its cearments for some end which the dead alane 
could have accomplished unless the catastrophe were worthy an Apparition. 
How few events, and how few actors would, as the story shut itself up, be 
felt to have been of such surpassing moment as to have deserved the very 
laws o' nature to have been in a manner changed for their sakes, and shadows 
brought frae amang the darkness o' burial-places, that seem to our imagina- 
tions locked up frae a' communion wi' the breathin' world ! 


In highest tragedy, a Spirit may be among the dramatis personal for the 
events come all on processionally, and under a feeling of fate. 


There, too, you see the ghost, and indifferently personated though it may be, 
the general hush proves that religion is the deepest principle o' our nature, 
and that even the vain shows o' a theatre can be sublimed by an awe-struck 
sadness, when, revisiting the glimpses o' the moon, and makin' night hideous, 
comes glidin' in and awa' in cauld unringin' armour, or unsubstantial vapour, 
a being whose eyes aince saw the chcerfu' sun-light, and whose footsteps aince 
brought out echoes frae the flowery earth. 


In this posthumous tale of Mrs lladcliffe I forget the name a real ghost / 
is the chief agent, and is two or three times brought forward with good effect ; 
but I confess, James, that, agreeably to your excellent observations, I became 
somewhat too much hand-in-glove with his ghostship, and that all supernatu- 
ral influence departed from him through too frequent intercourse with the air 
of the upper world. 


Come, James, be done with your palavering about ghosts, you brownie, 
and - gie us anither san.v 


loft X'octes Ambrotiatuc- No. XXVJ.1. 


\Vi' a* my heart. VVhat'll you hae? But beggars *hou\l a be chusers, 
sae here it gaes. 

O WEEL bela' the maiden gay, 

In cottage, bught, or peni* ; 
And weel beta' the bonny May 

That wons in yonder glen, 
Wha lo'es the modest truth sae weel 
Wha's aye say kind, an' aye sac leal, 
An' pure as blooming asphodel, 

Ainaiig sae mony men. 
O weel beta' the bonny thing, 

That wons in yonder glen. 

'Tis sweet to hear the music float 

Alaug the gloaming lea ; 
'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note 

( 'ome pealing t'rae the tree ; 
To see the lambkin's lightsome race 
The dappled kid in wanton chase 
The young deer cower in lonely place. 

Deep in his flowery den ; 
But sweeter far the bonny face 

That smiles in yonder glen. 

O, had it no been for the blush 

Of maiden's virgin-flame. 
Dear Beauty never had been known, 

And never had a name. 
But aye sin' that dear thing of blame 
Was modellM by an angel's frame, 
The power of Beauty reigns supreme 

O'er a' the sons of men ; 
But deadliest far the sacred flame 

Burns in a lonely glen. 

There's beauty in the violet's vest- 
There's hinny in the haw 
There's dew within the rose's breast, 

The sweetest o' them a'. 
The sun will rise an* set again, 
And lace with burning gowd the main- 
And rainbow bend outower the plain, 

Sae lovely to the ken ; 
But lovelier far my bonny thing. 
That smiles in yonder glen. 


Better and better. \ see, James, that Allan Cunningham has included some 
of your lyrics in his late Collection of the Songs of Scotland. 


Oh, man ! I wush you would lend me the wark. Is't a gude collekshon, 
d'ye opine ? 


A very good collection, indeed, James. Allan is occasionally very happy in 
his ardent eulogy of his country's lyrical genius, and one loves to hear a man 
speaking about a species of poetry in which he has himself excelled. 


I'm thinkin' you wad scarcely trust me wi' the rcviewin' o ? Allan Kirmi- 

J 826. 3| Xoctcs Ambrosiance. \v. XXV I L 109 

gam's wark for you'll be for doin't yoursel though I wud do't a hantle bet- 
ter, wi' mair nature and knowledge, too, if wi' fewer fine-spun theories. But 
you're gettin desperate concated, and mair especially o' what you execute 

Come, James, be less severe, and I will sing you one of Allan's songs. 


Huts, ye never sung a sang i* your life at least never that I heard tell 
o' ; but to be sure you're a maist extraordinary cretur, and can do ony thing 
you hae a mind to try. 


My voice is rather cracked and tremulous but I have sung Scotch airs^ 
James, of old, with Urbani. 

My A in Countree. 

T HI: sun rises bright in France 

And fair sets he ; 
But he has tint the blythe blink he had 

In my ain countree. 
O ! gladness comes to many, 

But sorrow comes to me, 
As I look o'er the wide ocean 

To my ain couatree ! 

O ! it's not my ain ruin 

That saddens aye my ec, 
But the love I left in Galloway, 

\VT bonnie bairns three ; 
My hamely hearth burn'd bonnie, 

And smiled my fair Marie 
I've left a' my heart behind me 

In my ain countree. 

The bud comes back to summer, 

An' the blossom to the bee, 
But I win back oh, never ! 

To my ain countree ! 
I'm leal to the high heaven, 

Which will be leal to me ; 
An there I'll meet ye a' soon 

Frae my ain countree ! 


\Veel, I never heard the like o' that in a' my days. Deevil tak me gin there 
be sic a perfectly beautiful singer in a' Scotland. I prefer you to baith Peter 
Hill and David Wylie, and twa bonnier singers you'll no easier hear in " house 
or ha', by coal or candle licht." But do you ken, I'm desperate sleepy. 


Let's off to roost. 


Stop till I ring for candles. 


Cawnles ! and sic a moon ! It wad be perfect blasphemy doonright athe- 
ism. But hech, sirs, it's het, an' I'se sleep without the sark the night. 

Without a sark, James ! " a mother-naked man !" 


I'm a bachelor ye ken, the noo, sae can tak my ain way o't Gudc nicht,, 

r-ir glide nicht We've really been verra pleasant, and our meetin' has been 
tnaist as agreeable as ane o' the 



Works preparing fur Publication, 



Dr Barry, of Paris, is preparing for the 
press, Experimental Researches on the 
influence of Atmospheric Pressure upon 
the Venous Circulation, Absorption, and 
the Prevention and Cure of Hydropho- 
bia, and the Symptoms arising from every 
Species of Poisoned Wounds. 

A Manuscript has, it is stated, been 
recently found in the Castle of Pe*guet, 
Canton de Vaud, which contains a parti- 
cular Account of the Wars between the 
Swiss and Savoyards, and the Campaigns 
of Henry IV. of Savoy. 

Mr Lass, author of the " Journey to 
Rome and Naples," is preparing for the 
press a History of the Arts of Painting 
md Sculpture in England, as far as is 
connected with his own time ; detailing 
their progress for the last twenty-five 
years ; with Remarks on the Works of 
the Artists during that Period, giving an 
Account of the different Institutions, and 
drawing a Comparison between the Bri- 
tish School of Painting and the modern 
Schools of France and Italy, &c. Sic. 

A Work, entitled Wisdom and Happi- 
ness, containing Selections from the Bi- 
ble, from Bishops Patrick, Taylor, &c. is 
printing, by the Rev. H. Watkins, A.M. 

A new and improved Edition of Mor- 
ris's Life of the Rev. Andrew Fuller ; 
with an Appendix, containing some pieces 
never before printed. 

Mr Bodden's Life of Mrs Siddons is 
very nearly printed. 

The Secret Correspondence of Madame 
de Main tenon and the Princess des Ur- 
sins, from the Original MSS. in the pos- 
session of the Duke de Choiseul, is on 
ihe eve of publication. 

The first Part of the Work some time 
since announced as preparing for publi- 
cation by Mr Dawson Turner, on Bri- 
tish Autographs, will soon appear. This 
Portion will consist of Specimens of the 
Handwriting of the Kings and Queens 
of England, and of the different Branches 
of the Royal Family, from the Reign of 
Hichard II. until the present time. 

Four Years in France ; or, Narrative 
of an English Family's Residence there 
during that Period ; preceded by some 
Account of the Conversion of the Author 
to the Catholic Faith. 

The History, Antiquities, and Topo- 
graphy of the Town and Borough of 
k and Liberties j inducing the 

whole of the Parish of St Saviour, and 
the adjacent Parish of Christ church; 
with Notices of Eminent and Remark- 
able Persons, Local Anecdotes, Genea- 
logical and Heraldic Inquiries, &c. &c. 
Illustrated by numerous Engravings of 
Rare Plans, Views, and existing Build- 
ings, &e. will soon appear. 

A Volume is announced for early Pub- 
lication, to be entitled, " Napoleon in the 
other World." 

A Third Series of Sayings and Doings 
is about to appear. 

Dr Graham of Croydon has in the 
press, A Medical Guide for the Use of 
Clergymen and Families, which em- 
braces the Characters, Symptoms, Causes, 
Distinctions, and Treatment of all Dis- 
eases incident to the Human Frame ; 
with a Domestic Materia Medica. 

Continental Adventures, from the pen 
of a Lady, are announced. 

The Gypsy, a Tale of Romance ; from 
the German of Laune, by the Translator 
of " Popular Stories of Northern Na- 
tions," is in a state of forwardness, and 
will shortly appear. 

Mr Bernard Barton has a new work 
in the press, entitled " The Missionary's 
Memorial; or, Verses on the death oi 
John Lawson, late Missionary at Calcut- 

Preparing for publication by Messrs 
Nichols and Son, 25, Parliament Street, 
uniform with Nealeand Brayley's History 
of Westminster Abbey, " An Historical, 
Topographical, and Statistical Account 
of the City of Westminster, including 
Biographical Anecdotes of eminent arid 
illustrious Individuals connected with the 
City." This work will, we understand, 
contain a complete review of the Man- 
ners and Customs of the Court at White- 
hall during the interesting reigns com- 
prised within the 16th and 17th centu- 

A Natural and Topographical Hrstor> 
of Dorking and its neighbourhood, is pre- 
paring for the press. By Dr Smith. 

The Inte Rev. John Lawson has left 
for publication a volume of poetry, to le 
entitled, ** Flowers gathered in Exile. ' 

A treatise on the Divine Sovereignty ; 
in which is contained, an Exposition of 
the Passages of Scripture which have been 
supposed to beat on Hint :nl>iprt Hv 
Wi!;;orv A=M. 


Works preparing fur Publication* 

A combined View of the Prophecies, 
by Mr Frere, is announced for early pub- 

The Rev. G. F. Roland is printing at 
his private press, Harmon ical Grammars 
of the principal Ancient and Modern 
Languages; viz. The Greek, Hebrew, 
Chaldee, Syriac, and Samaritan, the Ita- 
lian, Spanish, Portuguese, German, and 
Modern Greek. Also, the Expectations 
formed by the Persians that a great De- 
liverer would appear about the time of 
our Lord's Advent, demonstrated. 

Spirits of the Olden Time, their Say- 
ings and Doings, will soon appear. 

Illustrations of Anglo Saxon Poetry. 
By the late Rev. J. J. Conybeare, profes- 


sor of Anglo Saxon and of Poetry in the 
University of Oxford. 

The Rev. Russell Scott is about to 
publish a Discourse on the Scriptural 
Humanity of Christ j and its Corruption 
traced during the times of the Apostles, 
and until the completion of the Nicene 
and Constantinopolitan Creed by Pope 
Nicholas I. about the year 806. 

The Rev. W. Wilson is preparing foi 
the press, Selections from the Works of 
the late Dr John Owen, with a Memoir, 

A Dictionary of Anatomy and Physio- 
logy, by H. W. Dewlmrst, will shortly 


A Treatise on Life Assurances and 
Annuities. By John M 'Kean, C. S. Ac- 

The Edinburgh Annual Register for 

Bishop Jolly's Friendly Address to the 
Episcopalians of Scotland, on Baptismal 
Regeneration, showing that it is the doc- 
trine of Scripture of the earliest and pu- 
rest Christian Antiquity, and of the Re- 
formed Episcopal Church, as expressed 
in its liturgy, will be published this 

The History of Scotland, from the 
Earliest Period to the Middle of the 
Ninth Century ; being an Essay on the 
Ancient History of the Kingdom of the 
Gaelic Scots, the extent of the Country 
its Laws Population Poetry and 
Learning. By the Rev. Alex. Low, A.M. 
Corresponding Member of the Society of 
Scottish Antiquaries, Aberdeen. 

%* The attention of the Author was 
directed to this subject by an Advertise- 
ment of the Highland Society of London, 
making offer of a Premium " to the Au- 
thor of the best Essay on the Ancient 
History of the Kingdom of the Gaelic 
Scots, the extent of the Country, its 
Laws Population Poetry and Learn- 
ing. He was fortunate enough to gain 
the prize and medal of the Society. Since 
that time the work has received many 

Lives of the Persecutors of the Church 

of Scotland, in the Reigns of Charles II, 
and James II., exhibiting a General His- 
torical View of the times and sufferings 
of the Covenanters during that memor- 
able period. By Andrew Crichton, Au- 
thor of the Memoirs of the Rev. John 
Blackader; Life of Colonel Blackader, 
&c. The following are among the Lives 
to be included in this Work: Arch- 
bishop Sharp, Duke of Lauderdale, Sir 
George Mackeinyie, Sir James Turner, 
Graham of Claverhouse, General Dal yell 
of Binns, Grierson of Lag, Bruce of 
Earlshall, Captain John Creichton, &c. 

Elements of Chemical Science, in one 
volume 8vo. By Edward Turner, M.D. 
F.R.S.E. Fellow of the Royal College 
of Physicians, and lecturer on Chemistry, 

The Genius and Design of the Domes- 
tic Constitution, with its Untransferable 
Obligations and Peculiar Advantages. By 
Christopher Anderson. In post 8vo. 

The Picture of Scotland. By Robert 
Chambers, Author of Traditions of Edin- 
burgh, &c. In one closely printed vol. 
I2mo, with Engravings. In this work, 
it is proposed to comprise all the infor- 
mation regarding Scotland which can be 
interesting to a stranger. 

A View of Classical Antiquity. By 
Frederick Schlegel, Author of the His- 
tory of Literature. Translated from the 
original German. In 2 vols. 8vo, 



Memoirs of the Life of the late William 
Butler of Hackney. 2s. 

The Life and Correspondence of Ma- 
jor Cartwright, Edited by his Niece, F. 
D. Cartwright. 2 vols. 8vo, with portrait, 
&c. L.I, 8s. 

Memoirs of the Court of Henry the 
Eighth. By Mrs A. T. Thomson, in 2 
vols. 8vo, with a Portrait. L.1, 8s. boards. 

Memoirs and Recollections of Count 
Segur, Vol. II. comprising his Residence 
at the Court of Catherine II. of Russia, 
8vo, French, 12s. 

Monthly List of A'fw Publicutk 


Memoirs du Prince de Montbarey, 
Ministre Secretaire d'Etat sous Louis 
XVI. ecrits par lui-meme. 2 vols. 
8vo, 21?. 

The Life and Times of Frederick Rey- 
nolds (the Dramatist). Written by him- 
self. 2 vols. 8vo, with Portrait, L.I, 8s. 

Ecclesiastical Biography ; or, Lives of 
Eminent Men connected with the His. 
tory of Religion in England, from the 
Commencement of the Reformation to 
the Revolution ; selected and illustrated 
with Notes. By the Rev. Christopher 
Wordsworth, D.D. 2d Edition, L.3, 12s. 


Horttis Cantabrigiensis; or, an Ac- 
cented Catalogue of Indigenous and Ex- 
otic Plants, cultivated in the Cambridge 
botanic garden. By the late James Donn, 
Curator, fellow of the Linnaean and Hor- 
ticultural Societies. Eleventh Edition, 
with numerous additions and corrections, 
l>y John Lindley, F.L.S., &c. 10s. 6d. 


Hume's^ Philologist, or an Inquiry in- 
to the Causes of Difference between the 
Greek and Latin Syntax. By Francis 
Adams, A. M. 3s. 6d. 

A Harmonized Grammar of the Latin 
Language. By the Rev. C. F. Nolan. 
8vo, 4s. 

A Grammar of the Portuguese Lan- 
guage. By J. Laycock. 12mo, 3s. 6d. 

A Touchstone to try the French Scho- 
lar. By J. Laycock. 12mo, 3s. 6d. 


No. I. Views in Russia, Poland, Ger- 
many, Sweden, prepared in colours from 
drawings made in 1813-14. By the Rev. 
T. T. James No. I. contains, Field of 
Brodino; Kremlin, Moscow; Kitaigorod, 
Moscow ; Dannemora Iron Mine, 15s. 

No. I. of the Ports of England, con- 
taining Whitby and Scarborough. En- 
graved by Lupton from Drawings by W. 
W. Turner, R. A. 


The History of Epsom, compiled from 
the best Authorities ; containing a suc- 
cinct and interesting Description of the 
Origin of Horse Racing, and of Epsom 
Races, with an Account of the Mineral 
Waters, and the two celebrated Palaces 
of Durdans and Nonsuch; to which is 
added, an Appendix, containing a Bota- 
nical Survey of the Neighbourhood, with 
six plates, by an Inhabitant. In 8vo, 
price 3s. 6d. 


Observations on the actual State of 
the English Laws of Real Property, with 
the Outlines of a Code. By James Hum- 
phreys, Esq. of Lincoln's Inn. 


The Second Volume of an Elementarv 

System of Physiology. By John Bostock, 
M.D. G.S. &c. 16s. 

Observations on the Efficacy of White 
Mustard Seed, in Affections of the Li- 
ver, Internal Organs, and Nervous Sys- 
tem, and on the General Management of 
Health and Life. By Charles Turner 

Thoughts on Medical Education, &c. 
addressed to the Council of the Univer- 
sity of London. 8vo, 2s. 

A New Supplement to the Pharmaco- 
poeias of London, Edinburgh, Dublin, 
and Paris. By J. Rennie, A. M. 


Parts I. and II. of a History of Ponte- 
fract in Yorkshire. By George Fox. Is. 

An Enquiry into the Origin of the 
Laws and Political Institutions of Mo- 
dern Europe, and in particular of those 
of England. By George Spence, Esq. 

Parliamentary Abstracts, containing 
the substance of all important Papers laid 
before the two Houses of Parliament du- 
ring the Session of 1825. 8vo, 1, 10s. 

The History, Design, and Present 
State of the Religious, Benevolent, and 
Charitable Institutions founded by the 
British in Calcutta and its Vicinity. By 
Charles Lushington, Esq. 1 vol. 8vo, 13*. 

Recollections of a Pedestrian. By the 
author of " Journal of an Exile," 3 vols. 
8vo, 27s. 

Leigh's New Pocket Road Book of 
England, Wales, and part of Scotland, on 
the plan of Reichard's Itineraries ; new 
edition, carefully revised. 18mo, 8s. bd. 
With fifty-five County Maps, 12*. bd, 

Leigh's New Road Map of England, 
Wales, and Scotland ; 39 inches by 29^, 
Fitted up in a novel and portable form. 
Price 16s. 

Experiments illustrative of Chemical 
Science, systematically arranged. 12mo, 

An Essay on Money Lending, contain- 
ing a Defence of Legal Restrictions on 
the Rate of Interest, and an Answer to 
Mr Bentham. By Francis Neale, Esq. 
A.M. 8vo, <!, 11s. 6d. 

Ireland in Past Times; an Historical 
Retrospect, Ecclesiastical and Civil, with 
Illustrative Notes, 2 vols. L.I, 4s. 

Part I. of P Work, intended for the 
present to consist of Two Parts, in atlas 
4to ; each containing Six Plates, in Aqua- 
tint, coloured, executed by the first Art- 
ists, illustrative of the Scenery, Costumes, 
and Architecture, chiefly on the Western 
Side of India. By Capt. Robert Melville 
Grindlay, of the Bombay Army, Member 
of the Royal Asiatic Society, and of the 
Society of Arts, &c. 

On the increasing Importance of the 
British West Indian Possessions, 


Monthly List of New Publications. 

Rev. Sydney Smith's Letter to the 
Electors upon the Catholic Question, 
8vo, Is. 6d. 

Letter to Robert Wilmot Horton, Esq. 
M.P. Under Secretary of State for the 
Colonial Department; containing Stric- 
tures on a Pamphlet, entitled, " The 
West India Question practically consi- 

Practical Observations upon the Views 
and Tendency of the First Report of the 
" Commissioners of Irish Education In- 

Considerations suggested by the Re- 
port made to his Majesty under a Com- 
mission authorising the Commissioners to 
make certain inquiries respecting the 
Court of Chancery. 3s. 

A General and Heraldic Dictionary of 
the Peerage and Baronetage of the United 
Kingdom, for 1826. By John Burke, 
Esq. Crown 8vo, 18s. 

The true History of the State Prisoner, 
commonly called, " The Iron Mask," ex- 
tracted from the Documents in the French 
Archives. By the Hon. George Agar 

A Calm Statement of the Catholic 
Question. Respectfully addressed to all 
Electors throughout the United King- 

The Papal Supremacy; with Remarks 
on the Bill for restoring the Intercourse 
between the See of Rome and the United 
Kingdom, passed by the Commons, and 
rejected by the Lords, in the year 1825. 
By John Cross, Serjeant-at-Law. 3s. 

A Letter to the Duke of Norfolk on 
the Catholic Question. By R. Wilmot 
Horton, Esq. M. P. for Newcastle-under- 
Line. 8vo. 

The Miscellanist of Literature for 1826, 
consisting of Unique Selections from the 
most important Books of the past year, 
i Autobiography, History, Memoirs, 
Poetry, Voyages, and Travels. 10s. 6d. 


Sandoval, or the Freemason. A Spa- 
nish Tale of Present Times. By the 
Author of Don Esteban. 3 vols. L, 1 , 8s. 

Gaston de Blondevitle, a Romance ; St 
Alban's Abbey, a Metrical Tale; with 
some Poetical Pieces. By Ann Rad- 
cliffe, author of the Romance of the Fo- 
rest, Mysteries of Udolpho, Italian, &c. 
To which is prefixed a Memoir of the 
Author, and Extracts from her Diary. 4> 
vols. post 8vo. 

The Boyne Water, a Tale by the O' Ka- 
ra Family, Authors of Tales, comprising 
Crohoore of the Bill-hook, the Fetches, 
and John Doe. 

The Progress of Fashion, from our First 
Parents, through all Nations, to our pre- 
sent times. 12nio, 7s. 6d, 



Tales round a Winter Hearth. By 
Jane and Anna Maria Porter. In 2 vols, 
12mo, 16s. 

The German Novelists j with Critical 
and Biographical Notices. By Thomas 
Roscoe, Esq. 4 vols. post 8vo, uniform 
with the Italian Novelists. 

New Arabian Nights' Entertainments, 
selected from the original Oriental MS. 
By Jos. Von Hammer, and now first 
translated into English, by the Rev. 
George Lamb. 3 vols. 8vo, 18s. 

Letters from Cockney Lands. Con- 
tents: The Beauty of London Mai- 
thus Club-houses M'Adamising- Ope- 
ra House, before the curtain and behind 
English Beauty and Foreign Balance 
struck Scandal-Mongers, a meeting of 
their order Byron Cockney manners 
Life in London A Soire'e Brighton 
The Advantages of Anti-ton, of being 
a Fool, of being Low, of Luxury, &c. &c. 
The Heroine of the Peninsula, or Clara 
Matilda of Seville. By the Author of the 
Hermit in London. 2 vols. 12mo, 12s. 
De Vavasour, a Tale of the Fourteenth 
Century. 3 vols. post 8vo, L.I, 11s. 6d. 
De Foix, or Sketches of the Manners 
and Customs of the Fourteenth Century. 
By H. E. Bray. 3 vols. post 8vo, L. 1, 7& 
Vivian Grey. Second edition. 2 vols. 
post 8vo, 18s. 

Mr Blount's MSS. or Papers from the 

Book of a Man of the World. By the 

Author of Gilbert Earle. 2 vols. 8vo, 14s. 

The Baths of Bagnole, or the Juvenile 

Miscellany. 18mo, half bound, 3s. 

Moderation, a Tale. By Mrs Hofland. 
12mo, 6s. 

The English Baronet, a Tale. By 
Leonora Des Straella, 3 vols. 12mo, 108. 

Miriam, a Jewish Tale, 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
Richelieu ; or the Broken Heart. 
12ino, 5s. 6d. 

Shakespeare's Romances, 2 vols. 
12mo, 10s. 6d. 

Deeds of the Olden Time ; a Romance. 
By Ann of Swansea. 


The Forest Sanctuary, with Lays of 
Many Lands, and other Poems. By Mrs 
Hemans. 7s. 6d. 

Oberon, a Poem from the German of 
Wieland. By William Sotheby, Esq. 
Third edition. 

De Clifford, a Romance of the Red 
Rose, a Poem. 12s. 

The Judgment of Babylon, the Siege of 
Masada, with other Poems. By James 
Campbell. 6s. 

Anne Boleyn ; a Dramatic Poem. By 
the Rev. H. H. Milman. 8ro, 8s. 6d. 
The Paean of Oxford, a Poem. By W 
C. Townsend, B. A. 8vo, 7s. 6d. 

Monthly List of New Publications, 


Moloch, oc the Approach of the De- 
luge ; a Sacred Drama. 8vo, 5s. 6d. 
Poetic Fragments. 5s. 


Lectures on the Philosophy of the 
Mosaic Record of Creation, delivered in 
the Chapel of Trinity College, Dublin. 
By James Kennedy, B. D. F. T. C. D. 
M. R. I. A. Donellan Lecturer for the 
year 1824. 

Origines Ecclesiastics;, or the Antiqui- 
ties of the Christian Church, and other 
Works of the Rev. Joseph Bingham, 
M.A. With Additions and Biographical 
Account of the Author, by the Rev. 
Richard Bingham, B.C.L, 8 vols. vol. 
V. 12s. 

Remarks on the Horse Sabbaticae of 
Godfrey Riggings, Esq. By Henry Stan- 
dish, gent. 

The Book of Genesis Considered and 
Illustrated, in a series of Historical Dis- 
courses preached in the Holy Trinity 
Church, Cheltenham. By the Rev. Fran- 
cis Close, A.M. 8vo, 12s. 

A New Tract on Confirmation, con- 
taining a Method of Preparation, and 
Forms of Self-Examination and Devo- 
tion. 4d. or 3\ 6d. per dozen. 

Lectures on the Evidences in Favour of 
of Christianity and the Doctrines of the 
Church of England, intended for the use 
of Young Persons, and particularly as pre- 
paratory to their first partaking of the 
Lord's Supper. By the Rev. Henry 
Walter, B.D. F.R.S. Second edition, 

The Obligatory Nature of the Sacra- 
ment, or Strictures on Mr Gurney's Re- 
marks respecting Baptism and the Lord's 
Supper. By the Rev. George Bliss, M.A. 
Perpetual Curate of Funtington, Sussex. 

Sermons, Explanatory and Practical, 
on the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church 
of England, in a series of Discourses de- 
livered at the parish church of St Al- 
phage, Greenwich. By the Rev. T. 
Waite, D-C.L. Chaplain to H. R. H. the 
Duke of Gloucester, and to the Right 
Hon. and Right Rev. the Bishop of Ox- 
ford, and Master of the Grammar School. 

A Treatise on the Evidence of the 
Scripture Miracles. By John Penrose, 
M. A. formerly of Corpus Christ! College, 

Christian Memorials of the Nineteenth 
Century; by the Rev. Alfred Bishop. 
12mo, 6s. 

The whole Works of Bishop Reynolds, 
now first collected in 6 vols. 8vo, ,3. 

The Ecclesiastical History of the Se- 
cond and Third Centuries, illustrated 
from the Writings of Tertullian j by John, 
Bishop of Bristol, Master of Christ's Col- 
lege, and Regius Professor of Divinity in 


the University of Cambridge. In 1 large 
vol. 8vo, price 12s. 6d. in boards. 

Death-bed Scenes, and Pastoral Con- 
versations; by the late John Warton, 
D. D. Edited by his Sons. In 1 vol. 
8vo, price 10s. 6d. in bds. 

The Book of Churches and Sects ; or 
the Opinions of all Denominations of 
Christians differing from the Church ol 
England, traced to their Source by an 
Exposition of the various Translations 
and Interpretations of the Sacred Wri- 
tings. To which is added, a brief Refu- 
tation of Unitarianism, and an Arrange- 
ment of Texts in support of the Tenet* 
of the Church of England ; by the Rev. 
T. Charles Boone, B. A. of St Peter'* 
College, Cambridge. In 1 large vol. 8vo, 
price 14-s. in bds. 

A Letter to his Grace the Archbishop 
of Canterbury, concerning the authorship 
of EiKilN BAZIAIKH. By the Rev. Henry 
John Todd, M. A. F. S. A. &c. Chaplain 
in Ordinary to his Majesty, and Rector 
of Settrington, county of York. In 8vo, 
price 7s. in boards. 


Journal of a Voyage up the Mediter- 
ranean, principally among the islands oJ 
the Archipelago, and in Asia Minor ; in- 
cluding many interesting particulars re- 
lative to the Greek Revolution, the anti- 
quities, opinions, and usages of Greece, 
as they now exist. Collected from per- 
sonal observation, and interspersed with 
literary discussions, sketches of scenery, 
&c. By the Rev. Charles Swan. To 
which is added, an Essay on the Fana- 
riotes, in which the original causes of 
their elevation to the the Hospodariate of 
Wallachia and Moldavia is explained. 
Translated from the French of Mark 
Phillip Zallony, a Greek, late Physician 
of Jessuf Pacha (called the one-eyed), 
Grand Visier, and of his army. L. 1, 10s. 

Sketches in Wales, or a Diary of Three 
Walking Excursions in that Principality, 
in the years 1823-24-25. By the Rev. 
G. J. Freeman, LL.B. 8vo, L.1, Is. 

Lion-Hunting, or a Summer's Ramble 
through parts of Flanders, Germany, and 
Switzerland, in 1825. With some Re- 
marks on Men, Manners, and Things at 
Home and Abroad. 

Sketches of Portuguese Life, Manners, 
Costume, and Character. By A. P. D. 
G. In 8vo, illustrated with Twenty co- 
loured Plates. Price 16s. boards. 

Visit to the Falls of Niagara, in 1800. 
By John Maude, Esq. Royal 8vo, L. 1, 
11s. 6d. 

Travels in Chile and La Plata, in- 
cluding accounts respecting the Geogra- 
phy, Geology, Statistics, Government, 
Finances, Agriculture, Commerce, Maiv- 

1826. j Monthly List of New Publications 

ners, and Customs, and the Mining Ope 

rations in Chile, collected during a resi- 
dence of several years in these countries. 
By John Miers. 2 vols. 8vo, plates and 
maps, &c. &c. 

Narrative of Travels and Discoveries 
in Northern and Central Africa, in the 
years 1822, 1823, and 1824 By Major 

Denham, Captain Ciapperton, and the 
late Dr Oudney. L.4, 14s. 6d. 

A Visit to the Rectory of Passy, with 
Sketches of Character and Scenery. 1 vol. 

Travels in Norway, Sweden, Denmark, 
&c. &c. &c. by W. Rae Wilson. 8vo, 
1, Is. 


Woodstock, or the Cavalier, a Tale of 
the year Sixteen Hundred and Fifty-one. 
By the Author of " Waverley," &c. 3 
vols. post 8vo, L.1, 11s. 6d. 

Solitary Hours. By the Authoress of 
41 Ellen Fitzarthur," and the " Widow's 
Tale," elegantly printed in a pocket vo- ' 
lume. 4s. 6d. 

No. IX. of the Edinburgh Journal of 
Science, exhibiting a View of the Pro- 
gress of Discovery in Natural Philosophy, 
Chemistry, Mineralogy, &c. &c. ; with 
one 4to and two 8vo plates. Edited by 
David Brewster, LL.D. &c. 7s. 6d. 

Cases decided in the House of Lords 
on Appeal from the Courts of Scotland, 
from llth February to 25th April 1826. 
Reported by James Wilson of Lincoln's 
Inn, and Patrick Shaw, Esq. advocate. 

Decisions of the First and Second Di- 
visions of the Court of Session, from No- 
vember 1822 to November 1823. Col- 
lected by J. Wilson, R. Rollo, F. Somer- 
ville, Esqs. and J. Tawse, Esq. advo- 
cate. Folio, L. 1, 5s. 

The Life of John Wickliff ; with an 
Appendix, and List of his Works. Post 
8vo, 5s. 6d. 

Decisions of the Lords of Council and 
Session, from 1766 to 1791; collected 
by Sir David Dalrymple, Lord Hailes ; 
selected from the original MSS. by M. 
P. Brown, Esq. advocate. 2 vols. 4to, 
L.3, 13s. 6d. 

William Douglas, or the Scottish Ex- 
iles. An Historical Novel. 3 vols. 12mo, 
L.1, Is. 

Botanical Terminology ; or Dictionary 
explaining the Terms most generally em- 
ployed in Systematic Botany, By G. N. 
Lloyd, Esq. 7s. 

The Scots Compendium, or Pocket 
Peerage of Scotland, with Engravings. 
2 vols. 18mo, L.I, Is. 

Letters to an Anti- Pluralist. 8vo, 2s. 

The Odd Volume. Post 8vo. 

Critical Examination of Dr M'Cul- 

loch's Work on the Highlands. Second 

(edition, with an Appendix. 8vo, 8s. 6d, 

No. VII. of the Edinburgh Geogra- 
phical and Historical Atlas. 

An Essay on the Circumstances which 
determine the Rate of Wages, and the 
Condition of the Labouring Classes. By 
J. R. M<Culloch, Esq. Is. 

Elements of Moral Philosophy, and of 
Christian Ethics. By Daniel Dewar, 
LL.D. Minister of the Tron Church, 
Glasgow, and late Professor of Moral 
Philosophy in King's College, Aberdeen. 
2 vols, 8vo, L. 1, 4s. 

My Early Days. 18mo, 2s. 

The New French Manual and Travel- 
ler's Companion. By Gabriel Surrene. 
4s. half bound. 

Sermons, by the Rev. James Siev- 
wright, Minister of Markinch. 5s. 6d. 

A Tabular Synopsis of the whole Pro- 
cedure in a Sequestration under the 
Bankrupt Statute- 3s. 

A Pronouncing Vocabulary, with Les- 
sons in Prose and Verse, and a few 
Grammatical Exercises. By George Ful- 
ton. 2s. bound. 

A Comparative View of Christianity, 
and the other Forms of Religion, pecu- 
liarly with regard to their Moral Ten- 
dency. By William Lawrence Brown, 
D.D., Principal of Marischai College, 
Aberdeen. 2 vols. 8vo, 18s. 

Babylon and Infidelity Foredoomed of 
God : a Discourse on the prophecies of 
Daniel and the Apocalypse, which relate 
to these latter Times, and until the Se- 
cond Advent. By the Rev. Edward Ir- 
ving, Minister of the Caledonian Church, 
London. 2 vols. 12mo, 10s. 6d. 

Etymons of English Words. By the 
late John Thomson, M.R.I. and A.S., 
Private Secretary to the Marquis of Hast- 
ings in India. In 8vo, uniformly printed 
with Dr Todd's edition of Johnson's 
Dictionary. 18s. boards. 

Outlines of Modern Geography. By the 
Rev. William Andrew. 2s. 6d. bound. 

The Third Volume of the Christian and 
Civic Economy of Large Towns. By Tho- 
mas Chalmers, D.D. 8vo, 9s. bds. This 
Volume concludes the Work* 


Monthly liegisttr. 


1st,.. 32s. 6d. 
2d,...30s. Od. 
3d, ...28s, 6d. 

Beef (16 oz. per Ib.) Os. 

EDINBURGH. June 14. 

lst,...24s. Od; 
2d, ...22s. Od. 
3d, ...20s. Od. 


1st, 21s. 6d. 

2d, 20s. Od. 

3d, 18s. Od. 

Average of Wheat, 1, 9*. 9d. 
Tuesday, June 13. 

Pease & Beans 

1st, 19s. 6d. 

2d, ...... 19s. Od 

3d, 18s. Od. 

Veal .... 
Pork .... 
Lamb, per quarter 
Tallow, per stone 


4d. toOs. 7d. 

5|d. to Os. 7d. 

5d. toOs. 9d. 

Od. toOs. Od. 

6d. to 4s. Od. 

6d. to 6s. Od. 

Quartern Loaf . . Os. 8d. to Os. 9d, 

Potatoes (14 Ib.) . Os. 8d. to Os. Od. 

Fresh Butter, per Ib. Os. 8d. to Os.lOd, 

Salt ditto, per st. . 9s. Od. to 10s. Od. 

Ditto, per Ib. . . Os. 8d. to Os.lOd, 

Eggs, per dozen . Os. 7d. to Os. Od. 



1st, ....30s. 6d. 
2d, ....28s. fid. 
3d, ....26s. 6d. 


1st, ... 23s. Od. 
2d, ... 20s. Od. 
3d, ... 19s. Od. 


1st, ... 22s. 6d. 
2d, ... 19s. Od. 
3d, ... 16s. Od. 

Average of Wheat \, 9s. 5-l2ths. 

Pease. Beans. 

1st, . 19s. Od. I 1st, 18s. Od. 

2d, ... 17s. Od. I 2d, 16s. Od. 

3d, ... 15s. Od. I 3d, 14s.. Od 

Average Prices of Corn in England and Wales, from the Returns received in the Week 

ended June 10. 
Wheat, 59s. 2d. Barley, 30s. Od. Oats, 24s. id. Rye, -10s. 9d Beans, 39s. 2d. Pease, 38s. 9d. 

Average by Imperial quarter Wheat, 59s. Barley, 29s. 10d. Oats, 24s. Id. Rye, 34s. lid 
Beans, 39s. 4d. Pease, 39s. 5d. 

London, Corn Exchange, June 12. Liverpool, June 6. 

Wheat, red, old 40* to 46 
Red, new . to 

White pease . 37 to 40 
Ditto, boilers . 4 1 to 43 

*. d. 3, d. d. i, d 
Wheat, per 70 Ib. lAmer. p. 196 Ib. 
Eng. 8 ~5 to 9 6 Sweet, U.S. 28 to 30 

Fine ditto . . 48 to 52 

Small Beans,new 40 to 44 

Old . . . Oto Do. in bond 

Superfine ditto 54 to 58 

Ditto, old . . to 

Scotch . 8 to 8 3 Sour bond to 

White, . . 44 to 58 

Tick ditto, new 33 to 37 

Irish ... 7 6 to 8 10|Oatmeal, per 240 Ib. 

Fine ditto . 5!) to 5* 

Ditto, old . to 

Bonded .4 Oto 4 6 

English 26 to 32 

Superfine ditto 62 to 65 

Feed oats . 21 to 23 

Barley, per 60 Ibs. 

Scotch . . 25 to 27 

Rye . . . 28 to 32 

Fine ditto . 24 to 26 

Eng. ... 3 10 to 4 6 

Irish ... 25 to 31 

Barley, . 22 to 26] Poland ditto 22 to 24 

Scotch . 3 6 to 4 

Bran,p.241b. to 

Fine ditto . 26 to 28 
Superfine d tto 29 to 30 

Fine ditto . 25 to 28 
Potato ditto 22 to 25 

Irish . . 3 6 to 4 
Foreign . 3 6 to 4 

Butter, Beef, $c. 

Malt . . . 41 to 50 

Fine ditto . 26 to 29 

Oats, per 45 Ib. 

Butter,p.cwt. s. d. s. d- 

Fine . . . 52 to 58 

Scotch . . 30 to 31 

Eng. ... 3 to 3 3j 

Belfast, 50 to 55 

Hog Pease . 36 to 38 

Flour, per sack 50 to 55 

Irish ... 3 to 3 5J 

Newry . . 50 to 55 

Maple ... 33 to 42 

Ditto, seconds 42 to 46 

Scotch . . 3 to 3 3j 

Waterford 81 to 84 

Maple, fine to 

Bran, . . to 

For. in bond to 

Cork,pic.2d,82 to 84 to 

3d dry 66 to 68 

Seeds, QC. 

Rye, per qr.35 to 38 

Beef, p. tierce. 

t. $. d. *. rf. d. 

Malt per b. 6 6 to 7 3 

Mess 95 to!07 

Tares, perbsh.3 6 to 5 6|Rye Grass, 22 to 26 

Middlings 6 to 6 9 

D. barrel 60 to 63 

Must. White, . 14 to 21 Ribgrass, . . 24 to 28 

Beans, per q. 

Pork, p. bl. 

Brown, new 10 to 19 OlClover, red cwt.42 to 70 

English . 42 to 44 

Mess . 54 to 64 o 

Turnips, bsh. 15 to 20 

White ... 50 to 68 

Irish . . 42 to 43 

half do. 28 to 33 o 

Red & green to 
White 14 to 3 1 

Foreign red 40 to 60 

WV,itn *" n 

Rapeseed to 

Bacon, p. cwt. 

CHro>t Yviirle A/1 f\ frv XA 

Car'awayVcwt. 28 to 33 olCoriander \ . 16 to 24 

White . to 

onortmius. uO U too$ o 
Sides . . 48 to 50 o 

Canary.perqr.105 tollO OjTrefoil. ... 20 to 31 
Cinque Foin 45 to 55 'Lintseed feed, 32 to 37 

Flour, English, 
p.2401b.fine 45 to 50 

Hams, dry, 48 to ,">2 
Green . . 34 to 36 n 

Rape Seed, per last, 25, to 29. 

Irish, 2ds 45 to 48 o]Lard,rd.p.c. 40 to 42 " 

Weekly Price of Stocks, from 1st to 24th May 1825. 


3 per cent, c 
SJ per cent. 
New 4 per c 
India stock, 

Exchequer bills 
Exchequer bills, 
Consols for 
Long Annuities 



90ft 1QQ1 

'&fli\\-e<\.- ) rrrr-*rffrrfrj-r*rsfjjsjjjj 

7fi3 7 1 

nn sn| s, fr! . rfff ^ SfTSJffftfrf , fI ^ J 

/"a: '5 

773 ci 


// 4 s t 

ent. cons. ^~*^~~~,.^ 

99| 4 

944 4| 


ilfo,,,,,,, w ,,, WJWJU 


in Q 

ills, fa\\, rrTTTrfrj .^ rjrfrrT ^ JJfJJ 

9 10 


78 74 84 

tiesij^Msm,.^ Mr ^^ ffft 


185-11 16 

r cents ,. 

95f. 80c. 

235 | 
9 10 
9 10 
9 10 

784 if 

18| 13-16 
96 f.lSc. 



1826-3 Monthly Register. I IT 

Course of Exchange^ June 13. Amsterdam, 12 . 9. 
Rotterdam, 12 : 10. Antwerp, 12 : 10. Hamburgh, 37 
3 d. sight, 25 : 70. Ditto, 25 : 95= Bourdeaux, 25 : 95. 
Petersburgh, per rble. 8| 3 U. Berlin, 7 : 0. Vienna, % 
Madrid, 35. Cadiz, 35. Bilboa, 35. Barcelona, 35 
Leghorn, 47- Genoa, 43. Venice, 46 : 0. Malta, 
per oz. 114. Lisbon, 50 1. Oporto, 50f. Buenos Ayres, 
45. Dublin, per cent. Cork, per cent. 

Prices of Gold and Silver, per OK. Foreign gold, in bars, 3 : 17 : 6d. per oz. 
New Dollars, Os. Od. Silver in bars, stand. 4s. 

C- F. Ditto at sight, 12 : 6, 

: 10. Altona, 37 : 11. Paris. 

Frankfort on the Maine, 156. 

f. Fl. 10 : 28. Trieste, 10 : 28. 

Seville, 35. Gibraltar, 3L 

Naples, 38. Palermo, 

43. Rio Janeiro, 41 ^. Bahia, 


10 London 13. 

SUGAR, Muse. 


B. P. Dry Brown, . cwt. 
Mid. good, and fine mid. 

56 to 60 

62 72 




52 56 
57 67 

50 59 
53 65 

Fine and very fine, . . 
Refined Doub. Loaves, . 

74 78 
106 111 



68 72 

66 70 
90 , 

Powder ditto, . . 
Single ditto, . . . 
Small Lumps, . . . 
Large ditto, ... 

90 102 
82 88 
80 84 



I Z 

87 95 
85 86 
77 81 
90 100 

Crushed Lump 1 !, . 
MOLASSES, British, cwt. 

64 86 
24 24 6 




26s, ~ 

COFFEE, Jamaica, . cwt. 




52 56 

40 65 

Ord. good, and fine ord. 

52 54 



57 65 

48 60 

Mid. good, and fine mid. 

62 85 



67 88 

72 90 

Dutch Triage and very ord. 

54 58 





Ord. good, and fine ord. 

60 68 





Mid. good, and fine mid. 

85 90 




-- ' ; 

St Domingo, 
Pimento (in Bond, > . . . 

0* gd - 

1 9jd 


52 51 

Sid 9d 



Jam. Rum, 16 O. P. gall. 

3s 8d 
36 59 

2s Id 

2s 8d 

2$ 7d 39 Od 

2s 5d 2s 9d 
33 40 

Grain Whisky. . . 

20 J 2 
46 00 


21 2 3 


Claret, 1st Growths, hhd. 
Portugal Red, pipe, 
Spanish White, butt, 

35 46 
36 48 



. * 

18 58 
26 32 

Teneriffe, pipe, 

22 24 



- -* 

20 28 

Madeira, . p 110 gall. 

25 60 




25 50 

LOGWOOD, Jam. ton, 

5 5 10 


5 10 

55 5 12 6 

5 15 60 

Honduras, .... 

5 10 5 15 

5 10 

5 15 

5 15 6 15 


Campeachy, ... 

6 6 10 


6 10 

6 10 6 15 


FUSTIC, Jamaica, . 

5 10 6 

5 10 


6 7 10 

6 10 70 

9 10 


8 10 


80 90 

INDIGO, Ca*accas fine, Ib. 
TIMBER, Amer. Pine, foot. 

12s 13s 

~4 I 6 

8s 6d lOa 64 





PM. j 

Christiansand (dut.paid,) 





^~ __ 

Honduras Mahogany, . 

1 4 1 10 

1 4 

I 10 


11 14 

St Domingo, ditto, . 
TAR, American, brl. 

18 19 

2 4 


2 9 

11 6 H 

1 10 26 





16 _ 

PITCH, Foreign, cwt. 

10 10 6 


MM _. 

70 8 

TALLOW, Rus. Yel. Cand. 

35 36 



34 35 

32 _ 



28 _ 

HEMP, Polish Rhine, ton, 




44 45 

42 10 

Petersburgh, Clean, . . 

42 43 



12 43 

39 10 _ 


Riga Thies. & Druj. Rak. 





38 ~ 

Irish, * . 

-. ZZ 




MATS, Archangel, . . 

_ M_ 



MM " 


Petersburgh Firsts, cwt. 
ASHES, Peters. Pearl, . . 


14 10 


Montreal, ditto, . 

35 ~ 



25 6 26 


Pot, . . 




25 26 


OIL, Whale, . tun, 



25 26 

27 28 

Cod, .... 

26 27 




TOBACCO, Virgin, fine, Ib. 

7* 7i 



08 ~ 

6$ 7 

Middling, . . . 

5 5| 



3i 5 

03 3* 

' COTTONS, Bowed Georg. 

4 4* 



2J 4J 

06 08 

Sea Island, fine, 

MI M. 





Stained, . 

Middling, . , 


, __, 

Demerara and Berbice, 

84 10 

West India, 


08 09 


- _ t 

IOJ 11 

Waranham. - _ 



Monthly Register. 


METEOHOI.OGICAL TABI.F, extracted from the Register kept at Edinburgh, in the 
Observatory, Calton-hill. 

N.B.-.-The Observations are made twice every day, at nine o'clock, forenoon, and four o'clock, after - 
noon. The second Observation in the afternoon, in the first column, is taken by the Register 










M.yl { 

A. 46 


A. 58 / 


Morn, frost 
day fair. 

May 17 f 





Fair, gunsh- 






Fair, sunsh. 

18 1 

A. 61 





A. 40 




Fair, but 

19 f 

A. 55 




Fair, sunsh 
very warm. 

4 / 




Fair, with 


on | 




morn, frost. 


V. 44 





20 1 





day sunsh. 

A. 43 





21 { 





and warm. 


VI .35 

A. 42 
A. 44 




Dull, and 
very cold. 
Fair, with 








very warm. 
Foren. fog, 
aftrn. sunsh 

8 { 

A. 45 







A. 52 




Foren. rain, 
aftrn. warm. 


A. 45 




A.53 / 


Foren. rain, 
aftern. fair. 
Showers hail 
and rain. 


26 { 

A. 55 






Dull, rain 
Heavy rain 
most of day. 

11 { 

A. 46 


A. 52 / 


Mom. cold, 
day sunsh. 







Dull, but 

12 { 


A. 46 




Fair, with 

2 8{ 

A. 61 





Fair, with 

13 { 





Morn, cold, 
rain aftern. 

2 9{ 

A. 56 




Morn, fog, 
day sunsh. 

14 { 





Fair, sunsh. 





M.58 \ 


Morn, cold, 
dy wm. sun>. 







ilorn. shwr. 
lay warm. 


A. 55 




Day dull, 
ain even. 

1C ( 





\>ren. shrs. 
air aftern. 


Average of rain. 1.270. 



Brovet. Capt. Burke, of 66 F. Major in the Army. 
12 Aug. 1819 

T. C. Graham, late Major in 1 F. local 

rank of Major upon the Continent, only 

8 April 1826 

1 Life Gds. Cor. and Sub Lt. Hon. H. T. Leeson, 
Lt. by purch. vice Sydney, prom. 

Cor. and Sub-Lt. Hon. H. S. Law, do. by 

purch. vice Millerd, prom. 8 Apr. 

C. G. du Pre, Cor. and Sub-Lt. 27 Feb. 

Sir E. Blackett, Bt. do. 8 Apr. 

9 Dr. Gds. Cor. Griffiths, Adj. vice Collins, res. 

Adj. only 16 Feb. 

Cor. and Adj. Griffiths, rank of Lt. do. 
Lt. Burnaby, Capt. by purch. vice Aber- 

cromby, prom. 8 Apr. 

Cor. Shewell, Lt. 5o. 

J. T. G. Taubman, Cor. do. 

4 Cor. Dayrell, Lt. by purch. vice Brooke, 

P r om. 9 Mar. 

H. J. Collingwood, Cor. 8 Apr. 

Surg. Micklam, from 50 F. Surg. vice 

Pyper, h. p. 6 do. 

Capt. Crichton, Maj. by purch. vice 

Walker, ret do. 

Lt Gardxer, .Capt. . ' do. 

Cor. Martin, Lt 5 do. 

S. M'Call, Cor. <lo. 

5 Dr. 


Gds. Cor. Sir W. H. St L. Clarke, B/. Lt 

by purch. vice Kennedy, prom. 5 Apr. 
T. M. Goodlake, Cor. do. 

Vet. Surg. Constant, from 3 Dr. Vet 

Surg. vice Ryding, superseded 30 Mar. 
Cor. and Riding Mas. Phillips, rank of 

Lt. 16 Feb. 

Cor. Bolton, Lt by purch. vice Corkran, 

prom. s Apr. 

J. Cronyn, cor. by purch. vice Osborn, 

prom. 9 Mar. 

Cor. Hibbert, Lt. by purch. vice Eccles. 

prom. 8 Apr. 

J. Yates, cor. do. 

F. Thomas, do. by purch. vice Skipwith, 

prom. do. 

Cor. Richardson, purch. viceFloy- 

er, ret do. 

W. Scott, Vet. Surg. vice Constant, 5 Dr. 

Gds. 30 Mar. 

W.C.Shipley, Cor. 

Lt. Parlby, Capt. vice R. Burrowes, dead 

8 Apr. 

30 Sept 1825. 
Cor. Bromwich, Lt vice Murray, dead 

G. A. Brownlow, Cor. dol 

Cor. Hon. J. Arbuthot, Lt. by purch. vie 
Mitchell, prom. 8 Apr. 18?6. 

. prom. 
H. Creighton, Cor 



Appointments, Promotions, %c. 


I Lt Pringle, Capt by purch. vie Cath- 

cart, 22 F. 8 Apr. 

Cor. Hall, Lt. by purch. vice Lord Hope- 

toun, prom. 7 do. 
Vivian, do. 8 do. 

A. Houston, Cor. do. 
8 Cor. Miller, Lt. by purch. vice Spooner, 

prom. 22 do. 

10 Capt. Drummond, Maj. by purch. vice 

Arnold, prom. 8 do. 

Lt. Wood, Capt. do. 

Cor. Lyne, Lt. do. 

J. Musters, Cor. do. 

I 1 Cor. Handley, Lt. by purch. vice Stewart, 

prom. do. 

C. R. Hyndman, Cor. do. 

12 Cor. Hamilton, Lt. by purch. vice Eng- 

land, prom. do. 

Cor. Dewes, Lt. vice Stewart, prom. 9 do. 

F. H. Vane, Cor. do. 

13 Capt. Brunton, Maj. by purch.. vice Hig- 

gins, prom. 2 Mar. 

Lt. Maitland, Capt. do. 

Cor. Evered, Lt. by purch. vice Lang, 8 

F. 17 Feb. 

Cor. Hart, Lt. vice Brown, prom. 8 Apr. 
R. Gethin, Cor. do. 

15 Cor. Raitt, Lt. by purch. vice Dundas, 

prom. do. 

G. P. Bushe, Cor. do. 
J. C. Baird, do. by purch. vice Berguer, 

prom. 22 do. 

16 Cor. Guest, Lt. by purch. vice Armstrong, 

prom. 8 do. 

B. N. Everard, Cor do. 
As. Surg. Mouat, from 13 F. As. Surg. 

vice Malloch, 46 F. 13 Mar. 

Lt. Douglass, from 81 F. Lt. by purch. 

vice Smyth, prom. 22 Apr. 

17 Lt. Fisk, Capt. by purch. vice Johnston. 

prom. 8 do. 

Cor. Elton, Lt. do. 

Barron, do. vice Loftus, prom. 9 do. 

N. B. F. Shawe, Cor. 8 do. 

W. Parker, dp. 9 do. 

Lt. Barron, Adj. vice Fisk, prom. do. 

ren. Gds. Capt. Barrett, Capt. and Lt.-Col. vice 

Col. Barclay, dead 6 do. 

Ens. and Lt Perceval, Lt. and Capt. by 
purch. vice Dawkins, prom. 8 do. 

W. Thornton, Ens. and Lt. do. 

Ens. and Lt. Drummond, Lt and Capt. 
by purch. vice Ellis, prom. 22 do. 

T. A. Kimmis, Ens. and Lt. do. 

Colds. T. Gds. 2d Lt. Clitherow, from Rifle Brig. 

Ens. and Lt by purch. vice Ben thick, 

prom. 8 do. 

t F. Gds. G. Moncrieffe, Ens. and Lt. by purch. 

vice Dixon, prom. do. 

1 F. Capt. Deuchar, Maj. by purch. vice 

Graham, ret. 6 do. 

Lt. Bland, Capt 2 Mar. 

Fletcher, do. by purch. vice Deuchar 

6 Apr. 

Ens. Butt, Lt 2 Mar. 

Ens. and Adj. Muller, rank of Lt. 5 do. 

Lt Macleod, from h. p. Lt vice Sargent, 
cancelled 9 do. 

Ens. Ormsby, Lt. vice Wilson, dead 22 do. 

Byine, do. vice Bilcher, dead 23 do. 

Lt. Macpherson, from 2 W. I. R. Lt vice 
Bland 24 do. 

Ens. M'Kenzie, Lt by purch. vice Fletch- 
er 6 Apr. 

Ritchie, from 1 Vet Bn. Ens. 

7 Apr. 1825 

Carr, from h. p. 8 W. I. R. Ens. vice 
Ormsby 22 Mar. 1826 

W. D. Bedford, Ens. by purch. vice M'- 
Kenzie 6 Apr. 

A. M. Wilmot, do. by purch. vice Camp- 
bell, 4JF. 7 do. 

F. Hoskins, do. vice Butt 8 do. 

R. Going, do. vice Byrne 9 do. 

5 Maj. Wall, Lt. Col. 25 Mar. 

Bt. Lt. Col. Cameron, Maj. do. 

Bt Maj. Bowen, from h. p. 81 F. Capt. 
16 do. 

Lt Woods, Capt. 25 do. 

Capt. Daniell, from Riding Est Capt 

1 1 


Ens. Christie, Lt . 25 Mar- 

- Stewart, do. 26 do 

Lieut Amiel, from h. p. 17 Dr. Lit. 


do. 28 do. 
do. 29 do. 
do. 30 do. 
do. 31 do 
do. lAr 

- Ashhurst from 46 F. 

- Mackie, from 89 F. 

Cain, from 14 F. 

- Dore, from h. p. 24 F. 

- Morshead, from 52 F. 
Ens. Moore, from 94 F. 

- Carr, from 52 F. 

- Walsh, from 35 F. 

- Wheatsone, from 53 F. 

T. Shiel, late Lt. of 7 F. o. n 

Ens. Barr, do. by purch. vice Croasdaile' 
prom. 8 do 

- Hanna, from 1 Vet Bn. Ens. 

7 Apr. 1825 

R. Turton, Ens. by purch. 25 Mar. 1826 
W. Rainey, do. g6 do, 

P. de Blaquiere, Ens by purch. 8 Apr 
Lt Ridd, from h. p. 60 F. Lt. vice Wheat- 

stone, 53 F. 13 do 

Capt. Scott, from 1 Vet. Bn. Capt. 

8 Apr. 1825 
Ens. Campbell, from 1 F. Ens. vice 

Clarke, prom. 28 Mar. 1826 

Lt Gray, from 2 Vet. Bn. Lt vice Gal 

braith, prom. 8 Apr. 1825 

- J. Spence, from 2W.I.R. Lt vice 
Derinzy, h. p. York Lt Inf. Vol. 

23 Feb. 1826 

Ens. Phibbs, from 1 Vet. Bn. 7 Apr. 1825 
Lt. Duke, Capt vice Cox, dead 28 AUJJ 
Ens. Warsington, from 67 F. Lt do 
Ens. Hon. S. Hay, from 71 F. Lt. by 
purch, vice Moorsom, prom. 

2 Mar. 1826 
Hon. A. Hope, Lt. vice Blaney, prom. 

Ens. Stenhouse, from 3 Vet. Bn. Ens. P * 

Surg. Mostyn, from 81 F. Surg! vice 

Cartan, prom. 23 Feb. 1826 

Lt. Hill, from 1 Vet Bn. Lt. 8 Apr 

- Johnson, from do. do. vice Leard* 
prom. 7 do. 

Ens. Strickland, Lt by purch. vice Halli- 
fax, prom. g Apr. 

- Pilkington, from 1 Vet. Bn. Ens. 

Capt. Turner, Maj. bypurch. vice Ogilvie 

Willshire, from 1 Vet Bn b .C P a r pt: 82 J 
Lt. Richmond, Capt by purch. Ap< 

Ens. Dolphin, Lt 8Apr ' 1 S 

- Cook, Ens. jo 

- Tedlie, from h. p. Ens. vice Russell 
89 F- 27 Mar'. 

Lt. Hon. F. Howard, from h. p. vice 

Wilson. 52 F. so do 

Serj. Maj. Hutchins, Adj. and Ens. vice 

Fenton, prom. 13 Sept. 1825 

Hosp. As. John Robertson, As. Surg. vice 

Mouat, 16 Dr. 13 Mar. 1826 

2d Lt C. White, from Ceylon R. Eng, 

vice Pearson, dead 13 Apr 

Ens. Budd, Lt. by purch. vice White, 3? 

F - 16 Mar. 

Lt. Moir, from h. p. 37 F. Lt vice Cain 

3 F - 27 do' 

- Dewson, from 3 Vet Bn. Lt vice 
Humphry, prom. 9 Apr. 1825 

Ens. Elliott, from 1 do. Ens. 7 do 

J. Hay, Adj. and Ens. vice Bannister. 

Prom. 16 Feb. 1826 

Ens. Rudyerd, Lt. by purch. vice Barton, 

C. P W m Hird,En, " X 

2d Lt. Kellett, from h. p. 21 F. Ens. vice 

Prettejohn, 53 F. 31 Mar, 

T. Douglass, Ens. by purch. vice Kellett, 

prom. 22 Apr 

Ens. Hudson, from 2 Vet Bn. Ens. 7 do. 

- Dunne, Lt. by purch. vice Moore, 
98 F. 

F. Wigston, Ens. 16 do, 

As. Surg. Lewis, from 3 Vet. Bn. As. Surg 

25 do, 








Appointments, Promotions, 





LU Vignoles, Capt by purch. vice Far- 

quharson, prom. 8 Apr. 

Ens. Mitchell, Lt do. 

Elliott, from 2 Vet. Bn. Ens. 

7 Apr. 1825 

S. R. Delme, Ens. by purch. 8 Apr. 1826 
Ens. M'Dermott, Lt. vice Moore, 15 F. 

23 F. 

F. H. Stephens, Ens. by purch. do. 

fd Lt. Pentland, 1st Lt. by purch. vice 

Bigge, prom. 8 Apr. 

How. J. Sinclair, 2d Lt. do. 

Capt. Hon. G. Cathcart, from 7 Dr. Maj. 

by purch. vice Clayton, prom. do. 
Ens. Boileau, from 2 Vet. Bn. Ens. 

7 Apr. 1825 
Lt Sloane,Capt by purch. vice St George, 

ret. 8 April, 1826 

* Lt. Losh, 1st Lt. do. 

C. Crutchley, 2d Lt. do. 

Ens. Cunynghame, Lt. by purch. vice 

Smyth, prom. do. 

Alcock, Ens. do. 

-.-" Spalding, Lt. vice Paschal, 77 F. 

30 March 
Ilderton, do. by purch. vice Poun- 

den, prom. 8 Apr. 

J. O'Donnel, Ens. by purch. vice Irving, 

61 F. 16 Mar. 

M. C. Seton, do. 30 do. 

Lt. Dixon, from 3 F. G. Capt. by purch. 

vice Burgh, ret. 8 Apr. 

Lt. Bowles, from 32 F. Capt. by purch. 

vice Beetham, prom. do. 

Fraser, from 1 Vet Bn. Lt 

7 Apr. 1825 

Thomas, from 54 F. Lt. vice Pigott, 

90 F. 13 Apr. 1826 

Ens. Maclean, Lt by purch. viceDutton, 

ret. 30 Mar. 

Goodman, do. by purch. vice D'-Ur- 

ban, pYom. 8 Apr. 

Ens. Bolton, from h. p. Ens. vice Tew, 

2 W.I.R. do. 

Capt. Raymond, from h. p. 40 F. Paym. 

vice Crowe, h. p. 9 do. 

T. Grove, Ens. by purch. 13 Apr. 

Ens. Calcraft,Lt. by purch. vice Berkeley, 

prom. 22 do. 

J. Every, Ens. by purch. vice Sullivan, 

prom. 21 do. 

F. P. Trapaud, Ens. 22 do. 

Lt. Lucas,.Capt. by purck. vice Deedes, 

75 F. do. 

Ens. Sheppard, Lt do. 

A. Hathorn, Ens. do. 

T. R. Burrowes, Ens. vice Wilson, dead 

16 Aug. 1825 

Ens. Marechaux, Lt. vice Gregg, dead 

Apr. 1826 

E. R. Gregg, Ens. do. 

Ens. WetenhaU, Lt by purch. vice Rux- 
ton, prom. 16 Mar. 

J. C. Stock, Ens. vice Minchin, 38 F. 

23 do. 

Lt Hon. A. Hartey, from 87 F. Lt. vice 

Bowles, 26 F. 8 Apr. 

W. S. Norton, Ens. by purch. vice Tal- 

bot, 43 F. do. 

Lt. Weyland, from 1 Vet Bn. Lt. 

8 Apr. 1825 

S. R. Streatfield, Ens. by purch. vice 
Hughes, prom. 8 Apr. 1826 

W. W. Abney, do. by purch. vice Streat- 

field, 52 F. 

Cor. Hall, from h. p. 24 Dr. Ens. pay. 

diff. vice Walsh, 3 F. 30 Mar. 

T. Faris, do. by purch. vice Hall, prom. 

8 Apr. 

Lt. Buchanan, from h. p. York Ran. Lt. 
6 do. 

Lt. Cocker, Capt. by purch. vice Gilbert, 

ret 8 do. 

fois. Hon. F. Petre, Lt do. 

J. P. Taylor, Ens. do. 

Lt. Shenley, Adj. vice Roberts, res. Adj. 

only 9 Mar. 

Ens. Hay, from 82 F. Ens. vice Wake, 

prom. 22 Ap. 

It, Law, Capt. vies Birch, dead 

9 Sept. 1S25 

Ens. Minchin, from 31 F. Lt. 9 Sept 

Lowth,Lt. vice Torrens, dead, 11 do. 

T. Jenkins, Ens. vice Maclean, cancelled 

2 Mar. 1826 

A. Whittle, do. vice Lowth 23 do. 

39 Ens. Loraine, Lt. by purch. vice Hall, 7 

F. 8 Apt, 

Douglas, from 3 Vet. Bn. Ens. 

. 7 Apr. 1825 
Gent. Cadet C. B. Lloyd, from R. Mil. 

Coll. Ens. . 8 Apr. 1826 

40 Hosp. As. Mackenzie, As. Surg. 12 do. 

41 Capt. Corfield, from 77 F. Capt vice 
Borrowes, dead 23 Mar. 
2d Lt. Hay, from 60 Ft. Lt by purch. 

vice Versurme, prom. 8 Ap. 

Ens. Inglis, from 54 F. Lt. by purch. 

vice Gray, ret 22 do. 

42 Capt Brauder, Maj. by purch. vice Cow- 

ell, ret. 8 do. 

Lt. Campbell, Capt. do. 

Ens. Hill, Lt. do. 

C. Campbell, Ens. do. 

Hosp. As. M'Gregor, As. Surg. 12 do. 

43 Ens. Freer, Lt by purch. vice Gosselin, 

Prom. s do. 

Talbot, from 33 F. Ens. do. 

Mathias, Lt vice Gledstanes, dead 

16 Aug. 1825 

Clarke, from 4 F. Lt by purch. vice 


prom. 4 Mar. 1826 

J. D. Young, Ens. 16 Aug. 1825 

Ens. Browne, from 13 F. Lt. by purch. 

vice Hawkins, 89 -F. 13 Apr. 1826 

4a Du Vernot, Lt. by purch. vice Ged- 

des, prom. 3 do. 

G. H. Clarke, Ens. by purch. do. 

A. M. Tulloch, do. by purch. vice Lewis, 

89 F. 9 do. 

46 Capt. Martin, from 3 Vet. Bn. Capt. vice 

Miller, 24 F. 8 Apr. 1825 
Lt. Bruce, from 1 Vet Bn. Lt. vice Glee- 
son, 90 F. do. 
Antrobus, from h. p. 13 F. Lt vice 

Ashhurst, 3 F. 27 Mar. 1826 

C. W. St. J. Wall, Ens. by purch. vice 

Leigh, prom. 3 Apr, 

48 Maj. Taylor, Lt. Col. vice Erskine, dead 

8 June 182& 

Brev. Maj. Morisset, Maj. do. 

Lt Reed, Capt do. 

Griffiths, from 2 Vet Bn. Lt. vice 

Smith, 60 F. 10 Apr. 

Ens. M'Oeverty, do. vice Reed, 26 Aug. 

Bell, do. vice Vincent, dead 

25 Mar. 1826 
J, A. Erskine, Ens. do. 

49 Ens. Vincent, Lt by purch. vice Grubbe, 

proin. 8 Apr. 

Lt. de Lisle, Capt. by purch. vice Camp- 
bell, prom. 22 do- 

Ens. Keating, Lt do. 

C. Tyssen, Ens. 8 do. 

50 Capt. Anderson, Maj. by purch. vice 

Campbell, ret. do. 

Lt. Greenwood, Capt. do. 

Ens. Baxter, Lt. do. 

51 Ens. Isham, do. by purch. vice Estridge, 

prom. 22 do 

C. T. Vandeleur, Ens. do, 

52 Capt. Moorsom, from h. p. Capt. paying 

diff. vice Monins, 9o F. 8 do. 

Lt Wilson, from 13 F. Lt. vice Morshead. 

3 F. 27 Mar 

22 do. Ens. Hughes, from h. p. Ens. vice Carr, 

3 F. 23 do. 
Cockcraft, Lt by purch. vice King, 

prom. 22d Apr. 

Streatfield, from 54 F. Ens. do. 

Ens. Prettejohn, from 16 Ens. F. vice 

Wheatstone, 3 F. 81 Mar. 

Lt. Wheatstone, from o F. Lt. vice Bre- 

mer, h. p. 60 F. 13 Apr. 

34 F. Lt Wells, from 2 Vet Bn. Lt. vice Dal- 

gety, 70 F. '9 Apr. 

Ens, Clarke, do. vice Fenton, dead 16 Aug. 
Bayley, Ens. do. 

Burton, Lt. by pureh. vice Crofton, ret. 

12 Apr. 1826 
tt. Tincombe, from h. p. 30 F. do. vice 

Thomas, 26 F. 1* do 


C. Daintry, Ens. by purch. vice Inglis, 
41 F. 22 Apr. 1826 

55 D. L. Fawsett, do. by purch. vice Alten, 

cane. 6 do. 

56 Ens. Hunt, Lt. by purch. vice Murray, 

prom. S do. 

W. Croke, Ens. do. 

Lt Vicars, Capt. by purch. vice Webster, 

prom. 22 do. 

Ens. Keating, Lt by purch. vice Keating, 

prom. 9 do. 

Hogg, do. 22 do. 

J. F. Alymer, Ens. 9 do. 

Ens. Keating, from 54 F. do. 22 do. 

9 Lt. Arnold, from 2 Vet. Bn. Lt. vice Les- 

lie, 72 F. 8 Apr. 1825 

Ens. Fuller, Lt. by purch. vice Amherst, 

prom. 8 Apr. 1826 

R. B. Yates, Ens. do. 

5 :(> Brev. Maj. Fawcett, from 1 Vet. Bn. Capt. 

9 Apr. 1825 

2d Lt. Gibbons, 1st Lt by purch. vice 

Smith, prom. 8 Apr. 1826 

G. Bulmer, 2d Lt. do. 

J. R. Peyton, do. by purch. vice Mason, 

prom. 9 do. 

W. R. Faber, do. by purch. vice Browne, 

85 F. 10 do. 

W. F. Harvey, do. vice O'Meara, 2 W. 1. 

R. 11 do. 

C. O. Leman, do. by purch. vice Bell, 61 
F. 12 do. 

61 Ens. Barlow, Lt. by purch. vice Coghlan, 

prom. 8 do. 

G. Ruddle, Ens. do, 

62 Capt. Stewart, from 2 Vet. Bn. Capt. 

8 Apr. 1825 

S3 Lt. Allt, from 5 Vet Bn. Lt. vice Pene- 

father, piom. do. 

Ens. Ward, do. by purch. vice Doyle 

prom. 8 Apr. 1823 

J. L. Smith, Ens. by purch. do. 

64 Ens. Murray, Lt by purch. vice Boates, 

prom. do. 

2d Lt. Bell, from 60 F. Ens. do. 

65 Lt. Cochrane, from 1 Vet Bn. Lt 

8 Apr. 1825 
Ens. Hon. H. B. Grey, Lt. by purch. vice 

Hunt, prom. 13 Apr. 1826 
Wise, Lt. by pucch. vice Amsink. 

prom. 22 do. 

Lt Palmer, from 89 F. Lt. by purch. vice 

Mackay, h. p. 5 W. I. R. do. 

E. St. V. Digby, Ens. 13 do. 

F. P. O'Reilly do. 22 do. 
6 Serj. Maj. Steele, from Gren. Gds. Adj. 

and Ens. vice Nowlan, Ceyl. R. 23 Mar. 
67 R. A. Gossett, Ens. vice Warrington, 6 F. 

2 do. 

Qua. Mast. Serg. W. Mew, Qua. Mast. 
vice Johnstone, dead 16 Feb. 

69 Capt Monins, from 52 F. Capt vice Sil- 

ver, h. p. rec. diff. 8 Apr. 

H. B. Bennett, Ens. vice Ford, dead 

2 Mar. 

70 Lt Fleeson, from 1 Vet. Bn. Lt 

8 Apr. 1825 

Qua. Mast. Serj. Wilson, Qua. Mast, vic- 
Norman, dead - 13 do, 1826 

71 F. Dolson, Ens. by pureh. vice Strange 

ways, 7 F. 5 do. 

G. M. Stack, do by purch. vice Hay, 7 F. 

8 do. 

73 Brev. Maj. Owen, Maj. by purch. yiee 

Bamford, ret b do. 

Lt. Smith, Capt. do. 

Ens. Pickney, Lt. do. 

D. Daly, Ens. by purch. vice William- 
son, prom. 7 do. 

C. H. Colston, do. 8 do. 

74 Capt Harold, from 2 Vet Bn. Capt. 

8 Apr. 1825 

Ens. M'Nabb, from h. p. 49 F. Ens. vice 
Kearnes, * W. I. R. 3 Mar. 1826 

75 Lt Salmon, Capt. by purch. vice Lord G. 

Bentinck, prom. 9 do. 
Ens. Davison, Lt do. 
Graham, do. by purch, vice Browne, 

prom. 8 Apr. 

Gen. Cadet G. W. D. O'Hara, from R. 

Mil. Coll. Ens. by purch. 9 Mar 


;c. 121 

E. C. Ansel!,' Ens. vice Ferguson, dead 
10 Mar. 

H. Boys, Ens. by purch. 8 Apr. 

Capt Atkins, Maj. by purch. vice 

M'Adam, prom. 22 do. 

Deedes, from 29 F. Capt. do. 

Ens. Hon. R. Preston, Lt. Ly purch. 

vice Hall prom. do. 

A. Jardine, Ens. do. 

77 Lt Paschal, from 25 F. Capt vice Cor- 

field, 41 F. 23 Mar. 

Butler, from 2 Vet Bn.. Lt. 

8 Apr. 1825 

78 Capt Mill, Maj. by purch. vice Macpher- 

son, ret. do. 1826 

Lt. Hemmans, Capt do. 

Ens. Holyoake, Lt. do. 

As. Surg. Henderson, Surg. vice Bolton, 

h. p. 23 Mar. 

Hosp. As. Duncan, As Surg. 23 Feb. 
F. Montgomery, Ens. by purch. 15 Apr. 
Hosp. As. Thomson, As. Surg. 8 do. 

79 Ens. Crombie, Lt. by purch. vice Maule, 

prom. 8 do. 

Fulton, do. by purch. vice Towns- 

hend, prom. 9 do. 

R. Blnney, Ens. 8 do. 

C. Cameron, do. 9 do. 

80 Ens. West, Lieut, by purch. vice Moore, 

prom. 16 Mar. 

R. Scheberras, Ens. do. 

81 Ens. Reeves, Lt by purch. vice Hamil- 

ton, prom. 8 Apr. 

As. Surg. Holmes, from 17 Dr. Surg vice 

Mostyn, 8 F. 23 Feb. 

En . Splain, Lt by purch. vice Douglas, 

16 Dr. 22 Apr. 

R. Heyland, Ens. .8 do. 

H. De Visme, do. 22 do. 

82 Lt. Quill, from 1 Vet. Bn. Lt. 8 do. 
T. Stopford, Ens. by purch. vice Hay, 

36 F. 22 Apr. 1826 

84 Ens. Franklyn, Lt. by purch. vice Clarke, 

prom. 8 do. 

C. A. Dean, Ens. do. 

85 Ens. Harris, Lt by purch. vice Maitland, 

prom. do. 

2d Lt. Browne, from 60 F. Ens. do. 

86 Ens. Dalgety, Lt vice Close, dead 23 Mar. 
J. Gallevey, Eus. by purch. vice Jekyll, 

Gren. Gds. 18 Feb. 

Gent Cadet, J. J. Grant, from R. Mil. 

Coll. Ens. vice Usher, prom. 9 Mar. 

B. J. Selway, Ens. 23 do. 
Serj. Jerome, Quar. Mast vice Gill, ret. 


Lt. Nunn, Capt. by purch. vice Chad- 
wick, prom. 22 Apr. 

87 Ens. Ramsay, Lt. by purch. vice Harley, 

32 F. 8 do. 

C. Urquhart, Ens. 13 do. 

89 ' Ens. Lewis, from 45 F. Lt by purch. 

vice Macdonald, 80 F. 2 Mar. 
Russel, from 12 F. Lt vice Mackie, 

3 F. 27 do. 

Lt Gorse, from h. p. 3 W, I. R. Lt. vice 

Palmer, 65 F. 22 Apr. 

90 Pigott, from 2G F. Lt. vice Bucker- 

idge, h. p. 30 F. 13 do. 

91 Lt. Shedden, fiom 1 Vet Bn. Lt. vice 

Lamont, prom. 8 Apr. 1825 

B. Duff, Ens. by purch. vice Kane, 62 F. 

16 Feb. 1826 

Lt. Croften, from 50 F. Capt. vice Mur- 
ray, dead 13 Apr. 

92 Ens/Bates, from h. p. Quart. Mast, vice 

Callagy, ret. 30 Mar. 

93 Lt. Connop, Capt by purch. vice Fraser, 

prom. 22 Apr. 

Ens. Evans, Lt. do. 

W. Guthtie, Ens. do.. 

91 R. Keatkig, Ens. vice Moore, 3 F. 

28 Mar. 

95 Lt. Mayne, Capt by purch. vice Brown- 

son, rtt 13 Apr. 

Ens. Hanison, Lt. do. 

\V. Wood, Ens. do. 

96 Capt Hill, from 1 Vet Bn. Capt. 

s Apr. *82S 

R. Bush, Ens. by purch. vice Lloydi 
promoted. '.'I'd Apr. 1826' 


Appointments, Promotions, %c. 

y-? Lt Malris, from h. p. 6 Dr. Gds. Lt 

16 Mar. 

Kns. Stanners, Lt. by pureh. vice Macdo- 
nald, prom. 8 Apr. 

E. Barton, Ens. do. 

ys Lt. Douglas, Capt. by purch. vice Camp- 

bell, ret. do. 

99 Ens. Nicholson, Lt. by purch. vice Pear- 

son, prom. 22 do. 

J. Lecky, Ens. do. 

Rifle Brig. 2d Lt. H. F. Beckwith, 1st Lt. by pur- 
chase, vice Power, prom. 8 do. 

Cameron, 1st Lt. by purch. vice 

Ramsden, prom. 9 do. 

J. Hooper, 2d Lt. by purch. vice Sauma- 

rez, prom. 7 do. 

W. Cumine, do. by purch. 8 do. 

J. Martin, do. by purch. 9 do. 

2d Lt. Dering, 1st Lt. by purch. vice 

Slade, prom. 22d do. 

Gent. Cadet, J. Buckner, from R. Mil. 

Coll. 2d. Lt. do, 

R Staff C.Gent. Cadet, E. R. King, from R. 

MilL Col. 2d Lt. vice Stoddard, prom. 

16 Feb. 

W -I. R. Lt. Gordon, from h. p. York. Lt Inf. 
Vol. Lt. vice J. Spence, 5 F. 23 do. 
Ens. Grey, Lt. vice Clarke, prom. 1 Mar. 
2d Lt. O'Meara, from 60 F. Lt. vice 
Hughes, dead. 2 do. 

Ens. Kearnes, from 71 F. Lt vice Stew- 
art, 93 F. 5 do. 

Tew, from 27. F. Lt. vice M'Pher- 

son, 1 F. 24 do. 

G. Maxwell, Ens. by purch. vice Goul- 

den, 22 F. 23d Feb. 

H. Spence, do. 2 Mar. 

Lt. Conran, Adj. vice W. Spence, dead, 

23 Feb. 
Ceylon Reg. Lt. Nowlan, from 66 F. Lt. 16 do. 

Nason, from 8 W. I. R. Lt. 2 Mar. 

A. Irvine, 2d Lt. vice T. Mylius, prom. 

9 Apr. 

2d Lt. H. Von Kempen, 1st Lt. by purch. 

vice Dempsey, ret. 22 do. 

W. Hope, 2d Lt. vice H. H. White, dead, 

12 do. 
J. Deaken, do. vice C. White, 13 F. 

13 do. 
C*pe Cor. (Cav.) Cor. Sargeunt, Lt. by purch. 

vice Bird, prom. 30 Mar. 

W. Van. Cor. by purch. vice* Brown, 16 
Dr. 29 do. 

H N. So. Wales Vet. Comp. Staff As. Surg. Gib- 
son, As. Surg. * 15 Feb. 
R. E. I. Vol. Capt. Johnson, Adj. vice Dickenson, 
res. 17 Mar. 


Gen. Hon. Sir E. Paget, G.C.B. Gov. of 

R. Mill. College. 25 Mar. 1826 

Gen. Marq. of Anglesey, G.C.B. Capt. of 

Cowes Castle, I. of Wight, vice Sir E. 

Paget, do. 


Lt. Col. T. W. Taylor, from h. p. Unatt. 
Superintendent of Cav. Riding Estab- 
lishment, vice Peters, h. p. 

22d Apr. 1826 

Ordnance Department. 
Roy Art. Brev. Maj, Morrison, Maj. vice Hnghes, 
ret. 22d Apr. 1826 

2d Capt. Faddy, Capt. do. 

Locke, from h. p. 2d Capt. do. 

Roy, Eng. Capt. Hobbs, Lt. Col. vice Gravatt, 
ret. 8 do. 

2d Capt Gippa, Capt do. 

Roy. Eng. 1st Lt. Worsley, 2d Capt 8 do. 

2d Lt. Vicars, 1st Lt. do. 

Gent. Cadet, J. Chaytor, 2d. Lt. 15 Mar. 
The under-mentioned Gent. Cadets of the Hon. E. 
I. C, Service, to have the Temp. Rank as 2d 
Lieuts. during the Period of their being pla- 
ced under the Command of Lt. Col. Pasley, 
R. Eng. at Chatham, for Pield Instruction. 
H. B. Turner 8 Mar. 1826 

H. T. Pears do. 

A. de Butts do. 

E. Buckle do. 

A. Douglas. do. 

E. Lawford Jo- 

S. Best 8 Mar. 

R. Henderson do. 

G. B. Tremenheers do. 

F. Pelly do. 

F. C. Cotton do. 
W. H. Graham do. 

G. Patrickson do. 
W. M. Smyth do. 
T. M. B. Turner do. 

Hospital Staff. 

Surg. Allen, from 6 Dr. Surg. to the Forces, vice 
Stewart, h. p. 25 Mar. 1826, 

Staff As. Surg. Watson, do. vice Jebb, h. p. 

6 Apr. 

As. Surg. Smith, from 98 F. As. Surg. to the For- 
ces "25 Feb. 

Hosp. As. Portelli, do. 2 Mar. 

As. Surg. Thomson, from 6-i F. do, vice M'Do- 

gh, h. p. 
W. J. Breslin, Hosp. As. 
W. M. Ford, do. 
J. S. Graves, do. 
J. Stuart, do 
W. Smith, do. 
A. Smith, do. 
H. W. R. Davey, do. 
P. J. Meade, do. 
L. Leslie, do. 
A. Urquhart, do. 

'25 do. 
9 Feb. 
16 do. 

22 do. 


21 do. 


23 do. 


To be Lieut. Colonels of Infantry by purchase. 
Maj. Clayton, from 22 F. 8 Apr. 1826 

Arnold, from 10 Dr. do. 

Cant. Dawkins, from Gren. Gds. do. 

Maj. M'Adam, from 75 F. 22 do. 

Capt. Ellis, from Gren. Gds. do. 

To be Majors of Infantry by purchase. 

Capt. Beetham, from 26 F. 8 do. 

Farquharson, from 19 F. do. 

Hon. G. R. Abercromby from 3 Dr Gds. do. 

Bush, from Cape C. do. 

Johnston, from 17 Dr. do. 

Fraser, from 93 F. 22 do. 

Rowley, from 58 F. do. 

Webster, from 56 F. do. 

Campbell, from 49 F. do. 

Chadwick, from 86 F. do. 

To be Captains of Infantry by purchase. 

Lt. Macdonald, from 97 F. 8 do. 

Smyth, from 24 F. do. 

Corkran, from 7 Dr. Gds. do. 

Croasdaile, 3 F. do. 

Stewart, from 1 1 Dr. do. 

England, from 12 Dr. do, 

Gosselin, from 43 F. do. 

Smith, from 60 F. do, 

Eccles, from 1 Dr. do. 

Hamilton, from 81 F. do- 

Loftus, from 17 Dr. do. 

Stuart, from 12 Dr. do. 

Coghlan, from 64 F. do. 

Murray, from 56 F. do. 

Verstrume, from 41 F. do, 

Geddes, from 45 F. do. 

Browne, from 13 Dr. do. 

Keating, from 56 F. do. 

Clarke, from 84 F. do, 

Bentinck, from Coldst. Gds. do, 

Power, from Rifle Br. do 

Pounden, from 25 F. do. 

Dixon, from 5 F. Gds. do, 

Hon. J. Kennedy, from 5 Dr, Gds do. 

Marie, from 79 F. do. 

Ogilvy, from 44 F. do, 

Grubbe, from 49 F. do, 

Hon. J. Amherst, from 59 F. do- 

Hallifax, from 10 F. do. 

Doyle, from 63 F. do, 

Boates, from 64 F. do. 

Ramsden, from Rifle Brig. do. 

Townshead, from 79 F. do 

Williams, from 44 F. do- 

Hon. C. D. Blayney, from 7 F do. 

Dundas, from 15 Dr, do 

Maitland, from 85 F. do, 

Armstrong, from 16 Dr do, 

Butler, from 1 F. do, 

Agnew, from 4 Dr do 

Bigge, from 21 F to 


Lt Milterd, from 1 Lite Gds. do. 

- Hon. A. C. J. Browne, from 15 F. do. 

- D'Urban, from 27 F. do. 

- Mitchell, from 6 Dr. do. 
_ Lord W. F. Montagu, from Ceylon R. do. 

- Slade, from Rifle Br. 22 do. 

- Spooner, from 8 Dr. do. 

- Childers, from 41 F. 8 do. 

- Barton, from 15 F. do. 

- King, from 52 F. do. 

- Berkeley, from 28 F. do. 

- Smyth, from 16 Dr. do. 

- Hall, from 75 F. do. 

- Estridge, from 51 F. do. 

- Falconer, from Rifle Brig, do. 

- Pearson, from 99 F. 

- Deshon, from 33 F. 

- Amsinck, from 65 F. do. 

To be Lieutenants of Infantry by purchase. 
Cor. M'Douall, from 3 Dr. do. 

Ens. Sullivan, from 28 F. 
Cor. Skipwith, from 1 Dr. 
Ens. Schneider, from 12 F. 

- Hall, from 35 F. 

- Hughes, from 34 F. 

- Wainwright, from 99 F. 
Cor. Berguer, from 15 Dr. 
Ens. Wake, from 36 F. 

- Kellett, from 16 F. 

- Lloyd, from 93 F. 

To be Ensign* by purchase. 
P. Grehan 
L. C. Bayntum 
J. Arnold 
A. Moreau 
R. Donaldson 
O. B. D'Arcy 
W. G. Broadhurst 
G. Denshire 
C. Knox 
M. V. Abbott 
F. Q. Turner 
R. P. Lewis 

Appointments, Promotions, 6^c. 123 

Capt. Dunn, from 6 Dr. rec. dilt with Capt. Wig 
etherall, from 11 Dr. Capt Tomlinson, 

Lt Col. Sir C. Gordon, from 93 F. with Lt Col. 
M'Gregor, h. p. 

Barton, from 2 Life Gds. rec. diff. with 

Maj. Chichester, h. p. 

Maj. Luard, from 17 Dr. rec. diff. with Maj. Ba- 
con, h. p. 

Capt. Woodward, from 38 F. rec. diff. with Brev. 

Maj. Rains, 51 F. 

Colomb, from 5 Dr. G. rec. diff. with Capt. 

Hon. J. Kennedy, h. p. 

Down, from 6 Dr. rec. diff. with Capt. 

Portman, h. p. 

Black, from 6 Dr. rec. diff. with Capt. Ram- 
say, h. p. 

Resignations and Retirements. 

13 Dr. 
Palliser, from 12 Dr. rec. diff. with Capt 

Beresford, h. p. 
Allen, from Gren. Gds. do. with the Hori. 

Captain J. St Clair, h. p. 
Shawe, from Coldst. Gds. do. with Capt. 

Bentinck, h. p. 
Northey, from 3 F. Gds. with Capt Dix- 

on, 25 F. 
French, from 18. F. with Capt. Dalgliesh , 

28 F. 

French, from 22 F. receiving diff. with 

do. Capt. Pennefather, h. p. 

do. Harris, from 25 F. do. with Capt. Brown, 

Miller, from 24 F. do. with Capt. Smyth, 

h. p. 
Stephens, from 29 F. do. with Capt. Gos- 

selin, h. p. 

Frederick, from 51 F. do. with Capt. Tim- 
son, h. p. 
Maclachlan, from 75 F. do. with Capt. Ste 

venson, h. p. 
Lieut Stewart, from 2 Dr. Gds. with Lieut. Hon. 

R. Howard, h. h. 
Gamier, from 15 Dr. with Lieut Calla- 

ghan, h. p. 
Rawstorne, from 4 F. with Lieut. Griffith, 

h. p. 

Fletcher, from 19 F. with Lieut Price, h. p. 

O'Reilly, from 21 F. rec. diff. with Lieut. 

Evelegh, h. p. 
North, from 27 F. with Lieut. Dutton, 

New So. Wales Vet. Comp. 
Campbell, from 28 F. rec. diff. with Lieut. 

Gammell; h. p. 
Browns, from 29 F. with Lieut Thatcher, 

37 F. 
Waters, from 37 F. rec. diff. with Lieut. 

Custance, h. p. 25 Dr. 

Roberts, from 36 F. do. with Lieut. St 

Quintin, h. p. 

Bennet, from 47 F. with Lieut. Campbell, 

h. p. 77 F. 
Macdonald, from 81 F. with Lieut Howe, 

h. p. Nova Sco. Fenc. 
Hewetson, from 82 F. with Lieut Ashe, 

h. p. 101F. 

Macdonald, from 86 F. rec. diff. from 

Lieut Sidley, h. p. 

Brownrigg, from Rifle Brig. do. with 

Lieut. Sullivan, h. p. 

Oornet Shelley, from 13 Dr. with Cornet Berguer , 

h. p. 22 Dr. 
Ensign Abbott, from 57 F. rec. diff. with Ensign 

Kidd, h. p. 


22 do. 

8 do. 
22 do. 

Major General. 
Sir P. Ross, from 75 F. 


Gravatt, R. Inv. Eng. 
Castle, h. p. 6 F. 
Say, h. p. 99 F. 

Lieutenant- Colonels. 
Ogilvie, 11 F. 
Cowell, 42 F. 
Campbell, 50 F. 
Fitz Simon, h. p. York Chass. 
Hon. G. Carnegie, h. p. 110 F. 
Qrmsby, h. p. 63 F. 
Barrow, h. p. 43 F. 
Smith, h. p. 19 F. 
A. Bar. Beck, h. p. 2 Line Ger. L. 
Hawkshaw, h. p. Port. Serv. 
O'Halloran, h. p. 4 F. 
Tilt, h. p. 37 F. 

Walker, 5 D 
Graham, 1 F. 
Bamford, 73 F. 
Hughes, R. Art 
Scott, h. p. 26 F. 
Warburton, h. p. 96 F. 
Orr, h. p. 7 F. 
Williamson, h. p. 83 F 

Bagwell, h. p. 88 F. 
St George, 23 F. 
Gilbert, 26 F. 
Burgh, 25 F. 
Campbell, 98 F. 
Rrownson, 95 F. 
Colville, h. p. 15 F. 
North, h. p. Hompesch's Rif. 
Duff, h. p. 93 F. 
O'Hara, h. p. Port. Serv. 
Power, h. p. 5 Irish Brig. 
Elwyn, h. p. Warde's Reg. 
Algeo h. p. 8 Gar. Bn. 
De Linstow, h. p. Port Serv. 
Dennis, h.p. 41 F. 
Huxley, h. p. 82 F. 
Carnegie, h. p. 102 F. 
Gordon, h.p. 81 F. 
Earl of Mansfield, h. p. 44 F. 
Shore) h. p. 104 F. 
Manson, h. p. 15 F. 
Christie, h. p. 42 F. 
Chambers, h. p. 40 F. 
M'Innes.h. p. 42 F. 
Cartwright, h. p. Canad. Fen. 
Henley, h. p. 14 F. 
Ld. Dunwich, h. p. Nov. Sco. F 
Murray, late 3 Vet- Bn 

Earl of Cassillis, h. p. indep. Co. 
Macneill, h.p. 91F. 
Fulton, h.p. 12 Dr. 
Rainsford, h. p. 104 F. 
Stirling, h. p. 88 F. 
Durbin, h. p. 36 F. 
Gardiner, h. p. 3 F. 
Dickins, h. p. 90 F. 
Tuppenden, h. p. 56 F. 
Cornalet, h. p. 7 W. I. R. 
M'Crummen, h. p. 79 F. 
Dundas, h. p. 26 F. 
Maxwell, h. p. 42 F. 
Coppinger, h. p. 29 F. 
Jenkinson, h. p. 3 F. G. 
Edwards, h. p. 81 F. 
Le Royd, h. p. 82 F. 
Hoar, h. p. 10 F. 
Watson, h. p. 4 W. I. R. 
Zobell, h. p. 38 F. 
Kirwan, h. p. W. Ind. Rang. 
Kelly, h. p. 40 F. 
Richards, h. p. 71 F. 
Murphy, h. p. 7- W. I. R 
Fraser, h. p. 8 Dr. 
Ogilvy, h. p. Cape Regl. 
Smythe, h. p. 36 F. 
Irvine, late R. Gar. Bn 
Kirkland, h. p. 27 F 


Serle, h. p. 50 F. 

J. Campbell, jun. h. p. 91 F. 

Appointments, Promotions, At. 

Otter, h. p. Rifle Brig. 
Fox, h. p. 4 F. 
Bond, h. p. 31 F, 
Dowglass, h. p. 89 F. 
Harden, h. p. 34 F. 
Salmon, h. p. 23 Dr. 
Knivett, h. p. 11 Dr. 

Pemberton, h. p. 23 F. 

Maclean, 58 F. 

Floyer, 3 Dr. 
Gray, 41 F. 
Crofton, 54 F. 
Dempsey, Ceylon Regt. 
Bankes, h. p. 24 Dr. 
Harvey, h. p. 27 F. 
Grinseil, h. p. 38 F. 
Kendall, h. p. 48 F. 
Gregory, h. p. 38 F. 

List of Killed and n'onntini in Action 
with the Burmese, 2ot't X>>conbcr, and 
1st and 2d December, 1825. 
Killed. Lieutenants. 
Sutherland, 41 F. 1st Dec. 1825. 
Gossip, 41 F. do. 
Proctor, 38 F. 2d Dec. 1825. 

Wounded. Majors. 
Backhouse,' 47 F. severely, not dangerously. 2 

Dec. 1825. 
Gully, 7 F. slightly, do. 

Bowes, 87 F. slightly. 25 Nov. 1825. 

J. Gordon, 47 F. severely, not dangerously. 2 

J. G. Baylee, 87 F. dangerously (since dead.) 2 
Dee. 1825. 

J. Campbell, 1 F. (since dead.) I Dec. 1825. 

Lt. Gen. Skinner, late of 56 F. London 

9 April 1826. 

Col Barclay. Grenadier Gds. Aid- de-Camp to the 
King 28 March 

, Morrison, 44 F. 

Dunkin, 44 F. Dacca 11 Nov. 1825 

M'&lurdo, late of 31 F. London 11 Apr. 1825 

Lt. Col. Drummond, h. p. Unat on board the 
Ponoma, on passage to Jamaica 13 Jan. 1826 
Capt. Grindlay, 54 F. 

r^r-r T. Murray, 91 F. Up. Park Camp, Jamaica 

15 Jan. 

Ross, African Col. Corps, Sierra Leone 9 do, 

Farewell, 1 Somerset Mil. Tours, France 

7 Apr. 
Lieut Greg, 30 F. 1 Apr. 

., Proctor, 38 F. in action with the Burmese 

2 Dec, 1825 

Ami, h. p. 10 F. 

Booth, h. p. 37 F. 

Carey, h. p. 3 Prov. Bn. of Mil. 

Twiss, h. p. Nugent's Levy, 

Vane, h. p. 83 F. 

Plimpton, h. p. 25 F. 

Lynam, h. p. 10 F. 

Carie, h. p. 14 F. 

Crucss, h. p. 37 F. 

Harris, h. p. 99 F. 

Jagger, h. p. Staff Corp, 

Lieut. Sutherland, 41 F. do. 1 Dec. 1826. 

Gossip, do. do. do. 

Donaldson, 44 F. at sea 5 do. 

Paton, 44 F. Arrakan 4 do. 

Carr, 44 F. Fort William 17 do. 

T. Fraser, 54 F. on board the ship David 

Clarke, in Arrakan River 31 Oct. 

Considine, 54 F. Bangalore Oct. 

W. Moore, 54 F. Arrakan 22 Nov. 

J. G. Baylee, 87 F. in action vith the Bur- 
mese; 2 j>ec. 

Donald Turner, Afr. Col. Corps, Sierra Le- 
one 25 do. 

Bambrick, ret. list 2 Vet. Bn. Maryborough 

28 Nov. 

M'Carthy.ret. list 9 Vet. Bn. Devonport, 7 do. 

Jones, h. p. 81 F. Stafford 25 March 1826 

Scipioni, h. p. Corsican Ran. Santa Maura 


Johnston, h. p. 50 F. at Keith, Ranffsbhe 

10 March 

Maul, h. p. Roll's Reg. 4 do. 

Lieut. H. H. White, Ceylon Reg. on passage lo 
England 18 Dee. 1825 

Ens. J. Campbell, 1 F. in action with the Burmese 

1 Dee. 

French, 5 F. St Lucia 28 Feb. 182(i 

Sargeant, 54 F. 

75 F. Stirling 2 March 

Introino, h. p. 40 F. Malta 18 Feb. 

Paym. Skene, h. p. Rec. Dist. Durham 

16 Jan. 1826 

Sir W. Vachell, do. 

Adj. Lt. W. Spence, 2 W. I. R. 

Quar. Mas. Norman, 70 F. 

Stoddart, Herts Mil. 6 Apr. 1826 

Surg. Ferrer, 3 Lancashire Mil. 1 Feb. 

As. Surg. Ralph, 2 F. Colabah 16 Oct. 1825 

Vet. Sur. Trigg, 2 Dr. 27 March 1826 

Dep. As. Com. Gen. Damant, Cape of Good Hope 
22 Apr. 1825 


3 Dr. 

Brevet A. W. Young, late Lieut-Col, h. p. 3 W. 
I. R. rank of Lieut-Col, in West Indies 
only 4 May 1826 

Capt. Champagne, 20 F. Maj. in the Ar- 
my do. 
4Dr.Gds.Cor.Cuninghame, Lieut by purch. vice 
Osle, prom. 20 do. 

R. Holden, Cor. do. 

Ens. Cosby, from 61 F. Cor. by parch, 
vice M'Douall, prom. 4 do. 

Cor. Harvey, Lieut, by purch. vice Rich- 
ardson, prom. do. 

Surg. Alexander, from 2 F. Surg. vice 
Allan, prom. 20 Apr. 

T. J. Pettat, Cor. by purch. vice Vivian, 
prom. 4 May 

S. H. Ball, Cor. by purch. vice Miller, 
prom. ' do. 

Cor. Heneage, Lieut, by purch. vice Lord 
Fitz Roy, prom. 13 do. 

Sir St. V. Cotton, Bt. Cor. do. 

Lieut Kaye, Adj. vice Fitz Roy do. 

Cor. Vise. Frankfort de Montmorency, 
Lt. by purch. vice Knox, prom. 20 do. 

J. Pulteney, Cor. by purch. vice Hamil- 
ton, prom. 4 do. 

Cor. Ives, Lieut, by purch. vice Mus- 
grave, prom. 20 do, 

E Mortimer, Cor. do. 

Cor. Hon. R. F. Greville, Lieut, by purch. 
vice Massey, prom. do. 

S. W. Need, Cor. do. 

J, Wilkinson, Vet. Surg. vice Smith, h. p. 
27 AfS 


Cold.Gds. Lieut and Adj. Northey, rank of Lieut 
and Capt. 20 do. 

2 F. Lieut Mundy, Capt by purch. vice Ford, 

prom. 13 May 

Ens. Fisher, Lieut do. 

: Mac-Mahon, Ens. vice Torrens, dead 
10 Sept. 1825 

M. W. Lomax, Ens. by purch. 

13 May 182fi 

As. Surg. Campbell, Surg. vice Alexan- 
der, 6 Dr. 27 Apr. 

As. Surg. Wilkins, from Ceylon Reg. As. 
Surg. vice Ralph, dead 20 do. 

3 Lieut Antrobus, from h. p. 13 F. Lieut 

vice Ashhurst, cancelled 27 Mar. 

4 A. Lonsdale, Ens. by purch. vice Ruxton, 

prom. 20 May 

5 Lieut Champain, fromh. p. Lieut, (pay- 

ing diff.) vice Fleming, 49 F. 27 Apr. 

Quar. Mas. Simpson, from 7 F. Ens. vice 

French, dead 20 do. 

6 Staff. As. Surg. Campbell, As. Surg. vice 

Hood, cancelled do. 

7 Serj. Ledsdam, Quar. Mast, vice Simp- 

son, 5 F. do. 

10 Hon. S. White, Ens. by purch. vice Strick- 

land, prom. do. 

13 Hosp. Mate Brodie, As. Surg. vice Hen, 

derson, 89 F. do. 

14 Brev. Maj. Everard, Major, vice Tidy, 

44 F. 4 May 

Lieut Armstrong, Capf do. 

Ens. Layard, Lieut. do. 

Lieut. Grant, Adj. 1n 


Appointments, Promotions, c. 

Ens. Dea Veeux, Lieut by purch. vice 
Clunie, 55 F. 20 May 

W. S. Rason, Ens. do. 

T. Graham, do. 21 do. 

Ens. hooper, Adj. vice Clunie, prom. do. 
IS> Lieut. Sterling, Capt by purch. vice Tay- 

lov, prom. 13 do. 

Lieut Sargent, from 5S F. Capt. by 
purch. vice Bromhead, prom. do. 

J2 Capt Craster, Maj. by purch. vice Cath- 

cart, prom. do. 

Lieut Vivian, Capt. do. 

Ens. Mills, Lieut. do. 

E. T. Evans, Ens. do. 

24 Lieut. Walsh, from Staff Corps, Lieut, 

vice Robinson, h. p. 20 Apr. 

27 Lieut. Hay, from 41 F. Lieut, by purch. 

vice Voting, prom. 13 May 

J. Creach, -Ens, by purch. vice Maclean, 
prom. 20 Apr. 

29 Ens. Eaton, Lieut by purch. vice Cham- 

pain, prom. 20 May 

W. G. Alves, Ens. do. 

Serj. Maj. Morgan, Adj. and Ens. vice 
Foskey, res. Adj. only 27 Apr. 

As. Surg. Hawkey, from 4 F. As. Surg. 


$3 Ens. Lushington, Lieut, by purch. vice 

Morris, prom. 13 May 

C. J. Gardiner, Ens. do. 

14 Brey. Lieut-Col. Tiddy, from 14 F. 

Lieut-Col, vice Morrison, dead 4 do. 

46 J. Lacy. Ens. vice Cumming, dead 

20 Apr. 

49 Lieut Fleming, from 5 F. Lieut vice 

Barker, h. p. rec. dirf. 27 do. 

Lord Wriothesley Russell, Ens. by purch. 
vice Keating, prom. do. 

^0 Lieut Kennedy, from R. Eng. Lieut, 

vice Crofton, 91 F. 20 do. 

J. B. Rose, Ens. by purch. vice Baxter, 
prom. 8 do. 

Lieut. Gill, Adj. voce Crofton 20 do. 
As. Surg. Young, Surg. vice Micklam, 4 
Dr. Gds. 4 May 

Staff As. Surg. Young, As. Surg. do. 
32 C. F. Norton, Ens. by purch. vice Camp- 

bell, prom. 13 do. 

54 Lieut Gray, Capt vice Grindlay dead 

20 April 
Ens. Holt, Lieut vice Cousidine, dead 

12 Sept. 1825 
Dodd, from h. p. 20 F. Ens. 

20 April 1826 

55 Lieut. Clunie, from 17 F. Capt. by purch. 

vice Verity, 92 F. 20 May 

58 Hebden, Capt vice Rowley prom. 

13 do. 
Ens. Bell, Lieut by purch. vice Sargent, 

19 F. do. 
Hon. H. Howard, Lieut, by purch. 

14 do. 
60 As. Surg. Winterscale, from 71 F. Surg. 

vice Glasco, prom. 20 April 

Qua. Mast. Serj. Booth, Qua. Mast, vice 

Maxwell, ret full pay 4 May 

64 As. Surg. Campbell, from 52 F. As. Surg. 

vice Thomson, prom. do. 

76 Ens. Shepperd, Lieut, by purch. vice 

Grubbe, prom. 15 do. 

W. Ray, Ens. do. 

77 Hosp. As. Russell, As. Surg. viceO'Don- 

nell, h. p. 25 April 

78 Ens. Wilson, Lieut, by purch. vice Vassall, 

prom. 15 May 

T. Wingate, Ens. do. 

Ens. Bull, Adj. vice Cooper, res. Adj. 

only 4 do. 

83 Qua. Mast. Stubbs, Adj. and Ens. vice 

Swinburne, prom. 20 April 

Serj. Rusher, Qua. Mast. do. 

84 Lieut. Pack, Capt by purch. vice Shee, 

prom. 20 May 

Ens. Bulman, Lieut do. 

C. Hodgson, Ens. do. 

85 Ens. Hon. A. H. Ashley Cooper, Lieut. 

by purch. vice Wynyard, prom. do. 
Wynyard, Lieut, by purch. vice Lord 

Crofton, prom. 21 do. 

J. W. Fitzpatrick, Ens. 20 do. 

PS Ens. Halhday, Lieut, by purch. vice 

Nunn, prom. 4 doi 

E. Davis, Ens. 1 May 

88 Ens. Warburton, Lieut, by purch. vice 

Buller, prom. 20 do. 

G. Ac lorn, Ens. do. 

89 Lieut. Strovid, from h. p. Lieut, vice But- 

ler, cancelled 27 April 

Ens. Grav, Lieut vice Olpherts, dead 

4 May 

H. J. Dewes, Ens. vice La Roche, can- 
celled 3 do. 
C. Lee, Ens. 4 do. 
As. Surg. Henderson, from 15 F. Surg. 
vice Daun, h. p. 20 April 
9'J Capt Verity, from 55 F. Maj. by purch. 
vice Spink, prom. 20 May 
9 1 As. Surg. Burkitt, from 56 F. As. Surg. 
vice Renwicke, superseded 4 do. 

98 Ens. Eyre, Lieut, by purch. vice Doug- 

las, prom. 20 April 
Edie, from 1 W.I.R. Ens. do. 

99 F. Parr, Ens. by purch. vice Wainwright, 

prom. do. 

Rifle Brig. Gent Cadet, R. S. Smith, from R. 
Mil. Coll. 2d Lt. by purch vice Clithe- 
row, Coldst. Gds. 27 do. 

R. Staff Corps Lieut. Hughes, from h. p. Lieut, 
vice Walsh, 24 F. 20 do. 

1 W. I. R. J. L. Ormsby, Ens. by purch. vice 
Edie, 98 F. ' do. 

Ceyl. R. 2d Lt Rogers, 1st Lt. by purch. vice 
Lord W. Montagu prom. 4 May 

J. Edwards, 2d Lieut. do. 

Cape Corps J. F. Watson, Cor. by purch. vice 
Sargeant prom. do. 

R. E. Ind. Vol. Capt. Johnson, Adj. vice Dickin- 
son, res. 17 March 
Lieut. Hunt, Capt vice Johnson 24 April 
Ens. Parish, Lieut. do. 
G. Trevor, Ens. vice Codrington, res. do. 

Ordnance Department. 
Royal Artillery. 

Serj. Maj. Barker, Qua. Mast, vice Stewart 
dead 27 April 1826 

Royal Engineers. 

Gen. Cadet S. H. Knocker, 2d Lieut 

25 April 1826 

J. Coddington, do. do. 

C. Bailey, do. do. 

-. C. Ensor, do. do. 

W. H. Dennison, do. 


Lt Col. Hon. C. Gore. pep. Qua. Mast. Gen. to 
the Forces serving in Canada, vice Cock- 
burn 2 April, 1826 

Cockburn, Dep. Qua. Mast. Gen. to the 

Forces serving in Jamaica, vice Gore, do. 

Hospital Staff: 
To be Surgeons to the Forces. 
Surg. Glasco, from bO F. vice O'Maley, h. p. 

20 April 1826 

As. Surg. Bell, from Royal Afr. Col. Corps, vice 

Barry, h. p. do. 

Staff As. Surg. Hume do. 

To be Apothecary to the Forces. 
Dispenser of Medicines H. B. Burman, 

20 April 182C. 
To be Hospital Assistants. 

T. B. Sibbald 14 April 1826 

J. G. Fraser do. 

J. H. Sinclair do. 

S. Lightfoot 27 do. 

Chaplain's Department. 

Rev. B. C. Goodison, M. A. Chaplain to the 
Forces 17 April 1826 


To be Lieut.-Cols. of Infantry by purchase. 
Major Hora. G. Cathca'rt, fm. 22' F. 13 May 1826 

Spink, fm. 92 F. 20 do. 

To be Majors of Infantry by purchase. 
Capt. Bromhead, from 19 F. 13 May 182C 

Ford, fm. 2 F. do. 

Taylo-r, fm. 19 F. do. 

Shee, fm. 84 F. 20 do. 

To be Captains of Infantry by purchase. 
Lieut Lord Fitzroy, frn. 10 Dr. 

Ellis, fm. 13 Dr. 
Grubbe, fm. 76 F. 
Musgrave, fm. 15 Dr 
Ogle, fm. 4 Dr. G, 

13 May 1826 


Appointments, Promotions, 6fc. 

13 May 
20 do. 

Lieut. Morris, fra. 43 F. 

Young, fm. 27 F. 

Vassall, fm. 78 F. 

Wvnyard, fm. 85 F. 

Buller, 88 F. 

Lord Crofton, fm. 85 F. 

Champion, fm. 29 F. 

Hon. N. H. C. Massey, fm. 17 Dr. 

Knox, fm. 10 Dr. 

Wellesley, fm. R. H. G. 

To be Lieuts. of Infantry by purchase. 
Ens. Campbell, fm. 52 F. 15 May 1826 

Cor. Segrave, fm. Cape Co. 

Brown, fm. 16 Dr. 

Ens. Partridge, fm. 96 F. 

Ruxton, fm. 4 F. 

Cor. Penleaze, from 16 Dr. 

To be Ensigns by purchase. 
Francis Bland, 
Thomas Sidney Powell, 
Hon. Rich. Thomas Rowley, 
John Gregory, 
William Graham, 
Charles Benjamin Caldwell, 

20 do. 

13 May 1826 
20 do. 

The under-mentioned Officers, having Brevet rank- 
superior to their Regimental Commissions, have 

accepted Promotion upon half -pay, according to n 

the General Order of 25th April 1826. Lieut. Wai 

Br. Lt. Col. Wade, fm. 42 F. 4 May 1826 

Rainey, fm. R. Afr. Col. Corps, do. 

Goldie, fm. 66 F. do. 

Stewart, fm. 46 F. do. 

Brev. Major Watson, fm. 14 F. do. 

Belshes, fm. 29 F. do. 

Crowe, fm. 32 F. do. 

Huxley, fm. 70 F. do 

Baird, fm. 77 F. do. 

Hon. F. C. Stanhope, fm. 78 F. do. 

Creighton, fm. 91 F. do. 

Gore, fm. 95 F. do. 

Austen, fm. 25 F. do. 

Wright, fm. 15 F. do. 

Dudgeon, fm. 58 F. do. 

Capt Northey, from 25 F. with Brev. Lt.-CoI. 

Thorn, h. p. 
T. D. Burrowes, from 4 Dr. rec. diff. with 

Capt. Master, h. p* 
Rose, from 12 Dr. rec. diff. with Capt. Stuart, 

h. p. 

Maitland, from 13 Dr. with Capt. Lang, 8 F. 

Chepmell, from 65 F. rec. diff. with Capt. 

King, h. p. 
Macpherson, from 92 F. with Capt. Forbes, 

To be Lieut.-Cols. of Infantry. 
Br. Lt Col. Campbell, fm. IF. 4 May 1826 
-- Peebles, fm. 9 F. do. 

- M'Gregor, fm. 88 F. do. 

To be Majors of Infantry. 
Br. Lt. Col. M'Ra, fm. IF. '4 May 1826. 

Irving, fm. 28 F. 
Rowan, fm. 52 F 
Macleod, fm. 52 F. 


Lieut. Watson, from 5 Dr. G. rec. diff. with Lt. 

Loraine, h. p. 
Cochrane, from 47 F. with Lieut. Walker, 

h. p. 4 F. 
Shuckburgh, from 72 F. rec.diff. with Lt. 

Schneider, h. p. 
Ens. Henry, from 5 F. with Ens. Collins, h. p. ."> 

M'Intosh, from 16 F. with Hannagan, h. p. 

76 F. 

ALPHABETICAL LIST of SCOTCH BANKRUPTCIES, announced between the 1st of May 
and the 6th of June, extracted from the Edinburgh Gazette. 

Allardice, Archibald, and Co. printers and book- 
sellers in Edinburgh. 

Anderson, William, merchant in Dundee. 

Bowman, Alexander, wright and spirit-dealer, 
Tradeston of Glasgow. 

Cassels, John, distiller and dealer in spirits at 

Cowan, William, skinner in Greenock. 

Dobie, Robert, merchant and shipowner in Dy- 

Dunlop, James, cattle-dealer, Provenhall. 

Fraser, Simon, timber-merchant in Glasgow. 

Fox, Michael, quarrier and stone-merchant, Port 

Gardner, John, jun. hosier, Glasgow. 

Gibson, Thomas, merchant or spirit-dealer at 

Henderson and Thomson, builders, Stockbridge. 

Hillard, William, merchant and general agent, 

Jamieson, William M. and Co. wrights and tim- 
ber merchants in Glasgow. 

Johnston, James ad Son, tanners in Glasgow. 

Kerr, William, upholsterers, Paisley. 

Kirkwood, Robert, agent in Glasgow. 

Liddell, James, baker in Glasgow. 

Lnmgair, John, merchant and manufacturer in 

Mercer, Andrew, writer and builder in Paisley. 

M'Gown, D. and D. distillers in Glenmurray. 

M'Gregor, John and Co. calico-printers at Kelvin- 
haugh, near Glasgow. 

Macintosh, Alexander and Son, leather-dealers 
and tanners in Inverness. 

Mackay, Robert Alexander, merchant in Glas- 

Manners, Alexander H. writer to the signet, and 
builder in Edinburgh. 

Martin, William, merchant and manufacturer in 

Mitchell, John, merchant and manufacturer in 
St Ninian's, near Stirling. 

Mungall, Robert, spirit-dealer in Glasgow, and 
distiller at Mile-end, near Glasgow. 

Muir, Thomas, grocer and spirit-dealer in Kirk- 

Ogilvie, James and Co. shawl-manufacturers in 

Porteous, David, sen. and Co. grain-dealers, 

Porteous, Andrew, tailor and cloth-merchant in 

Rankine, Robert, cotton-yarn merchant in Glas- 

Robertson, William, distiller, Crossburn, Dum 

Robertson, Thomas, auctioneer, stoneware-mer- 
chant, and spirit-dealer, Glasgow. 

Rollo, Clement, tobacconist, Edinburgh. 

Smith, D. and Co. soda-makers at Port Dundas, 
and merchants in Glasgow. 

Smith, Robert, bleacher, Darnley, Renfrewshire. 

Snell, William, jun. manufacturer in Glasgow. 

Stirling, Francis, merchant and manufacturer in 

Thomson, John, horse-dealer, Burnbank, near 

Thomson, John, spirit-dealer and builder, North 

Thomson, John, slater in Edinburgh. 

Tweedie, Mrs Christian, haberdasher In Edin- 

Watt, Charles, merchant and auctioneer, Dundee. 

Weir, James, merchant and manufacturer in Ar 

Wilson, John and Son, wire-workers in Glasgow 

Monthly Register, <5>c. 




April 25. At Frederick Street, Mrs T. Rymer 
of a daughter. 

May 1. At London, the Right Hon. the Coun- 
tess of Airly of a son and heir. 

f. Mrs John Brougham of a son. 

6. At Stirling, Mrs Brown of Park of a son. 
At Logie Elphinstone, Mrs Dalrymple Horn 

Elphinstone of a son. 

At Brunswick Square, London, Lady Dal- 
rymple Hay of a daughter. 

7. At Id, Abercrornby Place, the Lady of Dr 
Adolphus M. Ross of a son. 

8. At Brighton Crescent, Portobello, Mrs Alex- 
ander Stephen of a son. 

At Gilmore Place, Mrs W. M. Bisset of a 
son. * 

At Edinburgh, Mrs Wotherspoon, George 
Street, of a son. 

At Broughton Place, Mrs Robert Blackie of 
a daughter. 

At Dalkeith, Mrs Dr Morison of a son. 

10. At 15, Duke Street, Mrs Dr Sanders of a 

11. At 18, Hill Street, Mrs Dr Gairdner of a 

12. Mrs John G. Kinnear of a daughter. 

13. At Wardie, the Lady of Captain J. D. Bos- 
wall, Royal Navy, of a son. 

15. At Corfu, the Lady of John Crawford, Esq. 
of Auchina>mes, Secretary to the Senate of the 
United Ionian Island?, of a son. 

16. At 13, St Andrew's Square, Mrs John James 
Boswell of a son. 

17. At Edinburgh, Mrs Heriot of Ramornie of 
a daughter. 

At 18, Scotland Street, Mrs Stormonth Dar- 
ling of a daughter. 

18. At Manor Place, the Lady of Dr Hibbert of 
a son. 

19. At York, the Lady of Sir William Foulis, 
Bart, of a daughter. 

20. At Dubun Street, Mrs George of a daugh- 

21. At 28, Queen Street, Mrs Borthwick of a 

At Galashiels, Mrs Farquhar M'Donald of 
three daughters. 

24. At Edinburgh, the Lady of Captain Deans, 
Royal Navy, of a daughter. 

At Edmonston, Mrs Lawson of Cairnmuir 
of a daughter. 

At Gilmore Place, Mrs George Berry of a 

26. At Glenkindy, the Lady of Sir Alexander 
Keith, K.C.B. of a son. 

27. At Windsor Street, Mrs Blaikie of a daugh- 

29. At 16, Dublin Street, Mrs Burnet of a son. 

30. At Dumbarnie House, Mrs Craigie of Dum- 
t-arnie of a son. 

31. At Sunnyside, near Montrose, the Lady of 
Captain Hunter of a son. 

At Raeburn Place, Mrs M'Bean of a son. 
June 1. At Whitehill, the Hon. Mrs Wardlaw 

of a son. 

2. Mrs Alexander Douglas, Albany Street, of a 

1. At 3, Drummond Place, Mrs Arthur Camp- 
r -'It of a daughter. 

Lately, Mrs A. Finlay, at 62, Castle Street, of 
a son. 


Dec. 19, 1825. At St Thomas's, Captain Robert 
Scott Wilson, Fort Adjutant, Madras, to Cathe- 
rine Alexia, fourth daughter of John Ewart, Esq. 
late of Newington, Edinburgh. 

March 1, 1826. At Malta, T. Akers Shone, Esq. 
Royal Artillery, to Margaret Aakerville, eldest 
Daughter of the late General Ross. 

April 28. At Edinburgh, Stephen Bennet, Esq. 
ol Greenfield, Colraine, Ireland, to Frances, 
youngest daughter of the late James Orr, Esq. 
of Thornlee Park, Paisley. 

29. At Naples, Thomas Bulkly, Esq. M.D. to 

Annp, second daughter of Dr Andrew Berry, Edin 

May 5. At Leith, Mr John Milne, jun. ship- 
master, MacdufT, to Jane, daughter of the late 
Mr Murdoch Cameron, merchant, Leith. 

8. At London, Lieut. Andrew Gardner, former- 
ly of the 27th Regiment, to Kliz<, daughter of the 
late Mr J. Lentz, of Sloan Street. 

At London, Peter Atkinson, Esq. of York, 
architect, to Miss Goodall, the vocalist. 

10. At Edinburgh, John Wilson, Esq. advocate, 
to Helen, only surviving daughter of the late Wil- 
liam Forbes, Esq. writer, Edinburgh. 

13. In Berkeley Square, London, John Bulteel, 
eldest son of John Bulteel, Esq. of Fleet, Devon, 
to Elizabeth, second daughter of Earl Grey. 

15. At Edinburgh, Thomas Borland, Esq. wri- 
ter, Kilmarnock, to Ann Bruce, only daughter of 
the late Francis Strachan, Esq. of the Hon. East 
India Company's Civil Service. 

Mr Alexander Clerk, 1, India Street, to Miss 
Ann Straton, eldest daughter of Mr Charles Stra- 
ton, Prince's Street. 

18. At Edinburgh, Donald Macdonald, Esq. of 
Lochinver, to Jessie, eldest daughter of the late 
Alexander Mackenzie, Esq. of Letterew. 

19. At St George's Church, Hanover Square, 
London, on the 19th instant, John Murray Na- 
smyth, Esq. only son of Sir James Nasmyth, of 
Posso, Bart, to Mary, fourth daughter of Sir John 
Marjoribanks of Lees, Bart, M.P. 

At Edinburgh, Thomas C. Smith, solicitor- 
at-law, 6, Howe Street, to Louise Sophie, only 
daughter of Mr Samuel Albert Peter, Neuveville, 
canton of Berne, Switzerland. 

23. At Burn Bank, Glasgow, Mr William White 
merchant, Cupar-Fife, to Margaret, youngest 
daughter of the late Andrew Marshall, Esq. of 

June 1. At London, Charles, second son of the 
late James Balfour, Esq. to Maria Caroline, daugh- 
ter of Sir John Edward Harrington, Bart. 

5. At Bonnington Lodge, John Dalrymple Mur- 
ray, Esq. of Murraythwaite, to Marion, daughter 
of William Hagart, Esq. 


Sept. 1.5. 182,5. At Dum Dura, near Calcutta, 
Mr Samuel Guise Thomson, son of Alexander 
Thomson, Esq. late a Captain in the 46th and 
100th Regiments. 

Nov. 30. At Chittagong, Lieut- John Graham 
Macgregor, of the Hon. East India Company's 
49th Regiment, Bengal Native Infantry. 

Dec. 4. At Chittagong, Lieut. Alexander Pit- 
cairn, of the 10th Regiment of Madras Native In- 
fantry, fourth son of the late Alexander Pitcairn , 
Esq. of Edinburgh, 

8. At Arracan, Andrew Wight, aged 20, Lieut, 
and Adjutant of the 10th Regiment Madras Native 
Infantry, youngest son of the late Lieut.-Col. An- 
drew Wight of Largnean, Dumfries-shire. 

12. At Popree, East Indies, David Shaw, Esq. 
youngest son of John Shaw, Esq. of Ayr. 

Mar. 2, 1826. At his seat of Moyhall, St Da- 
vid's, Jamaica, Alexander Mackintosh, Esq. of 

April 10. At Pau, in the South of France, Mr 
Andrew Kelly, second son of William Kelly, Esq. 

14. At the Manse of Kintail, the Rev. Roderick 
Morison, Minister of Kintail, in the 75th year of 
his age, and 47th of his ministry. 

22. At London, Mr Charles Inderwick, Tuffton 
street, Westminster. 

24. At Kirkdale, Ramsay Hannay, Esq. 

25. At her house, in &t Ann's Yards, Mrs Mar- 
garet M'Niven, widow of Mr Robert Playfair, 
writer, Edinburgh. 

At Orkee, Miss Helen Low, daughter of the 
late James Low of Leadenurquhart. 

28. At Girvan, the Rev. Thomas Thomson, 
minister of the United Secession Church. 

At Craignish Castle, John K. Campbell. 
Esq. writer to the signet, second surviving sou 
of Archibald Campbell, esq. of Jura. 


30. At his house, in Fisherrow, George Young, 
esq. one of the present magistrates of Mussel- 

Suddenly, at Musselburgh, Mr Francis 
Emslie, late factor for the Earl^of Wcmyss and 

At his lodgings, James's square, after a few 
days' illness, D. J. Stuart, esq. apothecary to the 

May 1. At Buxton, Mrs Bromby, formerly of 
the theatre royal, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Carlisle, 
Lancaster, Buxton, &c. 

At Edinburgh, Miss Mary Scott, daughter 
of the late Archibald Scott, esq. of Rossie. 

At his house, Meadow place, Edinburgh, 
Hugh Graham, Esq. late of Antigua. 

At Borgue House, Mrs Blair, wife of David 
Blair, Esq. 

At Caldra, Miss Charlotte Low, daughter of 
the late Alexander Low, Esq. of Laws. 

2. At Inverury, Miss Elizabeth Anderson, 
youngest daughter of the late Mr James Ander- 
son, merchant in Banff. 

3 At Moruingside, Margaret Buchanan, infant 
daughter of A. S. Crawford, Esq. 

At No. 6, Maitland street, Lieut. Robert 
Balderston,' 44th regiment Bengal Native Infan- 
try, third son of the late William Balderston, 
Esq. writer to the signet. 

At Kinloch, Fifeshire, Mrs Agnes Barclay, 
spouse of Mr Andrew Thomson of Kit loch, aged 
77 years. 

At Edinburgh, Mr George Stephen, foun- 

4. At Knockbay, near Campbeltown, Elizabeth, 
eldest daughter of Lieut.-Colonel John Porter of 

At Newton of Skene, Major Wm. Skene. 
aged 70. 

5. James Drummond, third son of Mr Orr, 13, 
Forth street. 

At Mellendea;i, Caroline Jamima, infant 
daughter of Sir Charles Leslie, Bart. 

6. At Greenhill Bank, near Edinburgh, Miss 
Janet Ewart, youngest daughter of David Ewart, 
Esq. of the Chancery office. 

8. At Ballyshannon, near Castlewellan, Samuel 
Cumming, aged 112. He enlisted in 1734, and 
served in various campaigns with the most distin- 
guished bravery. The amount of pension which 
he has received from government since his being 
discharged as unfit for service, is said to have been 
L.1523, 2s. He retained his mental faculties, and 
even his eye-sight, until a few days before his 

9. At 21, Melville street, John, second son of 
Robert Robertson, Esq. of Prenderguest. 

At London, Dr Alexander Russel, late of 

10. At Edinburgh, Mrs Helen Baillie, daughter 
of the late Lord Polkemmet, one of the senators 
of the College of Justice. 

At No. 48, Frederick street, Margaret, eldest 
daughter of the late John Elder, Esq. one of the 
depute-clerks of Session. 

At Edinburgh, Mr Hugh Mitchell, late 
flesher, Edinburgh. 

At Letham, Wilhelmina, infant daughter of 
William Jaffray, Esq. of Letham. 

At his house in Crieff, Mr M'Intyre of 

11. At Dunfermline, Mr Robert Hutton, wri- 
tor there, aged 68. 

At her house, George street, Miss Dirom, 
daughter of the late Alex. Diiom, esq. of Muir- 
tsk, Aberdeen. 

At Nicolson square, Mrs Isobel Jamieson, 
jelict of William Renton, Esq. 

Mrs Uphane Cochrane, wife of Mr Johnston, 

12. At Leith, Mr David Mure, agent there for 
the Commercial Banking Company of Scotland. 

12. At 5, Salisbury road, Newington, Thomas 
Pender, senior, lately" comptroller of stamp duties 
for Scotland. 

At 72, Queen Street, Mrs Ann Patterson, wife 
of Mr D. M'Lean, British Hotel. 

13. At Falkirk, Mr John Wardrop, surgeon 

At Cupar-Fife, Colonel David Boswell, late 
of the f^3d Regiment. 

At Dysart, Mrs Murray, relict of Mr William 
Murray, wine merchant, Canongate, aged 90. 

15. At Abbotsford, Lady Scott. 

At Edinburgh, Mrs Christian Reid, relict of 
James Bertram, Esq. of Belfield. 

ifi. At Newton Stewart, the Rev. James Black, 
minister of Penninghame, in the 72d year of his 
age, and 5"2d of his ministry. 

At Beliff, near Kaluga, to which place she 
was going, from Taganrok, lamented by all who 
had the happiness to know her, her Majesty the 
Empress Dowager Elizabeth of Russia. The 
health of this universally beloved Princess had 
been much impaired, especially within the last 
two months ; the most just grief at the irreparable 
loss which she had sustained in the winter had 
broken her heart. Her Majesty, before her mar- 
riage the Princess Louisa Maria Augusta, was 
the second daughter of the hereditary Prince 
Charles Louis of Baden, who died in 1801 ; she 
was born the 24th of Jan. 1779, and married in 
1793. Adorned with all the virtues that can dig- 
nify woman, she would have been worthy of the 
most splendid throne, had not fate placed her upon 

17. At her house, Gayfield Square, Mrs Marga- 
ret Andrew, widow of Mr Adam Matheson, of the 
Customhouse, Edinburgh. 

18. At Edinburgh, Mr William Frazer, eldest 
son of the late Mr Francis Fraser, S.S.C. 

At his house in Duke Street, Westminster, 
the Right Hon. Sir Archibald Macdonald, late 
Lord Chief Baron of the Court of Exchequer. 

At Dublin, Mrs Jessy Magee, wife of Robert 
Magee, Esq. and daughter of Richard Prentice, 
Esq. Prince's Street, Edinburgh. 

19. At Toftcombs, Biggar, Margaret, youngest 
daughter of James Gladstone, Esq. 

In Piccadilly, London, Lady Mary Anna 
Primrose, second daughter of the Earl of Rose- 

At the Manse of North Berwick, Robert Bal- 
four, eldest son of the Rev. Robert Balfour Gra- 
ham, minister of North Berwick. 

At Lathrisk House, Fifeshire, Mrs Jean 
Dobie, aged nearly 10<> years. 

21. At Lauriston, Mrs Howden, senior. 

22. At High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, in 
his 19th year, Mr Thomas Smith, of Pembroke 
College, Oxford, son of the late James Smith, 
Esq. Edinburgh. 

23. Mr David Hood, writer, Glasgow. He was 
unfortunately drowned while bathing in the rea 
off Springfidd, near Gourock. 

At West Kirk Manise, Margaret, Anne, 
youngest daughter of the Rev. David Dickson. 

Lately, at 67, Great King street, Edinburgh, 
Mrs Janet Dewar, relict of Alex. Dewar, Esq. 

At his house, Weymouth Street, London, the 
Hon. Augustus Phipps, commissioner of Excise. 

At Plymouth, Lieut.-Colonel Westropp, 
royal marines. 

At Hot-wells, Bristol, Miss Mary Home, 
niece of the late Alex. Home, Ksq. of Whitfield. 

At Gowan Bank, Mr John Hamilton, jun. 
timber-merchant in Glasgow. 

At Cairniehill, Fife, Mr Robert Rymer, late 
merchant in Edinburgh. 

_ In Africa, Captain Pearce and Dr Morrison, 
who accompanied Captain Clapperton to the coast 
of Africa, for the purpose of proceeding into the 
interior of that continent-. 

Printed hy James Bal.'antiine and (!omp.iny, Edinburgh. 



No. CXV. 

AUGUST, 1826. 



People in general have no notion 
what awkward cubs they are, and how 
exceedingly unlike Christians. Out 
of every score you meet, is there one 
whose external demeanour has not 
something absurd or offensive? Yet 
they are all manifestly trying to do the 
decent and the decorous ; and as they 
hurry by in every imaginable form of 
awkwardness, believe themselves ad- 
mired from every window, and doing 
execution from thrice-sunk story to 
devil-dozenth flat. Of their mental 
powers, men in society are made to 
form, in general, a pretty fair estimate, 
but they are often sadly out respecting 
corporeals. An individual, at the Scotch 
bar, we shall say videlicet an advo- 
cate masters, as he thinks, a case, 
and his copious speech overflows the 
bench, and reaches up to the knees of 
the President. But the opposite coun- 
sel does not leave him a leg to stand 
upon. Judge after Judge demolishes 
his argumentation, and the case is 
given against him unanimously, with 
costs. This occurring constantly, our 
friend gets suspicious of himself, and, 
in a few years, joins the gentlemanly 
men, who are not anxious for business. 
But he is not to be so driven from his 
faith in natural and acquired bodily 
abilities. They are never brought 

into any very formidable competition ; 
he can stand, walk, dance, ride, swim, 
and skate, always better than some one 
or other of his fellow-citizens similarly 
engaged ; and thus he may continue 
to the close of a long and respectable 
life in the belief, that he has all along 
been a Cupid, a Castor, a Meleager, 
an Antinous, or an Apollo. 

Now, the truth is, that not one man 
in a thousand knows even how to sit 
still. Watch the first friend you see 
sitting, and you will not fail to be 
shocked with his position so repug- 
nant to the laws of nature. The 
chance is that he does not even know 
on what part of his body nature in- 
tended him to sit. See ! he is vainly 
attempting to sit on his hip-joints ! 
and that, too, on a cane-chair. The 
most obtuse soon discovers his mis- 
take, and seeks to rectify the error by 
suddenly bouncing from the left hip- 
bone to the right. The intermediate 
quarter never occurs to him, obvious 
as it is. And then, look at his feet, 
sprawling out into the middle of the 
floor, as if with his toe he sought to 
stop the currency of a half-crown, 
leaping into unintended circulation ! 
With one hand in his breeches pocket, 
the other arm and elbow seemingly 
bound with cords to the back of his 

* An Elementary Course of Gymnastic Exercises ; intended to develops and im- 
prove the Physical Powers of Man ; with the Report made to the Medical Faculty of 
Paris on the Subject ; and a new and complete Treatise on the Art of Swimming. By 
Captain P. H. Clias. London, printed for Sherwood & Co, 


chair, and his head dangling over like 
that of a sick harlequin, why, he se- 
riously calls that Sitting ! 

Now, as it is universally admitted 
that we must creep before we walk, 
so is it equally palpable that we must 
si: before we stand. Captain Clias, 
therefore, should have begun with 
Sitting as the first branch of Gymnas- 
tic Exercises: and his instructions here 
too should have been illustrated by 
plates. The difficulty is not so much 
in the theory as in the practice. The 
golden rule has been already hinted 
it in taking your seat, consult and 
obey nature don't imitate with your 
back the poker, nor with your legs the 
tongs, nor with your feet the shovel. 
Sit at your ease, but not at your im- 
pudence no sort of scratching allow- 
ed ; and never cease to remember that 
you are not at present exercising with 
the dumb-bells. The characteristic 
of gentlemanly sitting is animated 

By the by, we are wrong in stating 
Sitting to be the first branch of gym- 
nastics, for manifestly the first branch 
is Lying. Unless a man lie well, 
he must never hope to be a good sit- 
ter. Observe that person lying on a 
sofa. One leg drawn up with crook- 
ed knee an arm awkwardly twisted 
round the neck and to crown the 
horror, the monster is snoring on the 
flat of his back ! When he starts from 
his doze, what sort of sitting, pray, 
can you expect from such a lier ? A 
soft bed has been the ruin of many 
men. The human frame sinks into 
grotesque attitudes in the yielding 
down, and the luxurious rest ener- 
vates and dissolves. Nothing like a 
hair mattress above the feathers ! and 
oh ! from the bright, balmy, blooming 
heather-bed, elastic in its massy sweet- 
ness, how like a giant refreshed with 
mountain dew, springs up the pedes- 
trian at first touch of the morning 
light from the sheiling-door shakes 
hands with the new-risen sun, nor in 
the bounding fever of his prime, en- 
vies the rushing of the eagle's wing ! 

In Gymnastic Exercises, after Lying 
and Sitting, comes, as we said, Stand- 
ing. Some unfortunate persons there 
are, who can neither lie, sit, nor stand; 
but the generality of mankind can be 
brought to do all three sufficiently 
well for the common purposes of life. 
Dancing masters teach showy, but not 
sound, Standing. That of the 

nor t)f fencing is elegant arid effective 
in his own academy, but formal in 
the drawing-room. The drill-ser- 
geant's is better for ordinary use, yrt 
smacks, in its stiffness, too much of 
parade. The system of the gymna- 
siarch alone is suited for society ; and, 
of all modern gymnasiarchs, Captaia 
Clias is facile princeps. 

If you wish to stand well in the 
eyes of the world, do as follows : 

' At the word of command ' Fall in,* 
ail the boys advance upon the same 
line, preserving between each other the 
distance of the arm's length. At the 
word, c Dress/ each boy places his 
right hand on the left shoulder of the 
next, extending his arm at full length, 
and turning his head to the right. At 
the word, ' Attention,' the arms fall 
down by the side, and the head returns 
to the first position. The master places 
the boy, in the following manner : the 
head up, the shoulders back, the body 
erect, the stomach kept in, the knees 
straight, the heels on the same line, and 
the toes turned a little outwards. All 
things being thus arranged, the master 
standing in front, announces the exercise 
they are going to perform, taking care 
above all to explain clearly the move- 
ments which each boy ought to make. 
For example : Ordinary step, in place, 
explanation. At the word, ' Hips,' 
each boy places his hand on his sides, ex- 
tending his fingers round the waist, and 
remains so." 

Look around among and over your 
family, and friends, and acquaintances, 
and perhaps among them all you will 
not find a first-rate Stander. This 
gentleman turns in his toes and that 
gentleman stands in the opposite ex- 
treme, and the third gentleman seem* 
to be very much in-knee'd, while the 
fourth gentleman is most unconscion- 
ably bandy. What the deuce does 
our friend in the long cloth gaiters 
(genteelest of wear) mean by dancing 
about in that guise, like a hen on a 
hot gridiron ? He is ignorant of the 
very first principles of Standing. Then, 
why will you, my eloquent and brawny 
Man of the Manse, keep drawing 
figures in the dust with your iron- 
armed heel, all the time you are ex- 
patiating on your augmentation of 
stipend ? In short, the power of sit- 
ting still is a rare accomplishment ; 
but we really begin to suspect that to 
stand still is absolutely impossible. 
We cannot charge our memory, at this 
moment,, with one person, male or fe- 



male, who can do it >, yes one we re- 
collect, but he shall be anonymous, 
whom we saw some seven years ago 
"Standing for the County," and he, 
without moving a muscle, did for a 
week's broiling weather stand perfectly 
stock-still, at the bottom of the poll. 

Supposing then, for a moment, that 
.you can lie, sit, and stand, you come 
naturally enough to think of Walk- 
ing. But a very little reflection will 
suffice to show, that walking is by no 
manner of means so easy an affair as 
is generally imagined, and that to do 
it well, is, at the very least, as difficult 
as to play on the violin. Should any 
of our readers doubt this, let him read 
Captain Clias, and he will be satisfied 
of the truth of the apothegm. So nu- 
merous and intricate are his rules on 
this department of gymnastics, that 
we see at once that it requires not only 
good feet to walk well, but a good 
head also ; and let no man who does 
not, in every sense of the word, pos- 
sess a sound understanding, ever hope 
to be a Pedestrian. 

But before treating the subject ac- 
cording to the laws of physical science, 
Captain Clias considers it, as we may 
.say, in a moral and picturesque light. 
J'irst of all, he well observes, that in 
** speaking of the walk, we mean that 
graceful and noble movement, by means 
of which the body, in transporting itself 
from one place to another, might in- 
crease or diminish the rapidity of its 
movements, without deranging its equi- 
librium, or the union of the parts in 
action. To walk is to make progres- 
sive movement. The body rests a^ mo- 
ment on one foot whilst the other is ad- 
vanced ; then the centre of gravity of 
the body is made to fall from one foot 
upon the other, &c. It might be object- 
ed, that, generally, everybody knows 
how to walk, when not hindered by de- 
fects of conformation or accidental mis- 
fortunes ; but our own experience has 
convinced us of the contrary ; and if 
we give attention, we shall often have 
occasion to remark, that we see very 
few persons, however well formed, 
who in walking preserve a really erect 
position, and an air of becoming con- 
fidence and dignity. This movement, 
well executed, evinces not only the 
force of the body, but, more than is 
commonly thought, perhaps, the mo- 
ral character of the individual. Walk- 
ing may be considered in three diffe- 
rent respects; first, with regard to 

beauty, secondly to resistance, and 
thirdly, to promptitude." 

But we cannot refuse ourselves the 
pleasure of extracting the Captain's 
philosophical panegyric on Walking. 
It reads like a bit of Bacon, Locke, or 

Walking in general. 

" There are few motions in the human 
economy, says Barbier, which habit re- 
gulates more powerfully than walking. 
This mechanical motion, which is first ac- 
quired and formed by long practice, be- 
comes in time quite habitual, so that this 
peculiar motion, voluntary as it is, ap- 
pears in a manner mechanical. If we arw 
put in motion in consequence of a first 
determination, habit alone guides us ; it 
hastens, precipitates, or slackens our gait. 
It is the habit of walking or resting which 
gives or deprives us of the use of our 
limbs. Repose, or inaction even, too 
much indulged, takes away a wish to 
walk, whereas daily exercise, gradually 
increased in proportion to the augmenta- 
tion in strength, generally makes most 
men good walkers. Thus recruits in in- 
fantry regiments, who are very much fii 
tigued by the first march, become so 
much accustomed to it, that in a short 
time they are enabled to support the 
longest journeys. The principal qualiti-os 
of walking, such as its rapidity, its dura- 
tion, the capability we have for continu- 
ing it, and its peculiar character, do not 
only vary with respect to the circum- 
stances which we have taken into con- 
sideration : we see, in fact, 1st, (for its 
quickness,) that the harmony of action 
which is establishedbetween several per- 
sons walking together in the same direc- 
tion, causes each to acquire, almost in- 
sensibly, the same step, consequently 
that which is common to one person is 
move or less accelerated by another ; we 
know, also, that many affections of the 
mind animate or retard the usual rapidity 
of the step, according to the peculiar dis- 
position which they affect. In marches, 
which are regulated by music, the quick, 
ness of the step is entirely governed by 
the time. The general and the charging 
step accelerate the walk almost to a run, 
while a different beat of the drum pro- 
duces quite a contrary effect. 

" 2dly. The duration of the walk in- 
fluenced by the age, the sex, the tempera- 
ment, and the peculiar pace, may be a- 
bridged or prolonged by several circum- 
stances. Everybody knows that plea- 
sant journeys, amusing and interesting 
exercises, such as hunting, shooting, %. 
are continued whole days without an ide> 

of fatigue, but when we are accompanied 
by ennui and disgust, we feel, even in the 
shortest journeys, the necessity of rest. 
According to Chardin (Voyage en Perse), 
and Marshal Saxe (Reveries), the charms 
of music, or even a simple march or sound, 
executed in time, enlivens the loitering 
step of men walking in a body, to such u 
degree, that we see soldiers, who are ha- 
rassed by a long day's march, apparently 
regain their strength, and walk gaily on 
as soon as they feel their steps animated 
and regulated by the beat of the drum. 
Sdly, and lastly; let us recall to mind, 
with respect to the peculiar character of 
walking, that it is lively, light, and very 
' irregular in children, women, and nervous 
persons ; slow, like drawling or sleeping, 
in phlegmatic persons ; grave, steady, 
and with measured steps, in old men, in 
public ceremonies, &c. and it is heavy 
with the labourer, who is accustomed to 
walk under the pressure of weighty bur- 
dens. Walking on the toes, the wolf's- 
step, the giant's-step, and that which is 
named, on account, of its slowness, the 
tortoise-step, are so many different modes 
of progression ; the distinct character of 
each agrees with the name which has 
been appropriated to it by use. Other 
locutions still, such as walking proudly, 
majestically, looking at the feet, walking 
boldly, with a timid step, &c. prove also, 
that this infinitely varied action adapts 
itself, in several circumstances, to our 
sentiments and ideas. 

" Walking, so important a part of loco- 
motion, fulfils, in the animal economy, 
several functions to which we cannot re- 
fuse a special attention. It is principally 
by the help of walking that man, who 
moves voluntarily wherever he pleases, 
acquires the facility of satisfying many of 
his desires, and of divesting himself of 
the painful impressions which assail him. 
After prolonged rest, walking becomes 
more or less pleasing, in as much as it 
satisfies the internal impulse which in- 
duces us to move. Everybody knows 
that if we are fatigued by walking, walk- 
ing in its turn destroys the bad conse- 
quences we feel from inaction. This 
motion, accompanied by the exercise of 
external sensations, which it promotes 
more or less in several circumstances, is 
itself under the immediate influence of the 
sight, as is proved by the impossibility of 
walking in a straight line, for example, 
without the help of this sense, the un- 
easiness we feel, and the dangers by which 
we fancy ourselves surrounded in the 
dark. In groping along, we call the 
sense of feeling to our assistance, and 
this in some measure replaces sight. We 

have seen before, that oral impressions, 
which are produced by music, act power- 
fully on the character and length of the 
walk. Walking (and particularly soli^ 
tary walking) ripens the ideas, developes 
the memory, and generally becomes a 
very good auxiliary to the work of the 
mind. Most of those who meditate a 
subject deeply, really feel the necessity of 
walking. It is a well-known fact, that 
men who compose, when they are de- 
prived of their usual exercise in the open 
air, feel their ideas burst forth in pacing 
their libraries. These sort of square 
steps as they are called, in relieving the 
body, leave full liberty to the mind. 

" This exercise relieves also our moral 
faculties, it diverts melancholy people, 
and offers the lazy a great resource against 
ennui. We know how well this exercise 
is calculated to dissipate gloomy ideas, 
the vapours of melancholy, and hypochon- 
driacal affections. Ideas by their parti- 
cular nature, and the affections of the 
soul, re-act in their turn on walking. 

" We know that hope, desire, and fear, 
give wings, that terror and fright paralire 
the legs, and make us immovable, and 
that warlike ardour, or the love of glory, 
which fires the soldier, makes him climb 
almost inaccessible heights, at which he 
would shudder in his cooler moments. It 
is the same influence which accelerates 
the movements of a victorious army, 
while everything seems to retard the 
progress, and discourage the exertions, of 
the vanquished. Walking is to locomo- 
tion, as it is indicated by the order of its 
progressive motion, the most simple, the 
most natural, and the most proper, to 
promote the general developement of the 
strength of the inferior extremities. 

" As far as regards expression, or the 
manifestation of the sentiments and ideas, 
what we have before said of its connexion 
with thought, proves that it becomes, by 
the different characters which it takes, 
according to our moral situation, a prin- 
cipal part of mimicry ; it contributes also 
with the latter in, presenting to the at- 
tentive physiologist, the distinguishing 
features of the predominating ideas, as 
well as those of the constitution, or of 
the physical and moral temperament. 
Walking exercises most of the internal 
functions, and the general motion which 
it communicates} seems to spread itself 
over almost all the organic phenomena; 
it provokes appetite, assists digestion, 
&c. it accelerates the general circulation, 
which loses its quickness by inaction and 
rest, and it exerts the same influence on 
respiration. Walking brings forth indi- 
rectly, but in a very safe way, the fluids 


l o the skin, and increases the cutaneous 
exhalation, it augments the calorification, 
and makes us capable of resisting the 
most rigorous cold. It is -by walking 
pnly, that the inhabitants of the north 
resist the lethargic influence of the frost. 
By the daily exercise which it procures, 
walking, in fact, produces the good state 
of nutrition of all the organs. In consi- 
dering the connexion which it has with 
all the functions of animal economy, we 
can easily conceive that this exercise con- 
stitutes a very important part of the die- 
tetic, and that it is prescribed most ad- 
vantageously to weak persons, to child- 
ren, to convalescents, and in the greater 
part of those chronic diseases which de- 
pend on the general diminution of the 
strength. When it is taken in modera- 
tion, this is one of the best known ex- 
ercises; the abuse of it only can injure 
and enervate, in the same way that every 
other exercise does which we take be- 
yond our strength. We can also add, that 
a measured and continued walk, in con- 
suming a considerable portion of the ce- 
rebral action which presides over move- 
ment and sensation, diminishes the more 
the functions which belong to senti- 

No one, surely, after this, will deny 
that to walk well is at once useful and 
ornamental. It is obvious, however, 
that the bodily dispositions and daily 
habits have the greatest influence on 
the Walk, and therefore it is advanta- 
geous to accustom young persons early 
to a great variety of elementary exer- 
cises, in order to destroy in their ori- 
gin the bad habits which they are in- 
clined to contract, and to prevent, at 
the same time, many corporeal defects. 
Nothing is more common than to hear 
mothers affirm that their children 
(little prodigies) walk at fourteen 
months; yet look at the father of 
them, and you see he cannot walk at 
forty years. The honest man merely 
hobbles. The truth is, and we may as 
well say it boldly at once, not one man 
in as many thousands can walk. Lay 
down Maga and look out of the win- 
dow. Why, surely, you cannot so con- 
travene your conscience as to say, that 
yonder gentleman coming round the 
corner of the street is walking he is 
just as much flying. Indeed it is but 
too certain that he is attempting to 
fly. See how his arms are flapping 
like wings his neck stretched out like 
that of a wild-goosehis tail labori- 
ously lifted with its long flaps from 
the pavement, and his body rolling 

about after the fashion of a tar-barrel. 
That, he and most of his friends ima- 
gine to be walking, but we and Cap- 
tain Clias know better. Whatever it 
is, most assuredly it is not walking 
nor will it ever be walking on thiai 
side of the grave. To get on at the 
rate of four miles an hour so would 
require the strength of a dray-horse. 
What a sudden relief given to all the 
rest of his days, were that man, all at 
once, as by a miracle, to walk ! He 
would feel as if he had laid down a 
burden that had been borne since his 
birth-day. To him, up and down hill 
would be all on the same level. But, 
oh dear ! only see him now walloping 
up stairs like a porpus climbing a lad- 
der ! However, we have his address, 
and shall send him a copy of Captain 

We find it impossible to abridge the 
Captain's theory of Walking. Suffice it 
to say, it treats clearly and concisely 
of Changes in Place Double Step 
Triple Step Oblique Step Cross 
Step French Step Walkingon Heels 
the broken Step the Tick-Tack-- 
Balancing on one Leg Pace of Three 
Times the Cross Touch the Touch 
of the Heel Changing the Guard, 
&c. Let no man imagine that he can 
walk, unless he has mastered all these 
manoeuvres. The one leads on to the 
other a new set of muscles being 
daily strengthened into so much whip- 
cord ; and the only difficulty, at the 
end of a year's exercise, is to sit or 
to stand still, the whole frame being 
so uncontrollably saturated with loco- 

One species of walking (exercise 
IX.) is somewhat startlingly called 
Kicking, and is thus described. 


" This exercise consists in throwing 
the feet alternately straight forward, as if 
forcibly striking at some object in front, 
and it may be made either advancing or 
retreating. When well performed, it acts 
powerfully on the muscles of the back 
and other parts of the body. It is also 
very useful as a means of defence against 
the attack of an animal, and in many 
other cases. The inhabitants of the 
mountains, in many European countries, 
fight in this manner, without making use 
of their hands, which they place in theit 
bosoms or on their backs." 

No doubt, Kicking may, as the Cap. 


tain says, " be very useful at> a means 
of defence," but to us it has always 
seemed preferable in the way of of- 
fence. It is seldom used in civilized 
society against the human species, ex- 
cept when the object of attack is on the 
retreat, and it is always confined to the 
same quarter. We are somewhat scep- 
tical of its efficacy against any other 
animal except, perhaps, a pug-dog, 
muzzled in apprehension of hydro- 
phobia. We should be tardy in kick- 
ing a mastiff or a bull-dog still more 
so in kicking a bear, a bull, or a bo- 
nassus. Captain Clias assures us in a 
note, that the Highlanders in Scotland 
fight after the fashion stated in the 
text ; that is to say, they fight with 
their hands in their bosoms, or on 
their backs ! They are no great pu- 
gilists certainly, but, our dear Cap- 
tain, they do use their hands, once 
perhaps every five minutes, ^luring 
a battle. Your Celt is slow, and his 
favourite figure is the circle. Could 
he be taught to hit out straight, he 
would often be an ugly customer. The 
boxers in the interior of Africa hit, 
Clapperton tells us, with the heel on 
the jugular ; and in that amusing far- 
rago of fact and fiction, the " Customs 
of Portugal," the compiler tells us of 
a Black killing, in like manner, two 
hackney- coachmen, who had insulted 
him, right and left beneath the ear, 
and on the pit of the stomach. Kick- 
ing, however, is a branch of walking 
that cannot be too rarely practised, 
and may be left to the subjects of Sul- 
tan Bello and Ching-hong. Should 
any drunken carter or other cannibal 
lift his ugly foot with any such intent 
do as we did last Thursday at New- 
ington catch hold of the proffered 
boon, and fling the proprietor head 
over heals into the kennel. 

Having thus touched very slightly 
on Lying, Sitting, Standing, and Walk- 
ing, Kicking included, we come in due 
course to Running. But hear the Cap- 

Running in general. 

" Running only differs from walking by 
the rapidity of the movements. It may 
be seen by that how useful and natural it 
is to man. The advantages which this 
exercise produces are incalculable: its 
salutary effects operate in a very visible 
manner on the individual who practises 
it, and are re-produced in a great many 
circumstances of life. Running favour* 

the developement of the chest, dilates the 
lungs, and, when it is moderate, preserves 
this precious organ from the most dan- 
gerous and inveterate diseases. 

" This exercise, in contributing much 
to render us healthy and vigorous, may 
also enable us to avoid innumerable dan- 
gers. In effect, how many persons have 
been victims to their incapacity in this 
exercise ! How many unhappy soldiers 
would have escaped a hard captivity, and 
even a cruel death, if they had been ac- 
customed in their youth to run fast and 
long. Often do unforeseen circumstances 
oblige us to hold our breath a long time, 
and to run with the greatest possible ra- 
pidity, when our dearest interests force 
us to the rescue of those whom we most 
dearly cherish ; and our own preservation 
may frequently depend on the celerity 
with which we pass over any given dis- 
tance. What are the consequences of .an 
exercise so violent, when we have not 
been previously prepared for it ? Some- 
times the most serious diseases, the vex- 
ation to see an enterprise fail on which 
our welfare depended ; or, what is still 
more cruel, to see persons the most dear 
to us perish before our eyes, whom we- 
might, have saved had we arrived a few 
seconds sooner." 

We also cordially agree with Cap- 
tain Clias iii all the following senti- 
ments : 

" Without the fear of hazarding too 
much, we may assert, that it is the same 
with running as it is with walking. It' 
we see but very few persons run with 
grace and agility, we see still fewer run fast, 
and continue it for a long time. There 
are many who can scarcely run a few- 
hundred paces without being out ot 
breath and unable to go farther, because 
they perform that movement under a real 
disadvantage. Some, by swinging their 
arms with too much violence, agi.tate the 
muscles of the breast, arid thereby com- 
press the movement of respiration ; 
others, by bending their knees, and 
throwing them forward, and by making 
long paces, fatigue themselves very soon, 
and also lose a great deal of time. Those 
who raise their legs too high behind, ad- 
vance but very little, though they labour 
very much. It is also very disadvanta- 
geous whilst running, to throw the up- 
per part of the body backward, to take 
too large strides, to press too hard upon 
the ground, and to respire too rapidly. 
To run fast and gracefully, one should, as 
it were, graze the ground with the feet, 
by keeping the legs as straight as possible 
whilst moving them forward, raise one's 
self from one foot upon the other \\Uh 

great velocity, 'and make lh movements 
of the feet rapidly succeed each other. 
During the course, the upper part of the 
body is inclined a little forward, the arms 
are, as it were, glued to the sides, and 
turned in at the heights of the hips, the 
hands shut, and the nails turned in- 

Although never in the army, we 
have frequently saved our lives by 
running once, more particularly, in 
presence of the enemy, an enormous 
red bull, with dagger horns, a tufted 
tail shockingly perpendicular, and a 
growling roar like that of a royal Ben- 
gal tiger. We had not then read Cap- 
tain Clias but if we had, we should 
have made a more scientific escape. 
The Lord of Herds was reposing with 
shut eyes behind a rock, on the breast 
of a Highland mountain, when we, 
who were laden with a three-stone 
knapsack, fishing-creel, and salmon- 
rod, stumbled upon his majesty. For 
an animal sixty stone weight, fourteen 
pound to the stone, he possessed great 
agility. Yes although neither had 
he, any more than ourselver, read Cap- 
tain Clias, he was a proficient in ' ' run- 
ning in general." Not twenty yards 
law did he allow the Editor of this 
Magazine, then an active stripling 
for Christopher North was once young 
and, at first starting, he took a most 
unfair, a most ungentlemanly, and un- 
John-Bull-hke advantage, by meeting 
us right in the face, beyond the ear- 
liest knowe in our career. As one 
good turn deserved another, we hit 
him a bang across the eyes with our 
rod, till he winked again ; and then 
diverging unexpectedly straight south, 
led him after us about five hundred 
yards right on end, without either par- 
ty gaining an inch, like a will-o'-wisp, 
smack into a quagmire. Before he 
could extricate himself from the wa- 
ter-cresses, we were fifty rood of hea- 
ther in advance, and within a mile of 
a wood. We heard the growl some- 
what deepening behind us, and every 
time we ventured to cast a look over 
our shoulder, his swarthy eye was 
more and more visible. But bad as 
that was, his tail was worse, and 
seemed the Bloody Flag of the Pirate. 
The monster had four legs we but 
two; but our knees were well-knit, 
our ham-strings strong, our ankles 
nimble as fencer's wrist, and our in- 
step an elastic arch, that needed not 
the spring-bourd of the circus no- 

ihing but the bent of the broad moun- 
tain's brow. If he was a red bull, 
-and who could deny it ? -were not 
we one of the red deer of the forest, 
that accompanies on earth the eagle's 
flight in heaven ? Long before gaining 
the edge of the wood, we had beaten the 
brute to a stand-still. There he stood, 
the unwieldy laggard, pawing the sto- 
ny moor, and hardly able to roar. 
Poor devil, he could not raise an echo ! 
He absolutely lay down and then^, 
contempt being an uneasy and un 
Christian feeling, we left him lying 
there, like a specimen of mineralogy, 
and wandered away in a poetical re- 
verie, into the sun and shadow of the 
gieat Pine-forest. 

Captain Clias's running exercises are 
called Running in Pace to Rise and 
Fall with Exactness Running in a 
Square Spiral Running Sinuous 
Running Doubling the Line Run- 
ning with a Stick Prompt Running 
Precipitate Running. All these se-> 
veral modes of running are clearly 
explained, and must all be useful on 
the arena of real life. Few people 
have practised sudden stopping, and 
turning aside at a right angle. But 
what so preservative of life, when sud- 
denly threatened by a blood-horse, 
for example, coming distracted along 
the street, with the ruins of a Dennet 
or Stanhope at his tail ? Nay, even 
for a running fight with watchmen, 
those paid disturbers of the peace, such 
accomplishments are of great avail ; 
nor can we ever cease to remember,, 
with pensive and regretful melancho- 
ly, the delightful running fights on 
Fort-Meadow or Bullington green, Ox- 
on, when Reginald Dal ton, Day of Mer- 
ton, A gar of Christ Church, Gray of 
St Mary Hall, and a few more of us^ 
used to show fight to the Oxford raffs, 
and pummel them into a jelly on a re- 
treat, that, were all the particulars PS 
well known and as eloquently record- 
ed, would throw into the shade even 
that famous one of the Ten Thou- 

We cannot bring ourselves to think 
with Captain Clias that the same rules, 
the same system of running, ought to 
be applied indiscriminately to all men 
alike, for each individual has his own 
peculiar conformation of body, and 
must also have his own peculiar mode 
of regulating its motion. A High- 
lander, for example, five feet four, 
with lengthy spine, and short heathen 

Jeg#, ought not to attempt taking im- 
mense strides ; and indeed, whether 
he will or no, must adopt the short 
step recommended by our author. But 
why should a six-foot man, with a 
long fork, abstain from striding like a 
shadow when the sun is low ? So, too, 
some men are by nature straight as an 
arrow, others lounge and stoop by na- 
ture. Let both parties, respectively, 
run in attitude congenial with their 
conformation ; nor will a philosophi- 
cal anatomist pretend to say pointedly 
which conformation is best adapted for 
fleetness. Dogs, horses, and men of 
all shapes, have excelled. The most 
beautifully proportioned is often worth- 
less on trial, and Eclipse was cross- 
made who could give most racers a dis- 
tance. Runners generally find out 
their own balance ; and there would 
be as little sense in criticising the 
apparent awkwardness of a winning 
man, as in eulogizing the elegance of 
a laggard. 

Before leaving this part of the Cap- 
tain's treatise, however, we beg leave 
respectfully and kindly to hint, that he 
does not seem to be at all acquainted 
with the history of British Pedestri- 
anism. Now, without such know- 
ledge, no man can be said thoroughly 
to understand the science of Gymnas- 
tics. A first-rate walker, and none but 
a first-rate, will do toe and heel six 
miles an hour, for one hour, on a good 
road. If out of practice and training, 
the odds on such a match would, we 
think, be against any unknown pe- 
destrian, 6 to 4 on time. A first- 
rate walker, in fine training, will do 
twelve miles in two hours. We should 
have no objection to bet 6 to 4 (in 
hundreds) against any man in Eng- 
land walking, fair toe and heel, eigh- 
teen miles in three hours, yet of such 
exploits one reads in sporting papers. 
A Captain Parker, somewhere in Lan- 
cashire, is said to have walked seven 
miles in one hour and if he did so, 
he may safely challenge all England. 
Reduce the rate to five miles an hour, 

and pedestrians of the first class will 
do forty miles in eight hours nay, 
keep it up, probably, for fifty in ten. 
Reduce the rate to four miles, and 
then a man may walk on for twelve 
hours a-day we were going to say 
all his lifetime but certainly for a 
month ; and if for a month, one sees 
no reason (sickness excepted) why not 
for a year ; and if for a year, why not 
ten, and so on to twenty and fifty ? 
There can be no doubt, that out of the 
British army, on a war-establishment, 
ten thousand men might be chosen/ 
by trial, who would compose a corps; 
capable of marching fifty miles a-day, 
on actual service, for a whole week. 
The power of such a corps is not to 
be calculated and it would far outgo 

Of feats of running, Captain Clia* 
seems to be equally ignorant. Of short 
distances we do not now speak, for we 
forget the precise time of hundred- yard 
or two-hundred-yard men. But a 
quarter of a mile in a minute is sharp 
going and it requires one of the best 
in all England to do a mile in four 
minutes at four starts. The Captain, 
when speakjng of " Prompt Running," 
speaks very simply of " a mile in four 
minutes, and afterwards in less," be- 
ing done by his scholars. Were the 
Captain to risk his money on the swift- 
est boy among them, he would find 
out his gross and grievous mistake. 
The mile was never run in four mi- 
nutes in England. Metcalfe, now the 
swiftest living for a mile, does it, 
touch and go, in four minutes and a 
half. The Captain afterwards says, 
" Many of our scholars run a thou- 
sand yards in two minutes without 
being much heated;" and " at the last 
examination of the Royal Military 
Asylum, Chelsea, several boys ran 580 
yards in one minute and eight seconds." 
These two last feats are perhaps possi- 
ble but the first is impossible ; and the 
statement of the one throws discredit 
over the other. Let Captain Clias go to 
Tattersall's, and offer to produce a lad 

* Captain Clias tells us that Captain Barclay walked 180 miles without resting. 
He never did any such thing nor attempted to do it nor is it within human power. 
Perhaps he means without going to bed. Even that must be a mistake ; for Captain 
Barclay would take his rest in the most judicious way during a match, and there is 
nothing like a bed. We question if any man ever walked 100 miles without some 
sort of rest. If any could, Captain Barclay was that man ; for although there were 
many fleeter men than he, he never had his equal for united strength, activity, and 
bottom, as a pedestrian. 


to run a mile in Jess than four minutes, 
and he will get as much money laid 
against him, at twenty to one, as late- 
ly depended on that useless favourite, 
the General. A mile in five minutes is 
fair work, and requires a good runner 
two miles in ten minutes is a match 
oftener lost than won and four miles 
in 'twenty, puzzles, we believe, even an 
Ash ton or a Hal ton. Ten miles an hour 
used twenty years ago to be reckoned 
prodigious, and was rarely attempted. 
Now it is done by all the first-raters. 
But fifteen miles in an hour and a half 
has never, to our knowledge, been 
done, although we think it practicable. 
Forty miles in four hours and three 
quarters or less, we think, was done at 
Newmarket by that most beautiful of 
all runners, Lancashire Wood, who 
was allowed five hours ; and exploits 
not much inferior, allowing for bad 
roads, have been done in Scotland. Of 
great distances, we believe the ambi- 
tion of Rainier was to accomplish 100 
miles in eighteen hours but he failed 
(in two attempts), and after him what 
man alive can hope to succeed ?* 

Captain Clias now comes to " Jump- 
ing in general," and remarks, that, of 
all the corporeal exercises, Jumping is, 
without contradiction, the finest and 
most useful. But we must quote the 
ipsissima verba of the amiable enthu- 
siast : 

" Of all the corporeal exercises, jumping 
is, without contradiction, the finest and 
the most useful. As it cannot be execu- 
ted with facility, but in proportion to the 
strength, the elasticity, and the supple- 
ness of the articulations and muscles of 
the lower extremities, much exercise is 
necessary in order to attain to that degree 
of perfection which smooths every ob- 
stacle, or furnishes us with the means of 
overcoming them without danger. In a 
fire, or an inundation, it is often by means 
of a determined jump, that we escape the 
most imminent danger ourselves, or ren- 
der important services to our fellow-crea- 
tures. In a carriage, often at the mercy 
of a coachman asleep or intoxicated, ri- 
ding an unruly horse, and in a thousand 
other circumstances, a jump, made with 
promptitude and assurance, might save 

our lives, or preserve us from fracturing 
our limbs. Lightness and perpendicular- 
ity constitute all the merit of jumping; 
the utmost ought to be done to acquire 
these two qualities, for, without them, 
jumping has neither grace nor security. 

" Remark. -1o jump with grace and 
assurance, one should always fall on the 
toes, taking care, especially, to bend the 
knees on the hips ; the upper part of the 
body should be inclined forwards, and the 
arms extended towards the ground. Tiie 
hands should serve to break the fall when 
jumping from a great heigh't. By falling 
on the heels, the shock which, in this 
case, is communicated from the extremity 
of the vertebral column to the crown of 
the head, will occasion pain in these two 
parts, and may be attended with very bad 
consequences. It is also useful to hold 
the breath, whilst jumping, for, in all the 
efforts that we make, the retention of the 
breath, by preventing the blood from cir- 
culating with rapidity in the lungs, makes 
it flow into the members which are in 
movement, which greatly increases the 
strength of those parts." 

There seems to us to be some little 
confusion in this extract. Pray what 
kind of jumping is of most use to a 
man in a house on fire? Jumping 
out of the window. But it requires 
small activity to jump out of a win- 
dow of the fourteenth story, and it. 
might be done even by a bed-ridden old 
gentleman of ninety. In cases of in- 
undation jumping may be useful no 
doubt, but swimming, we should con- 
jecture, much more so ; and as for 
jumping out of carriages, driven by 
sleeping or intoxicated coachmen, 
more limbs are fractured and lives 
lost by doing so, even with prompti 
tude and assurance, than any other 
mode that could be named. Then, as 
to <( perpendicularity" constituting the 
chief merit of jumping, we flatly deny 
it. Nothing is half so elegant as a ho-* 
rizontal swing, and it is plain that the 
man who raises his head five or six 
feet above the height he overleaps, 
cannot, agreeably to the laws of na- 
ture, animate and inanimate, clear 
such an altitude, as he whose head! 
is little higher than his feet, and 

* We intend writing an article about our most celebrated pedestrians. The innc- 
curacies to be found even in Pearce Egan's Life in London, the Annals of Sporting, 
and Bell's sporting paper, are gross, glaring, and innumerable. Not one match in 
fifty is rightly reported in any of the common newspapers; and in ordinary conver- 
sation, all is confusion and fiction together. Except on the Turf, it is the sauie with 
all matches between horses of all sorts, at trot or gallop, out or in harness. 




whose whole figure Is almost parallel 
with the ground. Neither in the 
above extract does Captain Clias in- 
form us whether he is speaking of 
high or far leaping perhaps of both 
as indeed he who leaps over a great 
height must also leap over a consider- 
able distance, and vice versa. As to 
always alighting on the toes, that is 
manifestly impossible, when you have 
to overleap a great extent of country. 
A leaper who dexterously throws out 
his feet before him will leap at least 
six feet farther than one who alights 
perpendicularly ; but how is it pos- 
sible to fling out your feet yards in 
advance, and to alight on your toes ? 
In all far leaping, whether over a 
height or not, all men must alight on 
their heels in high leaping, when 
distance is no object, you may 
and ought to alight on the forepart of 
the foot and on leaping down from 
the top of a house on fire, why, you 
must take your chance of heel or toe, 
and think yourself very well off if you 
do not break your neck, and fracture 
your skull into the bargain. 

Since jumping is so necessary to the 
preservation of life, we cannot help 
being a little surprised at the Captain's 
want of gallantry in not recommend- 
ing it as an indispensable accomplish- 
ment of the fair sex. Surely in cases 
of fire and inundation, the ladies have 
at least as good a right to escape as the 
gentlemen. But the truth is, that we 
male creatures are a selfish set, and so 
that we can but jump ourselves, we 
are willing to let the softer sex perish 
in flame or flood. In carriages they 
are as much exposed as we are ; but 
how, under their present imperfect sys- 
tem of education, can they be expected 
to jump out, in cases of drunk of 
sleepy coachmen, " with promptitude 
and assurance ?" They must, there- 
fore, be taught jumping. Every board- 
ing-school must have its jumping- 
master and jumping-green, and what 
more delightful spectacle could be ima- 
gined than a bevy of maidens perform- 
ing the preparatory movements. 

Captain Clias lays down various 
exercises, which he calls preparatory 
movements running and touching 
behind in place trampling on the 
ground in place walking pace in 
place trotting pace in place gal- 
loping pace in place, &c. A bright- 
eyed, round-limbed virgin of sweet 
sixteen " galloping in place," would 

indeed warm the blood of an anchoret,, 
and drive Malthus to despair. " Touch- 
ing behind in place" would also be be- 
witching, and the preparatory move- 
ments would form an easy introduction 
to a running hop-step-and-jump to 
Gretna Green. 

All these exercises may be very well 
but what says the Captain when 
he comes to the Jumping itself ? But 
little, and that little most unsatisfac- 
tory. He talks of the single jump, the 
redoubled jump, and the continued 
jump ; but of the single jump, with 
a run, and of hop-step-and-jump, 
with a run, he says nothing, although 
they are the most beautiful feats in 
the whole range of gymnastics. 

A good high jumper will clear five 
feet, a first-rate one five and a half, 
and an out-and-outer among the 
first-rates six feet,. The late Mr Ingle- 
by, of Lancaster, we have seen clear a 
stick held six feet two inches high, 
springing off the turnpike road, and 
with a run of about five yards. What 
Ireland could do without the spring- 
board we know not probably not two 
inches more than Mr Ingleby. Mr 
Ingleby despised perpendicularity, and 
swayed himself over almost horizon- 
tally with singular grace, elegance, and 

Twelve feet is a good standing single 
jump on level ground ; fourteen is a 
job for two or three in a county ; 
twenty feet on level ground is a first- 
rate running single jump, but has 
been done often ; twenty-one is some- 
thing very extraordinary, but noways 
apocryphal ; and twenty-two is, we 
believe, accomplished about once 
every twenty years, and that almost 
always by an Irishman. A hundred 
sovereigns to five, against any man in 
England doing twenty-three feet on a 
dead level. With a run and a leap, 
on a slightly inclined plane, perhaps 
an inch to a yard, we have seen twen- 
ty-three feet done in great style and 
measured to a nicety; but the man 
who did it (aged twenty-one, height, 
five feet eleven inches, weight eleven 
stone) was admitted to be (Ireland 
excepted) the best far-leaper of his 
day in England. 

At standing hop-step-and-jump, 
level ground, ten yards is good ele- 
ven excellent and twelve the extent 
of any man's tether. We have heard 
of thirteen, but believe it to be a lie 
With a run, thirteen yards is good- 



fourteen great, and fifteen prodigious. 
Perhaps there are not six authentica- 
ted cases on record of fifteen being 
done on level ground, and by actual 
admeasurement. All guess-work ex- 
ploits shrivel up a good yard, or some- 
times two, when brought to the mea- 
sure, and the champion of the county 
dwindles into a clumsy clod-hopper. 
Ireland, it is said, did sixteen yards 
on Knavesmire, before he was known 
to the world ; and indeed was noticed 
by some Londoners on that occasion, 
and brought forward at the Amphi- 
theatre. He was the best leaper, both 
high and far, that ever jumped in 
England ; and take him for all in all, 
it is most certain that we shall never 
look upon his like again. Now, we 
confess that instead of all that prepa- 
ratory fiddling and piddling taught 
by Captain Clias, we should like to 
see his scholars stripped at a regular 
match of straight-forward leaping of 
either of the kinds aforesaid, and see- 
ing that the Captain avers he has boys 
who can run a mile under the four 
minutes what is to hinder him to 
produce a hero to leap twenty-three 
feet, back and forwards (the great 
desideratum) ?' Or fifteen yards and a 
half at running hop-step-and-jump ? 
Or six feet* over a string ? Let this 
be done " without being much heat- 
ed," and pray let it be at the next exa- 
mination at the Royal Military Asy- 
lum, Chelsea. 

Of our Three United Nations, the 
Irish are, we think, the best leapers, 
perhaps the best in all departments of 
Pedestrianism. With fists they are*, 
formidable with shillelas tremendous 
with legs beautiful. They are all 
fair stand-up leapers. It is an igno- 
minious thing, at the end of a jump, to 
come down whack, or squelch upon 
your bottom. You ought to clear 
your ground. For suppose the ground 
were water, and you plumped into it 
with your posteriors, would you say 
you had jumped over the canal ? In 
Scotland that system is too prevalent, 
and in all such cases the measure- 
ment should be to the mark of the 
corduroys. In a running leap, or run- 
ning hep-step-and-leap, the run is a 
great matter. Now, the Irishman 
flies like a whirlwind, and takes the 
spring in an impetuous mood, that 
flings him over a rood of land. It is 
not safe to be near Pat when recover- 
ing from his last bound, for he goes 

whirling round and round among the 
by-standers, laying all flat within the 
wind of his careering circle. There is 
not much to choose, in leaping, be- 
tween the Scotch and English Border- 
ers, who are certainly the best in Bri- 
tain. Tall, honey, wiry chaps, who 
bound, unshaken, from ground as hard 
as flags, and when tired, make strength 
do the work of agility. In Scotland , 
for our money, the leapers of Liddes- 
dale. In England, the Westmoreland 
lads for leaping, the Lancashire for 
running, and for wrestling, canny 

Much has been said and sung about 
the proper proportions of a leaper 
We have already hinted, that in this, 
as in other things, Nature indulges in 
what we blindly call vagaries and ano- 
malies. -But we never knew a first- 
rater under five feet ten. First-raters 
range from that up to six feet two, but 
rarely exceed that height. Laird 
Shaw, in the parish of Kilbride, Ren- 
frewshire, stood six feet three and a 
half, and he was the champion of the 
county at the close of the eighteenth 
century. The Border leapers of re- 
nown are rarely Ui^r six feet. Pretty 
leapers are frequent from five feet 
five to five feet eight, and will do their 
nineteen or even twenty feet at a single 
jump, and their fourteen yards at hop- 
step-and-jump ; but when brought 
against men as good as themselves, 
half a foot taller, they must be beaten 
hollow. Between eighteen and twenty- 
six is the time of life during which 
leapers are in their prime. Before 
eighteen they rarely have mature 
power, and after twenty-six as rarely 
unimpaired elasticity. 

When youths are leaping for amuse- 
ment, all dangerous leaps ought to be 
avoided. What is the use of breaking 
a leg, and becoming a lameter for life * 
Never leap across rocky chasms, nor 
over sharp-pointed stakes, either of 
wood or iron. You may take a canal 
occasionally, for if you leap short, you 
have a soft fall ; and there is little 01 
no danger in a five foot gate of neat 
workmanship on a gravel walk. But 
be chary of your bones, and give your 
sinews fair play. Do not continue 
leaping too long at a time ; and as 
soon as you feel tired, or winded, ot 
falling behind your usual mark, on 
with your apparel, and walk home to 
dine or study. 

Never believe one alngle word TGU. 



hear in general society about any one. 
single feat of Gymnastics especially 
Leaping. People talk of seventeen 
yards at hop-step-and-jump. If they 
say they saw it done, and measured it 
themselves, they are either no honest 
men, or no geometricians. Never be- 
lieve in any feat at leaping said to 
have been achieved by a Scotch High- 
lander. We have leaped, in our youth, 
the whole Highlands ; and never met 
a man, even the champions of the dis- 
tricts, who could do nineteen feet on 
a level. The South-country shepherds 
who go to Highland farms (witness 
George Laidlaw in Strathglass and 
others), beat the Gael all to sticks in 
Gymnastics in general. They are a 
harmless, con ten ted, patient, enduring, 
patriotic, pious, and brave people, full 
of hospitality and every social virtue, 
but very so so jumpers indeed, and at 
wrestling not worth the toss-up .of the 
smallest denomination of coin known, 
now or formerly, in these realms. 
. At the beginning of the previous 
.paragraph we have warned our readers 
against ever believing one word they 
hear in general society about Gymnas- 
tics. Pray, may we extend our advice 
to all other subjects of public and 
private interest ? Correct opinions and 
sentiments we have occasionally heard 
in mixed parties, but correct state- 
ments of facts, never.. Only listen to 
a palaver about the battle, of Waterloo 

or Napoleon at St Helena or the 
height of the Irish Giant or the re- 
duction of taxes or the exarction of 
tithes or Lord Kennedy and Mr Old- 
baldiston. and Captain Ross shooting 
pigeonsor the Silk Trade or the 
Shipping Interest or the Emigration 
of Swallows or a great Bankruptcy or 
famous Forgery or Salmon-fishing in 
the Tweed or the population of Ire- 
land or the greatest number of annual 
swarms of Bees from one Hive or the 
colour of this Miss's hair (in our 
opinion clearly a rlery red), or that 
Miss's eye (certainly a grey squint), 

and what contradictions, inaccura- 
cies, blunders, misrepresentations, and 
distortions of poor unhappy miserable 
Facts ! 

Often, indeed, have we wondered 
how this world goes on ! Nobody 
seems to know anything. The events 
of last week are either forgotten, or 
by treacherous memory so transmo^ 
grified, that we know not the ghastly 
faces of our sorely altered friends. Can 

this dim, faint, glimmering, attenuated 
shivering, and spectral Fact, be indeed 
the woe-begone apparition of the jolly 
reality of y ester-morn was a week ! 
You see men hurrying by you, on the 
wings of passion, as if their existence 
hung upon a moment, blind and deaf 
to the external world, and acting to 
admiration the part of spiritual es- 
sences. On the Monday following, by 
no train of circumstances can you re- 
call to them from obliviscence the sub- 
ject matter of their headlong impetu- 
osity. They say you must be dreaming, 
and with faces of blank vacuity turn 
into Montgomery's for an ice-cream. 
There is no such thing as a faculty of 
Memory, and we very much doubt the 
existence of Judgment. But how, in 
the midst of all this confusion and be- 
wilderment, the said world goes on 
there is the mystery which no Maga- 
zine has yet resolved. Every man you 
meet is more ignorant and stupider 
than another; no living being can 
extract from another the slightest 
useful knowledge of any kind ; collect 
facts and they all turn out falsehoods ; 
from the invention of Printing to this 
blessed hour, never yet was there an 
accurate quotation ; and oh ! Heavens 
and earth ! in Tables of Figures, to 
what countless millions amount the 
Sums Total of the Whole ! 

But we must return to Captain Clias. 
Captain Clias is such an enthusiast in 
his profession, that each branch of the 
science of Gymnastics appears to him 
to be, while he is teaching it, the most 
important. Thus, he pronounces, as we 
have seen, a splendid panegyric on 
Walking ; arid, under the influence of 
his eloquence, we are led to believe it 
the noblest of all human exploits, far 
beyond either Lying, Standing, or Sit- 
ting, each of which, however, had re- 
ceived in its turn a glowing eulogy. 
But when he warms upon Running, we 
feel for Walking almost a sort of con- 
tempt. Running seenas to be all in all 
without it, human life seems still, 
sedentary, and stagnant. Ere long, 
the Captain comes forward succinct for 
Jumping, and then all the business of 
this world appears transacted by leaps 
and springs. But no sooner have we 
joined the sect of jumpers, than the 
Captain lifts up his voice, and calls 
aloud in praise of Wrestling. We be- 
gin to wonder how we could have been 
sp dazzled with the glories of Lying, 
Standing ;, Sitting, Walking, Runnisg, 


and Jumping in general, and wish that sand. 
Jacob were alive, that we might try 
the patriarch a fall. What can be more 
beautifully philosophical than the fol- 
lowing eloge ? 

". The. salutary effects which result from 
the different manners of wrestling extend 
themselves over the whole body. The 
members are developed, the muscles are 
fortified, the vital spirits are circulated 
more freely, and increased in a very vi- 
sible manner. This exercise presents 
also the advantage of arming young per- 
sons with patience, courage, and con- 
stancy. A long experience, supported 
by daily practice, has clearly proved to 
us, that, of all the exercises of , the body, 
wrestling, well directed, is that which 
increases courage the most, inures to 
pain, and accustoms young men to per- 
severance. This only gives them that 
moral force which is commonly called re- 

" If we consider wrestling with regard 
to its general utility, we shall see that 
there is no other exercise which presents, 
more than this does, the certain, and not 
expensive, means of rendering the body 
supple, vigorous, and well formed, and of 
preserving the health, and increasing its 
means of defence. 

" It is possible that some men, under 
the influence of prejudice, or the pre- 
tended brave, may think that wrestling 
is useless, since fighting with the fists is 
no longer practised amongst gentlemen ; 
but let us suppose, for a moment, that 
one of these gentlemen unintentionally 
insults, or rather finds himself insulted, 
by one of those vigorous companions, 
who, to decide their quarrel, employ 
only the arms which nature has given 
them ; in a similar case, what will the 
man do, who has hardly strength enough 
to handle the sword which he carries ?" 
The Captain then chooses his ground 
judiciously in the following passage : 

" Both with regard to security and 
agreeableness.a close'soil, covered with a 
good green turf, is, without contradiction, 
the most proper ground for wrestling on, 
when care has been taken to remove all 
the hard bodies which might injure the 
wrestlers in case of falls, or during the 
struggles which take place on the ground. 
Too hard a soil presents but little resist- 
ance to the feet, and it weakens the confi- 
dence of the wrestlers, because they are 
afraid of slipping and of hurting them- 
selves in falling. Ground covered with 
a deep sand is very disagreeable, because 
in wrestling upon it the body is almost 
always covered with, and the eyes full of 


Neither boots with high heels 
nor shoes with iron about them, should 
ever be worn whilst wrestling. The 
pockets should always be emptied of all 
things that might be injurious to the 
movements, or that might do harm at 
the time of falling. The sleeves of the 
shirt ought to be turned up above the 
elbows, the waistband of the trowsers 
should not be very tight, and the shirt- 
collar should be open. It is expressly 
forbidden in wrestling for one to take his 
antagonist by the throat, or by any other 
improper part, to employ either the nails 
or the teeth, or to strike him under the 

Here we confess that we lose sight 
of the system of Wrestling taught by 
Captain Clias. But as we are above all 
prejudice on this or any other subject, 
we do not doubt that it may be a very 
good and useful system. We have been 
too long accustomed, however, to the 
simple, straight-forward, manly, close- 
hugging, back-hold " worstle" of the 

north of England, to enter into the 
Captain's cantrips, and we devoutly 
wish that we could see himself, or his 
best scholar, try a fall with any one 
of fifty of the Cumberland and West- 
moreland society of gentlemen in Lon- 
don. In order to prepare his scholars 
for wrestling, the most complicated of 
gymnastics, both with respect to the 
diversity of its movements, and the 
different situations in which wrestlers 
are often placed, Captain Clias explains 
a course of preparatory exercises, which 
serves as an introduction. They have 
a somewhat quackish character, and a 
few of them seem to us better fitted to 
make a mountebank than a wrestler. 
Thus, he teaches his scholars to kiss 
the ground in equilibrium, on the 
arms and points of the feet to sup- 
port the body on the hands and heels, 
as far from the ground as possible to 
do the goat's jump, a foolish game at 
all-fours and to rise from the ground 
by the action of the arms, keeping the 
legs still and extended and a great, 
variety of other manoeuvres. 

The essential difference between Cap- 
tain Clias's system of wrestling and that 
of the North of England, is this, that 
in his the wrestlers catch hold in any 
way they choose; whereas in the north, 
each party has an equal and similar 
hold before the struggle begins. Who 
can doubt which is the better system ? 
The Captain's is radically savage and 
barbarousj and more congenial with 


the habits and temper of African ne- 
groes than European whites. The other 
is fair, just, and civilized. To us the 
sight of one man catching hold of an- 
other round the waist, and consequent- 
ly throwing him at his pleasure, with- 
out the possibility of his antagonist 
making any effectual resistance, would 
be sickening indeed. Thus, what true 
Cock of the North can read without 
disgust Exercise XII., entitled " Of 
the First Fall" ? 

** Sufficiently prepared by all the ele- 
ments of wrestling, we may now, with- 
out fearing any accident, familiarize our- 
elves with one of the most complicated 
exercises, both by the variety of the 
movement, and the different situations 
in which we are placed during the action 
which is about to be described. Placed 
opposite to each other, as has been indi- 
cated in the preceding exercises, the 
wrestlers endeavour, by all sorts of move- 
ments, to take the advantage; but as 
here the principal object is for one to 
throw down the other, it is permitted in 
the attack, in endeavouring to take him 
round the body, to throw him in any 
manner whatever, and when one of the 
wrestlers is much quicker and more dex- 
terous than the other, it might happen 
that the victory may be decided before 
either has taken his hold of the other, for 
he who has twice thrown his adversary 
on his back ought to be acknowledged 
conqueror. As soon as one has taken 
the other round the body, he who has 
obtained the advantage ought to keep his 
head as close as possible on the highest 
of his shoulders, in order to hinder his 
champion from taking it under his arm ; 
then, in raising him from the ground, to 
push him from one side, and throw him 
to the other; or to take advantage of 
the moment when he advances one of 
his feet, and throw him down artfully, by 
giving him a trip up. He who loses the 
advantage ought quickly to move his feet 
backwards, to lean the upper part of 
his body forwards, to seize, if possible, 
the head of his champion under one of 
his arms, to fix his other hand on the 
hip, or on the loins, and to make his ad- 
versary bear all the weight of his body." 

William Litt and Tom Nicolson, 
what think ye of that? At suchan exhi- 
bition, what hooting in the ring at Am- 
bleside, Coniston, Keswick,Penrith,or 
Carlisle ? We offer to bet Captain Clias 
a dinner for six (a pretty number), of 
Fell mutton and Windermere char, 
with all other appurtenances, that the 
very first time he witnesses a belt wres- 
tled for in either of the above rings, 

he will abjure his own system, as fit 
only for savages, and embrace that of 
Cumberland, as the " wrestling" of 
gentlemen and Christians. It certain- 
ly is the duty of Captain Clias, as a 
gymnasiarch of high character and 
high situation, to whom part of the 
education of our British youth is in- 
trusted, to make himself, if not mas- 
ter, for that may not be so easy, ac- 
quainted with the elements, at least 
the spirit, of the character of British 
Gymnastics. If he knows nothing at all 
about them, which we suspect is the 
case, then why should our unfeigned 
respect for his character, and admira- 
tion of his bodily accomplishments, 
prevent us from saying that he is not 
thoroughly qualified for the responsi- 
ble, and, we presume, lucrative situa- 
tion which he now holds ? 

The following exhibition roust re- 
semble dog-fighting more than man* 

" In this exercise the two wrestlers 
are lying on the ground, one on his right 
side, and the other on his left, two feet 
apart and opposite to each other. Their 
arms are lying on their breasts, or extend- 
ed down by their sides. The action begins 
at a signal agreed on, and he who is first 
able to suspend all the movements of his 
adversary, by holding him confined under 
him upon his back, is conqueror. Here 
cunning, suppleness, agility, strength, 
and, especially, resistance, are indispen- 
sable. When the wrestlers are of nearly 
equal strength, the victory remains some 
time undecided ; each takes his turn to 
be on the top, and it sometimes happens 
that he who loses the first part gains the 
other two ; or, by making an equal part, 
renders the victory undecided. In this 
manner of wrestling, as well as in the 
others, they very often engage three 
times, for it often happens that he who 
has had the advantage in the first action, 
loses it in the second, and is consequent- 
ly obliged to begin again, in order to de- 
cide the victory." 

Having been unable conscientiously 
to praise Captain Clias's system of wres- 
tling, it gives us pleasure to quote with 
approbation the only passage which 
seems to us truly scientific. The fol- 
lowing rules might, we think, be 
brought into play in the legitimate 

. " Among the great number of attacks 
used in Greek wrestling, we will point 
out the seven principal trips, or snares. 
It is extremely advantageous to under- 
stand them well, in order to employ them 
.in case of necessity, or to know how to 

avoid them. 1st. The first, which is 
called exterior, is made from right to 
right, outwards, the knees and the hips 
kept well together; that is, the leg is 
placed outwards behind the right of the 
champion. 2d. From left to left. The 
left leg outwards, behind the left of the 
champion. In the first case, the left hand 
of him who attacks draws back the up- 
per part of the body, whilst the right 
shoulder presses forcibly on the breast of 
him who is to be overthrown. In the se- 
cond case, it is the right hand which draws, 
and the left shoulder which presses vi- 
gorously. In the warmest moment of the 
action, he who attacks ought to stiffen 
as much as possible the knee which 
makes the lever. In either case, he who 
attacks ought to make all these partial 
movements as one single action, execu- 
ted with the quickness of lightning. He 
who resists has the same chance as he 
who attacks, when he has foreseen the 
blow soon enough to ward it off. If, on 
the contrary, he has been surprised, or 
has no confidence in his strength, he 
ought immediately to disengage his leg 
and place it behind. 3d. One may also 
interlace the right with the left, placing 
it inside, then the under part of the knees 
are joined, and he who attacks makes the 
hook on the fore part of his champion's 
leg, with the point of his foot. 4th. With 
the right against the left, in the inside, as 
above said. 5th. By letting himself fall 
to the left, to lift quickly from the right, 
with the top of his foot, the left leg of 
his champion, tacking it under the calf, 
and to make him fall on his back, pulling 
him with the left hand, at the same time 
pushing vigorously with the right. In 
both cases, he who is overthrown is made 
to describe a sort of half turn on the heel 
of the foot which rests on the ground. 
6th. To fall to the right by lifting up from 
the left, as above indicated. 7th. By 
giving a violent push from left to right ; 
to take advantage of the moment when 
the opponent staggers, to place the end 
of the right foot quickly on the exterior 
part of the foot of the champion, and to 
push vigorously from right to left, with- 
out moving the foot which holds. The 
exterior snare of the left against the right, 
and of the right against the left, is given 
when the adversary presents to us one of 
his legs, sometimes to make a trap, the 
right for example. If we see that he in- 
tends the exterior snare, from the right 
against the right, we move the left teg 
quickly, outwardly, behind that which he 
presents, by engaging him under the knee, 
we raise it up, drawing towards us with 
great force and rapidity; we pull at the 

Gymnastics. 145 

same time towards us with the left hand, 
whilst we push forcibly with the right. 
When this action is well executed, we 
seldom fail to overthrow our adversary* 
The blow of the knee is given at the mo- 
ment when the adversary, bending back- 
wards, moves one of his legs forward to 
overturn you, you seize the instant when 
one of your knees is behind his, to give 
him with the knee a strong push in that 
part, and with your hands you draw or 
push his body in a contrary way. Care 
must be taken not to give the blow of the 
knee, except the ,knee which presents 
itself, is a little stretched." 

We are not afraid of having wearied 
our readers by these details ; for of all 
athletic amusements of the people, 
wrestling is, beyond doubt, the best. 
It is indeed entirely unexceptionable. 
Good Humour, mirth, merriment, and 
manliness, prevail in such a ring, and 
therein quarrels are like summer-* 
showers, rare, short, sudden, and re=* 
freshing. Wrestling, at least such wres- 
tling as we speak of, awakens so much 
enthusiasm over the whole country 
where it prevails, that there is little or 
no fighting except at an election. Wres-< 
tling, therefore, produces precisely the? 
same effect on the manners of the peo-* 
pie as pugilism they both make peo- 
pie peaceable. The pugilistic prize- 
ring has now become infamous, from 
the villainy of many of the men and 
their supporters. Ward, the most fi- 
nished pugilist since the days of Jem 
Belcher, is, in the ring, a convicted 
robber. May the integrity of the wres- 
tling-ring remain for ever unimpeach- 
ed and sacred ! Sometimes, we fear, a 
few of the last standers compromise ; 
not so much for the gain, which is no 
great object, as for glory. But the sys- 
tem is universally scouted, and soon 
proves fatal to character. William Litt 
was the Bayard of the ring, the preux 
chevalier, sans peur et sans reproche- 
Miles Dixon of Grassmere had always 
a soul superior to every meanness ; so 
had William Wilson of Ambleside, 
Wightman is, we believe, incorruptible 
the reputation of Cass is without a 
stain Abbot is game to the back-bone, 
and deserves to win at Carlisle and 
Sandys, although somewhat fractious 
at the hold, and inclined to chip, would 
not sell his honour for a collar and a 
crown of gold. The Nicholsons, the 
Richardsons, the Harrisons, and the 
Armstrongs, are not their names alone 
equivalent to the life of Sir Philip 

144 Gymnastics. 

Sydney ? And would the worst man 
among them have sold the champion- 
ehip for the national debt, amounting, 
as we have been credibly informed, to 
many hundred millions of money ? 

What a most absurd and non-de- 
script affair of a world would ours be, 
were all the inhabitants of the globe 
Quakers ! Great, big, fat, placid, 
greasy faces and no more jumping, 
boxing, or wrestling, among a fast- 
doubling population of broad-brims ! 
But to be sure the established religion 
would soon break down into sects, 
clothed, in the spirit of enlightened 
reform, in red, blue, yellow, and pur- 
ple apparel ; after the lapse of a few 
centuries, belts would be again wres- 
tled for at Carlisle, and the ropes of 
the P. C. extended in the Moulsey- 
hurst Aceldama, or Field of Blood ! 

We come in due course to a part of 
the Captain's book, which, now that 
the thermometer is standing at eighty- 
four in the shade, it is cooling to per- 
use his chapter on Skating. O thou 
most ambitious and aspiring of ther- 
mometers, hast thou indeed ever been 
down so low in the world as the free- 
zing point ? Ice ! What a charming 
cold little word ! Oh ! it comes over 
us like the chill north over a bank of 
cranreuch, giving and stealing rigours ! 
Will that bright, shadowy, and sleep- 
ing lake ever again tinkle to the cir- 
clings of the hissing skate? Will 
booths ever again be erected, and 
Glenlivat quaffed from quechs where 
now hangs the image of that sultry, cas- 
tellated, and thunder-bearing cloud ? 
But let us hear the Captain. 


" This exercise, carried to a certain de- 
gree of perfection, surpasses all those of 
which we have hitherto spoken, as well 
with respect to the beauty of the move- 

inents, as to the infinite variety and ra- 
pidity of graceful attitudes, which the 
skilful skater knows how to assume and 
change instantaneously, without appear- 
ing to take the smallest trouble. Some- 
times, his movement resembles that of 
a bird hovering about the same place j 
sometimes, with his body easily balanced* 
he waves from side to side, .like the bark 
driven by the wind ; then, instantly uni- 
ting all his powers, the active skater dex- 
terously and courageously darts forward 
with astonishing rapidity, and the veloci- 
ty of his course equals the rapid flight of 
a bird which appears to cleave the air. 
Sometimes, appearing to yield himself to 
a simple movement of impulse, he slides 
upon this compact surface without the 
spectator being able to perceive the 
smallest muscular action, and passes as 
a flying shadow before the surrounding 
objects. This magical action, wbicli 
seems (so to speak) to set us free from, 
the laws of gravitation, possesses, indeed, 
something of enchantment ; and, without 
doubt, it was the delightful pleasure 
which this recreation affords, that sug- 
gested to the immortal Klopstock the 
idea of celebrating, in his songs, the de- 
lights which the people of the north find 
during winter, on the smooth and solid 
ice of their numerous canals and lakes."* 

Yes ! of all pastimes skating is in- 
deed that which makes us feel allied 
to the gods, and believe in mythology. 
There goes an Edinburgh advocate in 
the character of Cupid an account- 
ant that would shame Apollo and 
a W.S. more gracefully fleet than 
Mercury gathering the shore ! 

" The exercise in question may be 
considered under two points of view: 0$ 
as it regards the rapidity, and b, as it re- 
gards the beauty and elegance of the 

" In the first case, the active skater, 
without having any regard to the position 
or the movements of the body, considers 

" During the winter, Holland presents a spectacle which may be enjoyed at a 
small expense. When the canals and lakes are frozen, they travel on the ice with 
skates. In all the provinces, but especially in Friesland, this art is carried to so 
great a degree of perfection, as to become the wonder of all foreigners ; and it is, 
surprising to see with what agility and boldness they will pass over twelve miles in 
one hour of time. All the countrywomen know how to skate. Sometimes thirty 
persons may be seen together, that is, fifteen young men with their mistresses, who, 
all holding each other by the hand, appear, as they move along, like a vessel driven 
before the wind. Others are seated on a sledge fixed on two bars of wood, faced 
with iron, and pushed on by one of the skaters. There are, also, boats ten or fifteen 
feet long, placed on large skates, and fitted up with masts and sails. The celerity 
with which these boats are driven forward, exceeds imagination; and, it may be said, 
they equal the rapid flight of a bird. They go three miJes in less than a quarter of 
an hour. 



absolutely nothing but rapidity.* In the 
second, he does just the contrary, and, 
always preserving a noble and graceful 
position of body, makes all his movements 
with the greatest regularity, and seems to 
measure precisely the space he passes 
over, and all he executes appears to be 
foreseen and calculated. He is absolute 
master of all his actions, however com- 
plicate they may be, and moves with so 
much ease and grace, that, at first sight, 
everybody thinks himself able to imitate 
him without trouble. In Holland it is 
not uncommon to see one of those vir- 
tuosos taking the most graceful attitudes, 
and drawing with his skates geometrical 
figures, and sometimes even flowers; and 
it may be said with confidence, that then 
this part of gymnastics is carried to the 
highest point of perfection. 

Tfie Serpentine Course. 
" If the end proposed in passing on a 
straight line be to go over a certain space 
with the greatest rapidity, the only ob- 
ject in describing curve-lines, is to in. 
crease the pleasure, by retarding more or 
less the progress. In the direct course, 
the trace which the skate leaves upon 
the ice is only a little curved at its ex- 
tremity ; but in the exercise in question, 
the skates describe only semi-circles and 
quadrants throughout. If the skater 
makes the curves produced by the im- 
pulse too round, his movement then be- 
comes retrograde. The extent of the 
lines described depends entirely on the 
force given, and we may, according to 
our inclination, trace at each turn a very 
limited line, or give it an extent of twenty 
feet. It is essential te observe, that the 
more the line is prolonged in the ser- 
pentine course, the greater facility the 
skater has to develope his body in a 
graceful manner. The action which pro- 
duces this course consists only in alter- 
nate impulses and slides, as we have in- 
dicated in the direct course. Here the 
body must be inclined in the direction in 

which we go, and the principal thing IA 
to give it an impulse proportioned to the 
space which we wish to pass over ; then, 
as soon as we are arrived at the extremi- 
ty of the line, the foot which followed 
must be placed, the body inclined, an im- 
pulse given, and we must abandon our- 
selves more or less to the movement of 
pulsation, which we have just communi- 
cated to ourselves. The foot which gives 
the impulse follows close on the ice, yet 
without touching it, and gives a new blow 
by closing this movement as much as 
possible in order to render it impercep- 

Crossing during the direct course. 
" As soon as we are sufficiently exer- 
cised in the difficult evolutions just men 
tioned, we may try, in skating on a 
straight line, to give the impulse alter- 
nately, by making the foot which follows 
cross over that on which the body slides. 
We must act equally with both feet, be 
cause if we make this exercise several 
times following on the same foot, we 
shall describe a circle, the circumference 
of which will be proportionable to tb 
greater or less extent of each slide. 

To break short in crossing* 
" This exercise requires a great deal 
of address, confidence, and quickness ; 
we must have made considerable pro 
gress to be able to cross on both sides 
equally, in describing the curves, because 
the movement which is made to break 
the force communicated, in order to go 
in a contrary direction, requires that we 
should be absolute masters of all out 
movements, however violent they may 
be. In crossing, while making the ser- 
pentine course, the body is thrown with 
great violence, sometimes from right to 
left, and sometimes from left to right. 

" In this action the dexterous skater 
resembles a vessel, which is proceeding 
by a serpentine or zig-zag course (tack 
ing) with great rapidity, 

* The Frieslander, who is generally considered to be the most skilful skater, often 
goes fifteen miles ah hour, and is even able to support this pace for a long time. In 
the province of Friesland, there are annually several public courses, which may be 
considered as national festivals, where the two sexes are indiscriminately admitted 
to dispute the prize, and whoever arrives first at the goal, is always proclaimed con 
queror. Here no regard whatever is paid to the fine movements of the body, each 
taking the attitude which appears to him the most proper to accelerate his course. 
Often the skater in Friesland is seen with his body leaning forward, assisting himself 
with his hands, which he places on the ice to increase his impulse. Here the wo- 
men are the rivals of the men, nay often surpass them in quickness ; and in many 
of these contests, at which we were present at Leuwarden, we have seen the young 
women carry off different prizes in the skating race. 

In 1808, two young females, named Scholtens and Johanes, won the prize in s 
skating race at Grcwringen. They went thirty miles in two hours. 


l-iti Gymnastics. 

What season in all the year can 
bear comparison with winter? Can 
the imagination dream of a day su- 
perior to one of cold bleak frost ? 
What bright and beautiful incrusta- 
tions on house-eave, bank, and tree ! 
What a glorious glitter on the moun- 
tain-top ! Who would long for sum- 
mer skies beneath that magnificent 
arch of heaven, " so deeply, darkly, 
beautifully blue !" The air you breathe 
belongs to a clime in which all living 
things must reach longevity without 
the labour of reading Sir John Sin- 
clair. With every sweet single soul 
of that blooming bevy of fur-clad vir- 
gins are we in love ; in such a bra- 
cing atmosphere we behold charms 
in every matron, and something plea- 
sant in old women themselves ! Then 
and then only do we lament our bache- 
lorship, and vow " to show her the 
ring, and implore her to marry." But 
our courage melts with the first thaw, 
and Ccelebs ceases to go in Search of 
a Wife. 

What varieties of scenery does the 
skater enjoy ! The broad meadow, 
where the tree-stems are bound in the 
crisp water-flow, and the bells are 
heard jangling sweetly from the old 
monastic tower, the pond in plea- 
sure-ground, in whose oozy depths the 
carp repose, and whose margin is sha- 
ded from sun and storm by a brother- 
hood of sycamores or horse-chesnuts 
perpetually in bud, the long river- 
shallows, with ivyed precipices closing 
up the vista, and overhead blue sky 
and white cloud, with perhaps a few 
cawing rooks, the canal winding on 
its scientific level round knoll and 
hill, with stray-house and scattered 
village on its banks, and passage- boat, 
ferry-punt, and coal-barge imprisoned 
in the frost's embrace, tarn up among 
the mountains, where no wind is heard 
but the cracking cliffs or living lake, 
living, but asleep in its pellucid glass- 
iness, with an old castle reflected in 
it, and a grove cotemporary with the 
foundation-stone ! 

Then with what an appetite does 
the skater return to his Dulce Do- 
mum ! In no other exercise is there 
so little fatigue. Fox-hunting is glo- 
rious, but severecricketing is noble, 
but straining to the sinewy system 
and we have felt somewhat too wea- 
ried from Tennis and Fives but ska- 
ting is always like the undebilitating 
and restorative exercise of a new fa- 

culty. Hunger and thirst seem mere 
names, as we glide and skime along, 
yet, soon as we untie our skates, they 
are felt to be realities. No sleeping 
after dinner among a bright-eyed com- 
pany of skaters ! Quips and cranks, 
and wreathed srailes, joke, jest, 
pun, and repartee, sallies of pointed 
merriment, grotesque remarks, acute 
observations, original whimsies, nay, 
even profound reflections bordering 
upon the philosophical, intermingle 
with song, catch, and glee, till, through 
the illimitable range of laughter, from 
faint susurrus to indomitable gaffaw, 
the long glass-jingling table, with its 
central punch-bowl, is on a murmur 
or a roar ! 

But lo ! Winter is over and gone, 
and warm-bosomed May-day dips her 
lily feet once more in the tepid mur- 
murs of stream and lake, or in the 
foam-bells breaking over the heaving 
beauty of the grass-green sea and 
the season of Swimming shines over 
the watery world . Captain Clias strips, 
and, like a merman, flings his mus- 
cular anatomy into the flowing tide, 
or over a waterfall. Perhaps the best 
part of the Captain's work is the chap- 
ter on Swimming. In Swimming, as in 
Poetry, no mediocrity must be allow- 
ed, and that for excellent reasons, 

" It is not sufficient, as many may 
suppose, to know so much of this art 
as merely to extricate ourselves, but it 
is necessary to possess sufficient ability 
to succour another in the moment of dis- 
tress. A swimmer who has only attain- 
ed mediocrity, is incapable of this latter 
gratification, for his swimming cannot bo 
considered as an action that he executes 
with facility ; on the contrary, it appears 
as a continued struggle with the element, 
in which he must perish, should the least 
accident occur to confuse him, or impede 
his efforts. It is, then, essential for those 
who would possess the real benefits of 
this art, to convince themselves of its 
great utility, and not to commence, until 
they have resolved to pass the bounds of 

" In the arts of fencing, dancing, music, 
horsemanship, &c. a tolerable progress 
produces no unhappy consequences, it is 
even productive of pleasure : it is not 
thus in regard to swimming ; we can have 
but little pleasure, and no safety in the 
water as indifferent swimmers. Experi- 
ence proves to us that more fatal acci- 
dents happen to those who swim imper- 
fectly, than those who cannot swim at all. 


the latter having no temptation to expose 
themselves to danger." 

This is sound doctrine, and we are 
willing to subscribe to it on the sole 
authority of Captain Clias but he 
clenches it with Rousseau. " With- 
out having finished his studies, (says 
Rousseau,) a traveller mounts on 
horseback, keeps his seat, and this he 
can do sufficiently well for his pur- 
pose ; but in the water, if he does not 
know how to swim, he will probably be 
drowned." Rousseau was indeed a 
strange paradoxical creature. It is an 
error to suppose that grown-up men 
cannot learn to swim, experience 
teaches the contrary, and the great 
number of soldiers and private indivi- 
duals who are taught swimming in 
the different European establishments, 
proves clearly that men may become 
most expert in the art at any period of 
life. Still there have been few first- 
rate swimmers who did not practise 
the art from childhood. 

" Surely it may be called a duty of pa- 
rents to attend to this part of the physi- 
cal education of their children. Is it not 
truly pitiable, to see the smallest animal 
find its safety in crossing rivers, and in 
sustaining itself on the water for hours, 
whilst man, the king of animals, so proud 
of his knowledge, may be drowned in a 
brook, if he has not learnt to swim ? In 
the moment of danger, of what service 
to a person are all the valuable pleasures 
of literature, and the stores of the mind? 
Of what avail to know the whole circle 
of the mathematics, the properties of dif- 
ferent bodies, their mechanism and spe- 
cific weight, if he should fall into the wa- 
ter, and not be able to remedy that pro- 
perty in his own body, which causes it to 
sink in that fluid ? Nay, we beseech him 
to learn to swim, that he may preserve 
more effectually from accident, those gifts 
and attainments which would cause his 
loss to be severely felt. 

" The motions we must make in the 
water, in order to preserve our equilibri- 
um, or to direct the body according to our 
will, are not natural to man ; it is there- 
tore necessary to learn them, if we wish 
to preserve ourselves from danger. Even 
if the body of a 1 man, placed horizontally 
on the water, had the property of buoy- 
ancy, it would be of no advantage with- 
out the art of urging it forward, or direct- 
ing its movements. It would either re- 
main stationary, or in a rapid stream be 
drawn into gulfs, bruised against rocks, 
or perhaps crushfd by the wheel of a mill. 

icx* ' \ 4-7 

" Let the English youth ieel this truth, 
and learn to govern their own persons, 
in its healthy kingdom, with as much skill 
as they do their ships of war and com- 
merce, which have raised their country to 
the highest pitch of maritime glory and 

It is certainly most absurd to live 
all the days of one's life at the mercy 
of any one of the elements whatever, 
more especially water ; and, in most 
instances, people who are drowned 
deserve death. In much of the inte- 
rior of Africa, and in the central de- 
serts of Arabia, swimming is of no 
use, owing to the general aridity of 
the soil, and want of atmospheric 
moisture. But islanders like us, who 
are rarely out of sight or sound of 
stream, lake, and sea, ought to be am- 
phibious. In angling, no man can be 
called a master who is not a swimmer. 
There is not a bridge at every turn 
across the Tweed, Tay, and Clyde, 
ferry-boats are rare, and fords are 
deep. Over with you, therefore, like a 
sagacious Newfoundland dog, back 
and forward from shady and sunny 
bank, according to the flow of flood, 
and giving yourself a shake, drop the 
fly lightly above snout of trout, grilse, 
or salmon. In lake-fishing, wherever 
you see a strong and shelving shallow 
stretching along the deeps, have in- 
stant recourse to natation, ^and you 
will fill your pannier with pounders, 
while land- lubbers are in vain flog- 
ging from the shore. Don't talk to us 
about danger. The wave is tepid as 
milk, so no chance of catching cold ; 
cramp is a mere bug-bear ; and as 
every man knows his own strength, 
he is just as safe while he keeps within 
moderate limits in the water as on the 

"We have, indeed, heard it seriously 
mentioned in conversation, that peo- 
ple who can swim run a greater risk 
of being drowned than those who can- 
not ; and, no doubt, people who can- 
not swim do not often plunge into 
pools twenty feet deep, just as people 
who cannot ride are rarely seen on 
horseback, and never killed acting as 
jockeys at Newmarket. In all acci- 
dents with boats, the good swimmers, 
it is said, are uniformly drowned. That, 
in the first place, is a lie ; but when it 
does so happen, pray who drown them 
but the knaves who cannot swim a 
stroke, and clutch hold of \\\e. legs of 



better men, and drag them to the bot- 
tom ? A prime seaman is not worthy 
the name, who cannot swim, nor can 
he discharge all his duties. In ship- 
wreck during a storm, and on a lea- shore 
of precipices, swimming cannot greatly 
avail, and the sea will dash to death a 
thousand men among the floating frag- 
ments of the Dreadnought ; or fire will 
consume the ship from the face of the 
sea ; " and the strong swimmer in his 
agony," knows that he shall never be- 
hold the setting sun. But, to say that 
men in shipwreck have not a better 
chance of their lives, if able to swim, 
is about as rational as to say that men, 
in balloon- wrecks, would not have a 
better chance of their life if able to fly. 
Most parents love their children, 
(the organ of philoprogenitiveness be- 
ing a large bump on all heads, if there 
be truth in phrenology,) and cannot 
bear the thought of their being drown- 
ed ; so they are apt to look upon bath- 
ing as a dangerous pastime. Although 
we have no children of our own, nor 
a right to have any, not being married, 
yet we can pardon the amiable weak- 
ness which betrays a rational mistrust 
. HI the efficacy of resuscitating ma- 
chines. But swimming may be learn- 
ed in water not deeper than your knee 
nay, many of our readers with large 
families will be happy and surprised 
to hear, on the authority of Captain 
Clias himself, " that children may be 
laught the elementary principles of na- 
tation without having recourse to wa- 
fer," and may become tolerable swim- 
mers on dry land. 

The apparent paradox Captain Clias 
explains by a very clear and full ac- 
count of the process, by which, with 
the aid of machinery, a boy may be 
taught the elements of the art : 

" The swimming-girdle is placed round 
the pupil's breast, in such a manner that 
its upper edge touches the pap of the 
breast. The girdle, which is formed of 
hemp or linen thread, must be four fingers 
in breadth, and provided at both ends 
with brass rings. It must be of such a 
length that these rings may touch on the 
back. Through these the rope drawn, 
(he ends of which are left loose, which 
the teacher holds in his hand. The pu- 
pil is then conducted to the water, and 
recommended to go gently into it. 

" As soon as the pupil is in the water, 
m order to inspire him with confidence, 
Che teacher winds the end of the rope, 


which he holds in hi!, hand, round the 
pole, and leaning the pole on the rail, he 
swings the pupil into the water, in such 
a way, that the latter appears to repose 
on its surface. The pupil is riot placed 
in a perfectly horizontal position ; the 
head is plunged up to the mouth, the 
arms are stiffly stretched forwards, so 
that the palms of the hands touch each 
other ; the legs are also stiffly stretched 
out, and the heels are kept together, but 
the toes are turned to the outside and 
contracted; this is called ranging. In 
this position the pupil must remain for 
some time, till he feels it becomes easy to 
him. When this is well knewn, the pupil 
proceeds to the movements." 

We have not room to enter into any 
detail of the various exercises by which 
the pupil is finally, and in a wonder- 
fully short time, enabled to despise 
rope and pole, and launch out into 
river or sea. 

This system, which Captain Clias put 
in practice in 1809, for the first time, 
with the two grandsons of Marshal 
Blucher, and in 1811, in his own 
country, (Switzerland,) has been in- 
troduced for some years, by Colonel 
Pfull, in the Prussian army, with great 
success, and lately, in many other parts 
of the Continent. Paris, Vienna, Ber- 
lin, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
Petersburg, Amsterdam, Berne, in 
Switzerland, and a great many other 
places, have now regular Swimming 
Schools established and maintained by 
the government, or private societies. 

In the year 1818, there was formed, 
in the central school of Denmark, one 
hundred and five masters, destined to 
teach in the different cities of that 
kingdom. All of them having been 
instructed after the same method, 
learnt, in less than four months, to 
swim a distance of nine miles, to dive 
twenty feet deep, and even to swim a 
considerable distance in full dress and 
arms, carrying a man on their back. 
In the different Swimming Schools of 
that country, 2707 individuals have 
learnt to swim perfectly in the same 
year, and almost every one of those in- 
stitutions, on the Continent, offer the 
same satisfactory result. 

We recommend Captain Clias'sbook 
to all swimmers. They will find ex- 
cellent instructions respecting Tread- 
ing water Swimming on the side, 
without employing the feet Floating 
Leaping, or Plunging the Running 

Plunge the Flat Plunge the Fling 
the Mill the Wheel backwards and 
forwards the Thrust the Double 
Thrust Diving and Saving from 

As a specimen of his style of treat- 
ing the subject, hear him on diving .- 

" The exercise of diving must begin by 
remaining under water without motion. 
The most pleasant manner for the diver 
is to let himself sink gently into the wa- 
ter, by means of a pole or rope. The 
breath must be drawn in slowly, and ex- 
pelled by degrees, when the heart begins 
to beat very strongly. If the pupil has 
practised himself in this for some time, 
he may then begin to swim under water, 
and to dive to the bottom- In swimming 
under water, he may either move in the 
usual way, or keep his hands stretched 
before him, which will enable him to cut 
the water more easily, and greatly relieve 
the breast. If he observes that he ap- 
proaches too near the surface of the wa- 
ter, he must press the palms of his hands 
upwards. If he wishes to dive to the 
bottom, 'he must turn the palms of the 
hands upwards, striking with them re- 
peatedly and rapidly, whilst the feet are 
reposing; and when he has attained a 
perpendicular position, he should stretch 
out his hands like feelers, and make the 
usual movement with his feet; then he 
will descend with great rapidity to the 
bottom. It is well to accustom the eyes 
to open themselves under the water, at 
least in those beds of water which admit 
the light, as it will enable us to ascertain 
the depth of the water we are in." 

Except when it is sought to bring 
up drowning or drowned people from 
the bottom, we dissuade our readers 
(from diving. It cannot be good for 
the health. Never, as you love us, 
dive under logs of wood, or barges, 
or frigates, or line-of-battle ships. We 
have seen such things done we have 
ourselves done such things. On one 
occasion, with our head touching the 
keel of an eighteen gun-brig, we be- 
gan to feel want of breath, and would 
have given a rump and dozen for a 
single gallon of air. The brig was ra- 
ther big-bellied, and we could not get 
clear of her great $at sides. We be- 
gan to fear that we should not find our 
level, and the journey upwards was 
indeed most intolerably tedious. Un- 
luckily, on reaching the surface, we 
carne up under a boat of live lumber. 

from the shore, and had to put on our 
spectacles to see our way from under 
her ugly flat bottom. Then a pretty 
high sea was running, and when we 
had bobbed our head above water, 
wave after wave smote us, till we were 
heard from on board blowing like a 
porpus. We would not take such ano- 
ther dive again, no, not for a bushel 
of pearls ; and we believe that, for 
nearly a quarter of an hour, (so the time 
seemed to us,) we had been given up 
by the whole ship's company we had 
almost said the squadron. 

In diving, beware of muddy bot- 
toms. It is a shocking sensation to 
feel yourself settling down to the mid- 
dle, head foremost, in sludge, among 
eels. Beware of weeds and water-lilies, 
for there the Naiads are ladies of in- 
different reputation, and their embrace 
is death. Never leap from the battle- 
ments of a bridge let a soft, green, 
sunny bank, of a few feet, suffice. As 
you are a gentleman, scorn canals 
and neither bathe nor fish in troubled 
waters. Gentle river ! gentle river ! 
let me float adown the elisium of thy 
flowing murmurs ; and then, in kind 
contention, lovingly buffet back my 
way to the pool, on whose tree-shaded 
brink lie my nankeen trowsers and 
shirt of fine linen, like a snow-patch 
amid the verdure. Ah ! above all things 
else, as you are a man, let no foot-path, 
however unfrequented, touch the wa- 
ter edge near the pool where you, 
like a wild-goose, are at play ; but 
steer your state like a swan, that, bold 
yet shy, disports in the solitude, and 
ever and anon rising on the surface, 
awakens the lonely echoes with the 
flapping of his victorious wings ! 

Often have we longed to save the 
life of a fellow-creature ; and we have 
rescued from drowning one very young 
child, and one very old woman. But 
oh ! that it had fallen to our lot to save 
Some lovely virgin, unengaged to be 
married, and who had not yet lost her 
heart ! That is a happiness that falls 
to the lot of one man in a million. 
Yet one precious life we have saved 
when the waters rose and beat over 
her, nor has she been ungrateful the 
life of the dearest, best creature alive 
Maga the incomparable ! even at 
the very hour when her days were as 
those of a virgin when the days of her 
virginity have expired.* 

* Ser Ohaldrr MS, 


In all ordinary cases, follow the ad- 
vice of Captain Clias. 

" It is necessary for a swimmer to 
know how to act in rescuing a drowning 
person, without himself becoming the 
victim, as so often happens; we therefore 
lay down the following rules: The 
swimmer must avoid approaching the 
drowning person in front, in order that 
he may not be grasped by him ; for 
wherever a drowning person seizes, he 
holds with convulsive force, and it is 
no easy matter to get disentangled from 
his grasp ; therefore, he ought to seize 
him from behind, and let him loose im- 
mediately the other turns towards him ; 
his best way is either to impel him before 
to the shore, or to draw him behind ; if 
the space to be passed be too great, he 
should seize him by the foot, and drag 
him, turning him on his back. If the 
drowning person has seized him, there is 
no other resource for the swimmer than 
to drop at once to the bottom of the wa- 
ter, and there to wrestle with his anta- 
gonist; the drowning man endeavours, by 
a kind of instinct, to regain the surface, 
and when drawn down to the bottom, he 
usually quits his prey, particularly if the 
diver attacks him therewith all his power. 

" For two swimmers the labour is ea- 
sier, because they can mutually relieve 
each other. If the drowning person has 
still some presence of mind remaining, 
they will then seize him one under one 
arm, and the other under the other, and, 
without any great effort in treading wa- 
ter, bring him along with his head above 
the water, while they enjoin him to 
keep himself as much stretched out, and 
as much without motion, as possible." 

In the last Quarterly Review (an 
admirable Number, Mr Editor) there 
is an article on swimming, at once 
sensible and ingenious, entertaining 
and instructive. We have our doubts, 
however, about the superiority of up- 
right natation. No doubt that method 
more closely resembles walking than 
the usual one, which, indeed, has no 
resemblance to walking at all ; but 
why should swimming resemble walk- 
ing ? Walking, Swimming, and Fly- 
ing, seem to us three distinct kinds of 
locomotion, in three distinct kinds of 
elements-dearth, water, and air. Such 
savage swimmers as we have seen we 
speak of the natives of Otaheite and 
the Sandwich Isles, also of Malays and 
of the negroes on the coast of Guinea 
do not swim upright, although cer- 
tainly they do swim deep in the water, 
which is perhaps all that the reviewer 

means to recommend. Men would 
take no heed of time but by its loss, 
were they to swim great distances up- 
right ; and on the whole we must re- 
main partial to the method of the frog, 
the most elegant and powerful of 
swimmers, and an animal to whom, in 
many essential points, we have always 
thought the human species bears a very 
striking resemblance. 

Some swimmers, at every stroke, 
raise not only their neck and shoul- 
ders, but absolutely breast and body, 
out of the water, and the style is im- 
posing. But it must exhaust, and part 
of the power exerted is nearly useless. 
It is sufficient to keep your mouth 
above water ; yet even that is not ab- 
solutely necessary, for you may breathe 
through your nostrils. Longish strokes 
are the best ; but you may vary them 
at your pleasure; As far as our obser- 
vation or experience goes, power in the 
arms is of more avail to the swimmer 
than power in the legs ; and we would 
always bet on the pugilistic, in pre- 
ference to the pedestrian figure. 

Captain Clias will have ladies to 
learn to swim as well as jump ; and of 
the two, natation and saltation, the 
former is, we think, according to our 
notions of feminine delicacy, the ac- 
complishment which, we should prefer 
in a wife or mistress. It is difficult 
for the female form to jump graceful- 
ly. Camilla herself, we suspect, would 
have looked awkward at hop-step-and- 
leap. Venus was no jumping Joan 
but she walked well. And Urania, there 
can be no doubt from her name, was 
a charming swimmer. Petticoats, how- 
ever, are not such good things to swim 
in as breeches ; but that difficulty 
married ladies will be able to get over, 
while in the water all virgins must be 

Life is sweet so swim in no sea 
where, by any possibility, a shark can 
be within a hundred leagues of your 
leg. Remember the print of the young 
man saved with loss of limb from that 
marine attorney. Should a dolphin 
disturb you, up with you on his back, 
and calling for your fiddle, sport 
Arion. Bottlenosesr are harmless. We 
never knew a life lost by Craken ; and 
there is only one on record swallowed 
by a Whale. 

In the Quarterly are some pleasant 
natatory anecdotes, to which we add a 
brace given by Captain Clias. 

In 1699. a small vessel belonging 

1826. J (rt/'tnnitatics. 

to the monks of La Charite, was over- 
set by a gust of wind, between St Lu- 
cie and Martinique, and all who were 
in it perished, with the exception of a 
Carabee, who, without being aided by 
a plank, or other morsel of wood that 
might have assisted him, kept himself 
buoyant upon the water for the space 
of sijxty hours, supporting hunger, 
thirst, and the violence of the tempest, 
which caused the loss of the vessel, 
and at last landed at a small creek, and 
communicated the news of the wreck 
which had happened. 

In the famous defence of Genoa, 
by General Massena, that officer felt 
the necessity of making known his pe- 
rilous situation to the First Consul, 
the fate of the place, and that of the 
French army, depended upon the event 
of the siege ; the blockade cut off all 
communication by larxd, and that by 
sea was attended with great danger. 
Francesche, a young officer, was the 
first to present himself for this great 
act of devotion ; he received dispatches 
from the general, and jumped into a 
fishing beat, with three intrepid row- 
ers. By favour of the night he passed 
through three lines of the English 
fleet, but at day-break they were per- 
ceived, and chase was given them. 
Francesche escaped for a long time the 
pursuit of the English, until they were 
but a few leagues from Antibes, but 
the enemy then gained upon them, 
and the fear of falling into their hands 
was severely felt. Francesche stripped 
off his clothes, bound the dispaches to 
his body, and having recommended 
the sailors to manoeuvre as long as pos- 
sible, to draw the enemy's attention 
from himself, gently dropped into the 
sea. He swam several hours, landed 
among his countrymen, and had the 
satisfaction to present the dispatches 


safe to the First Consul, who could not 
withhold his admiration of this proof 
of courage and success. The former 
begged to finish his enterprise, recei- 
ved the answer, and carried it back to 
General Massena at Genoa. 

Captain Clias, we wish you good 
morning. Gentle readers ! remember 
that all the gymnastic exercises in the 
world are not worth a bam, without 
regular, sober, active habits of life, 
All kinds of debauchery and dissipa- 
tion incapacitate equally for lying, 
standing, walking, running, leaping, 
wrestling, skating, swimming, and a 
thousand things else beside. O what 
a charm in moderation ! How strong 
the heart beats and the lungs play 1 
The eye, how it sparkles ! and the 
mantling blood on the clear cheek, 
how beautiful ! But your fat, pursy, 
purfled son of a witch, who, from 
morn to night, guzzles and gurgles like 
a town-drake in a gutter, and from 
night to morn snorts and snores to the 
disturbance of other two tenements, 
no system of gymnastics will keep that 
man alive till Christmas ; and then he 
will be seen practising bona fide that 
species of walking which Captain Clias 
calls the Spectre's March. 

And now, gentle readers, we must 
part. .We have indeed bestowed our 
tediousness upon you, but believe us 
when we declare 'pon our honour that 
our error was unpremeditated. Half 
a sheet was all we had allowed our- 
selves at starting, and we are really 
afraid to count the number of pages, 
We must not hope that you may never 
be drowned, in case you should come 
to a worse death ; but may you live all 
the dayg of your life, and long may the 
stone sleep unshaped in the quarry 
that is destined to bear the epitaph 
commemorative of your virtues. 

Transmogrification $ 



Miss MITFORD, in a very clever 
little sketch, published in Ackermann's 
pretty " Forget-me-not," has very 
amusingly detailed the continual trans- 
migrations of the female part, of hu- 
manity in its progress through child- 
hood, girlhood, and womanhood, to 
marriage and old age. But to us of 
the more lordly sex she has denied a 
mutability which perhaps she has not 
so much observed this is solely be- 
cause she is not one of us, and could 
scarcely have opportunities of remark- 
ing our changes as closely as those of 
her own sex. She observes, " there is 
very little change in men from early 
boyhood, and that they keep the same 
faces, however ugly." In some in- 
stances it may be so,, but in general 
there are very few animals more un- 
like than the boy to the man ; but 
perhaps Miss Mitford, in this sweep- 
ing indistinction, only alluded to the 
fc wearers of smock frocks," in that 
case there is an end of the argument ; 
but supposing the contrary, (which I 
do, otherwise an excellent article 
would be lost,) I will proceed to detail 
the history of my own ( ( Transmogri- 

I cannot say I recollect myself, but 
I perfectly well remember a portrait 
that strongly resembled me, painted 
when I was two years old, for my 
dear and tender mother, and valued ac- 
cordingly. It represents a fat, roguish, 
black-eyed, curly- headed urchin, sit- 
ting on a bank with a lap full of 
flowers, which showed out magnifi- 
cently from the white frock beneath 
them. There was happiness, round, 
rich, luscious, rosy happiness, in every 
little feature ; and altogether it was 
such a child as a mother might be 
proud of. Three years after, I can 
recollect myself the fat was passing 
away I was growing tall, slender, an 
impudent self- willed imp, the delight 
of my father, the torment of my sister, 
and the curse of servants. My god- 
father gave me a guinea, and I gave 
it to a groom, as a bribe to let me 
mount his horse and ride him a few 
yards to water. I had a new beaver 
hat I had no objection to sunbeams, 
and thought I could turn it to better 
account I cut it into the shape of a 
very tolerable boat, and sent it down 
the stream, that, innocent of mischief, 

flowed quietly through the grounds. 
Yet amid all this wildness, there 
might have been seen " sparkles of a 
better nature ;" for I had much ten- 
derness in. my composition, glimpses 
of enthusiasm, and some queer unde- 
fined notions of the beautiful; for in- 
stance, a gang of gipsies sometimes 
favoured " our village" by pitching 
their tents in the outskirts ; and many 
a time have I slipped away from the 
paternal care of " Old John" to listen 
to the voice of one dark-eyed girl 
among the troop, who had fascinated 
my young heart, or (I rather suppose) 
my ear, by her singing. How often 
have I wept over the melancholy fate 
of the lady, who, in the storm at sea, 
told her lover to 
" Take a white napkin, and bind my head 

And then throw me overboard, me and 

my baby ;" 

and have frequently been elevated to 
heroism by the splendid portrait of 
that hero who was martyrised at Ty- 
burn ; his constancy at his trial WOTS 
my fervent admiration. 

" I stood as bold as John of Gaunt, 
All in my natty attire j 

I ne'er seem'd daunted in the least. 
Which made the folks admire ! 

" That all the people they may say, 

That I am no des-arter ; 
For the captain, he must lead the way , 

And the men must follow a'-ter." 

My wild spirits were really taken 
captive by these vagabonds ; the law- 
less independence of their children 
was my envy ; they had no lessons to 
learn, no elder sisters to keep them if< 
order, nor elder brother to thump 
them out of their pocket-money ; then 
whole existence to me was paradisai- 
cal. I believe if they had attempted 
to steal me, they would have found the 
business half done to their hands. 

At seven years old I was breeched 
I had a cloth jacket and trowsers 1 
was told that I was a man ; and I 
thought it incumbent on me to be 
" grave and gentlemanlike." I paid 
more attention to my lessons and the 
young ladies, and thought it an im- 
perative duty to discover they werf 
more amiable and pretty than boys 
Soon this affectation became sincere. 
My sister was better loved than all 

My Transmogrification^. 

my kin ; to her I flew to roar away 
my grief, when my father took out 
Henry, and left me at home, or when 
he threatened to sell my pony, or give 
him to my playfellow, Richard How- 
ard, whom I hated ever after. In her 
I reposed all my confidence, and in 
her gentle bosom deposited my tutor's 
severities, and my brother's wrongs 
I was, in truth, " a most pathetical 

But at ten, " O what a change was 
there !" No Chrysalis' metamorpho- 
sis was ever greater. I had grown 
accustomed to my breeches, and no 
longer held them in any consideration ; 
I was impudent to my sister, con- 
tradicted my father, fought my own 
battles with my brother, and played 
truant with my tutor, till he made a 
solemn complaint of my manifold abo- 
minations. I scrambled all over the 
country, and came back with scarcely 
a rag on my back, and what were left 
me were so defaced by mud, or dust, 
as the weather would have it, that 
their quality could barely be disco- 
vered. My mother wept, my father 
swore, my tutor said the devil was in 
me. I was up to all sorts of villainy. 
I stuffed a goose with gunpowder in 
the absence of the cook, who was pre- 
paring to put it down to the spit, and I 
felt no sort of compunction for her in- 
tense fear and agony, when, on ap- 
plying the lighted paper to singe it, it 
blew into ten thousand pieces, and 
nearly knocked her eyes out. I had 
threshed my brother into respect for 
me; and my playmates consoled them- 
selves for not being able to master me, 
by bestowing upon me the very ex- 
pressive cognomen of " Gallows !" At 
length I tired them out; my tutor 
gave in, and my mother acquiesced 
with my father in thinking school 
alone could preserve me. So to a pub- 
lic school I went, to learn decorum 
and obedience. 

In four years more, there were no 
traces of Young Gallows, but I came 
home a monkey still, only melancho- 
ly, instead of mischievous. My early 
enthusiasm returned, and my intense 
love of the beautiful, undirected by 
reason, exhibited itself in the most 
ridiculous forms I read novels, and 
the pathetic stories in the magazines. 
I contemplated the setting sun 
fell in love with the moon, and made 
verses to every little star that twinkled 
behind the clouds and before the 



clouds. I would not have read or 
written anything li vely for the world ; 
I should have thought fun an insult 
to my feelings ; and understanding I 
was a slender boy, with long arms and 
legs, of an active light figure, but de- 
licate constitution everybody said I 
should be tallI had looked in the 
glass, and observing a pale, dark face, 
inclining to sallow, masses of black 
curling hair, and a somewhat serious 
look, I concluded that I should be a 
tall, thin, pale, pensive-looking young 
man, and acted up to the character 
accordingly. I loved to be thought an 
invalid, and frightened my mother to 
death by the affectation of a hectic 
cough, which I pretended to consider 
as a warning that I should die early 
of a decline. I wrote a long string of 
verses, called the " Dying Boy," in 
which I lamented my early doom, ex- 
pressed my resignation, and took a 
tender and pathetic farewell of the 
trees, and the moon, and the flowers. 
It brought the tears into my own eyes 
to read it (I have since learned it 
had the same effect upon others, but 
from a very opposite emotion) I sent 
them to one of the most pitiful maga- 
zines, where they were (God knows 
why) inserted. Oh, how proud was 
I I was a Scholar and a Poet ! There 
was wanting but one thing to com- 
plete me I should fall in love and so 
I did ; but the affair was more serious 
than I could have imagined more of 
real feeling mingled with the thing 
than I expected the passion of a boy 
of fourteen has something desperate 
in it always ; and that mine had an 
uncommon portion of sincerity, was 
obvious from the character of the ob- 
ject of my choice. She was a beauti- 
ful, accomplished woman of twenty- 
two (the daughter of an intimate friend 
of my father). A girl of my own age 
would not have been endurable. I 
" never told my love" to this charming 
creature for many months that she was 
on a visit to my sister and resided in 
my neighbourhood ; but I endeavoured 
to make it apparent by every possible 
pathetical mode I looked at her till 
I could not see, and listened to her 
till I could not hear ; I gathered 
flowers to twist into her bright hair, 
and when they were dead, wept over 
them for envy at their fate, and de- 
posited them next my shirt I read 
to her, in the most tender voice, all 
the amatory verses I could put my 

1,U My Ti 

hands on, launched out on the happi- 
ness of domestic love, and affected to 
caress little children in her presence 
I never ate any dinner when she was 
at table, but, with an air of despera- 
tion, gulped down as much wine as I 
possibly could, without incurring my 
father's observation now, I thought, 
I should like to be a king, and place 
her on a throne; then, a successful 
warrior, that her country might offer 
her homage love and a cottage had its 
charms, and sometimes I thought how 
delicious it would be to suffer for her 
sake. These thoughts became feelings, 
and what was begun as a matter of 
course, terminated in real tenderness, 
no less ridiculous. I was a diffident 
lad, exceeding modest : judge then of 
my sincerity by its effect. Finding 
myself alone with her in a beautiful 
bower by moonlight, I fell upon my 
knees, seized her fair hand, and made 
a vehement declaration of my passion ; 
I besought her to have compassion up- 
on my youth, and not by coldness to de- 
stroy its hopes I vowed eternal truth, 
and swore desperately I could not live 
without her I drew a glowing pic- 
ture of the delights of married life, 
and expatiated warmly on the tyranny 
of parents and friends I promised to 
make the best of husbands, the ten- 
derest of fathers, and shuddered at the 
prospect of separation, shed real tears 
at the bare imagination of her indif- 
ference ; and finally, rising with my 
subject, assured her that I had ten 
pounds untouched, and besought her 
to commit herself to my protection, 
and elope with me that night. I was 
too much agitated in the first instance 
to observe the effect of my pleadings, 
but I was soon most fearfully enlight- 
ened. Imagine my boundless horror, 
my stupefaction of feeling at hearing 
her burst into a loud laugh, and see- 
ing her spring from her seat, and dart 
rapidly out of the bower I was ago- 
nized beyond all description ; I rub- 
bed my eyes and ray nose, and tried 


to persuade myself that all that had 
passed was a dream. Presently my 
brother came into the arbour, he had 
an unspeakable grin upon his odious 
face, but he said nothing, affected to 
look for some unmissed article, and 
went out again ; next, my father walk- 
ed slowly past, whistling, as if per- 
fectly indifferent to my movements, 
but I noticed a quick, queer, shrewd, 
merry-looking glance that was not to 
be misunderstood. The story soon 
travelled ; my acquaintance tried hard 
not to laugh in my face, and the more 
they stifled their mirth, the more 
frightful seemed its occasional ebulli- 
tions ; and she, the cruel cause of all 
this misery to me, she married in 
about a week after this event, a man 
of thirty, who, as Blackwood says, 
" shaved twice a-day," and no doubt 
entertained him mightily with the pa- 
thos of the smooth- chinned boy, who 
had the presumption to try to supplant 

This adventure cured me complete- 
ly of sentiment I ceased, for a time, 
all attempts to captivate fair ladies, 
and turned an eye of admiration on 
myself. At seventeen, I was a puppy, 
a dandy; my dress and appearance 
the only subjects worthy my contem- 
plation ; I detested poetry, the moon, 
and little children, and generally gave 
these last a sly pinch or kick, when 
they had the presumption to expect 
I should play with them. This state 
continued a few years ; and then, last 
stage of all, came whiskers, mustachios, 
love, real love, marriage, business, 
bustle, and twenty- nine Here I pause 
it would be egotism to say farther 
my friends alone must decide whether 
the boy be like the man I think not 
so, with the burthen of nearly thir- 
ty years on my shoulders, all the usu- 
al cares of life, and some, perhaps, 
that are not usual, I take my leave, to 
fight out the remainder as I may. 


First Love. 


I SHALL never forget the first time 
I ever drank rum-punch after having 
been smoking cigars. Dates, says De 
Quincy, may be forgotten epochs ne- 
ver. That formed an epoch in my 
existence ; 
" And the last trace of feeling with life 

shall depart, 
Ere the smack of that moment shall pass 

from my heart." 

Let me recall it to my memory, with 
all its attendant circumstances, and 
while my soul broods over the deli- 
cious recollection, forget the present 
day, with its temporary miseries, and 
shut out from its view the follies, the 
frivolities, the wickedness, the base- 
ness, the ingratitude of the world. 

It happened, that though, like most 
men who, in my day, were reared in 
Trinity College, juxta Dublin, I had 
been tolerably well initiated into the 
theory and practice of com potation, I 
had never much taken to its greatest 
adjunct, smoking. I do not think that 
the Trinity men (Dublin) smoke it 
certainly, as long as I remember that 
seminary, of which I cannot think but 
with affection, never was a fashion 
there. Particular pipemen, and soli- 
tary cigarers, no doubt, always existed, 
but just as you now and then see a 
pig- tail (I do not allude to tobacco) 
dangling behind an elderly gentleman, 
or hear a shoe creak under the foot of 
a decent man. Smoking, in short, was 
the exception non-smoking the rule. 
But the men of my time drank hard, 
though, as youths always do, unscien- 
tifically. I therefore, as the rest, 
drank, and did not smoke. 

I was about twenty when I left the 
University, and went down to live 
with my father in a pretty sea-port 
town. Here I mixed a good deal in 
boating-parties, and other such excur- 
sions with seafaring men, and from 
them, after much persuasion on their 
parts, I learned to smoke. My first 
preceptors preferred the pipe. I shall 
not here enter into the controversy 
which has so long agitated the world, 
concerning the superiority of pipe or 
cigar. I am tired of controversies. 
*' I am weary of hunting, and fain would 

lie down." 

For the same reason, I pass all men- 
tion of the too celebrated, though in 
reality minor dispute, concerning the 

length of the pipe, which cost my 
friend Captain O'Shaughnessy his life. 
Though he died as became a man of 
honour and a gentleman, it may be 
permitted to a friend to avert his eyes 
from the melancholy cause which de- 
prived the world of a true philosopher 
and a brave soldier. 

I think I must have persevered in 
the pipe-system for nine months, when 
an accident (it is needless to encumber 
my narrative by detailing what it was) 
threw me in the way of Cornet Roger 
Silverthorne, of the 13th light dra- 
goons, and Silverthorne Hall in the 
palatinate of Durham. This eminent 
and estimable young man 
" O flos juvenum, 
Spes laeta patris, 
Non certa tuae 
Data res patriae ! 
Non mansuris 
Ornate bonis, 
Raptusque simul, 
Velut herba solet ! 
" Flower of our youth, glad hope of thy 

fond sire, 
To whose bright course thy country 

look'd in vain, 
Deck'd with proud gifts not destined 

to remain, 
But shown and snatch'd away as, 'neath 

the fire 

Of tropic summers, plants bloom bright, 
and soon expire." 

Forgive these tears. I own it is folly 
but nature will sometimes have her 
way in spite of all our philosophy. 
This eminent and estimable young 
man was perhaps the most persevering 
cigar- smoker that ever existed. If 
peerages were distributing, he should 
be Count Segar, instead of the gentle- 
man who now holds that honourable 
title. He generally smoked five do- 
zen a-day. You never saw him with- 
out one in his mouth ; and as the vo- 
luminous smoke curled in picturesque 
wreathes from under his manly mus- 
tachio, while he luminously descanted 
on the various natures, uses, and pro- 
prieties of the several preparations of 
tobacco, he was one of the few men of 
whom you would decidedly say, that he 
was born exfumo dare lucem. I never 
shall hear the like again : those eloquent 
lips are mute, and the brain that die- 


First Love. 

tated the thought, and the tongue that 
clothed it in utterance, have moul- 
dered into clay. His fate was singu- 
lar. He died of indigestion, from ha- 
ving eaten four pounds and a half of 
tripe for a wager. Others, however, 
maintain that he was choked in the 
operation. I never could penetrate 
through the veil which thus hangs 
over ms mysterious death. I, how- 
ever, incline to the latter hypothesis ; 
for my respected and lamented friend, 
I am sure, could have digested any- 
thing. The question, after all, is of 
little moment. He is dead and I 
remain ! 

" Sweet Roger, 
I thought I should have deck'd thy bri- 

dal bed, 
And not have strewed thy tomb !" 

After some controversy, perhaps too 
obstinately persevered in on my part, 
the Cornet converted me to cigars. I 
have said already, that I do not wish 
to unsettle any man's opinions, and 
therefore will let those who prefer the 
pipe, prefer it. I smoked pretty stre- 
nuously with him, and after he had 
been ordered away to Flanders, conti- 
nued the practice. I moistened always, 
as is the custom of my country where 
scarcely any other spirit is ever used 
with whisky. Of that spirit let no 
one for a moment imagine that I am 
about to say anything but what is lau- 
datory. If I did so, I were as ungrate- 
ful as unwise but it is not the spirit 
to smoke with. I say this emphati- 
cally, because I know it to be the case. 
I am little inclined to dogmatize, but 
when once I have formed an opinion 
after careful examination, I uphold it 
with that firmness which a just regard 
for one's own character and the inte- 
rest of truth and honour demands. 

Shortly after Silverthorne's depar- 
ture, business took me to Dublin. 
Fatal, though delicious visit ! On what 
trifles our fate hangs ! I had finished 
my business, and taken my seat on the 
outside of the coach to return home, 
when, as we waited outside the post- 
office in Sackville-street, I heard a 
sweet voice say I hear it yet tingling 
in my ears, though fifteen years have 
elapsed I heard a sweet voice - 

I cannot go on. I must lay down 
the pen - 

Excuse this gust of passion it shall 
be the last. I heard a sweet though 
rather loud voice say, f< Put the little 

portmanteau into the boot, and take 
care to tie the two bandboxes tight on 
the top, covering them from the rain. 
You can put the big trunk where you 
like, and I'll take the cloth bag and 
two brown paper parcels into the coach 
good bye, Judy. I'll write from 
Ballinafad as soon as I see the old 
buck." I looked down, and my doom 
was sealed I was in love 

" Dead shepherd, now I found thy saw 

of might 
He never loved, who loved not at first 


That insidious passion had entered 
my bosom for the first time. Is there 
any one who has not experienced it ? 
If there be, I may envy his freedom 
from disturbance, but I pity the cal- 
lousness of heart, and the distortion of 
feeling, for which he is indebted to it. 

Cecilia shall I say, my Cecilia 
was hasty in her movements, and re- 
jecting the proffered aid of the guard, 
she stepped unassisted toward the 
coach. Her foot slipped in the attempt, 
and she fell on the flagging. I was 
smoking on the top when I saw this 
cruel accident, and without a mo- 
ment's thought, flung from my jaw as 
fine a Havannah as ever saw the Moro, 
leaped on the ground and raised her. 
She was not hurt, but considerably 
agitated. She thanked me with hasty 
accents, and looked on me with a 
glance, which ever still is - but I 
have promised to repress my feelings. 

The coach was full inside, and be- 
sides I had lived pretty close to my 
last tenpenny in Dublin, so that even 
if there had been a place vacant, I 
could not have taken it. She parted 
us about daybreak,, but I was unfortu- 
nate in not being able to see her. In 
fact the agitation of my spirits was 
such that I had been obliged to drink 
fourteen glasses of whisky and water 
during the night, which had in some 
measure got in my head, for, as will 
happen when friends are parting, I 
had indulged a little after dinner with 
some few acquaintance with whom I 
chopped in Exchequer-street and the 
guard seeing me inclined to be top- 
heavy, had laid me down in the well 
behind the coachman, where I was 
unluckily snoring when Cecilia left 
the coach. She asked for me, to thank 
me for my assistance, but on seeing 
how the land lay, they told me that 
she said in her own kind manner, 



" Poor devil he 

drink let him snooze it off." Sweet 


When I awoke and found her gone 
I was frantic. I had lost every clue 
to her. We were twenty miles away 
from the place she parted the coach 
before I roused, and the coachman in- 
formed me that a gentleman with a 
led horse was waiting for her, with 
whom she immediately galloped away 
he forgot insensible brute that he 
was in what direction. A new agony 
seized my mind the gentleman ! WAS 
SHE MARRIED? My brain was wild. 
I had no way of satisfying myself, for 
the accursed mail-coach-clerk had en- 
tered her name in the waybill in such 
a hand as to puzzle Beelzebub himself, 
were he the prince of decypherers, and 
the only letter I could make out was 
the first, which proved him to be as 
abominable in his ideas of spelling as 
in his writing for her name, as I af- 
terwards knew, was Crimeen, and the 
iruffian, regardless of all possible prin- 
ciples of orthography, had commenced 
it with a Q. 

When I got home I concealed my 
unfortunate passion as well as I could, 
but what can escape the eye of a pa- 
rent? About nine days had elapsed 
before my father noticed my loss of 
appetite and my silence, but at last he 
could n ot bear to pass it by. ' ' Boy," said 
he, taking me affectionately by the 
hand, "something is ailing you." "No- 
thing, sir," said I," indeed." " Ah !" said 
my father, " do not think to deceive me 
that way. There's your fifth tumbler 
lying before you this half hour, and 
you're scarce quarter through it yet. 
I've noticed the same this last week, 
and except on the day Lord Bullaboo 
dined with us, when it behoved you to 
make an exertion, you have not finish- 
ed any one blessed day seven tumblers. 
Don't think, my boy, that your father 
is not minding your happiness. You 
aren't in love, are you ?" The goodness 
of the old gentleman was not to be 
withstood, and I confessed the fact, 
and told him all about it. " Never 
mind it," said he, " it looks the devil to 
you just now ; but when you come to 
my time of life, you won't think much 
about such little accidents as meeting 
a girl at a coach-door. So, go travel in 
God's name, and drive this nonsense 
out of your skull ; travelling, besides, 
opens the mind and polishes the man- 
ners. So, go to my cousin Gusty in 

Firtt Love. Ut 

flustered with Bristol, he lives out towards Lamp. 

lighter's Hall, and let me tell you, few 
soap-boilers from this to himself, and 
that's no small step, can beat him." 

Good, venerable man, with what 
pleasure I record your honoured 
words ! He gave me letters of change 
and introduction, adding his blessing 
and a gallon of whisky, which, as he 
well observed, could not be got for love 
or money in England. I had no ob 
jection to the change of scene, and soon 
established my quarters at my cousin 
Gusty's. Gusty was a good fellow, 
hoggish in his manners like the Bris- 
tolians, but a strenuous supporter of 
Church and State. We dined punctu- 
ally at one, and except on melting 
days, which he was obliged to mind, 
smoked through the evening. So 
passed a fortnight, but at the end of 
that time I had occasion to go to Clif- 
ton to play a game of skittles with a 
Jamaica Captain for a dozen of rum, 
and as I went along, just as I entered 
the North Crescent, whom should I 
see but Cecilia ! 

Skittles were at once knocked out of 
my head. She was alone, and I ven- 
tured to join her. Our mail-coach 
adventure afforded a common topic of 
conversation which soon grew anima- 
ted. We talked of everything, and as 
I coaxed her towards Wardham 
Downs, I had established her arm 
under mine. At last we came on that 
eminence which exhibits the most 
beautiful and varied prospect of that 
delightful tract. It was summer, 
about three o'clock of a lovely June 
evening. Every sight and sound about 
us was such as to dispose the soul to 
tender emotions. Never did Cecilia 
look more lovely than when I per- 
suaded her to rest herself by sitting 
down on one of the grassy points over- 
looking the descent below. What I 
said to her I cannot write, the first 
words of love are not to be profaned 
by exposure to the gaze of the world. 
Our thoughts were pure pure as the 
cloudless sky overhanging the lovely 
landscape, in the midst of which we 
sat forgetful even of its beauties, wholly 
absorbed in the consideration of one 
another. I had whispered, and she had 
heard without reply, what is never 
whispered a second time. 

We might have been half an hour 
together, it was but a moment to my 
thought, when she recollected that she 
bad left her aunt waiting for her in a 

First Loic. Aug, 

the country to the other without find- 
ing a waiter at a public-house who 
combines the terseness of Addison with 

the magniloquence of Johnson 1 
I replied to this rude man mildly, 


butcher's shop where she was buying 
how minutely love makes us recollect 
the merest trifles buying a leg of 
pork, with a couple of pounds of sausa- 
ges. I pressed her hand to my lips, A v> 

and we returned to Clifton. Delight- yet I think with sufficient dignity. 
ful day ! Were my life prolonged to " What have you in the house ?" 
the days allotted to Methuselah, I never " Everything," said he. In this the 
could forget a particle of what hap- man's bad faith was evident, for, on 
pened upon thee ! It is the bright spot 
in the waste of my memory. 

When we parted, I put my hand 
mechanically and mournfully into my 
waistcoat pocket, and found that I 
had forgotten my cigar case. Love 
had so completely taken possession of 
my soul, that I knew not what I was 
doing, and, by mere instinct, walked 
into a tobacconist's shop ; which, such 
was the absence of my mind, I was 
about to leave without paying for 
the cigars, until the tobacconist ra- 
ther energetically reminded me of my 
insouciance. Captain Snickersnee and 
his skittles were quite out of my head, 
and I went across to a low-browed 
public house, where a portrait of Lord 
Nelson, more spirited in conception, 
than exact in likeness, or studied in 
composition, shone glittering in one- 
armed majesty in the evening sun. 
The room I went into why need I 
conceal that it was the tap-room ? was 
filled with the miscellaneous popula- 
tion of Bristol men in general more 
noted for their candour than any other 
particularity in their manners. But I 
heeded them not. I was as much alone 
as if I was in the deserts of Tadmor, 
where the ruins of Palmyra tower to- 
wards the sky, or moulder upon the 
ground, filling the awe-struck traveller 
with melancholy musing on the in- 
stability of things. I lighted my 
cigar by the assistance of the pipe of 
aman sitting next me, who I have some 
reason to believe, but I shall not be po- 
sitive, was a tailor. I puffed away soft 
were my thoughts, delectable my vi- 
sions. Every curl of smoke contained 
the countenance of my Cecilia every 
twinkle from each surrounding pipe 
beamed upon me as if it was one of her 
celestial eyes. I had forgotten where 
I was, when the waiter came to me, 
and jogging my elbow, said, " Thee 
musn't lumber the room 3 if thee'l not 
drink zummat." In general, I have 
remarked, that the language of these 
persons is seldom marked by the re- 
finements of elegance, and that per- 
haps you might trarel from one end of 

scrutinizing the subject, I found that 
he had nothing but gin, a liquor I ever 
detested, and rum. " Rum, then," said 
I with a sigh, resigning myself to my 
fate, for I anticipated, in my igno- 
rance, that I would dislike it. 

My mouth was full of the cigar- 
smokefull, ay, full as my heart was 
of my Cecilia. Divine girl ! when I 
think upon thy perfections, on thy 
charms, on the manner in which thou 
wert lost to me, by that fatal and mys- 
terious circle of events, never to be 
anticipated never to be repeated 
But I'll think no more. There is a 
point of human endurance, beyond 
which it cannot go. Let me proceed. 
I was saturated with smoke, when, 
in the wildness of the delirium of my 
love, I did not perceive the water bot- 
tle standing by the bottom of rum, and 
swallowed the spirit, unalloyed, un- 
moistened, undiluted, uninjured. It 
permeated my whole mouth it filled 
it with a species of solidity that seem- 
ed altogether to have destroyed the li- 
quid character of the spirits ; I felt it 
melting into my palate, my tongue, 
my fauces, my gums. It was an in- 
tense gush, a simple, original, indivi- 
sible idea of delight. It rose to my 
brain, as the vapour of the tedded 
meadow rises to the sky in the balmi- 
ness of morning. It descended to the 
sole of my foot as the sky sends back 
that delicious vapour in the shape of 
the dews of evening. It was a joy to 
be felt once, and no more. I never 
felt it again. It was 
" Odour fled 

As soon as shed ; 
'Twas morning's winged dream, 

'Twas a light that ne'er shall shine 

On life's dull stream !" 

I have tried it over and over, and it 
will not do. I smoke my cigar still 
in the evening, and frequently moisten 
with a quart or so of rum, naked, in 
grog, in punch, in flip every way thaf 
can be thought of, but it will not re- 
turn. That feeling of intense and 
transporting delight is over. 

First Love. 

Days of my youth! when every- 
thing was innocence and peace when 
my sorrows were light, and my joys 
unsophisticated when I saw a glory 
in the sky, and a power on the earth 
which I shall never see again how 
delightful, yet how sad is your recol- 
lection ! Here's, then, to the days gone 
by to the memory of my first love, 
and my first libation of rum over a 
cigar ! Some young heart is now go- 
ing the same round as T was then 
revelling in delights which he fondly 
fancies are to last for ever anticipa- 
ting joys which never are destined to 
exist Light be his heart, buoyant his 
spirits I shall not break in on his 
dreams by the croaking of experience. 

Farewell again, Cecilia! I never saw 
her after that day in the evening she 
left Bristol with her aunt's butler 
they were married three days after by 
the blacksmith at Gretna, and she is 
now, I understand, the mother of 
fourteen children, keeping, with her 
third husband, the sign of the Cat and 
Bagpipes somewhere about the Dock 
of Liverpool. I never could muster up 
courage to enter the house. The very 
sound of her voice saying, " Eight- 
pence, sir," in reply to my question of 
what I had to pay, would inevitably 
overcome my feelings. 

I was born to be unhappy but I 
shall not intrude my sorrows on a 
thoughtless world ! 


<c You were talking of the Man 
with the Nose," said the fat landlord 
of the Golden Lion to one of his cus- 
tomers, a tight, dapper, little fellow, 
in short buckskin breeches, and a green 
frock-coat, who sat toasting his legs at 
the fire, and smoking a cigar. 

" Ay, very true," rejoined the lat- 
ter. " Well, as I was-saying, the Man 
with the Nose made his appearance at 
York in the year 1823." 

" It was in 1822," interrupted a 
mild voice from behind the door, which 
opened at this instant, and gave en- 
trance to a tall, meagre figure, dressed 
in a complete suit of black, a cocked 
hat, and silver knee and shoe buc- 

This sentence, and still more the 
appearance of the person who uttered 
it, produced a sudden pause in the 
words of the other speaker. He drew 
the cigar from his mouth, and gazed 
upon the stranger with mute astonish- 
ment. Such an extraordinary cessation 
of talk, in a man who was famous for 
talking, naturally excited the atten- 
tion of the rest of the company, which, 
besides the landlord, consisted of three 
individuals, to wit, the barber, the 
fiddler, and the town-clerk. They 
looked first at the little fellow with 
the frock coat, then at the long man 
in black, who had by this time seat- 
ed himself near the fire, and drawn a 
pipe from his pocket, and then at 
each other, as if for the purpose of in- 
quiring, " What the devil is the mean- 
ing of all this?" 

At last the host, summoning cou- 

rage, ventured to put the following 
question, " Pray, friend, who are 
you ?" 

" I am the Man with the Nose," 
replied the new comer, taking the pipe 
from his mouth and emitting a preli- 
minary whiff of tobacco smoke. 

" The Man with the Nose !" mut- 
tered the landlord with a stare, in 
which the others joined simultaneous- 
ly, " and pray what do you want 
here ?" 

" A can of good ale, and a bed for 
the night," answered the stranger, 
withdrawing the pipe as before, and 
resuming it the instant he got out 
with his sentence. This response, 
though it contained nothing at all re- 
markable, added considerably to the 
surprise of the aforesaid personages, 
who stood looking at him with a cu- 
riosity, which would have been at 
once unjustifiable and impertinent, 
but for the extraordinary nose which 
adorned his face. Such a snout had 
never before been presented to the 
eyes of these worthy characters, nor 
perhaps of anybody else. It was nei- 
ther an aquiline nose, nor a Roman 
nose, nor a snub nose, nor, in truth, 
could it be reduced to any classifica- 
tion whatever. It was chiefly charac- 
terized by its extreme length and red- 
ness, and was comparable to nothing 
but to the lugubrious noses which are 
sold for masquerades by the per- 

" The Man with the Nose !" ejacu- 
lated the landlord with amazement. 

" The Man with the Nose !" re- 


The Man with the Nost. 

peated the barber and fiddler, with 
equal surprise. 

" Ay, the Man with the Nose," said 
the stranger. " Is there anything re- 
markable in seeing a man with a nose 
upon his face ?" 

" But such a nose !" exclaimed the 
town-clerk, half breathless with won- 

" Yes, my nose is certainly some- 
what singular in its dimensions, I con- 
fess," replied the proprietor of this re- 
markable feature ; " but yet, my friend, 
you must know, you must know, 
you must know, that it that it is- 
that it is still" 

" That it is still what?" said the 
clerk, his curiosity excited to the high- 
est pitch. 

" That it is still a nose" concluded 
the other, putting the pipe once more 
into his mouth, and smoking with the 
most imperturbable gravity. 

This answer threw the landlord and 
his three friends farther aback than 
ever. They had not another word to 
say, but kept up an interchange of 
mutual and wondering glances, and 
muttered between their teeth certain 
sentences, which were inaudible ex- 
cept to themselves respectively. For 
a time none ventured to hazard an ob- 
servation. Each leaned back upon his 
chair, and continued gazing upon the 
stranger, who seemed totally regard- 
less of their scrutiny. The longer he 
smoked, the more intense their curio- 
sity became ; and this feeling reached 
its climax, when the little fellow with 
the frock-coat rose from his seat in 
manifest perturbation, threw down a 
shilling as his share of the reckoning, 
and, putting on his hat, walked hastily 
out of the room. 

This movement was not unnoticed 
by the rest. It struck them first with 
surprise ; but in a short time a vague 
fear crept over their spirits, for which, 
had they been asked, they would have 
found it impossible to give any reason. 
The person before them had certainly 
a long nose, but what of that ? Many 
persons had long noses, although this 
was, beyond doubt, the most extra- 
ordinary that ever came under their 
observation. In this manner did each 
philosophize upon the subject, but un- 
fortunately all philosophy was at fault; 
and they sat at the table, their tank- 
ards of prime ale untasted, and gazed 
with an astonishment not unaccom- 
panied with awe on the tall man, who 


remained by the fireside smoking his 
pipe, and occasionally tasting the malt 
liquor, which, in compliance with his 
wish, the servant-girl of the inn had 
taken care to place before him. Not a 
word was spoken. The landlord at 
times would stroke his sleek paunch, 
and look wistfully around ; the fiddler 
would utter a long and half-suppress- 
ed yawn ; the barber stared like a fix- 
ture ; and the town-clerk breathed as 
hard as if his lungs had been perform- 
ing the part of a blacksmith's bellows. 
A spell seemed to have exercised its 
influence over the four; they could 
neither speak nor move, but sat as if 
bound to their seats by some irresisti- 
ble agency. 

Meanwhile, puff puff puff, went 
the lips of the stranger, and each was 
followed by a cloud of smoke, which, 
after enveloping his visage, either dif- 
fused itself in the apartment, or as- 
cended the chimney in curling wreaths. 
The landlord and his acquaintances 
looked on with amazement ; the tongue 
of each was chained ; they made no 
attempt to speak, but sat staring at the 
smoker as if fascinated by the gaze of 
a basilisk. At length the town-clerk, 
who was seated nearest the door, arose 
after a violent effort, laid hold of his 
hat, and departed with as much ap- 
parent alarm as the little fellow in the 
frock-coat who preceded him. He had 
scarcely been gone three minutes, when 
the fiddler followed his example ; 
leaving the landlord and the barber to 
their own cogitations. On witnessing 
these departures, the surprise and fear 
of both the latter increased. The for- 
mer, in the height of alarm, drew his 
chair instinctively closer to that which 
contained the man of wigs. He did 
not, however, long enjoy the society 
of this remaining associate ; for, after 
sundry chatterings of the teeth, sundry 
tremors of the frame, and sundry most 
ominous stares, the barber got up from 
his seat, and with limbs trembling un- 
der their load, tottered to the door, and 
made his sortie, leaving the host to 
encounter as he best could the Man 
with the Nose. 

Never was human nature placed in 
such a predicament ; never was dis- 
may painted on any countenance so 
forcibly as on the landlord's on being 
left alone in such society. While his 
friends continued beside him his si- 
tuation was somewhat endurable ; but 
as they dropped off one by one, a feel- 

Tht Man with the Nose. 

I til 

ing of vague alarm crept over him ; 
and now that they were all gone, he 
felt overpowered with the sensations 
of genuine terror. He sat on his high- 
backed, stuffed arm-chair, directly op- 
posite to his guest, who smoked as if 
utterly unconscious of his presence. 
The fire sparkled brightly, throwing a 
ruddy glare over the brilliant surfaces 
of the jugs and pans, which were stu- 
diously arranged, with English neat- 
ness, along the wall ; and the huge 
flitches of bacon that dangled from the 
roof, reflected the dazzling glow from 
their greasy sides. He could not move 
from his seat ; he could not speak ; he 
could not think. He could, in fact, do 
nothing but hear and see ; and such 
sounds and such sights were presented 
to his eye^s and ears as never mortal 
innkeeper encountered. Before him 
sat the gaunt, motionless figure of the 
Man with the Nose ; and the inces- 
sant puff puff puff, followed by cor- 
responding clouds of fragrance, pealed 
upon the drum of his ear, as if so many 
globules of quicksilver had been drop- 
ped into it. 

What could he do ? We have said 
that he was unable to stir ; or perhaps, 
like his friend, he might have decamp- 
ed, and left the house to shift for it- 
self. He, however, had one resource : 
he could close his eyes, and shut out the 
object which gave him such annoyance. 
He did so, but the effort was so in- 
tense that he found it impossible to 
persevere. The eternal puff puff 
puff, against which it was impracticable 
to be deaf, reminded him that his tor- 
mentor was at hand ; and imagination, 
acting upon memory, represented the 
latter as thrusting his long nose into 
his face, and grinning and smoking at 
him with devilish malice. He could 
not carry on ; in spite of himself he 
was compelled to open his eyes., and 
once more was the stranger revealed 
to him, smoking as at first. 

A shudder now came over his heart, 
but his limbs were so rigidly immo- 
vable that they did not partake of it. 
He was fettered to his seat by a talis- 
man, and sat victim-like upon it, as if 
to undergo persecution from some 
dreadful demon. It would be vain to 
relate the efforts he made to rise; not 
a limb would move, the powers of 
volition seemed totally suspended. He 
was cramped, paralyzed, spell-bound, 
or whatever we choose to call it. In 
vain did he endeavour to cry out for 

Voi. XX. 

the ostler or maid ; his voice was a re- 
bel to his will, and refused to obey. 
In heart he. beshrewed them both for 
not coming to his assistance. He was 
wide awake, yet he laboured under a 
night-mare ; and felt as if the entrance 
of any one would break asunder the 
cursed spell which bound him. Not 
one appeared. Fate had conspired 
against him ; ostler and maid had de- 
serted him in his utmost need ; barber, 
and fiddler, and town-clerk, had play- 
ed him foul, and left him basely in the 
lurch. Not even a strolling packman, 
or talkative newsmonger, would step 
charitably in for a pot of ale, or half 
an hour's conversation. What would 
he have given to any drunken ditcher 
or swaggering dragoon who had at 
this moment made his appearance ! 
But, alas! none such was at hand. 
Not a soul showed his face at the Gol- 
den Lion. 

This horrible state continued for 
some time, when it was partially in- 
terrupted by the striking of his cuckoo 
clock. It struck eleven, and as many 
times the cuckoo made its responses. 
These sounds, while they lasted, im- 
parted a passing glow of satisfaction, 
but no sooner were they gone no 
sooner had the last stroke of the clock's 
hammer sounded through the apart- 
ment, than he was left in a more dis- 
mal tone of mind than ever. The 
puff -puff puff, of the Man with the 
Nose, which had been drowned by 
the striking of the time-piece and its 
mimic cuckoos, now seemed to peal 
with threefold loudness. The whiffs 
sounded like a blast of wind through 
the fanners of a mill. He not only 
heard them with vicious distinctness, 
but thought that he felt them blowing 
upon his face. Add to this, the echo 
of the striking hour and of the cuckoo, 
which still hovered dream-like over 
his imagination the ticking of the 
clock, as its unwearied pendulum 
went from side to side, with the crack- 
ling of the coal as it blazed merrily in 
the huge grate, and we have him sa- 
luted with a concert of strange sounds, 
such as never before haunted the fan- 
cy of an innkeeper. 

Things after this, instead of mend- 
ing, became momentarily worse. The 
perspiration rolled in large drops down 
his forehead. His face was flushed ; 
his hands were clasped convulsively 
together, while his breath went and 
came in broken and suffocating pa- 

Tlte Man witli the Nos< 

roxysms. To move, to speak, to utter 
even the merest groan of agony, was 
impossible ; his distress was extreme. 
He was denied even the wretched 
comfort of pouring it forth in com- 
plaint, while the author of his misery 
was seated opposite to him smoking 
with the most stoical and unfeeling 
indifference. That cursed puff puff 
puff, proceeded incessantly from his 
lips, and he was so much taken up 
with it that his mind seemed utterly 
abstracted from everything else. 

Meanwhile the night continued to 
wear on apace. The fire in the grate 
began to get low, at least to emit less 
glare than formerly and the unsnuff- 
ed candle exhibited in the midst of its 
sickly and yellow blaze a couple of 
inches of black wick while the tallow 
rolled down its sides in liquid streams. 
The time-piece again struck, and the 
cuckoo gave its responses. It was 
twelve o'clock. 

A gleam of joy now shot over the 
mind of the landlord. " It is mid- 
night," thought he, " and he cannot 
it longer. He will certainly get up 
and relieve me from this state of ago- 
ny." His joy was increased when he 
saw the Man with the Nose knock 
out the ashes from his pipe. Alas ! 
it was only to replenish it with a sup- 
ply of fresh tobacco. His horror at 
this discovery was augmented ten- 
fold. He saw that the case was hope- 
less, and that he was yet doomed to 
endure, for an unknown period, a 
continuance of his misery. The stran- 
ger lighted his pipe, and commenced 
smoking anew. 

With this supply the whiffs be- 
came more loud and frequent, as if 
the smoker had received a fresh ac- 
cession of enjoyment. The clouds of 
incense rolled in richer and more 
voluminous masses around him and 
contributed by their density to assist 
in darkening the kitchen, which now, 
from the decay of the fire and fading 
light of the neglected candle, had be- 
come sufficiently obscure. The land- 
lord saw all this in horrid silence. 
He marked the tobacco clouds encir- 
cling the stranger around. He marked 
his head involved in their obscurity, 
but, though all else was invisible, that 
nose that mysterious nose, was for 
ever to be seen. It peered from the 
misty wreaths like a fiend, and pro- 
jected forward when the face was no 
to be observed. It was this 

that tormented the looker-on. It was 
this that stood perpetually before his 
eyes, and would not be denied. The 
longer he looked at it the greater it 
grew, and the more his desire to look 
increased. Every moment it stretch- 
ed out, and was at last a foot in 
length. How much longer it might 
have grown it is impossible to ascer- 
tain; for its possessor withdrew the 
pipe, and applied himself to the tank- 
ard of ale, during which interval the 
smoke rolled away, and exhibited the 
strange feature in its natural dimen- 
sions. This was a relief, but only a 
transient one. Again was the pipe in 
his mouth again did the clouds of 
smoke rise around him again did his 
nose protrude through their dusky 
barrier, and lengthen as before. This 
process was repeated several times, 
and invariably with the same result. 

The landlord was now bewildered 
with terror. Every moment the kit- 
chen was shrouded in blacker gloom. 
At last, the glittering of the jugs and 
pans was gone ; and the flitches of 
bacon, lately so shining, and promi- 
nent, hung like black shapeless masses 
from the roof. The clock was oppo- 
site to him, but he could not discern 
the letters up<m its dial-plate. Its 
continued ticking sounded distinctly, 
but not half so loud as the horrible 
and unnatural puffs from the Man 
with the Nose. 

The obscurity at length became so 
great that the stranger could hardly 
be observed, even when unenveloped 
in the fumes of his tobacco but his 
nose was never hid. It projected long, 
raw, and red, like a firebrand in the 
midst of darkness. Flesh and blood 
could withstand this no longer. All 
ato ,,e, in the landlord's imagination, 
& .cftm grew gloomier the ticking 
of the cloek more loud the puff 
puff puff, more fearfully distinct, 
while the tremendous nose stretched 
itself out a yard in length. This, 
indeed, was almost the only object to 
be observed the immense bacon flit- 
ches, and the outlines of the clock, 
chairs, and table, being scarcely visi- 
ble. At the same time horrid forms 
were seen floating in the tobacco 
smoke imps of darkness snakes 
crocodiles toads lizards, and all 
sorts of impure things. They leaped, 
and crawled, and flew with detestable 
hisses around while the stranger 
grinned, and shook his head, and jab^ 

The Man with the, 


bered in an unearthly voice his long 
nose, in the meantime, waving to and 
iro like a banner, while black demons, 
with tails and green eyes, sat astride 
upon it, screeching hideously. The 
spectacle was more than the landlord 
could endure, and he fell into a faint. 

It was truly a faint, but it did not 
terminate his miseries. The same 
puffing fell upon his ears, hut much 
more obscurely than before. He still 
iieard the clock ticking ; then it seem- 
ed to strike, and was answered by its 
attendant cuckoo. This had all the 
remote indistinctness of a dream, and, 
as such, was shadowed forth with dim 
obscurity. Nor did the sights he had 
just witnessed entirely leave him. He 
still saw the dreadful nose, and the 
demons and reptiles floating and crawl- 
ing in the smoke; hut it was now 
more as a remembered vision than as 
one actually before him. At last all 
these things faded gradually away. 
The ticking was heard no longer, the 
puffs became more faint, and at length 
inaudible ; while the nose itself of the 
fearful man melted into " airy no- 
thing," among the circumambient 
clouds of tobacco. 

On awaking he looked in vain for 
the distracting objects which lately 
preyed upon him* It was broad day, 
which peered in at the windows, and 
lighted up the kitchen with the pale, 
clear lustre of an April morning. The 

fire was extinguished, with the ex- 
ception of a few embers which still 
retained a faint glow of red. The 
candle was removed from the table, 
on which stood nothing but a few 
tankards, the whole (save one) full of 
ale. These he recognized as having 
been set down the night before to his 
guests, the barber, the fiddler, and 
the town-clerk and remained, as they 
left them, untasted. He himself was 
seated on his high -backed stuffed arm- 
chair, the fellow of which at the op- 
posite side stood empty. The Man 
with the Nose, to his unspeakable sa- 
tisfaction, was gone, but the pipe he 
used lay beside his tankard, which 
was drained to the bottom. On look- 
ing at the clock, he found that it 
wanted only a few minutes of seven. 
Having made these observations, and 
stretched himself, after a previous 
yawn, he went to the outer door of 
the house. He could hardly believe 
that time had passed so rapidly, and 
still less that he had slept during the 
preceding night in the kitchen. He 
inquired anxiously about the Man 
with the Nose, and was informed that 
he had ridden off a quarter of an hour 
before, having handsomely discharged 
his bill, and slipped a half-crown into 
the hand of the pretty chambermaid , 
and another into that of the ostler 
who had the charge of his horse. 



** Yes Love, indeed, is light from Heaven, 
A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared by Alia given 
To lift from earth our low desire " 

Oh, say not Love is light from Heavers 
A sacred flame of hallow'd birth ! 
Oh, tell me not that Love is given 
To lift the heart of man from earth 
No, no ! 'tis but a chain to bind 
The spirit to this earthly sphere ; 
To lull with false repose the mind, 
And make this fleeting life too dear. 
TJie soul that hath no earthly tie, 
May cast a longing glance on high ; 
But those who taste the Heaven of Love, 
Forget there is a Heaven above. 
Then say not Love is light from Heaven 
A sacred flame of hallowed birth ; 
Then tell me not that Love is given, 
To wean the soul of man from earth 


Jtalicu. No. lit. 



No. III. 

'AdeL-hi; by Ak'sandro Manzoni. 

THE British public, engrossed by 
discussions of the present commercial 
distress, of the late agricultural dis- 
tnss, of the corn laws, the currency, 
the banking system, or whatever other 
great national question constitutes the 
interest of the day, is probably not 
aware that in enslaved Italy ensla- 
ved, we apprehend, chiefly because she 
deserves no better fate where govern- 
ment takes upon itself the trouble of 
discussing or suppressing all such mat- 
ters, the party spirit inherent in man, 
and deprived of its proper and useful 
vent, pours itself out upon subjects 
which we take more lightly, as des- 
tined to occupy only our moments of 
recreation. Italy is divided, not into 
Whigs and Tories, Catholic Emanci- 
pators, and and- Catholics, &c., but 
into Chissicisti and Romanticisti ; the 
latter glowing with all the inconside- 
rate, hand-over-head impetuosity of 
reformers ; the former exhibiting all 
the irritability, oddly enough combined 
with morgue, which occasionally marks 
the advocates of " things as they are," 
and of " the wisdom of our ancestors/' 
The Classicisti have long reigned su- 
preme ; but a Romanticisto has lately 
arisen, of such distinguished talent, 
as irresistibly demands our notice, al- 
though his reputation stands higher, 
we believe, in Germany, and even in 
France, than in his native land. We 
speak of Alessandro Manzoni, a Mi- 
lanese, and a descendant, by his mo- 
ther, from the Marquis Beccaria, the 
celebrated author of the Treatise DEI 
has already produced two tragedies, IL 
CHI ; of the last of which we propose 
to give some account. But we must 
preface it by an exposition of our jRo- 
manticisto's views of tragedy. 

In the first place, the word Roman- 
ticisto requires explanation, inasmuch 
as its meaning differs widely from that 
which an English reader would natu- 
rally ascribe to it. It is, as we under- 
stand, in Italy, the received appellation 
of those who might be more appro- 
priately denominated Anti-Classicisti. 
And,, indeed, we believe in France 

likewise, the fashionable term roman- 
ticjue does not necessarily include any- 
thing rumanesque, although they usu- 
ally go together. In dramatic litera- 
ture, the main distinction between the 
two parties seems to be the observance 
or disregard of the Unities ; one less 
decisive is the adoption of ancient or 
modern fables for the subject of tra- 
gedy ; but we suspect that a Classicis- 
to would hardly be deemed to have 
absolutely ratted, who strictly squeezed 
a modern story, as Alfieri and Monti 
have occasionally done, within the due 
limits of a room, and twelve or even 
twenty-four hours. 

Manzoni considers the historical 
play as the perfection of tragedy. He 
has taken Shakspeare's historical plays 
as his models, and reasoning, we ima- 
gine, from what he finds in them, lays 
down laws for this style of composi- 
tion, the usual mode, indeed, of le- 
gislating with regard to literature, but 
which, as practised by the Classicisti, 
he severely reprobates, as inimical to 
improvement, in one of the multifa- 
rious pieces of prose, attached to his 
tragedies, according to the existing 
practice in Italy. We shall state in our 
author's own words, at least in some 
of them for in prose his countrymen 
have ever been rather addicted to 
wordiness his notions of the chief 
object of dramatic poetry. Whether 
our readers agree with him or not, an 
acquaintance with his views will ren- 
der them the better and the fairer 
judges of the piece we are about to 
analyze. In an answer to a French cri- 
tique, written likewise in French, Man- 
zoni says: 

" The historical causes of an action 
are essentially more dramatic and more 
interesting than any which could be 
invented. Facts, by their very con- 
formity to material truth, if we may 
be allowed the phrase, possess in the 
highest degree that character of poetic 
truth which is required in tragedy. 
For what is the intellectual charm 
of this species of composition ? The 
charm of knowing man ; of discern- 
ing what is most real and intrinsic in 
his nature ; of perceiving the effect 

Adclchi ; by Alessandro Manzom. 

produced by external phenomena upon 
his soul, the ground of those thoughts 
which determine his actions ; of seeing 
in another man sentiments calculated 
to excite a true sympathy in ourselves. 

" A poet finds in history a striking 
character, who arrests his progres, seem- 
ing to say, Observe me, and I will give 
m an insight into human nature, 
he poet accepts the invitation ; he 
wishes to depict, to develope this cha- 
racter : where shall he seek external 
actions more conformable to the true 
idea of the man he proposes to repre- 
sent, than those he really performed ? 
He had an object ; he succeeded or 
failed in it. What better revelation of 
that object, and of the feelings which 
impelled the man towards it, than the 
means he himself selected for its at- 
tainment ? 

" It appears, then, that to find in a 
series of facts what properly consti- 
tutes an action, to seize the charac- 
ters of the actors, to give to this ac- 
tion and to these characters a har- 
monious development, to complete the 
history, restoring, as it were, its lost 
portion ; to imagine facts when history 
affords only hints ; to invent, if need 
be, personages who may exhibit the 
moral costume we know not how to 
render more appropriately the peculiar 
word mceurs so applied of a given 
era ; in short, to take all that exists, 
and so to supply what is wanting, as 
that the invention may always accord 
with the reality, is what may reason- 
ably be called poetic creation." 

This, then, is what Manzoni has 
proposed to do, and of this what he 
has done is executed with a vigour, a 
freshness, a spirit, and a dramatic in- 
dividuality, unexampled in their com- 
bination, .we believe, in. the Italian 
theatre, and to us amply compensating 
for all the faults which, as critics, we 
cannot but find with the play as a 
play, as well as, perhaps, with the 
system according to which it is writ- 
ten, and which we certainly think 
somewhat of the narrowest, although 
we object as much as our author to the 
substitution of fictitious motives for 
the real ones. But these matters will 
be more fitly noticed in the course, or 
at the close, of the analysis which we 
shall give of the piece. 

A DEL CHI might full as well be call- 
ed the Fall of the Lombards. The 
subject is the overthrow of the last 
kings of that race by Charlemagne, 

presented, we were going to say, ex- 
actly as the event is recorded in histo- 
ry; but such expressions are not appli- 
cable to the indistinct notices we pos- 
sess of the transactions of that unlearn- 
ed epoch. The more correct statement 
is, that, agreeably to the views just 
given, the tragedy does not contain an 
incident of which an indication, a germ, 
as it were, is not to be found in the. 
old and rather discordant chroniclers, 
who have related the disasters of the 
Lombards; and that the characters, 
with the single exception of his hero, 
Adelchi, or Adelchis, for whose supe- 
rior polish and philosophy the author 
apologizes, are strictly in keeping with 
what we know of their contempora- 
ries and countrymen. But our readers 
would prefer to these general remarks 
the means of judging for themselves. 
The tragedy opens in the Palace of 
the Lombard Princes, in their metro- 
polis, Pavia. King Desiderius, and his 
colleague and son Adelchis, are disco- 
vered ; they are informed by Vermond 
of the near approach of their daughter 
and sister, Ermengardis,whom, accord- 
ing to their orders, he has just recei- 
ved from the hands of her Frank escort. 
The old monarch exclaims : 
Heaven's wrath, and earth's abhorrence, 

and the sword 

Of vengeance, fall upon his guilty head! 
His, the perfidious, from her mother's 

Who, beautiful and pure, received my 


And with the ignominy of divorce 
Stamp'd on her brow, returns her! Shame 

to Charles ! 

Shame to the traitor, whose disloyalty 
Has made th' arrival of a cherish'd daugh- 

Tidings of anguish to a father's heart! 
Oh, be this day requited ! May he fall 
So low, that ev'n the meanest of his 


Arising from the dust, may meet, con- 
front him, 
And fearlessly exclaim, " 'Twar a base 


To wrong an innocent, a^ helpless wo- 

Adelchis would fly to receive and 
console his unhappy sister ; but Desi- 
derius forbids him ; dispatches Ver- 
mond to conduct her as privately as 
possible to the palace ; and when alone 
with his son, reproves him for having 
proposed to exhibit the disgrace of 
their house to the people, especially to 
the partisans of Ratchis, whom he. 


liuras Italic^- A r o, 111. 

Desiderius, had supplanted. Adelchis 
replies : 

Oh bitter price of sovereignty ! Condition 
More miserable than the poorest vassal's, 
If we must dread their glances, veil our 


For very shame, nor, in the face of day, 
Dare honour the unmerited misfortune 
Of her we dearest love ! 

Des. When to the outrage 
The recompense is equal, when the stain 
Is wash'd away in blood, then, cast aside 
Her mourning weeds, my daughter from 

the shade 

Shall issue, daughter, sister, not in vain 
Of kings; and high above th' admiring 


Shall lift her brow, with glory and re- 
Most beautiful ; nor distant is the day. 

The old King now unfolds his scheme 
of revenge ; which is, to conduct the 
two nephews of Charlemagne, who, 
when deprived by their uncle of their 
hereditary share of the kingdom, had 
been brought by their mother Gerber- 

fi to his court for protection, first to 
ome, there to obtain from the Pope 
their coronation as Kings of the Franks ; 
and then into France, for the purpose 
of dethroning Charlemagne. Adelchis 
objects to this plan that they, the Lom- 
bards, have offended the Pope, are ac- 
tually at war with him, and that Char- 
lemagne, against whom his father hopes 
assistance from his Holiness, is the very 
protector whose support Adrian is im- 
ploring against them, as the usurpers 
of part of his domains. Desiderius 
thinks if the Pope refuses it will be all 
the better, as they may then take Rome 
itself ; and when Adelchis urges that 
Astolfo, in the fulness of his power, 
had failed in such an attempt, and 
been defeated by Pepin, he angrily 
answers : 
What tell'st thou me of Pepin and As. 


They both lie buried ; other mortals rule, 
The times are other, ay, and other swords 
Are brandishing! What, if tjie warrior 


Who fronts the peril, scaling hostile walls, 
Be slaughtered, shall his comrades in de- 
. Disperse and fly ? So counsels me my 

Where, where is he, mine own superb 

Adelchis ? 

He whom Spoleti saw, a beardless boy 
Rush on in ruin ; likelhe youthful hawk 
Upon his prey, upon the thickest fight 
Pounce fearlessly : shining above the' 

Of warriors, as at wedding-least the bride- 
groom ? 
He with the conquer'd rebel-chief re- 

turn'd ; 

The partner of my kingdom, on the field 
I liail'd him: of applause and glad con- 

A shout arose ; in his right hand then 

Ensign of sov'reignty, the spear was 

And is't the same Adelchis, who fore 


Only calamities and obstacles ? 
Not thus, were we defeated, should'st thou 

Oh, Heav'ns! were't told me that in 

Charles's breast 
Were harbour'd thoughts, such as in 

thine, surprised 
I find, with happiness I were o'er^ 

whelm'd ! 
Adel. Oh, were he here, that Charles ! 

Why cannot I 

Front him in listed field ! I, I alone, 
Brother of Ermengardis ! In thy sight, 
Father, to God's high judgment, and my 

Refer the vengeance of our wrongs, and 


Compel thee to confess, that unadvised 
A hasty word escaped thee ! 

Desid. Now I hear 
Adelchis' voice ! My son, the day thou 

I seek to speed. 

Adel. A different day, oh, father, 
I see impending. At the cry, unwarlike. 
But most revered, of Adrian, I behold 
Charles with all France rush on Upon 

that day 
Astolfo's heirs shall meet with Pepin's 

Of whom we're kings bethink thee : -in 

our ranks 

That mingle with the loyal, and perchance 
Outnumber them, our foes ; that every 


The aspect of a foreign banner change* 
Into a traitor. Gloriously to die 
Valour suffices, father ; but success 
And empire are for him who happily 
Rules o'er united spirits. I abhor " 
The dawn that ushers in the battle V 

My spear unto my hand grows burthen* 


Against the comrade fighting by my side, 
If in the conflict I must guard myself. 
Desid. Who without enemies e'er 

ruled ? What matter 
The subjects' hearts? Or vainly are w* 

Till envy be extinct would'st in then 



Adelchi; by Alessaiidro Manwni. 


Jtetain our weapons ? Idle on the throne 
Would'st thou await the tempest ? Save 

by boldness 
What prospect of escape ? What would'st 

propose ? 
Add. What, reign 'd we o'er a race un- 

conquer'd, faithful, 

i on the day of victory would propose : 
The Roman cities to restore, and thus 
Become the friends of Adrian; 'tis his 

Desid. Better upon the throne, or in 

the dust, 

To perish, than incur such infamy ! 
Never again this counsel pass thy lips ! 
Thy father tlms commands. 

Enter VERMOND, ushering in ERMENGAR- 
DIS and her Ladies. 
Vermond. Kings, Ermengardis ! 
Desid. Take heart, my daughter. 

[Exit VERMOND, and the Ladies fall 

back to a distance. 
Adel. In thy brother's arms, 
Before thy father's face art thou, amidst 
Thine ancient, faithful followers, in the 

Of sovereigns, thine own palace once 

again, . 
More loved, more honour'd, than ere thy 

Ermen. Oh, blessed be the accents of 

mine own ! 

My father and my brother, oh, may Hea- 
Reward those words ! May Heaven prove 

to you 

For ever such, to an unfortunate, 
As you now are ! Were't possible hence- 
A blissful day should dawn on me, 'twere 

When 1 again behold you. Sweetest 

mother ! 

I left thee here, mine ear might not re- 
Thy latest words thou here wast dying 

Oh, surely from on high thou look'st upon 

Behold thine Ermengardis, whom thy 


Upon that day so joyfully adorn'd, 
So piously, when to the bridal fashion 
Her virgin-length of hair thyself did cut, 
See her return ! And bless thine own be- 

Who kindly welcome the rejected one ! 
Adel. Ours, sister, is thy sorrow, ours 

thy wrongs. 
Desid. And ours, my child, shall be the 

thought of vengeance. 
Ermen. Father, my sorrow asks not 
for revenge. 

I would but be forgotten, and so much 
The world grants freely to th* unfortu- 
Oh, be't enough, and end my griefs with 

Of friendship and of peace was I de 

A spotless harbinger that Heav'n da- 

nied : 

But let it not be said, that wheresoever, 
'Midst those who destined me a pledge 

of joy, 

I but appear'd, I brought along with me 
Discord and lamentation. 

Desid. Can it be 

The chastisement of him, th' iniquitous, 
Should grieve thee ! That thou yet 

should'st love him ! 
Ermen. Father, 
What seek'st thou in the depths of this 

sad heart? 
Oh, nothing that should gladden thee, 


Can it afford I dare not question it- 
Myself I dare not all the past to me 
Is now as nothing 

We have not room for the remain* 
der of this scene. Ermengardis re- 
quests permission to retire to the con- 
vent of which her sister Ansherga is 
abbess. A delchis objects warmly; but 
Desiderius only desires her to take 
time to recover herself, and reflect 
calmly before deciding upon such a 
step. A messenger is now announ- 
ced, ' 

Who comes from Rome but envoy of a 

Ermengardis immediately retires ; the 
messenger Charlemagne's of course 
is introduced, and the Lombard no- 
bles are summoned to hear the em- 
bassy. The ambassador demands the 
prompt evacuation of the cities taken 
from the Holy See. Desiderius refuses 
to communicate his intentions to stran- 
gers ; and the ambassador declares war 
against the two kings, whom he in- 
vites the Lombards to abandon. De- 
siderius then calls upon his Dukes 
and Counts to answer ; and, " War ! 
War !" is very generally, though not 
unanimously, vociferated by the as- 
sembly. . With this answer, and a 
sort of defiance from Adelchis, the 
ambassador is dismissed. The kings 
appoint the nobled to meet them in 
arms, with their followers, at the 
Chiuse of the Alps, a pass apparent- 
ly the only one then known into 
France, strongly fortified by the Lorn* 

Hor( Jtaiica.'' A'o. Ill- 

bards ; and withdraw, accompanied by 
roost of the nobles present. The few 
whoremain behind, justdiscover them- 
selves to be rebelliously disposed, and 
adjourn to the house of Swart, where 
they can hold their treasonable con- 
sultations more safely. 

The scene then changes to Swart s 
abode; and the worthy owner ex- 
plains, in a well-managed soliloquy, 
that, whilst the haughty nobles consi- 
der him as merely their creature, his 
purpose in joining them is to become 
their equal. The Magnates of the 
conspiracy speedily arrive, and resolve 
upon sending their homage to Char- 
lemagneSwart offers to convey it, 
observing, that his absence will excite 
no suspicion ; and even should he be 
missed, they have only to say that a 
run-away horse drowned him in the 
river. Thus ends the first act. 

The second act passes in the Frank 
camp, at the foot of the Alps, and 
in front of the impregnable Chiuse. 
Charlemagne appears in discourse with 
the Papal Legate, who bitterly re- 
proaches the Frank monarch with his 
reported intention of retreating, and 
urges him not to abandon the Holy 
Father to the enmity of the Lombards. 
Charlemagne acknowledges his pur- 
pose of retreating; justifies it upon 
the score of the impossibility of for- 
cing the fortified pass ; represents all 
that he has already done and attempt- 
ed for the Pope's service, and goes on 
to say, 

Oh, were there interposed betwixt Frank 


And conquest, only men, never such word 
As, 'tis impossible, should be pronounced 
By sovereign of Franks. Nature herself 
Has for mine enemy prepared the field, 
Wrought for his ditch the precipices 

round ! 
Those mountains, by th' Omnipotent 

piled high, 
Serve him as tow'rs and battlements j 

and each, 

The narrowest pathway, is with walls se- 
Whence thousands may by handfulls be 

By women-warriors. In this fruitless 


Where valour nought avails, have I al- 

Too many valiant spirits lost. Too deeply 
The fierce Adelchis, on his vantage. 

Relying, in our blood has dyed his sword. 

Bold as the lion near his young ones' den, 
He bursts upon us, strikes, and disap- 

Oh, God ! At midnight visiting the camp, 
Too often, I myself amidst the tents 
Have heard that name in terror utter'd ! 

In such a school of terror, my brave 

No longer will I keep ! 

After some further argument to the 
same effect on both sides, a Latin 
stranger is announced as having just 
reached the camp. With much won- 
der as to how he can have come, Char- 
lemagne orders him to be introduced. 
He proves to be a clerical envoy, who 
has discovered and traversed a pre- 
viously unknown passage over the 
Alps, which he conceives the Almigh- 
ty himself to have revealed to him,, 
for the express purpose of facilitating 
the Frank invasion. The description 
of his journey, besides its poetical 
beauty, happily displays the fanati- 
cism of the speaker." But we must 
reserve our space for extracts of more 
importance. Charlemagne gives or- 
ders for a body of troops to march at 
daybreak, under the guidance of the 
priest ; appoints the third day for the 
meeting of the whole army within the 
Lombard fortifications ; and, firing 
their spirits by a description of the 
delights of Italy, dismisses his war- 
riors. Left alone, he breaks out into 
a strain of fanaticism, of the same 
kind as that of the reverend road-ex- 
plorer, although loftier in character. 
After a few exclamations, upon a stran- 
ger's having moved him from his fixtd 
resolve, he says, 

No ! He who to the breast of Charle* 


His wonted spirit, thou art not ! The star 
On my departure favouringly that shone, 
Then for a while conceal'd its rays, again 
Do I behold.' A fantasm, error-formed, 
It was, that from the fields of Italy 
Repell'd me; false the voice that in my 


Murmured, No, never, never o'er the land 
Whence Errnengardis drew her birth, 

may'st thou 
Be Monarch ! From thy blood I'm pure 

thou livest! 
Why then so obstinately stood'st thou 


Before me, silent, with upbraiding ges- 
Dejected, pale, as risen from the tomb ? 


Adelchi; by Alessandro Manzorii. 

Thy race lias God rejected ; was't for 


In such unholy union to persist ? 
If Hildegert's rare beauty in mine eyes 
Found favour, did not interests of state 
Require her as the partner of my bed ? 
Jf all too weak for these eventful times 
Thy woman's heart be found, am I to 

blame ? 

His lofty course a monarch cannot tread, 
But what some victims underneath his 

Must trampled fall. 

This, be it observed, is tbe only 
symptom of remorse for his treatment 
of his lawful wife, betrayed by Charle- 
magne throughout the Tragedy. And 
ere dismissing the second act, we can- 
not but remark, that if Manzoni had 
not so distinctly established his system 
of drawing his characters as exactly as 
possible, according to the materials de- . 
rived from history, and had not be- 
sides expressly condemned the prac- 
tice of holding up Charlemagne as a 
prototype of Buonaparte, we should 
have suspected such to have been his 
design,iboth here and subsequently. The 
Frank Conqueror's perfect disregard 
of all moral obstacles that might im- 
pede his purposes, combined with his 
respect for religion and virtue when 
not thus inconvenient, and his ready 
magnanimity, when magnanimity is 
become innoxious, are to our minds 
ieatures of strong resemblance with 
the worst characteristics of his CorsU 
can successor. 

The third act, the only really busy 
one, returns to the Lombards, whom 
we find encamped within the Chiuse. 
Adelchis meets his esquire An f rid in 
front of his tent, and questions him 
respecting appearances amongst the 
Franks. Anfrid describes the enemy 
as still immovable, precisely as they 
have remained for the last three days, 
ever since that one corps began their 
retreat. Adelchis exclaims, 

In safety he retreats, who basely dared 
Injure mine Ermengardis, to my house 
Who swore extinction ! And I cannot 

My steed against him, clutch him, struggle 

with him, 
And on his conquer'd arms repose! I 

cannot ! 

In open field I cannot stand against him, 
Behind these walls, the proved fidelity 
Of Jbose for fchpir dpfpncp \v]ir>;n I selpo^. 


Their valour, whom amongst those few 

I chose 
The comrades of mine outbreaks, might 

A kingdom's safety to assure. TliP 


Lay from the conflict far remote, inactive. 
Controlled. But in the open field 

should I, 
With the brave chosen few, be to the 

By them, at least, abandon' d Fruitless 


He who shall tell me, safely Charles de- 

The herald of glad tidings must be deem d, 
I must rejoice when he escapes my 

sword ! 

Anfrid endeavours to comfort his 
beloved -Prince with the glory he has 
acquired in the defence of the Chius?- 
Adelchis replies, 

Glory ? My lot it is to pant for glory, 
And die ne'er having tasted it. Oh no '. 
This is not glory. Hence mine enemy 
Goes unchastised ; to other enterprise 
He hastens; here if conquer'd, he els? 


May victory seek, he, who a people rule^ 
Of single will, firm, to one. temper 

Ev'n as his weapon's steel. And like 

his weapon, 
He wields them in his grasp. And, An 

frid, I 
On him, the impious wounder of mv 


My kingdom in atonement who assails. 
Cannot achieve revenge ! An enterprise 
Far different, ever odious to my thoughts, 
Nor just, nor glorious, offers. Ay, au^i 

Too surely will prove easy, 

Anfr. Does the king 
Resume his old designs? 

Adel. Question'st thou that ? 
Once from the threatenings of the Frar\< * 


Against the Apostolic Lord, his camp 
Eagerly will he move. To Tyber's banks< 
All Lombardy shall we conduct. United, 
Prompt against helplessness ; and fs 5 .^ - 

. ful, led 

To safe and easy booty. What a war ; 
Anfrid, and what an enemy ! On ruin9 ; 
Fresh ruins we shall heap our ancient 

Palace and cottage given to the flames, 
Destroyed the great, the sovereigns of the 


And all who haply light upon our 
W> ?]|.-\H- enslave fclie reSt. '- 


As prey amongst ourselves, the best al- 
To him, the most disloyal, most suspected. 

Oh ! I had dream'd that for a different 

Than this of Robber-Captain, I was 

born : 
That Heaven had destined me to other 

Upon this earth, than thus, without or 


Or honour, her fair face to desolate. 
Anfrid, my friend beloved, of infancy, 
Of boyish sports, of arms and perils next, 
As of my joys, sole partner, chosen bro- 
With thee alone my thought springs to 

my lips. 
My heart corrodes my bosom, noble 


And high, inspiring, to iniquitous 
Whilst fortune doom* me, and constraint, 


I tread the path, obscure and purposeless, 
By me unchosen, and my spirit withers, 
Ev'n as the germ that, tossing on the 

Falls on ungenial soil. 

Anfr. My kingly friend ! 
Unhappy in thy greatness! Thy true 

Admires thee, and laments thy splendid 

griefs : 
Relieve I cannot, but with thee may feel 


Can I exhort Adelchis' noble heart, 
To find content in homage, power, and 

Can I the peace of meaner spirits give 


And would I, were it possible ? Endure, 
And be thy mighty self. Thy destiny, 
As yet, is this ; but hope ! Thy lofty 

In but beginning; who shall say what 

What high achievements, Heaven for 

thee prepares ? 
Heav'n, that thy crown and such a mind 


Desid. Son, on a king mine equal, 'tis 

denied me ' 

To lavish honours ; greater, mortal power 
Can never make thee : but a recompense, 
Dear to thy piety, 'tis mine to give, 
The joy, the grateful praises of thy father. 
Thou saviour of a realm, thy glory now 

Hora Italica. No. III. 

Begins : a wider and an easier field 
Is opening to augment it. All the doubts, 
The fears, by thee to my designs of old 
Opposed, lo ! by thyself are they destroy 'd. 
Thy valour has extinguish'd each excuse. 
Disperser of the Franks ! Rome's con- 

I now salute thee ! To the diadem 
That, never perfected, from brow to brow 
Of twenty kings has pass'd, thy hand 

shall give 
The last and fairest of its leaves. 

Adel. Whate'er, 

Father, the enterprize, obediently 
Thy warrior follows. 

Desid. To such splendid conquest, 
Son, shall obedience be thine only spur ? 

Adel. I can command obedience* and 

'tis thine 
Long as my life endures. 

Desid. Would'st thou obey, 
Blaming ? 

Adel. I should obey. 

Desid. Of my grey hairs 
Torment and pride, in battle my right 


Mine obstacle in council, still the same 1 
To vict'ry must thou ever be compell'd ? 

Enter successively and in disorder 

Esquires and Franks. 
First Esquire. The Franks ! The 

Franks ! 

Desid. What rav'st thou ? 
Second Esquire (entering.} King, the 

Franks ! 
Desid. What of the Franks ? 

Enter BALDWIN. * 

Adel. Say, Baldwin, what has chanced ? 
Said. Death and disaster ! Upon every 


The camp is penetrated--on our rear 
The Franks assail. 

Desid. The Franks ? From whence ? 
Bald. Who knows ? 
Adel. Quick to the rescue ! 'Tis some 

straggling band. 
Said. They are an army, ours the 

straggling bands- 
All's lost ! 
Desid. All lost? 

Adel. Well, comrades, be't the Franks ! 
'Tis to encounter Franks we're here ; 

what matters 
The side from which they come? Our 

weapons we 

For their reception have. Haste ! Sword 
in hand ! 

* This gentleman in the original is called Baudo, which Manzoni says is an al- 
lowable inflexion of Poto, his name in the Latin Chronicles. Neither of these sound- 
ing either very Gothic, or very tragical, we Imve taken the liberty of substituting 


Adelchi ; by Alessandra Manzoni. 

They've tasted them ! Another battle 

now ! 
A warrior cannot be surprised. Back ! 

Back ! 
Lombards, where run ye ? By the living 


Ye take the path of infamy ! The foe 
Is there. Follow Adelchis ! Anfrid ! 

Enter ANFRID. 
Anf. I, 
My king, am near thee. 

Adel. Father, guard the Chiuse. 
(Exit, followed by BALDWIN, ANFRID, 

and other Lombards* 
Des. ( To the fugitives, who cross the stage. ) 
Cowards, at least ye'H follow to the 


If life ye hold so precious, to w'rs are there, 
And walls to guard it. 
Enter Soldiers in disorder from the opposite 


A Soldier. King, thou here? Oh, fly ! 
Desid. Dastard, thus counsell'st thou 

a king ? And you, 

Whom fly ye from, abandoning the Climse ? 
Tf-Tas cowardice bewildered you ? 

(Presenting his .sword to the breast of 

From steel, 

If heartless thus ye fly, this too is steel, 
And slays like sword of Frank. Answer 

your king 
-Why fly ye from the Chiuse f 

Sold. Prom the towers 
We saw the Franks upon the other side 
Surprise the camp. Our warriors are 

Desid. Thou liest ! My son has rallied 

them. Against 
Those scatter'd enemies he leads them. 

Sold. Oh, king ! it is too late ; nor are 

they scatter'd. 
JE scape there is not. Well array 'd they 

Our men dispersed, unarmed, are fled. 

Rallies them not We are betray'd 

All's lost. 

The scene -ends in the old king's 
being hurried away, despite his resist- 
ance, by the fugitives, whom he cannot 

The scene then changes to that por- 
tion of .the Lombard camp, which was 
more immediately within the Chiuse. 
Charlemagne, attended by some of his 
warlike courtiers, enters, having just 
passed without opposition the deserted 
walls. Triumphing in his success, he 

is engaged in receiving reports, and 
issuing orders. A certain count,* Rut- 
lando evidently the Italian form of 
Rutland, a title we little expected to 
meet with amongst the peers or paid- 
dins of France presents himself. The 
king expresses astonishment at his 
having quitted the field of battle ; and 
he answers, that he never would have 
left his home had he imagined the war 
was to be only against fugitives ; add- 
ing, that none faced them save traitors 
desirous of being received into their 
raraks. The traitors thus announced- 
the conspirators of the first act next 
appear, and are presented to Charle- 
magne by Swart, who, even in the last 
act, formed part of his train. The 
monarch salutes Swart as Count of 
Susa ; loads the newly-arrived traitors 
with praises and promises, and then 
dismisses them to gain him more pro- 
selytes. As they retire, he turns to 
Rutland, asking, 
My Rutland, did I call them gallant men ? 

Rut. Too surely. 

Char. 'Twas of royal lips an error. 
That title, as the guerdon of my Franks, 
Should be reserved. That I profaned it 

May all forget 

He is departing, when Anfrid is 
borne in, dying, with the remark that 
this was the only Lombard who fought, 
Charlemagne pauses to inquire fur- 
ther, and is informed, that the wound" 
ed man was retiring slowly and singly, 
but had turned back to oppose four 
Franks who attacked him, and killed 
two of them ere he was himself wound- 
ed, and fell; when he had requested 
to be removed where he might die in 
tranquillity. The conqueror applauds 
the humanity of his Franks in com- 
plying with this request, learns from 
Swart who the prisoner is, and thus 
addresses him : 

Anfrid, Wouldst thou, alone, 'gainst four 


Anfr. To die, what need of comrades? 
Charl Rutland, lo ! 
One gallant man is here ! Oh, warrior, 


A life of such high value cast away? 
Kuew'st thou not thou wert ours ? That 

yielding thee, 
Thou wert of Charles the warrior, not 

the captive? 

* This is modern Go thico- Italian for the old Gothico-Latin, Rotolandus the name 
given in the veracious histories of Archbishop Turpin and Co. to our old acquaintance 
Orlando, C. K. 

Italica.'. No. 111. 

Anfr. What, when AdelclnY warrior 

I migbt die, 
Should I live thine ? Adelchis, king, to 


Is precious. From this ignominious day, 
Heaven will, I trust, deliver him, preser- 
For better times. But, should perchance 


Or sovereign, or fall'n, such is Adelchis, 
That whoso wrongs him, wrongs the 


In his best/purest image. power, 
Excell'st him, and in fortune ; but in soul, 
No mortal ever. 'Tis a dying man 
Who warns thee. 

Chart. Thus the faithful love ! 
The king proceeds to compliment 
the expiring Lombard with the high 
opinion and favour he shall ever en- 
joy from himself and the Frank ladies. 
He then desires that Anfrid may be 
honourably buried, and goes off with 
his train. 

The next scene passes in a wood, 
where Desiderius, weary, ashamed of 
his constrained flight, and anxious 
about his son, pauses to rest, and to col- 
lect what he can of the fugitive Lom- 
bards. He is speedily joined by Adel- 
chis, who, promptly silencing all re- 
grets for past errors, for disregard of 
his own opinions, arid consequent dis- 
asters, proceeds to make arrangements 
for future defence. He requests his 
father to throw himself into Pavia 
with their best troops ; commits Bre- 
scia, where is situated the convent 
containing Ermengardis, to Baldwin ; 
takes the charge of Verona upon him- 
self, and desires some faithful leaders 
to mix with the traitors in the Frank 
camp, and see if any can be recalled 
to their duty. All prepare for their 
, respective tasks ; but Adelchis is wait- 
ing for Anfrid, who had, he says, fol- 
lowed more slowly to protect his, 
Adelchis's, retreat, which filial anxie- 
ty prevented his delaying. He is told 
of Anfrid's death, and exclaims, 
Oh, day of infamy and rage, complete 
Art thou ! My brother, thou for me hast 

Thou fought'st and I Cruel, without 

me, why 
Affront a danger? Such were not our 

Oh, God ! Great God, who yet up- 

hold'st my life, 

Assigning mighty duties, Oh, bestow 
.Hie strength to execute them ! Hence, 

.a\vay ! 
< TJnus concludes the third act j be- 

tween which and the fourth, Manzoni 
has introduced an invention of his own, 
which he calls a chorus, but which, 
except inasmuch as it is lyrical, bears 
so little resemblance to the ancient 
chorus, that we hardly know how it 
comes by the same name. It is tout 
bonnement, a short poem, upon some 
topic connected with the tragedy, writ- 
ten in the author's own proper person, 
and not intended to be said or sung by 
any member of the dramatis persona?. 
This one paints the feelings of the en- 
slaved Italians, or Latins, as they were 
then usually denominated, upon the 
defeat of their Lombard tyrants ; and 
ends with warning them not to hope 
that the Franks have taken so much 
trouble for their benefit, but to pre- 
pare for double oppression from the 
doubling of the oppressors, 
Of a rabble dispersed without even a 

name ! 

The ode has poetical beauty, but we 
shall make no extracts from it, as it 
appears to us to have no business where 
it is, unless it be either to spare the 
author the labour of devising a drama- 
tic mode of exhibiting the conditions 
and feelings of the Italians which, 
assuredly, a play of this nature ought 
to do or to indulge his fancy with a 
burst of lofty poetry after its long 
subjection to the simpler language of 
the drama. 

The fourth act transports us to the 
convent, in which the unhappy Ermen- 
gardis has taken shelter. She is sup- 
ported into its garden by two of her 
damsels, whom she courteously thanks 
for their services ; they leave her with 
the Abbess Ansberga. The ex-empress 
thus addresses the recluse : 
Sweet sister, heaven-consecrated mother , 
Compassionate Ansberga, of thy cares, 
And of my sufferings, the close draws nigh. 
Oh, justly does the Lord apportion ills! 
I feel a weary quiet, of the tomb 
The harbinger. Against the hour of God 
No longer struggles my, now vanquish'd, 


And easily, far more than I had hoped, 
My soul, in sorrow old, from life's strong 

Seems to release itself. From thee I 


Request the latest kindness ; in thy heart 
Receive, preserve my solemn words, the 

1, dying, form, and incorrupt transmit 

Some future day, to those I love on eaitl^. 

Adelchi ; ty Atessandro Manzoni. 


Be not disturb'd, my dearest ; do 
not gaze 
With such heart-troubled look upon me ! 

(See'st thou not?) pitying, takes me. 

Would'st thou wish 
He here should leave me to await the 

Of Brescia's siege ? The day, when such 

a foe 

Shall burst upon us ? For such agony 
Unspeakable, should the Most High here 

keep me ? 
Ansb. Fear not, thou dear unfortunate j 

from us, 

Yet distant are alarms of war. Ve- 

Pavia, asylums of the kings, the faithful, 
Those are the objects 'gainst which every 

Yon impious man exerts, and, with God's 


I trust in vain. Our noble kinsmen here, 
The daring Baldwin and the holy bishop, 
Answald, assemble round our walls their 

troops ; 

For desperate resistance all prepared, 
tmmovable they stand. And should Ve- 
Should Pa^ia fall Avert it God ! a new 

And lengthen'd conflict 

Erm. I shall never see't. 
Released from every fear, from earthly 


And bitter wishes, J shall be far distant, 
Where for my father's welfare I shall pray, 
For that beloved Adelchis, and for thee ; 
For those who suffer those to suffering 
Who others doom, even for all But now, 
Observe my latest wishes To my fa- 
Ansberga, and my brother, when thou 

see'st them 

Such joy, oh, be it not denied you I- 

$ n life's extremest moment, on the point, 
When all things are forgotten, gratefully 
And sweetly, still I in remembrance hold 
That day, that gentle deed, when towards 


Trembling, uncertain, they their resolute 
And pious arms stretch'd forth, nor put 

to shame 
\ wretch rejected; to the throne of 

1'hou'it say, that for their victory my 


Fervent, incessant rose ; if 'tis unheard, 
Assuredly His seeming cruelty 
Flows from profound?!' pity ; say, in 


I bless'd them. Sister, next Oh, do 
not this 


Deny me! Find some faithful friend, 

who shall, 
Be't when, be't where it may, present 


To that fierce enemy of all my race - 
Ansb. How ! Charles ? 
Ermeti. Thou hast pronounced the 

name and say 

That free from rancour Ermengardis dies, 
Nor object of her hatred leaves on earth ; 
And that, for all her heavy sufferings, 
She earnestly implores her God, and 


Not vainly, none to held accountable, 
Since all, as his appointment, she re- 

- ceived. 
This let him say ; and, to that haughty 


If not too irritating sound such word, 
Add, that I pardon him. -Thou'lt do 


Ansb. Heaven 

So listen to my dying prayers, as thine 
I sacredly fulfil. 

Ennen. Dearest ! I've yet 
One more request. On this poor form. 

to which, 
While lingers yet a breath, of cares 

thou'rt lavish, 

Let it not irk thee to bestow the last , 
But decently in death lay it thyself. 
This ring upon my left, even in the grave 
Let it remain there : it was given me 
Beside the altar, in the sight of God. 
Be my tomb modest. All are dust, and I 
Oh, what have I to boast? Yet let it 


The ensigns of a queen ( a holy tie 
Made me a queen ; God's gift nought 

rends away ; 
This kno\v'st thou even as life, must 

death attest it. 

Ansb. Oh, cast aside these painful re- 
collections ! 

Complete thy sacrifice : of this asylum, 
Whither, a pilgrim, God conducted thee. 
Become a citizen ! Hear me ; be this 
Thy mansion of repose ! The sacred garb 
Assume ; and, with its spirit, soft oblivion 
Of human cares. 

Errnen. Ansberga, can'st thou think it? 
Shall 1 swear falsehoods to the Lord ! Re- 

A wife I go to him, a spotless wife, 
But of a mortal man. Happy are you, 
Are all, who to the King of Kings a 


By memory uncumber'd offer'd up, 
Placing the sacred veil on eyes that never 
Dwelt on man's face 1 ButI another's 


Ansh. Oh, had'st tiion never been so ! 
JErmen* Never ! still 


//one Italic*. No. I2L 


'flic path by Heav'n assign *d us, to its 


Whate'er it be, 'tis fitting to pursue. 
And, should the tidings of my death 


A thought of pity, of repentance, haply 
T n compensation late, but yet most sweet, 
Should he demand my cold remains as 


As to the royal sepulchre pertaining: 
The dead, Ansberga, sometimes have 

been known 

More powerful than the living. 
jlnsb. Oh, he will not ! 
Ermen. Thou, with thy piety, wilt 

thou affix 

Injurious limits to the clemency 
Of HIM, who touches guilty hearts, who 


To see each wrong atoningly redress'd 
By whoso first inflicted it ? 

Ansb. Poor mourner ! 
No, he will not atone he cannot 

Ermen. How? 
He cannot ! wherefore ? 

Ansb. Sister best beloved/ 
Question no farther, but forget. 

Ermen. Speak, speak ! 
Harassed with doubts send me not to the 

Ansb. The impious has consummated 

his crime. 
Ermen. Proceed! 
Ansb. Expel him wholly from thy 


Of new and guilty nuptials he has drawn 
The sin upon his head : before the eyes 
Of men, of God, shamelessly criminal, 
He brings, as if in triumph, to his camp 
That Hildegert [Ermengardis faints. ] 
Thou'rt pale, mine Ermengardis ! 
Dost thou not hear ? Heavens! Sisters ! 

Hasten hither ! 

What have I done ? oh, who shall suc- 
cour her ? 
Behold, her sorrow kills her. 

But the anxieties of the pious sister- 
hood are hardly worth extracting. 
Ermengardis revives to delirium, and 
although her ravings, which of course 
refer to her original jealousy of Hil- 
degert prior to her own divorce, are 
very pathetic, we incline to pass them 
Also by. Madness, we must confess, not- 
withstanding that its use in fiction be 
sanctioned by the authorities we most 
revere, audthat it has often commanded 
our tears, isnotthemodeoftouchingthe 
heart which we esteem most pleasing, 
or, except in particular situations, most 
beneficial. We shall not, however, 
here enter into the question of its dra- 
matic fitness, but will, by way of com- 

promise, insert the repudiated Queen's 
last mad speech, which, indeed, we 
think might almost pass as sane. 
If all should be a dream, which morn- 
ing's dawn 
Should melt away in mist ! and I should 

Bedew'd with tears, and terrified, and 

Should question of the cause, th-n 

Should chide my want of confidence ! 

(Sinks into lethargy ) 
Ansb. Oh, thou, 

Lady of Heav'n, aid this afflicted one ! 
Nun. Observe, upon her face tran- 
Again appears ; her heart no longer 

Convulsively beneath my hand. 

Ansb. My sister ! 
Mine Ermengardis ! 
Ermengardis (recovering.) Oh ! who call* 

me thus ? 
Ansb. Look on me; 'tis Ansberga 

calls: around 
Thy damsels tend thee, and the pious 

Are off'ring orisons in thy behalf. 

Ermen. Heaven's blessing be upon 

you Yes, ah, yes ! 

Friendship and peace are in these coun- 

I, from a melancholy dream, awake. 
Ansb. Poor sufferer ! such troubled 

slumbers yield 
Rather fatigue than quiet. 

Ermen. Thou say'st true. 
My breath is quite ''exhausted Ob, my 

Support me ; and I pray you, courteous 


Convey me to my lowly, trusty couch. 
'Tis the last trouble I shall give and all 
Are registered iri Heaven Now, in 


May I expire Oh, speak to me of God ; 
I feel his present coming. 

This affecting scene is followed by 
a second chorus, dissimilar to the for- 
mer in subject, as might be expected 
from its position, but similar to it in 
character and relation to the tragedy, 
The present chorus offers a poetical 
and touching picture of the death-bed 
of Ermengardis, enlivened by a slight 
sketch of the military and chase-loving 
Court of the Franks ; introduced by a 
reference to her brief period of joy 
and splendour as Charlemagne's queen. 
The author then, returning to her 
sorrows and death, and adverting to 
the misery of ihe Italians under Lom- 


Adelchi ; by Alessandru Manzom. 

bard oppression, rejoices that Ermen- 
gardis, although of the tyrant race, 
being placed by misfortune amongst 
the oppressed, descends to the grave 
pitied, and will rest in it undisturbed. 
To the chorus succeeds a scene upon 
the walls of Pavia, in which city, it 
will be remembered, Desiderius had 
sought security. The interlocutors are 
Swart, the first Lombard deserter to 
Charlemagne, and the Duke of Ivrea, 
a noble hitherto faithful, who had ac- 
companied the old king in his flight 
from the fatal surprise at the Chiuse, 
and had been selected by him to assist 
in the defence of Pavia. The siege of 
this city has lasted so long as to ex- 
haust the patience of both armies ; and 
Swart is sent by his new master to 
seduce some of his old comrades. His 
lavish offers are aided by the duke's 
weariness of the inconveniences of a 
siege, by his despair of ultimate suc- 
cess,and,notwithstanding some qualms 
of conscience, allayed by sophistry, 
evidently felt as such by the speaker, 
the result is a plot for the betrayal of 
the place. The brother traitors then 
express considerable apprehension as 
to their own future safety, under the 
Frank conqueror, and pledge them- 
selves to assist each other in keeping 
Charlemagne in such hot water, as 
shall insure their continuing to be 
necessary to him. With these com- 
fortable prospects for all parties, they 
separate, making an end of the fourth 

The fifth opens in Verona, where Gi- 
selbert, another of the hitherto faithful 
nobles, announces to Adelchis, that, 
since Pavia has fallen, Desiderius is be- 
come Charlemagne's prisoner, and Ger- 
berga, dreading to fall otherwiseinto his 
hands, has freely surrendered her sons 
and herself to her brother-in-law's cle- 
mency, the garrison of Verona has re- 
solved not to prolong a useless resist- 
ance, and demands- its termination of 
their king. Adelchis dismisses the 
orator, with the promise of a speedy 
answer; and, when alone, thus solilo- 
quizes : 

Go, live, grow old in quiet ; and remain 
One of thy people's chiefs ! 'Tis thy de- 
Fear not, tbou still shalt be a vassal j 

The times, as suit thy fellows. Must 

I hear 

Commands from cowards ; and from those 
who tremble 


Receive the law? Intolerable ! Resolved ! 

Hare they? Because they're dastards, 
shall they will? 

They're menacing through terror, nor 

Resistance to this rage of cowardice. 

Manhood they suffer not amongst them. 
Heavens ! 

In Charles's talons clutch'd, his latter 

My father shall in slavery live, subjected 

To that proud hand, which he in friend- 
ship scorn'd 

To grasp ; shall eat his bread who out- 
raged him ! 

And from the pit, in which alone, betray'd, 

Indignantly he roars, calling in vain 

The son who cannot save, is there no 

To snatch him ? None ! Fall'n Brescia, 
and my Baldwin, 

The generous warrior, he too thus com- 

By such as will not die, to unclose hia 

Amongst us happiest thou, dear Er- 
mengardis ! 

Oh days ! oh house of Desiderius ! 

Is enviable who of sorrow died ! 

Without, the conqueror arrogant ad- 

Who even now will intimate commands 

That I should fill the measure of his tri- 
umph : 

Within, the ansvv'ring baseness, that pre- 

To urge. Together, 'tis too much ! 
Thus far, 

If hope was lost, for action there was 
room ; 

Each day bad its to-morrow, every strait 

Its remedy But now And now, if 1 

Cannot inspire the base with fortitude, 

From the resolved can cowards force the 

Of dying worthily ? Not all are base ; 

Some yet will hear; some comrades I 
shall find, 

If I exclaim, Forth, to encounter them !' 

Let's prove that Lombards do not worth- 
less lives 

Prefer to all if nought else, let us 

And in my ruin why involve the brave ? 

If there remains no duty here below, 

Cannot I die alone ? Alone ? My soul 

Finds solace in the thought ; like to 

Bearing glad tidings in his looks, it smiles- 

Cheeringly on me. From th' ignoble 

Oppressing me, to 'scape ; not to behold 

The foe's derision ; and this load of wrath, 

Horac Ilallca-. No. III. 

Of doubt and pity, to fling off ! Thou 


That others' destinies hast often ruled. 
And thou, strong hand, familiar with its 


One instant's service all is over ! All ? 
Unworthy, wherefore with thyself thus 

false ? 
The murmuring of these worms stuns 

thee ; the thought 
Of standing in the presence of a conqu'r- 


Subdues thy feeble virtue; overwhelmed 
By the hour's misery, thou criest Too 

And canst thou front thy God ? To him 

canst say, 

Unwaiting for thy summons I am come ; 
The post thou hadst allotted me, I found 
Too arduous, and I deserted it ! 
Impious ! Would' st fly, and to thy father 


Such recollections, to his grave compa- 
nions ? 
Thy last despairing sigh would'st thou 

bequeath him ? 
Disperse the impious thought, ye winds ! 

Recall thy soul, be man ! What seekest 

thou ? 
Thy labour's instant close? Beyond thy 

Dost thou not know it ? By the Grecian 


A refuge thou art offer'd Rather, God 
Offers it through his lips. Grateful ac- 
cept ! 

The only wise, the only worthy course 
Is this. So shall thy father yet taste hope ; 
Shall see thee in his dreams, a conqueror 
Returning, break his fetters, not deep 

'In blood, despairing shed. Nor all a 

Perchance shall' t prove. Others from 

an abyss, 
Yet deeper, have arisen. All things 

change ; 

Eternal compacts none conclude with 

After this fine, but tremendously 
long soliloquy, Adelchis commissions 
an esquire to assemble the faithful, for 
the purpose of accompanying his flight 
to Byzantium ; but himself to await 
the conqueror's entrance into Verona, 
in order to inform the captive monarch 
of his son's intention of seeking, in the 
<uccours of the Greeks, the means of 
Affecting his liberation. 

The scene then changes to the 
!"nnk camp, where Charlemagne ap- 

pears, giving directions for the sum- 
mons of Verona. A petition for an 
interview is presented in the name of 
Desiderius, and immediately granted. 
There is much pathos in the fierce old 
Lombard sovereign's self-subjugation, 
and submissive entreaties for his son's 
life and liberty. But we shall not ex- 
tract the scene. Charlemagne is in- 
dubitably well drawn ; but there is 
something so revolting to our feelings 
in the cold-bloodedness with which 
he rejects the unhappy father's sup- 
plications, betraying a bitter and tri- 
umphant enmity, even while he pro- 
fesses to repress all exultation, lest he 
should offend God, who so evidently 
favours him, that nothing short of an 
immediately impending punishment 
could reconcile us to the task of trans- 
lation. And we must acknowledge a 
yet greater distaste for the cheap mag- 
nanimity he displays, when the intel- 
ligence that Adelchis has been mor- 
tally wounded in an attempt to break 
through the besieging army, removes 
all those apprehensions for the future, 
which the conqueror thus owns he had 

He was mine enemy ; and such a one, 
That on this nevv-gain'd throne repose 

for me 
There was not whilst he lived, and lived 

at large. 

Adelchis is brought wounded into 
the tent ; and we shall give the part- 
ing of the father and son, which ends 
the tragedy. 

Desiderius. Alas ! my son ! 
Adelchis. My father, once again 
We meet ! Pray thee, approach and clas,- 

my hand. 

Desid. Most horrible to see thee tin" 
Adel. How many 
Thus, by my hand, have fallen upon tbe 

Desid. Oh God ! Is then this wound; 

thou best beloved, 
Incurable ? 

Adel. Incurable. 
Desid. Woe's me ! 
Atrocious war ! And I inhuman, 1, 
Who wish'd it, I, who murder thee ! 

Adel. Nor thou, 
Nor these; but HE, of both rh* Almig' >.- 

ty Lord. 
Desid.. Thou, whom mine eyes desirp<t ; 

distant from thee 
What pangs I suffered ! 'Midst mine a<-^ 

Supported byone single thought, the ho*?? 


Adelchi ; by Akitsandro Munzaiu. 


To tell thee all their history hereafter, 
In some fond confidential hour of peace. 
Adel. Oh, trust me, father, 'tis for me 

The hour of peace, so that, subdued by 

I leave thee not on earth. 

Desid. Alas ! That brow. 
Serene, as dauntless! That resistless 

arm i 
That dread-instilling eye ! 

Adel. Cease thy laments, 
Oh father ! Is't not fitting time to die ? 
But thou, who, wont to live in palaces, 
Must live a prisoner, attend. A secret 
Obscure is life ; and in our dying hour 
Only we comprehend it. Of a kingdom 
Thou art deprived. Regret it not ; believe 


When thou thyself shalt reach this so- 
lemn hour, 
Jocundly in thy thoughts shall all those 


In which thou wast not king, array them- 
selves ; 
In which no tear against thee in Heav'n's 

Recorded stands, in which thyname ne'er 

Rose loaded with the curses of th' op- 


Rejoice that thou'rt no longer king j re- 
That closed against thee are all roads to 

action ; 

For noble deeds, or innocent, no field 
Exists, and nought remains, save to com- 

Or suffer wrong. Ferocious violence 
Holds empire o'er the world, the name 

of Right 

Usurping ! 'Twas of our progenitors 
The sanguinary hands that sowed injus- 
tice ; 
With blood our fathers nourish'd it ; 


Earth yields none other harvest. No de- 

Is found in ruling the iniquitous. 
Thou hast proved it ; and ev'n were there, 

all thus ends. 
This happy one, whom on his throne my 

Secures, for whom all smiles, applauds, 

and serves, 
He too is man, foredoom'd to die. 

Desid. But who, 
My son, shall for thy loss console me ? 

Adel. God, 

Who for all ills consoles. And thou, 
proud foe 

Again we cannot, will not, translate 
the specious and easy greatness with 
which the conqueror disclaims all en- 


mity beyond the grave, and receives, 
with promises of compliance, thedying 
son's entreaties, that the captivity of 
his grey-headed, broken-hearted fa- 
ther may be as little harsh as is com- 
patible with his safe custody. A Frank 
Count then announces that the trium- 
phant warriors are impatient for ad- 
mittance. Charlemagne, nobly decla- 
ring that they shall not intrude upon 
the dying son and wretched father, 
goes forth to receive their joyous ac- 
clamations, when Desiderius, who has 
appeared insensible to these last pas- 
sages, exclaims 

Oh, my beloved ! 

Adel Oli, father ! from mine eyes 
The light is fading. 

Desid. No, Adelchis, no ! 
Forsake me not ! 

Adel. Oh, King of Kings ! betray'd 
By thine own follower, by the rest aban- 

don'd ! 

To thy repose I come f My weary soul 
Receive ! 

Desid. Thou'rt heard ! Oh Heavens ! 

Thou diest ! And I 
In slavery to weep for thee remain ! 

The curtain falls upon this despair- 
ing exclamation of the bereaved mo- 
narch. But ere we take our leave of 
Manzoni and his AI>ELCHI, we must 
offer a few observations, which, prior 
to entering upon our analysis of the 
piece, wejreferred to its conclusion. 

We feel so much satisfaction in see- 
ing an Italian sufficiently romantic, if 
in Italy that be what is called roman- 
tic, to resort rather to the history of 
his own country than to the worn- 
out subjects of antiquity, for the fable 
of his tragedy, that we will not allow 
ourselves to express a doubt, still less 
to investigate the question, whether 
the historic play be the style of drama 
which it is most advisable to borrow 
from our own mighty bard. But we 
must wish we had the power of point- 
ing out to a poet of such undeniable 
abilities, that it is a style absolutely 
irreconcilable both with the esta- 
blished brevity of the classical Italian 
tragedy, and with its dignified, inac- 
tive, narrative form. To the attempt 
to combine these incompatibilities, are 
attributable the principal faults of his 
ADELCHI. Manzoni has justly obser- 
ved, that the chief pleasure derived 
from dramatic compositions of this 
kind, which are necessarily destitute 
of the intense interest excited by such 
tragedies as OTHELLO, or ROMEO an4 

lions llalicit. No. ILl. 


, lies in the development of 
the character of historical personages, 
T5ut it is not a slight, sketchy deve- 
lopment that can afford this pleasure. 
The individuality of those who are to 
yield it must be "so thoroughly, so vi- 
vidly impressed upon our minds, as to 
awaken in us the kindly sympathy we 
feel for living breathing men. This is 
what Shakspeare does ; we are almost 
PS well and familiarly acquainted with 
Hotspur. Falstaff, 'and Hal, with 
Orookback Richard and his victims, 
os with our brothers and sisters. But 
this species of intimacy can, we appre- 
hend, be created, only by exhibiting 
the persons introduced to us, at full 
length, in every various situation. We 
do not intend, after the fashion of 
some French and Italian critics, to 
show how the tragedy under consider- 
ation might have been better conduct- 
ed ; still less how Shakespeare would 
have managed the subject: we will, 
however, take the liberty of suggest- 
ing an addition, which we certainly 
think would have been an improve- 
ment, and which will at least exem- 
plify our ideas. We are told that 
Adelchis is a hero, a successful war- 
rior ; but we see him only defeated ; 
and consequently, in his military ca- 
pacity, feel for him rather pity than 
admiration. Had Manzoni given us 
a scene of his exploits in the French 
camp ; presented to us the redoubted 
Franks flying in terror at his name ; 
Charlemagne striving, ineffectually, to 
encourage and rally them to resist- 
ance, with difficulty himself escaping 
from death or seizure, and internally 
confessing that such disgraceful dis- 
comfiture was the just punishment of 
his repudiation of the innocent Emen- 
gardis would not such a scene have 
prodigiously enhanced our sense of 
the heroism of Adelchis, and thus 
have deepened our feeling of his sub- 
sequent disasters? But as there is 
little chance, we fear, of the Italian 
author's benefiting by our critique, and 
the English reader needs it not, we 
shall say no moreupon this subject, and 
with a word or two upon poetical jus- 
tice, shall conclude this article. 

When we require the observance 
of poetical justice, we do not mean to 
offer the slightest objection to the mis- 
fortunes and the murder of our friends 
and favourites. Hamlet, Othello, Des- 
demona, are all killed ; the tears we 
weep for them are pleasing, and we 
quit the theatre, or close the volume, 

perfectly satisfied, but then, be it 
remembered, the wrong-doers are pu- 
nished. If Hamlet's uncle were not 
stabbed with the poisoned rapier ; if 
lago were not to be hanged, or drown- 
ed, or baked, or otherwise dealt with 
according to the accustomed tender 
mercies of the Venetian government, 
we could not endure the end of either 
play. Thus, in the tragedy before 
us, Adelchis may be slain in battle, 
Ermengardis may break her heart, and 
welcome ; it is the complete and un- 
disturbed triumph of Charlemagne 
that leaves an irksome feeling of dis- 
satisfaction in the mind. Such, we 
may be told, were the facts as record- 
ed by history, any arbitrary alteration 
of which would have been a deviation 
from the principles laid down by the 
author for his guidance. But this 
would not be an accurate statement 
of the case. History, especially his<- 
tory as it was then written, professes 
only to relate great public events, con- 
cerning itself very little with domes- 
tic occurrences, and not at all with 
merely moral effects. Hence, in read- 
ing history, should a strong interest 
be awakened, we are left at full liber- 
ty to imagine the mental affections 
which certain situations are calcula- 
ted to produce, or even the private re- 
sults which might follow from certain 
actions, and we satisfy ourselves that 
the criminal is internally, if not ex- 
ternally, punished. The drama, on 
the contrary, professes to show us the 
individual condition, the inmost heart 
of its personages ; as we have there- 
fore no liberty to add fancies of our 
own to its representations, if it exhi- 
bits the unfeeling oppressor successful 
and happy, our moral sense is pain- 
fully wounded. Now this is our quar- 
rel with Manzoni. We desire no such 
violation of historic truth as the de- 
feat or death of the conqueror in what 
we know to be his mid career of pros- 
perity, but we would see him dis- 
turbed and unhappy : unhappy in 
consequence of having wrongfully di- 
vorced Ermengardis and made war 
upon her father; disturbed by the very 
issue of his conquest. The death of a 
favourite son in battle, a passion of 
his beloved Hildegert's for the virtu- 
ous Adelchis, many .things not to be 
called violations of historical truth, 
things which may indeed very well 
have happened without having been 
mentioned by the monkish chroniclers 
of those days, would have sufficiently 


gratified our wishes as to the first 
point, With respect to the second, 
the Italian Romanticisto has deviated 
from history expressly to rob us of 
such satisfaction as we might have 
enjoyed in the image of Charlemagne 
insecure upon his new throne, suspect- 
ing, and suspected by, the Lombard 
traitors, and incessantly dreading the 
talents, the valour, and the popularity v 
of the lawful sovereign. For, in fact, 
Adelchis, whom this soi-disant slave 
of historic truth kills for the conquer- 
or's comfort, did effect his escape to 
.Constantinople, did obtain succours 
from the Greeks, and was not slain 
until long afterwards, in a subsequent 
war against the Franks. We put it 
to every reader to say, whether, de- 
spite Adelchis's philosophy and eu- 
thanasia, he would not have laid aside 
the tragedy better pleased, had he left 
the hero safely embarked, Charle- 
magne disappointed and uneasy, and 
old Desiderius taunting him with the 
certainty of the fugitive's future tri- 
umphant return ? And to this much 
we were historically entitled. Nay, 
Manzoni seems to grudge us even the 
purely moral consolation we find in 
the troubled slumbers of Richard the 
Third and Lady Macbeth, in the ghost 
that ' pushes' Macbeth f from his 
stool' amidst the revelry of a banquet ; 
for he exhibits to us the remorse of 
the faithless and cruel husband only 
at the instant in which it is finally 
subdued and cast off. 

We could almost suspect that those 
who have grown up in a sort of ima- 
ginary participation in Buonaparte's 
triumphs, have thereby so inseparably 
associated every species of admiration, 
every notion of greatness and excel- 
lence, with military prowess and suc- 
cess, that they cannot connect the 
idea of guilt with any action of a con- 
queror's. If this be not the explana- 
tion pf the want of poetical justice 
which annoys us in APELCHI, we can 
devise only two other hypotheses. 
One, that Manzoni writes as an Ita- 
lian, regarding the Lombards as ori- 
ginal aggressors, tyrannic and barbar- 
ous usurpers, whose overthrow was 
an act of retribution, not to be averted 
because the tender Ermengardis, the 
generous and heroic Adelchis, are in- 
volved in their ruin ; and thus view- 
ing Charlemagne merely under the 
Attila-character of the Scourge or' 
God, looks upon his virtues or vices, 
his haprHireffi or misery, ,\$ matter* 

Adelc/ii ; by Atessandro Manzuni, 


wholly irrelevant and unimportant. 
Something of this feeling we gather 
from two speeches of Adelchis, both 
inserted, and still more from the 
Choruses. Yet we can hardly suppose 
that the ruling sentiment of the Tra- 
gedy would be so obscurely intima- 
ted, and principally confined to two 
appended poems, not intended, as 
we are told in a preface, to be in- 
troduced in representation . If this 
were indeed the Dramatist's idea, it 
ought, as we before observed in speak- 
ing of the first Chorus, to have been 
embodied and impressed upon us in 
vivid scenes of Lombard oppression, 
of timid and servile exasperation on 
the part of the vanquished and ensla- 
ved Italian population, of whispered 
curses, and of exultation in the dis- 
grace brought upon her father by the 
divorce of Ermengardis, scarcely tem- 
pered by pity for the unoffending suf- 
ferer. But if such feelings did not go- 
vern Manzoni in this, to us objection- 
able part of this composition and his 
other Tragedy, IL CONTE DI CAR- 
MAGNOLA, in which there can be no 
such patriotic apology for display- 
ing the triumph of craft over honesty, 
induces a suspicion that at least such 
might be the case, we have really no- 
thing left but to suppose his cranium, 
most peculiarly deficient in the organ 
of justice- lovingness. We may be 
wrong in its denomination, but such 
an organ there indisputably is, and, 
moreover, of very respectable dimen- 
sions, in all that large portion of our 
species, which, not being gifted with 
superlative powers of inflicting injus- 
tice upon others, feels a common in- 
terest in its repression ; whilst even 
in those whose heads, either by na- 
ture or by fortune, present the most 
ominous flatness in this particular 
region, we habitually see an extraor- 
dinary development ensue, upon the 
unexpected transfer of themselves, 
or the objects of their affection, from 
the active to the passive voice relative 
to oppression. It follows, as the pa- 
rental tenderness of authors for the 
offspring of their fancy is matter of 
public notoriety, that unless -we also 
suppose Manzoni deficient in the or- 
gan of Philoprogenitiveness we are 
pretty sure that name is right an 
accusation we are loath to make rash- 
ly, our last hypothesis is incompetent 
to the solution of the problem, and 
we really must abandon' its investiga- 
tion in despair. 


The Tripos Day, 



MEN may talk of horrors as they 
like. Virgil has painted strongly the 
horrors of a great city taken by storm ; 
and DC Segur has described, as he be- 
held them, (and what colouring could 
add to their intensity ?) the horrors of 
the most disastrous retreat in the an- 
nals of mankind. But of all the hor- 
rors I have experienced in a tolerably 
eventful life, the most terrific were 
those of that eventful morning in the 
January when I took my degree at 
Cambridge, when I beheld the awful 
Tripos papers affixed to the pillars of 
the Senate-house. I have known some- 
thing of the horrors of a storm, as well 
as of those of a harassed march ; but 
what are these to the horrors of that 
eventful moment, which, in the eyes 
of the first seat of learning in the 
known world, (as my worthy ancient 
tutor used to call it,) is to stamp you 
a man of talent or a blockhead for 
ever? The soldier can but lose his life, 
for it is impossible for any man who is 
fit to be called a soldier to lose his ho- 
nour. His life is the stake which he 
daily plays for ; and as he is hourly 
seeing others lose that stake, his mind 
accustoms itself to the idea that his 
turn may be next. When his turn 
comes, he dies honoured and lament- 
ed, at least by his relatives, if he has 
any, and his name having been cre- 
ditably mentioned in the Gazette, soon 
sinks into respectable oblivion. But 
far otherwise it is with the unhappy 
Cantab who has the misfortune, on 
the morning of the awful Friday, to 
see his name near the bottom, or even 
in the last half of the long list of 
Granta's honours. The blighted hopes 
and the baffled exertions of years the 
early promise of better things and the 
damning fame of the University Ca- 
lendar, rise in terrible array before his 
saddened memory. Woe be unto you, 
O Junior Optimes ! who shall comfort 
.you ? Bright visions of military glory 
may dance before the glazing eye of 
the expiring soldier, but no visions of 
future fame come to console the last 
moments of the university life of the 
hapless wight who is dubbed " Op- 
time," where he once hoped to be able 
to write li Wrangler" after his name. 
He is damned to everlasting fame in 
that imperishable record, in which he 
fondly hoped to see his name 

transmitted with honour to latest pos- 

It is, indeed, an awful morning. The 
doors of the Senate-house, as every 
Cantab knows, and as those who are 
not Can tabs may know now if they 
choose, are not thrown open till the 
moment when St Mary's clock begins 
to strike the hour of eight. But long 
before that the street before the Se- 
nate-house is covered with a capped 
and ' ' toga'd" crowd of eager aspirants 
after fame, and of, if possible, fully 
more eager struggiers for life. For, 
with perhaps the greater number/ the 
question is not one of honour but of 
.fife. Among these candidates for the 
goodly degree of Bachelor of Arts, 
there generally reigns a most profound 
silence. All eyes are fixed with painful 
earnestness upon the valves of that 
portal which is to be to them, on this 
occasion, the gate of life or death. It 
may be, perhaps, that some of the more 
hardv or reckless may attempt a smilr 
or a laugh ; but it is such a smile as I 
have seen a poor devil put on when he 
felt the horrors of sea-sickness enve- 
loping his soul. Far more usual is it 
to see haggard faces, and sunken and 
blood-shot eyes for the preceding 
night is often one of strange but acute 

I have known men attempt in vain 
to drown in inebriety the thought of 
to-morrow ; it returned upon their 
stupified minds with renewed and 
overpowering force, and wrung from 
the eyes which had not wept for 
years bitter and piteous, yet ludicrous, 
tears in their maudlin sorrow. I re- 
member a friend of mine, who was 
not much given to the melting mood, 
when sober, saying to me, " I never 
passed such a night of misery as the 
last ; I got drunk to get over it the 
better, but, by G d, I cried like a 

When the clock strikes, and the 
doors are thrown open, then comes 
the tug of strife. A tremendous rush 
is made to the door, which carries 
everything along with it, moderators, 
proctors, and bull-dogs. Within, what 
a scene of uproar and confusion ! 
l * Continue auditae voces vagitus etingens, 
Ton vo^covque animae flentes in limine 

In the year in which T toot my d -. 

gree, being fatigued with the labours 
of the week, I did not awake on the 
Friday morning till a few minutes 
before eight. I made all possible haste 
to the scene of action ; and although 
quite cool when I left my rooms, I be- 
gan to feel no small perturbation as I 
approached the Senate-house. There 
were several stragglers about the door ; 
and in the very threshold, I encoun- 
tered one of the moderators. A man 
was putting a question to him at the 
moment. I thought I might as well 
ask him about my place also, particu- 
larly as I observed that the pillars, on 
which were suspended the fateful ta- 
blets, were at present utterly inacces- 

" Can you tell me where I am, 
sir ?" said I. 

" Your name, sir, if you please ?" 

1C _____ _____ " 

tc I can't tell your place exactly, sir, 
but I'm afraid you are rather low," 
eaid the moderator, and I walked for- 

Then I beheld a scene of confusion 
and misery, a region of rewards and 
punishment, compared to which the 
hell of the ancient poets is a trifle. 
On the present occasion, there seemed 
to be a general dissatisfaction in regard 
to the rewards ; indeed, the greater 
number seemed to consider their re- 
wards as punishments. There general- 
ly is a considerable number of disap- 
pointed men ; but on this occasion, far, 
far the greater part belonged to that 
class. Here and there, indeed, you 
might perceive a smiling and joyous 
countenance. But in general those 
about me presented such a rueful cha- 
racter and unusual length of visage, 
that even in the midst of my own in- 
dividual misery I could not restrain 
my laughter. I have often wondered 
since at the coolness with which I re- 
ceived the tidings that I had fallen so 
far below the place assigned to me by 
ray friends and instructors. I know 
not whether it arose from actual in- 
difference, which is hardly possible, 
or from a perversity of disposition, 
which has often inclined me to laugh 
when others were merry. 

" My prospects in life are ruined," 
said one man. 

" Who would have thought it ?" 
said another. 

" It's a damn'd bore," cried a third. 

But what was the misery of the ge- 
nerality when compared to the voice- 

The Tripos Dry. 181 

less woe the unspeakable anguish, of 
that devoted band that forlorn hope, 
in the University language yclept 
"The Spoon bracket?" 

" Quis talia fando 
Temperet a lacrymis ?" 

I had myself the distinguished ho- 
nour to belong to this gallant and far- 
famed band. Nay, more, I was the 
most distinguished man in it. 

" I twined with oat my laurel leaves." 
I carried off the single diadem of the 
" Wooden Spoon." Single as yet, 
though there have been rumours of 
late of their making a 2d, 3d, &c. 
spoon. And truly, the honour is so 
great a one that it is almost too much 
for one man to bear. It was indeed, 
as Cromwell said of the victory at 
Worcester, a crowning mercy. 

And here let no Wrangler or lofty 
Optime turn up his nose at the men- 
tion of that respectable and devoted 
body of men, the " Spoon bracket" 
a body of men who nobly throw them- 
selves into the breach between their 
comrades and danger, for here, as in 
a retreat, the rear is the post of ho- 
nour. Moreover, report whispers, that 
of late years, there have been men in 
the spoon bracket, ay, and even be- 
low it, who are likely to make both a 
greater and more respectable noise in 
the world than any scholastic wrang- 
ler who ever wrangled or wrote. For 
my own part, wooden spoon as I was, 
non collegisse pcenitet, although, after 
the lapse of years, I rejoice that for- 
tune drove me from the University, 
instead of tempting me to trifle away 
my life there, on the goodly emolu- 
ments of a fellowship of thirty, or 
even of sixty pounds a-year. I have 
led on a forlorn hope of a different 
kind since I obtained my wooden 
badge of honour, and have entwined 
it with a laurel that will endure as 
long, perhaps, as my name shall be 
recorded as the last of the Optime s. 

But to return to my narrative. 
When I returned to the solitude of 
my own chamber when the bustle 
and the sense of the ludicrous, which 
had directed my mind, vanished 
when the pride that had supported 
me in the hour of trial, in some mea- 
sure, deserted me. I was compelled to 
own that my situation was truly hor- 
rible ; and that that was indeed an 
hour of deep humiliation and bitter 
disappointment. To have to send the 
news to your friends to be pestered 


The Tripos Day. 

with complements and dunned for 
explanations worst of all, to be look- 
ed down upon by those whom you de- 
spise from your very soul these are 
ills which at least some of those who 
have gone before, as well as of those 
who succeeded me in that distin- 
guished place, must have deeply felt. 

It is a trite remark, that evils never 
come singly. 

* ; Hie aliud majus miseris multoque tre- 

Objicitur " 

in the shape of a dun's knock at the 
door, which was immediately succeed- 
ed 1by the apparition of the dun him- 
self. These worthy gentlemen keep a 
sharp eye on the University rolls of 
fame, and, like the good Samaritan, 
they bestow their kind attentions upon 
those whom the rest of the world are 
apt to desert in their afflictions. From 
my own experience, I can assure the 
future heroes of the spoon, that how- 
ever they may be deserted by their 
other friends in the time of need, they 
are sure of being visited by the duns. 

And now let me not be thought to 
write either in sorrow or in anger, but 
in entire good-humour. Whatever 
feelings of vexation I may have had at 
the time, have long since been dissi- 
pated into empty air. I always look- 
ed upon University honours with the 
most profound indifference ; not, Hea- 
ven knows, that my fortune was inde- 
pendent of them, but because I had 
always other aims in my reading than 
to cram either mathematics or classics 
into the striplings of other generations. 
I set to work and read mathematics 
with some vigour for the last year I 
was at Cambridge. I read on and M- 
derstood, and remembered each pre- 
ceding part as long as it was neces- 
sary for what succeeded. " But to 
** keep up" constantly every clumsy 
and every paltry artifice which mathe- 
maticians frequently make use of to 
obtain the desired conclusion, was a 
task which my soul abhorred. After 
the preliminary steps, I went over in 
this way with delight and admiration, 
the first book, or volume as it is called 
at Cambridge, of the Sublime Frinci- 
pia of Newton : and this was almost 

the only subject I knew pretty well at 
the degree examination. I also read 
with pleasure a good deal of French 
mathematics, but by the time the ex- 
amination came on, they had almost 
entirely escaped my memory. My idea 
was, that the mind was more benefited 
by a long train of reasoning passing 
through it, without having it always 
before it, and retaining only the grand 
results to which it led, than by being 
contented with keeping before it a 
more circumscribed course of reason- 
ing, and less important results. The 
excellent scholar and sound mathema- 
tician who was my private tutor in the 
long vacation before I took my degree, 
not being fully aware of my habit of 
reading, was so far deceived by the 
satisfactory manner in which I read 
with him, as to say that I should be a 
good wrangler. As I was, as far as re- 
garded University honour or emolu- 
ment, a martyr to my opinion, I may 
perhaps be excused the egotism of in- 
troducing it here. 

But though in my reading I thus 
far followed my own devices, I am tar 
from thinking that I derived no bene- 
fit from my University career. On the 
contrary, I consider myself as having 
derived from it benefits that I have 
felt hitherto, and will feel to the last 
day of my existence habits of study 
and attention, and a liberal and inde- 
pendent style of thought. I shall al- 
ways look back to the year of my resi- 
dence there as among the happiest of 
my life, and with a mixture of regret 
and pleasure to the college friends 
among whom these years were spent, 
and many, many of whom I shall be- 
hold no more. With all thy faults, 
sweet Granta, I love thee still. And, 
indeed, with all her many imperfec- 
tions and abuses, she approaches, per- 
haps, as near to perfection as it is pos- 
sible for any human institution of the 
kind to do, and nearer than any has 
yet done. She is worthy of the men 
who founded her, and almost worthy 
of the great and free people in the 
midst of whom she now flourishes 
the great, and noble, and liberal, and 
enlightened sanctuary of the wise and 


Sketch <>} Pans in 1&26. 



PARIS is materially changed from 
what it was eight or ten years since. 
The efforts incessantly made either 
covert or open by the reigning family 
to force the ancienne religion on the 
people, have had their effect. Those 
who wish to make their way at court, 
to obtain promotion in the army, or 
in the civil offices, are to be seen dili- 
gently going to mass. The French ri- 
dicule this superstition, as they call it, 
and will repeat the noms distingues 
from Marshal Soult, with his valet at 
his heels, with a Morocco gilt prayer- 
book under his arm, daily pacing to 
the church, to the names of lesser 
rank who have all some object to gain 
by their prayers and mass-goings. In 
fact, whoever wishes to thrive by the 
patronage of the court, must be dili- 
gent at confessional, rigid in his fasts, 
a warm advocate of the missionaries, 
c. &c. But the mass of the people 
will not endure this the farce is too 
broad, and the tide of opinion and 
feeling is every day flowing more ad- 
verse and darkly. 

One of the most zealous nobles for 
the religion of the day lately fell a 
sacrifice to his enthusiasm. It is not 
more than two months ago that the 
Duke Matthieu de Montmorency, tu- 
tor of the Duke de Bordeaux, was ad- 
mitted a member of the Academy. The 
propriety of his election had previous- 
ly given rise to much and angry dis- 
cussion in the newspapers ; ridicule 
was poured on the peer in a most un- 
sparing way ; his talents, his principles, 
his integrity, all were called in ques- 
tion. But his election took place with 
much splendour, and it was a spectacle 
of the highest interest. The hall of the 
Academy was filled with the most li- 
terary, as well as the most beautiful 
women among the noblesse. About 
three weeks since, as the Duke Avas 
passing the Pont Royal, he was sei- 
zed with a sudden fit of illness, that 
compelled him to return home in- 
stantly. Ten days afterwards, being 
much recovered, he expressed an ar- 
dent desire to go to the church of St 
Thomas d'Acquin, in order to pay his 
devotions there. His medical attend- 
ant strongly dissuaded him from such 
a step, as dangerous in his delicate 
state of health ; but the piety and en- 
thusiasm of the ' Chief Baron of the 

Empire/' as he is called, rose triumph-* 
ant over every entreaty and remon- 
strance, and, accompanied by his wife 
and daughter, he went to the church. 
The object of his passionate desire was 
to worship at the tomb of the Re- 
deemer, for beneath the altar in this 
edifice the priests had prepared an 
imitation of this sacred object. Be- 
neath the altar was a small recess cut 
to represent the lower part of the 
tomb, where the body was once laid ; 
and a figure of alabaster, well execu- 
ted, was extended, with the attitude 
and aspect of one who had suffered 
with resignation and hope ; and over 
the pallid scene was drawn a thin- 
gauze, through whose transparency 
the lamp-light was vividly thrown. 
The Duke approached the spot, and 
knelt beside it, and appeared to be 
absorbed in devotion, when suddenly 
his countenance became pale as ashes ; 
his family spoke to him, but he did 
not answer a word, and fainted in 
their arms. Every effort to revive him 
was useless ; and in the attempt to 
convey him to his palace, he expired. 
This untimely fit of enthusiasm has 
robbed thefuture monarch of the grand 
nation of his tutor, and the Academy of 
their newly elected member; illustrious 
for rank at least, though ungifted with 
much talent. His funeral was a very 
splendid one ; and among the nume- 
rous equipages might be distinguished 
more than one with the royal devices. 
As the long and slow procession pass- 
ed opposite the entrance of the Acade- 
my, it afforded an impressive lesson of 
earthly vicissitude. A few days be- 
fore, the object of his extreme ambi- 
tion was there conferred on him in the 
grand hall, past which he now went to 
his quiet resting-place. Two or three 
days after his death, we visited the 
church where he had expired. The 
scene of the tomb was still kept up, 
and was a very impressive one, and 
had considerable effect on the crowds 
of people who were intently and de- 
voutly gazing on it. 

Two more instances of superstition, 
of a less refined cast, have lately at- 
tracted much notice. A week or two 
ago, a woman, sent out, it was said, 
expressly by the Jesuits, paraded 
through several of the streets, bare- 
foot, and in the garb of a penitent ; 

Sketch of Paris in 1826. 

and not far behind she was followed 
by two attendants. The novelty of the 
thing attracted the gaze and merriment 
of the Parisians, who ridiculed her de- 
vout looks; but as soon as it was 
whispered that it was the work of the 
Jesuits, an odium was instantly cast 
on the whole transaction. 

A few days afterwards, another pe- 
nitent took the field ; but she was a 
voluntary one, and walked barefoot 
through several streets with a look and 
attitude of deep penitence and devo- 
tion. She was a good-looking woman, 
and becomingly dressed. The people 
at first gazed on her silently, but soon 
began to suspect it was another trick 
of the Jesuits, similar to the former 
one ; and the poor devotee, or rather 
the fair penitent, was followed with 
hisses and hootings ; and the mob in- 
creased so much, that she was com- 
pelled to abandon the pilgrimage ; and 
the Archbishop of Paris has since for- 
bid it to be renewed. 

The universal contempt and ridicule 
with which the missionaries are re- 
garded and treated, proves the aversion 
of the nation to the religion of the 
court, or rather its weak efforts for the 
conversion of the people. Every op- 
portunity is gladly embraced to testify 
the feeling entertained towards those 
wandering pastors. 

In the chocolate shops, amidst the 
variety of forms and fantasies into 
which this material is moulded, you 
see a number of priests, sitting in a 
row, with the most sanctified faces and 
postures, and clothed in their reverend 
garb ; and beneath each is this label 
" <f Dix sous pour un missionaire ;" 
arid a lady asked me at the dinner- 
table the other day, if we had any of 
those black beasts in England ; for it 
is not as in Italy, where many of the 
priests still manage to hold an empire 
over the fair sex. Here they are re- 
garded by the latter with perfect de- 
testation. It was rather a ludicrous 
sight when the King and all the royal 
family walked to the church of St Ge- 
nevieve a fortnight ago, by way of 
penitence. It was called the Jubilee, 
and takes place only once in fifty 
years. The streets were strewed with 
soft sand, and the fine and gentleman- 
ly looking soldiers of the garde de corps 
hemmed in majesty so closely and 
carefully, that it was scarcely possible 
to get a sight of a single member of 
the Bourbons. 

The Duchess de Berri, with many 
ladies, walked also in the procession, 
with a slow pace ; but the total ab- 
sence of all sanctity was amusing. The 
people showed not the slightest ap- 
pearance of it; the crowds that filled 
the splendid church looked on with 
utter indifference, and numbers had a 
sneer of contempt on their faces. The 
French ladies seemed to enjoy the 
thing highly, and the two thousand 
priests who marched up the long aisles 
in front, (for all Paris had poured forth 
its priestly population,) afforded tho 
fair gazers much amusement. I ought 
not to call them fair, for such a dearth 
of beauty, in so large an assemblage 
of women, I never before beheld ; the 
bright and wandering eye was there, 
and the white and well-set row of 
teeth, two perfections on which they 
pride themselves ; but as to the gene- 
ral charms of face and figure, what a 
falling-off from the beings a wanderer 
is accustomed to behold in the streets 
and assemblies of his own capital \ 
When the long procession had reach- 
ed the altar, and the host was elevated 
at the performance of the mass, the 
command was given, and the long 
files of the garde de corps sunk on 
their knees ; a posture to which, jud- 
ging from their looks, they had been 
little accustomed. The spectacle at 
this moment was very splendid, the 
helmets and rich plumes of the troops 
mingling with those of gazing beau- 
ty, and spreading, like a moveless 
ridge, round the array of royalty, that 
knelt solemnly before the altar. 

It has been said that Paris is more 
free from atrocious crimes than our 
own capital, and that its police is infi- 
nitely better directed. This idea has 
partly originated from the habit of not 
publishing the details of offences in 
the French papers ; but a visitor who 
has the curiosity to perambulate much 
and frequently" the various dark and 
doubtful, as well as the fascinating 
parts of this gay and abandoned city, 
will soon be convinced that the preva- 
lence of crime, though more hidden, 
is as great as in any part of the world. 
No spectacle is more convincing of 
this fact, than the harrowing one so 
often presented at the Morgue; did 
one, or even several bodies appear 
there to be owned by their friends, 
occasionally only, the circumstance 
might be attributed to the accident erf" 
their havtng fallen into the river, o* 

Sketch of Paris in 182(i. 

plunged in there to be rid of the bur- 
den of life. But not a day passes, but 
the sight of untimely and violent 
death draws numbers o'f gazers to the 

Formerly this place was entered by 
a long and dark passage, that con- 
ducted down to the edge of the wa- 
ter ; but it is since removed to a higher 
and more improper situation, and 
stands by the side of, and on a level 
with, the public streets on the banks 
of the Seine. The door is always 
open, and in passing by, a stranger is 
induced to follow the people he sees 
constantly entering ; a few steps place 
him before a large window, in front 
of which the bodies that have been 
discovered are always laid. It is a 
sad and disgusting scene, and most 
improperly placed close under the 
eye of an immense population. A few 
days since I was induced by curiosity 
to go there ; it was about ten in the 
morning, and the unusual number of 
spectators present denoted that some- 
thing extraordinary had attracted 
them. I shall not soon be able to 
chase from my memory the horrid 
spectacle that presented itself. Two 
men were extended on their backs, as 
is the custom, with a coarse covering 
round the waist in other respects 
the bodies are always naked, for the 
clothes are suspended on hooks beside 
them. They had both met a cruel 
and violent death, from the number of 
wounds with which they were covered. 
One of them, the tallest, had apparently 
received two mortal strokes in the head 
and breast. On inquiring into the* 
circumstances of their death, two or 
chree of the spectators said they had 
been killed, one of them at least, in a 
sanguinary duel the preceding night ; 
and that the smaller man, after having 
slain his antagonist, had blown his 
own brains out. The duellist who 
had fallen first had evidently died in 
great agony either of body or mind ; 
for his mouth was drawn up, his head 
drooped on one side, and his left arm 
was bent beneath it as in an attitude 
of utter despair. His less powerful 
murderer who had given the fatal 
blows for the conflict had been fought 
with knives or swords defied all in- 
vestigation of his features, from the 
nature of the death he had inflicted on 
himself. Why was such a scene thus 
exposed ? It could not be to teach the 



Parisians the horror of crimes, or the 
uncertainty of earthly hopes and for- 
tunes; for the demeanour of many 
who came was marked by levity, and 
their observations were of the most 
cool and heartless description. ' ' What 
very fine-made men they are !" said a 
young woman beside me to her com- 
panion ; and " Quelle horreur !" was 
frequently exclaimed in the same tone 
that would have been used at a " spec- 
tacle." Here the unfortunate victims 
of their own or other's vices are left 
and publicly displayed, till some of 
their relatives come to own and take 
them away. If this is not the case, 
they are interred at the expense of the 

The mistress of the hotel where 
I lodge had an excellent servant, of 
very steady and industrious habits. 
On a holiday, about a year ago, he 
obtained leave to pass the Sunday 
abroad with some of his acquaintances. 
Night came, and the next day alsOj 
and he did not return ; and his mis- 
tressbegan to entertain suspicions of his 
having met with some foul play, and 
sent to the Morgue, where her servant 
was beheld, freshly taken out of the 
river, into which he had no doubt been 
thrown by his companions, for the 
sake of the money he was known to 
have had in his pocket. But the fre- 
quency and enormity of these crimes 
are known only to those whose feelings 
can endure the ordeal of repeated vi- 
sits to this universal receptacle the 
Morgue. The inhabitants of the 
thickly-peopled streets where it stands, 
are so much accustomed to the scenes 
it presents, that they visit it every 
day, and several times in the day, 
with as much gout and interest as if 
it had been a comedie or a Franconis. 
But no knowledge is ever obtained 
concerning the ill-fated individuals 
who are brought there ; their families 
and relatives, sometimes alarmed at 
their long absence, come here to gaze 
through the window, and strive to 
trace those they have lost. When this 
is the case, they are conveyed away in- 
sfently, and with the greatest secresy. 
But ranks and conditions are also con- 
founded here : in this respect, it may 
sometimes be compared to the general 
sepulchre of all : you will sometimes see 
the garments suspended over the body 
denote, by their fashion and excellence 
that the wearer was a gentleman TlK 
9. A 

Sketch of Paris in 162(5. 


greater part of those who have untime- 
*ly perished, are taken out of the river ; 
and when, in-a single night, four or 
five bodies, of both sexes, are drawn 
up by the boats employed for this 
purpose, and brought here, is it pro- 
bable that they have all come to their 
death by their own hand ? The wounds 
so often discovered prove that assassi- 
nation is much more common in Paris 
than in the English capital, that fruit- 
ful theatre of crimes. Yet the number 
of suicides who adopt this easy and 
quick mode of death, is astonishingly 
great. Want, extreme want, frequent- 
ly drives many of the poorest class to 
throw themselves into the Seine ; for 
within thelast week, the bodies of seve- 
ral elderly and miserable-looking peo- 
ple have been observed at the Morgue, 
who could present no possible tempta- 
tion to plunder or destroy. And the uni- 
versal facility of gambling in this city, 
and the desperation that often follows 
it, causes the sight of the Seine, flow- 
ing tranquilly through the streets, to 
infuse thoughts of many a fatal deed. 
An action marked by peculiar atro- 
city took place in the Palais Royal 
about two months ago, that astonish- 
ed the French, who observed with 
Fleasure that the perpetrators were 
talians, and not of their country. It 
was yet daylight, and scarcely six in 
the evening, when two Italians pass- 
ing by the shop of one of the money- 
changers, observed, as is usual, a 
quantity of silver and gold on the 
counter. They formed their plan for 
getting possession of it, and entering 
the shop, requested to have some mo- 
ney changed. One of them stood near 
the door on the look-out, and the other 
in changing the money, purposely 
dropt a Napoleon within side the 
counter, and while the master of the 
shop stooped to pick it up, he drew 
his stiletto, and gave him several 
wounds in the head and neck, while 
his companion snatched up the piles of 
dollars as fast as he was able, and 
hastily quitted the shop. He was 
quickly followed by the assassin, and 
they both made their escape without 
being observed by the numerous crowds 
who continued to pass on every side. 
But the unfortunate Frenchman, 
though severely wounded, was soon 
after found alive, and able to give an 
account of the transaction. In conse- 
quence, the police were on the alert, 

and twenty days afterwards the two 
Italians were arrested near the barrier, 
for they were never able to escape with- 
out the city from the want of a passport. 
They have been tried and condemned, 
and are to be guillotined in a few weeks. 
It has a strange effect to pass from 
scenes of horror and suspected crimes, 
such as the receptacle of death on the 
river so often presents, to those of out- 
rageous and heartfelt gaiety, not more 
than a hundred yards distant. In fact, 
this people offers here, as on other oc- 
casions, a startling contrast. Look at 
the five or six puppet-shows ranged on 
a Sunday morning on the bridge close 
by the dancing groups, the laughter, 
and the refreshments eat and drank in 
the open air on every side. 

The burning of Franconi's equestrian 
theatre was one of the greatest misfor- 
tunes Paris has sustained for many 
years ; an enemy in full march for the 
capital would nothave excited more con- 
sternation and regret. " Quelle mal- 
heur pour Paris !" was the frequent ob- 
servation on the ensuing morning. The 
passion for public exhibitions is never 
satiated in this place ; but the private 
parties, or soirees, are almost univer- 
sally dull, and destitute of interest or 
amusement. Foreigners sometimes 
talk of the exclusiveness of English 
clubs, but nothing can be more exclu- 
sive than the French soirees. A stran- 
ger, it is true, finds the apartments 
perfectly open to his reception, but he 
sees, in the haute societe, the ladies 
ranged in solemn guise on one side of 
the saloon, and the gentlemen on the 
other, and he must converse with his. 
next neighbour, for the remainder of 
the company are in general neither 
comeatable nor conversible. 

In the societes of a rather lower 
grade, the greater part of them break 
up into innumerable small parties, 
and seat themselves at a variety of 
small tables at cards ; every half hour 
they rise and give place to their neigh- 
bours ; but there is nothing like con- 
versation. Two or three evenings 
since I was sadly ennuied at a soiree 
of this kind ; and it being very warm, 
had begun to long for a cup of strong 
coffee or tea, when a servant entered 
with a number of cups of sugared 
water, the nauseous but universal re- 
freshment given at Parisian soirees. 
In about a couple of hours more, hear- 
ing a clatter of plates and dishes, in 


Sketch uf Paris in 1826. 

an adjoining salon, I anticipated a 
light elegant supper, with some jellies, 
ices, &c. ; for the soiree was given 
expressly on our account, by a French 
gentleman with whom we had travel- 
led in the Netherlands the year before, 
and who lived in a very handsome 
style. The whole party moved in due 
order and expectation into the adjoin- 
ing apartment, where the mistress of 
the house stood at a table and presided 
over two teapots rilled with a beverage 
they denominated tea. It was impos- 
sible to distinguish any of the flavour 
of that excellent herb ; in fact, it was 
mere milk and water ; I was warned 
by an English lady not to try its vir- 
tues, but the French crowded round 
the table like children, and swallowed 
it with avidity. One lady, the hand- 
somest woman in the room, drank six 
cups. A pale gentleman with a pair 
of spectacles, said that tea had a won- 
derful effect on his head, and he set 
himself in an arm-chair, to be less dis- 
turbed in his potations. We had great 
difficulty in refraining from laugh- 
ter at the scene, for one pot of boiling 
water succeeded another, and they 
chattered as fast over it as if it had 
been Lafitte or St Perray. 

But a still more amusing scene was 
presented by the family of Madame, 
the mistress of the hotel where we 
lodge, preparing for a ball given by 
a number of negotiants. Felicie, the 
daughter, who had come from the 
country-house on purpose, was a slim 
young lady, with an abundant stock 
of animal spirits, and had learnt Eng- 
lish for six years. She had been, as 
all young unmarried French ladies 
are, sequestered a great deal from so- 
ciety, and she was wild for this ball 
it was the first time she had been 
ushered into life. But in this, as in 
other earthly delights, anticipation 
went long before enjoyment. More 
than an hour had elapsed, ere the 
head of Felicie looked in any way so 
as to please her ; effort after effort was 
tried, and an officer of the garde de 

PARIS, April 1826. 


corps held the candle in every possible 
attitude, and directed the friseur in 
his operations ; and after all, it rose 
like a lofty pyramid, unnecessarily 
giving additional altitude to the tall 
figure of Mademoiselle. 

Madame la Mere's bulky form was 
arrayed in pure and spotless white, 
with a white hat, a la Suisse, covered 
with white roses ; and Madame M. 
the ami de la maison, a good-looking 
woman, who had been washing her 
fair features, and showering odours 
on her hair before a large mirror, in 
the midst of several gentlemen, re- 
solved to go a 1'Anglaise, in a low 
dress, that so very rarely becomes the 
straight figures of the French women, 
to whom Nature has dealt sparingly 
some of the chief beauties of the sex. 

In fact, the so-often-boasted attrac- 
tions of the French ladies extend only 
to the unfailing vivacity of their spi- 
rits, and their lively powers of con- 
versation ; in these, they have no ri- 
vals. But as to personal loveliness 
that which adorns the English, the 
Grecian, and frequently the Italian 
women the French, with some ex- 
ceptions, have very little pretension 
to. The contrast on crossing the chan- 
nel is, in this respect, irresistibly stri- 
king. No women in the world know 
so well how to hide the defects of 
their figure as the French ; every ex- 
quisite art and device of the inventive 
milliner, and they are perfect in their 
kind, are resorted to, to give elegance 
and grace to the figures that are so of- 
ten gazed a in the promenades. This 
is admirable in the open air, but sel- 
dom can a fair Parisienne be induced, 
however oppressive the heat of the 
salons, to unveil the well-shrouded 
neck and arm, covered to the very skin 
and wrist ; for she is well aware that 
grace will not supply the total want 
of fulness and embonpoint, and that 
the beautiful fairness of complexion 
that an Englishwoman takes a plea- 
sure in displaying, is seldom found on 
the banks of the Seine. 

y 1'ailur. **$ 




JERRY, my tailor, was the only son 
of Jerry Button, a distinguished pro- 
fessor of broad-cloth anatomy in the 
town of Carrick-fergus. As soon as 
young Jerry's genius began to develope 
or unfold itself, it was manifestly of a 
so-so kind, and so he was set to sew- 
ing. He soon made prodigious pro- 
gress in his profession, and in due time 
set up for himself; and as he seemed 
to be cut out for cutting out, he was 
singled out to be sent to Dublin. For 
a length of time, business went on 
smoothly and fairly, and nothing went 
cross but his legs, which formerly had 
been very handsome of their kind, but, 
by sitting cross-legged so long, Jerry 
bent them. In Dublin it was that 
Jerry's literary propensities first began 
to be displayed, and it was there that 
he first directed his attention to those 
profound speculations on politics, poe- 
try, witchcraft, liberality, persecution, 
Athanasianism, astronomy, classics, 
and the game-laws, which would long 
ago have reformed and enlightened the 
world, through the medium of theTom- 
buctoo Review, if the world had not 
been such a blockhead as to laugh at 
them all. But Dublin was not a scene 
for the full development of such a ge- 
nius ; London was the only place, and 
to London he came. Here did I first 
become acquainted with this prodi- 
gious genius; and as the circumstances 
of the introduction were characteristic, 
they shall be related. 

In a court in Fleet Street, there was 
at the time a debating society, of which 
I had heard a very high character. 
The subjects for debate were always 
selected with profound judgment and 
tact ; they were discussed with incon- 
ceivable eloquence, and decided with 
the greatest wisdom. The subject by 
which I was attracted was one that 
had long puzzled me, and many much 
wiser than me. I will state it in the 
words of the handbill for the day. 
" Important discussion at the Forum. 
Who is to be considered the greatest 
benefactor to mankind the author of 
Homer's Iliad or the inventor of Day 
and Martin's Japan blacking ? Chair 
to be taken at seven o'clock." Thinks 
I to myself, that's a poser. Never were 
two objects so appositely brought into 

comparison and contrast. The one re- 
ferring to the inside of the head, and the 
other to the outside of the feet; the one 
the glory of the ancients, the other the 
boast of the moderns; the one produced 
by him who could not see, and the 
other for those who can see. No more ! 
as the man says in the play. To the 
Forum I went, full of expectation; 
nor were my expectations disappoint- 
ed. Jerry was on his legs, the eyes of 
all present were on Jerry ; and for a 
full half hour or more did the orator 
descant on the topic of the evening, elo- 
quence adorning, judgment arranging, 
and conviction closing all his periods. 
When he spoke of the Iliad, he 
touched most pathetically and appro- 
priately on the sufferings which it had 
inflicted on the youth in our public 
institutions, and the audience sympa- 
thised with him ; but I thought this 
unfair, for Jerry had nothing to re- 
proach the poet with for his own part. 
The most interesting and strikingly 
beautiful part of the oration was its 
close and termination ; for when he 
had spoken for a length of time on the 
various beauties and excellencies of 
the Iliad, and had led the audience to 
imagine that they should be won over, 
against their better judgment, to give 
their suffrage to the Grecian bard, he 
made a solemn pause, and looking 
most knowingly round the room, and 
smirking with prodigious self-satisfac- 
tion, added, " But, after all, what is 
the use of the poem ?" That was a 
closer. For several minutes a general 
clapping of hands followed his speech ; 
and when the president put the ques- 
tion from the chair, it was decided by 
acclamation, that the author of the 
Iliad, having produced a poem of which 
we cannot see the use, is not so great 
a benefactor to mankind as the in- 
ventor of Day and Martin's Japan 

After being regularly introduced to 
this sublime genius, and having en- 
joyed for some time the benefit of his 
profound discoveries in metaphysics 
and millstones, I one day asked his 
opinion on the subject of poetry in 
general. His ideas on this matter 
were not for the most part very clear, 
and I couW easily observe that there 

1 826. 

Memorabilia <>/ 

was a little tinge of political prejudice 
on his mind, even when discussing the 
Belles Lettres. As far as I could col- 
lect from his remarks, he seemed to 
think that poetry was first invented for 
the purpose of composing birth-day 
odes; and had it not been for his 
thorough contempt for the Greek lan- 
guage, which he imagines to have been 
invented in thedark ages by the priests, 
he would have sent an article to the 
Evangelical Magazine, proving that 
Homer was poet laureat to King Aga- 
memnon, and that the Iliad was a 
Carmen triumphale. I asked him if 
he had ever read Campbell's Lectures 
on Poetry, to which he replied in the 
affirmative ; but on being farther in- 
terrogated on the subject, he express- 
ed a doubt whether the Lectures were 
written in rhyme or blank verse ; and 
after a little hesitation, he added, " I 
think they must have been in blank 
verse, for if they had been in rhyme, 
I must have remembered a line or 

Being on the subject of poetry, I 
ventured to mention the name of 
Wordsworth, not expecting that Jerry 
could say anything very flattering of 
the said poet. 

" Wordsworth, Wordsworth," says 
he, tf I think there is a man of that 
name in Westmoreland, a distributor 
of stamps I know him by name, but 
I never read his writings, because he 
is a Tory ; we shall soon have him in 
the Tombuctoo for I intend to write 
an article on the inutility of stamps 
and taxation, and this I shall publish 
by way of review of his next poem." 

" But," said I, " what have stamps 
and taxation to do with poetry ?" 

" Nothing at all," he replied ; " but 
you don't seem to understand the plan 
of our Review. Now, if you will have 
patience, I will unfold to you our 
whole system I will give you a sort 
of key to every apparent difficulty, and 
then you will see our wisdom and sa- 
gacity, our public spirit and patrio- 
tism. You must then, in the first 
place, take it for granted, that all the 
world has been, from the earliest re- 
cords, duped, humbugged, and decei- 
ved, by kings, priests, witches, land- 
lords, tax-gatherers, and poets; and 
that of all countries in the world Eng- 
land has suffered most from bad go- 
vernment, false religion, vile poetry, 
and barbarous schoolmasters ; but that 
all this while the sufferers have not 

Jerry, my Tailor. lb 

been duly sensible of their sufferings, 
but have been stupid enough to think 
it possible that religion might be a 
good, and that government might be 
a kind of necessary evil, and that 
poetry might be entertaining, and a 
little Greek worth a little birch. We, 
however, have found out that the 
whole system of civilized society is 
altogether wrong." 

" What then," said I, " are you 
going to uncivilize the world, that you 
may civilize it again after your own 
improved plan ?" 

" Not exactly so," replied Jerry, 
" we shall gradually, though surely, 
explode all existing errors, rectify all 
existing institutions, introduce a sys- 
tem of perfect equality in government, 
and perfect liberality in religion." 

" "Then," said I, " you will not 
abolish religion, as some of your ene- 
mies have said ?" 

"Why, no," said Jerry, " I am 
afraid we cannot at present ; but we 
will let the world see that we care 
little about it. Wis have an article in 
our last Number which we call Arabs 
and Persians, and in this we show that 
the Mahommedan religion is very far 
superior to the Christian ; and as every- 
body here considers the Mahommedan 
as an imposture, it follows of course, 
that if our own religion is inferior to 
an imposture, it cannot be worth much. 
I would have you read that article 
it is prodigiously ingenious, for it 
shows that the bad moral and political 
condition of Mahommedan countries 
does not arise from their religion, but 
from their government, which is king- 
ly and arbitrary, and so we have, you 
see, a double hit ; we attack religion 
and kingly government at once ; we 
think this very clever. But to pro- 
ceed," continued he, " we have disco- 
vered that all ignorance arises from 
a want of knowledge, and that men 
will know little if boys learn nothing, 
so we are directing our great strengtn 
against the present system of educa- 
tion. Classical literature forsooth ! 
Why, I never learned Greek and La- 
tin, yet have not I discovered what 
your classical gentry would never have 
found out ? Have not I written articles 
which your classical scholars cannot 
even understand or read ? Why, sir, 
of what utility is Greek literature 
what has it done or can it do ? Can it 
invent steam-engines, fill balloons, dig 
mines, fatten pigs, level mountains. 


make puddings, cut out small-clothes, 
or cure the small-pox ? Not it. We 
have discovered that Greek and Latin 
were only fit subjects of study for the 
barbarous ages in which they were in- 
vented. Our system of education must 
approve itself to every unbiassed un- 

" I beg pardon for interrupting you, 
sir ; but how and where can you find 
unbiassed understanding, since all the 
persons to whom you address your 
learned selves, have been brought up 
under that pernicious system by which 
the mind is so biassed ?" 

" Oh, sir, I mean by unbiassed 
understandings, people who think as 
we do. Now, our education system 
is simply this, to instruct boys in 
those things which will be useful to 
them when they are men." 

" Good very rational." 

" Now, sir," continued Jerry, " if 
that employment, or those pursuits 
by which men gain a living, be use- 
ful, of course it is necessary, and only 
necessary, to instruct boys in such ob- 
jects ; so, for instance, is it not very 
absurd to give the same education for 
directly opposite employments, Greek 
for the bar, Greek for the army, Greek 
for the navy, Greek for the church, 
Greek for the counting-house? stuff! 
you might as well train a boy for a 
miner, by sending him up in a bal- 
loon. Our plan is to teach what is 
useful. To bring up a surgeon, let 
the young gentleman as soon as he is 
breeched be taught to anatomize mice, 
cats, dogs, &c., let him acquire a dex- 
terity in handling the knife ; if he is 
destined to be a butcher, let him cut 
up said animals into seemly and suit- 
able joints, and let him previously 
learn to knock them down and cut 
their throats; and if he is to be brought 
up to my profession, let him in his 
learning take measures accordingly. 
You have not the slightest conception 
of the ignorance of those fellows who 
call themselves scholars. Take a thou- 
sand of the best Greek scholars which 
all the public schools and universities 
have produced; let them be full of 
accents and prosody, and all that non- 
sense, and the whole thousand shall 
not be able to make a pair of breeches 
fit to be worn. Talking of universi- 
ties, look at the ridiculous trencher- 
caps, square coverings for round heads ; 
absurd ! and the same absurdity per- 
vades the whole system. Now, sir, 
in that new university in which I 

Memorabilia of Jerry, my Tailor- 


have the honour Co be Professor of 
Utility, we shall have none of that 
nonsense which has rendered Cam- 
bridge and Oxford so miserably inef- 
ficient. We lay it down as a rule that 
we will have no absurdities, no trench- 
er-caps and prosody ; and the only 
test shall be a belief in the usefulness 
and supremacy of Utility. Have you, 
ever made a calculation of the number 
of steam-engines, rail-roads, navigable 
canals, and tread-wheels we might 
have had, if Cambridge and Oxford 
had but given her sons a rational edu- 
cation ?" 

" But, Mr Button, you seem alto- 
gether to overlook the imagination in 
your system." 

" Imagination, what is that ? I never 
saw such a thing. Ay, ay, I know 
what you mean ; fancy, moonshine, 
waking dreams. No, sir, no, we have 
no imagination in our system. I can- 
not imagine how any one could ima- 
gine we had. There is no utility in 
imagination, it is a large painted lie 
drawn upon nothing. Take your ima- 
gination to Smithfield, what will it 
fetch there ? Take it to plough, what 
will it do there ? In our new univer- 
sity we shall teach nothing but what 
is useful ; and everything useful will 
be so taught that we have good hopes 
that our pupils will be living Lexicons 
and walking Encyclopedias. We are 
not going to cram them with a little 
useless Greek and Latin, and leave 
them ignorant of everything else ; no, 
sir, we shall instruct them all in as- 
tronomy, algebra, botany, chemistry, 
midwifery, surgery, cookery, ornitho- 
logy, and panthology." Jerry's coun- 
tenance glowed as he spoke, and he 
crowed in anticipated triumph of uti- 

' ' Bravo, you are quite a knight-er- 
rant of utility." 

" Knight-errant !" echoed Jerry, "I 
hate the very name of knighthood. 
Chivalry is foolery. I am heartily re- 
joiced that the age of chivalry is past. 
Yet, upon second thoughts, I am ra- 
ther sorry too that it is quite over ; 
for I think I could write a capital 
article against it in the Tombuctoo. 
However, we will and do most kearti* 
ly express our contempt for every- 
thing that resembles the spirit of chi- 
valry, and we will endeavour to cut it 
up and to tear up its very roots and 
fibres. Upon my word," added Jer- 
ry, " we have been grossly negligent 
of our duty in not duly animadvert- 


Memorabilia of Jerry, my Tailor. 

ing upon the abomination practised on 
last Lord Mayor's day, "when so unu- 
sual a display of armour was made ; 
but the next time we have an article 
on the poor-laws, we will certainly 
introduce the subject. Now, I think 
you understand the scope and drift of 
the Tombuctoo Review, and you un- 
derstand the principle by which we 
are united, and you see the talent with 
which our object is pursued, and the 
success that has already attended our 
exertions. We are all directing our 
talents to the one object of Utility, and 
whenever we observe anything of 
which we do not know the use, we 
write against it in the Tombuctoo, 
and we will lecture against it in the 
New University. You look now as if 


you did not exactly know what I mean 
by Utility ; why, I will tell you ; I 
mean Universal Suffrage and Annual 
Parliaments for one part, and several 
other little items which I will not now 
name. The next time we meet I will 
give you an insight into the true prin- 
ciple of legislation and parliamentary 
reform. In a word, then, if you read 
the Tombuctoo Review with any other 
idea than as considering it the organ 
of reformation of all abuses, past, pre- 
sent, and to come, you will not un- 
derstand it. Prose or poetry, mathe- 
matics or Greek, poor-laws or game- 
laws, parish or national politics, may 
be our subjects, but whatever our 
subject Reform is our object." 

R. S. T. 


Dulce Domum. 

FROM the far West, where Dee the princely halls 

Of Eaton leaving, and its fair domains 
Close at my garden's foot by Cestria's walls, 

Rolls his full tide, I turn to other plains 

Where, throned in rural quiet, Nature reigns ; 
And as I rove her happy scenes among, 

Not one light sigh my gladdened spirit deigns 
(Though some were valued) to the city-throng ; 
Here purer sweeps the breeze, here flows a softer song. 

Mark'd from my window, at the call of Spring, 

The bursting orchard spreads its gaudiest bloom ; 
The lambkin bleats, the rook is on the wing, 

And every twittering hedge-row breathes perfume ; 

And from each nectar'd flower ascends the hum, 
Where clustering thick, the busy hive is met ; 

In yellow lustre glows the golden broom, 
'Mid the dark grass the primrose- star is set, 
And on its dewy bank sleeps the sweet violet. 

But chiefly thee, thou blue resounding main, 

I see, I hear, as with yon rocky bar,* 
Which flings its arms athwart thy mighty reign, 

Vainly thou wagest an eternal war ; 

Thy foamy crest is visible afar, 
The fisher's skiff is tossing on the surge : 

Here giant cragst oppose thy billows' jar, 
Whence their scar'd flight the screaming sea-mews urge , 
There Scarbro's castled cliff indents the horizon's verge. 

Yet lovelier far, and welcomer to me, 

Whom late. I left in autumn's sere decay, 
Mourning my loss Mine own Acacia tree, 

Thou h ail's t me back in all thy green array \ 

O still thy tall and graceful stem display, 
When He who rear'd to other worlds is gone 

Memorial of a master pass'd away, 
Wave still thy boughs ; in lieu of funeral stone, 
O be his name by thee to coming days made known ! X, 



' Head. 

The Ghost. i~Aug. 



I'nei-e stands a City, neither large nor small, 

Its air and situation sweet and pretty ; 
It matters very little if at all 

Whether its denizens be dull or witty, 
Whether the ladies there are short or tall, 

Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city 
Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute 
That there's a Castle and a Cobbler in it. 

A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes, 
And kings and heroes lie entomb'd within her ; 

There, pious saints, in marble pomp repose, 
Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a sinner - r 

There, too, full many an aldermanic nose 
Rolls its loud diapason after dinner ; 

And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket, 

Till four assassins came from France to crack it 

The Castle was a huge and antique mound, 
Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver. 

Ere those abominable guns were found 

To send cold lead through gallant warriors' liter. 

It stands upon a gentle rising ground, 
Sloping down gradually to the river, 

Resembling (to compare great things with smaller) 

A well-scooped, mouldy Stilton cheese, but taller. 

The Keep, I hear, 's been sadly alter'd lately, 

And, 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honour jealous, 

In martial panoply so grand and stately, 
Its walls are filled with money-making fellows, 

And stuffed, unless I'm misinformed greatly, 
With leaden pipes, and coke, and coals, and bellows \ 

In short, so great a change has come to pass, 

'Tis now a manufactory of Gas. 

But to my tale. Before this profanation, 
And ere its ancient glories were cut short all. 

A poor hard-working cobbler took his station 
In a small house, just opposite the portal : 

His birth, his parentage, and education, 

I know but little of & strange, odd mortal ; 

His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous ; 

His name was Mason he'd been christened Nicholas 

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm, 
And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion ; 

But, spite of all her piety, her arm 
She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion ^ 

And, being of a temper somewhat warm, 
Would now and then seize, upqn small occasion, 

A stick, or stool, or anything that round did lie, 

And baste her lord and master most confoundedly 

i 886.1 The Ghost. | S3 

No matter 1 'tis a thing that's not uncommon, 
'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of, - 

I mean, a bruizing, pugilistic woman, 
Such as I own I entertain a dread of, 

And so did Nick, whom sometimes there would come on 
A sort of fear his spouse might knock his head off, 

Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in, 

She shone so much in facers and in fibbing. 

" There's time and place for all things," said a sage, 

(King Solomon, I think,) and this I can say, 
Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage, 

Boxing may be a very pretty Fancy, 
When Randall or Tom Oliver engage ; 

'Tis not so well in Susan, Jane, or Nancy ; 
To get well mill'd by any one's an evil, 
But by a lady 'tis the very Devil. 

And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble 
(At least his worst) was this his rib s propensity, 

For sdmetimes from the alehouse he would hobble, 
His senses lost in a sublime immensity 

Of cogitation then he couldn't cobble 
And then his wife would try the density 

Of his poor scull, and strike with all her might. 

As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light. 

Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife, 

Of this same striking had the utmost dread. 
He hated it like poison or his wife 

A vast antipathy ! but so he said- 
And very often for a quiet life 

On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed, 
Grope darkling in, and, soon as at the door 
He heard his lady he'd pretend to snore. 

One night, then, ever partial to society, 

Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow), 
Went to a Club I should have said Society 

Hebdoraadally held at Porto-Bello ; 
A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I 

Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow ; 
There they discuss the tax on salt and leather, 
And change of ministers, and change of weather, 

In short, it was a kind of British Forum, 

Like John Gale Jones's, erst in Piccadilly, 
Only they managed things with more decorum, 

And the Orations were not quite so silly ; 
Far different questions, too, would come before 'em, 

Not always Politics, which, will ye nill ye, 
Their London prototypes were always willing 
To give one quantum sujf. of for a shilling. 

Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults, 

And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper, 
Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz, 

How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapour, 
Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts, 

And what the Romans wrote on ere they'd paper ; 
This night the subject of their disquisitions 
Was Ghosts. Hobgoblins, Sprites, and Apparitions, 

The Ghost. 

One learned gentleman, " a sage grave man," 

Talked of the Ghcst in Hamlet, " sheath'd in steel ;" 

His well-read friend, who next to speak began, 
Said, " That was Poetry, and nothing real ;" 

A third, of more extensive learning, ran 

To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs Veal ; 

Of sheeted Spectres spoke with shorten'd breath, 

And once he quoted Drelincourt on Death. 

Nick smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard 
The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it, 

How frequently some murder'd man appear'd, 
To tell his wife and children who had done it ; 

Or how a miser's ghost, with griesly beard, 
And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet, 

Wander'd about to watch his buried money ! 

When all at once Nick heard the clock strike one, he 

Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture 

Impended from his fond and faithful She, 
Nor could he well to pardon him expect her, 

For he had promised to come in to tea ; 
But having luckily the key o' the back door, 

He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he 
Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze, 
And hoax his spouse with music from his nose. 

Vain fruitless hope ! The weary sentinel 

At eve may overlook the crouching foe, 
Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell, 

He sinks beneath the unexpected blow ; 
Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell, 

When slumb'ring on her post the mouse may go , 
But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary, 
Above all, when she waits to thump her deary, 

Soon Mrs Mason heard the well-known tread, 
She heard the key slow creaking in the door, 

Spied through the gloom obscure towards the bed, 
Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before ; 

When bang she threw a something at his head, 
And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor ; 

While she exclaim'd, with her indignant face on, 

" How dare you use your wife so, Mister Mason ?" 

Spare we to tell how long her anger lasted, 

Especially the length of her oration 
Spare we to tell how Mason d d and bl d, 

Roused by the bump into a good set passion ; 
Nor need we mention anything that pass did, 

Till Nick crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion ; 
The Muse hates brawls ; suffice it then to say, 
He duck'd below the clothes and there he lay. 

'Twas now the very witching time of night, 

When churchyards groan, and graves give up their dead , 
And many a mischievous enfranchised sprite 

Had long since burst his bands of stone or lead, 
And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight, 

To play his pranks near some poor devil's bed, 
bleeping perhaps serenely as a porpoise, 
Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus, 

Not so our Nicholas, his meditations 

Still to the same tremendous theme recurred, 

The same dread subject of the dark narrations, 
Which back'd with such authority he'd heard ; 

Lost in his own horrific contemplations, 
He ponder'd o'er each well-remember 'd word, 

When at the bed's foot, close beside the post, 

He verily believed he saw a Ghost ! 

Plain and more plain the unsubstantial sprite 
To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew, 

Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height, 
Of more than mortal seeming to the view, 

And round its long, thin, boney fingers, drew 
A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course all white ; 

The moon that moment peeping through a cloud, 

Nick very plainly saw it through the shroud. 

And now those matted locks, which never yet 
Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce, 

Their long-contracted amity forget, 
And spring asunder with elastic force ; 

Nay, e'en the very cap of texture coarse, 

Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet, 

Uprose in agony the Gorgon's head 

Was but a type of Nick's upsquatting in the bed. 

From ev'ry pore distill'd a clammy dew, 
Quaked every limb, the candle too no doubt, 

En regie would have burnt extremely blue, 
But Nick unluckily had put it out ; 

And he, though naturally bold and stout, 
In short, was in a devil of a stew ; 

The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell, 

But where that came from Mason could not tell. 

All motionless the Spectre stood, and now 
Its rev'rend form more clearly shone confest, 

From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow 
Descended o'er its venerable breast ; 

The thin grey hairs that crown'd its furrow'd brow, 
Told of years long gone by. An awful guest 

It stood, and with an action of command, 

Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand. 

" Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape ? " 
Nick might have cried, could he have found a tongue, 

But his distended jaws could only gape, 
And not a sound upon the welkin rung ; 

His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung 
Forth from their sockets, like a frighten'd Ape 

He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright, 

And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright. 

And still the shadowy finger, long and lean, 
Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door : 

And many an ireful glance and frown between., 
Th,e angry visage of the Phantom wore, 

As if quite vex'd that Nick would do no more 
Than stare, without e'en asking, " What d'ye mean ? 

Because, as we are told, a sad old joke too, 

Ghosts, like the ladies, never speak till spoke to. 

The Ghost. 

Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations, 
Derive a sort of courage from despair, 

And then perform, from downright desperation, 
Much more than many a bolder man would dare 

Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion, 
And therefore, groping till he found the chair, 

Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed, 

And followed quaking where the Spectre led. 

And down the winding-stair, with noiseless 
The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on, 

Each mazy turning of the humble shed 
Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown , 

So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread 
As though the domicile had been his own, 

Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop, 

Had almost broke his nose against the mop, 

Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound, 
Tne door upon its hinges open flew ; 

And forth the Spirit issued, yet around 
It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew, 

And, once more beckoning, pointed to the mound, 
The antique keep, on which the bright moon 

With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam, 

The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam 

Beneath a pond'rous archway's sombre shade, 
Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime, 

Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid, 
Sole sad memorials of the olden time, 

The Phantom held its way, and though afraid 
Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime, 

Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending, 

And wondering what the devil it all would end in 

Within the mouldering fabric's deep recess 
At length they reach a court obscure and lone, 

It seem'd a drear and desolate wilderness, 
The blacken'd walls with ivy all o'ergrown ; 

The night-bird shriek'd her note of wild distress, 
Disturb'd upon her solitary throne, 

As though indignant mortal step should dare, 

So led, at such an hour, to venture there ! 

The Apparition paused, and would have spoke, 
Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring i 

But then a neighbouring chaunticlere awoke, 
And loudly 'gan his early matins sing ; 

And then " it started like a guilty thing," 
As his shrill clarion the silence broke. 

'Tis known how much dead gentlefolks eschew 

The appalling sound of " Cock-a-doodle-do !" 

The Vision was no more and Nick alone 
"His streamers waving" in the midnight wind, 

Which through the ruins ceased not to groan ; 
His garment, too, was somewhat short behind, 

And, worst of all, he knew not where to find 
The ring, which made him most his fate bemoan. 

The iron ring, no doubt of some trap-door, 

'Neath which the old dead miser kept his store. 

1 826/3 The tiho*t. 

<l What's to be done ?" he cried. " 'Twere vain to stay 

Here in the dark without a single clue. 
Oh for a candle now, or moonlight ray ! 

'Fore George, I'm vastly puzzled what to do." 
(Then clapp'd his hand behind) " 'Tis chilly too 

I'll mark the spot, and come again by day. 
What can I mark it by ? Oh, here's the wall 
The mortar's yielding -Here I'll stick my awl !'* 

Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek, 

A loud, a long-protracted note of woe, 
Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak, 

And o'er the side the masts in thunder go ; 
While on the deck resistless billows break, 

And drag their victims to the gulphs below ; 
Such was the scream when, for the want of candle,, 
Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle. 

Scared -by his Lady's heart-appalling cry, 

Vanish'd at once poor Mason's golden dream 

For dream it was ; and all his visions high, 
Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream- 

And still he listens with averted eye, 
When gibing neighbours make " the Ghost " their theme 

While ever from that hour they all declare 

That Mrs Mason used a cushion in her chair. 


Men should know why 
They write, and for what end ; but note or text, 
I never know the word which will come next ; 
So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
Now pondering. 

Don Juan- 

IT was a lovely evening in summer, 
when a crowd hallooing and shouting 
in the street of L., a village of the north 
of Scotland, at once disturbed my re- 
veries, and left me little leisure again 
to yield myself to their wayward do- 
minion. In sooth, I had no pretence 
for indifference to a very singular 
spectacle of a something like human 
being moving in mid air ; and al- 
though its saltatory gambols in this 
unusual situation could scarcely be 
called dancing, it was certainly in- 
tended to be like it, however little the 
resemblance might be approved. A 
something between a male and female 
in point of dress a perfect Herma- 
phrodite in regard to costume, had 
mounted herself on gigantic stilts, on 
which she hopped about, defying the 
secrecy even of the middle floors of 
the surrounding houses, and in some 
?ases giving her a peep into the attic 

regions of less lofty domiciles. In this 
manner stalking about from side to 
side, like a crane among the reeds, the 
very Diable Boiteux himself was ne 
ver more inquisitive after the domes- 
tic concerns of his neighbours, or bet- 
ter fitted to explore them by his invi- 
sibility, than she was by her altitude, 
Her presence in mid air, in more than 
one instance, was the subject of alarm 
to the sober inmates of the street, who,, 
little suspicious of such intrusion,might 
perhaps be engaged in household cares 
which did not court observation, or 
had sunk into the relaxations of an 
undress, after the fatigues and heat of 
the day. Everywhere the windows 
might be heard thrown up with im- 
patient haste the sash skirling and 
creaking in its ascent with the violence 
of the effort, and immediately after, a 
head might be seen poked forward to 
explore the whence and wherefore in 

short, to ask in one word, if it could 
be so condensed, the meaning and pur- 
pose of this aerial visitor. 

The more desultory occupations of 
a little village hold but loosely toge- 
ther the different classes of it. M as- 
ter and servant approach more nearly, 
the one is less elevated, and the other 
less depressed than in great towns a 
show is at least as great a treat to the 
one as to the other, and there is no- 
dn'ng in their respective notions of de- 
corum to repress their joyous feel- 
ings, while under the irresistible im- 
pulse of the inimitable Mr Punch, 
or of the demure and clumsy bear, 
treading a measure with the graces 
of a Mercandotti. In short, the more 
simple elements of a villager's mind 
are like their own more robust frame, 
more easily inflamed, more excita- 
ble stuff about them, because less 
frequently subjected to the tear and 
wear of novelty, which towns con- 
stantly afford. The schoolmaster and 
the schoolboy alike pour out from the 
lowly straw-roofed academy with the 
same eager and breathless haste, to 
catch a first glance, or secure a favour- 
able post. Syntax and arithmetic 
blessed oblivion are for the moment 
forgotten. Think of the ecstacies of 
the little culprit, who was perhaps un- 
der the rod, if at that awful moment 
a troop of dancing dogs, with their full 
accompaniment of pipe and tabor, 
rame under the school window, and 
was at once gladdened with a respite 
and a show. One moment watching 
the grim smile of the pedagogue ; next 
lost in wonder of the accomplished 
puppets nothing to disturb his bliss 
but the trammels of Concordance, or 
the intricacies of the Rule of Three. 
But if mere novelty has such de- 

Ladder Dancer. C^ug. 

lights for the younger portion, to es- 
cape from the monotony of village 
life has not less charms for the graver 
class of its inhabitants. An old gen- 
tleman, evidently unmindful of his 
dishabille, popped his head forth of 
his casement, heedless of the red Kil- 
marnock in which it was bedight, and 
gazed with eager curiosity on the am- 
bitious female, who had now passed 
his lattice. He seemed to have caught 
a hint of the dereglement of his own 
costume, by remarking that of his fe- 
male neighbour at the adjoining win- 
dow, who exposed courageously the 
snowy ringlets which begirt the region 
of bumps and qualities, ' in place of 
the brown and glossy curls, which, 
till that ill-fated moment, were sup- 
posed to have belonged to it.* He 
withdrew from sight with some pre- 
cipitation, but whether in horror of 
his own recklessness, or in deference 
to the heedlessness of his neighbour, 
must for ever remain in doubt. Is it 
then strange, if it was quite a revel- 
rout in the streets of the little village, 
when old and young alike responded 
to the wonder of the scene ? To what- 
ever quarter she passed not a window 
was down labour was suspended to 
witness feats which no labour of theirs 
could accomplish women bearing 
with them the marks of the household 
toils in which they had been last en-, 
gaged, stood at their door, some with 
sarcastic, but all with curious gaze; 
while the sun-burnt Piedmontoise at 
times danced on her stilts a kind of 
mock waltz, or hobbled from side to 
side, in ridicule, as it would seem, of 
the livelier measure and footing of the 

Suadrille. When mounted on the 
ighest point of her stilts, she strided 
across the way, to collect or to solicit 

* I love to luxuriate in a note, it is like hunting in an uninclosed country. One 
word about the affectations of Grey-beards. Among all the ten thousand reasons for 
their grey hairs, no one ever thought of years, as being at least a probable cause. It is 
one of the very few hereditary peculiarities of physical constitution, which are loudly 
proclaimed and gladly seized, to apologize for the sin of hoary locks. Acute sorrow, or 
sudden surprise indigestion that talismanic thing, the nerves love speculation or 
anything in short, are all approved theories, to explain their first intrusion among the 
legitimate ringlets of male and female persons of no particular age. Even it is said, 
that people have awaked grey, who lay down under very different colours ; of course, 
they had had a bad dream, or lain on the wrong side, but no conscientious perruquier 
could have sworn to their identity under such a metamorphosis. In short, grey hairs 
are purely accidental they have nothing to do with years and being deemed a misfor- 
tune, have from time immemorial been always spoken of with reverence, but nowhere 
that I recollect are they spoken of with affection, save in the beautiful song of " John 
Anderson my Joe," where the kind-hearted wife invokes blessings on the "frosty pow" 
of her aged partner. 

The Ladder Dancer. 


pence, the little urchins hanging about 
their mothers, clung more closely to 
them as she approached, and looked 
up to her, doubting and fearful, as the 
fish are said to be scared by a passing 
cloud. She was most successful among 
the male spectators of the village. Her 
feats with them excited no feelings of 
rivalry, and their notions of decorum 
were not so easily disturbed as that of 
their helpmates, who, in refusing their 
contribution, never withhold their re- 
probation of such anti-christian gam- 

" Gae way wi' you, ye idle randie ; 
weel sets the likes o' sic misleart 
queans to gang about the country, 
playing antics like a fule, to fules like 
yoursell," was the answer given by a 
middle-aged woman, who stood near 
me, to the boy who carried round a 
wooden platter for the halfpence, and 
who instantly retired, to save herself 
from the latter part of her own re- 
proach, dragging with her a ragged 
little rogue, who begged hard to re- 
main during the remainder of the ex- 
hibition. By this time the procession 
had reached the farther end of the 
street, where some of the better class 
of the inhabitants resided, and some 
preparations were made for a more 
elaborate spectacle. The swarthy Sa- 
voyard, who accompanied the ladder- 
dancer, after surveying the field, seem- 
ed to fix his station opposite to a re- 
spectable looking house, whose libera- 
lity he evidently measured by its out- 
ward pretensions. 

There is no state of helplessness 
equal to that of ignorance of the lan- 
guage in which a favour is to be 
craved, and you may estimate the pro- 
ficiency of the foreigner in the intri- 
cacies of our own dialect, by the ob- 
sequiousness of his smile, which he 
at once adapts to the purposes of soli- 
citation, and of defence against insult 
and ridicule. While with a look of 
preparation he bustled about, to gain 
attention, he grinned and nodded to 
the windows which were occupied, 
while he held a ladder upright, and 
placing his hat at the bottom of it, to 
receive the niggard bounty of the spec- 
tators, he stood at the back of it sup- 
porting it with both hands. The lady 
of the stilts now advanced, and rest- 
ing on one of them with considerable 
address, lifted up the other and push- 
ed it forward, with an action that 


seemed to denote something like a sa- 
lutation, or an obeisance ; a kind of 
aerial salaam. At this moment the 
hall door was opened, and a portly- 
looking woman of middle age, evident- 
ly the mistress of the household, came 
forward, and planted herself on the 
broad landing place of the stair. There 
was about this personage the round 
full look which betokens ease and 
affluence ; and the firm, steady step, 
which argues satisfaction with our 
condition; she fixed herself on the 
door step, with the solid perpendicu- 
larity of Pompey's Pillar, and now and 
then turned round to some young girls 
who attended her, as if to chide them 
for mixing her up with so silly an ex- 
hibition. I had supposed that the 
Piedmontoise would have laid aside 
her stilts when she ascended the lad- 
der, but far from it, for in this con- 
sisted the singularity of the exhibi- 
tion. She climbed the ladder, still 
mounted on them, then descended like 
a cat, on the other side of it ; she hop- 
ped down as she had hopped up, with 
equal steadiness and agility, and 
thought to crown her efforts by a no- 
table feat, which was no less than 
standing on her head on the top of the 
ladder, and brandishing the two stilts 
from which she had disengaged her- 
self, round about her like the arms of 
a windmill. It required no great skill 
to see that the old lady was very much 
offended with this last performance, 
for when the little dish was carried to 
her, and the Ladder Dancer directed 
a beseeching look, accompanied by an 
attitude which seemed to imply that 
there were other feats yet in reserve, 
if encouragement was held out, the 
patroness of the stair- head could hold 
out no longer, but poured out a tor- 
rent, partaking both of objurgation 
and admonition. " Ne'er-do-weel 
hussie," and " vagrant gipsy," were 
some of the sharp missiles shot at the 
unsuspecting figurante, who, as little 
aware of the meaning of all " this 
sharp-tooth'd violence," as the bird is 
of the mischief aimed at him by the 
fowler, sadly misapprehended its im- 
port, and thinking it conveyed encou- 
ragement and approbation, ducked her 
head in acknowledgment, while the 
thunder of the old lady's reprobation 
rolled about her in the most ceaseless 
rapidity of vituperation. " Ye're a 
pretty ane indeed, to play sic antics 


The Ladder Dancer. 

afore onybody's house; hae ye nae- 
body to learn ye better manners than 
to rin up and down a ladder like a 
squirrel, twisting and turning yoursel 
till my banes are sair to look at you ! 
Muckle fitter 'gin ye would read your 
Bible, if as muckle grace be left to ye, 
or maybe a ' religious tract' to begin 
wi*, for I doubt ye wad need prepara- 
tion afore ye could drink at the spring 
head wi' ony special profit." 

The last part was conveyed with a 
kind of smile of self-approbation ; for 
of all tasks, to reclaim a sinner is the 
most pleasing and soothing to reli- 
gious vanity ; so comfortable it is to 
be allowed to scold on any terms; 
but doubly delightful, because it al- 
ways implies superiority. -But the 
Ladder Dancer and her attendant 
were aware of no part of what was 
passing in the mind of the female lec- 
turer, and fully as ignorant of the 
eloquent address I have just repeated ; 
she only saw, in the gracious looks 
with which her feats were condemn- 
ed, an approval of her labours, for it 
passed her philosophy to comprehend 
the ungodly qualities of standing on 
the head, or whirling like a top. Again 
the Ladder Dancer cringed and bow- 
ed to " she of the stair-head ;" and 
her male supporter, who acted as a 
kind of pedestal to her elevation, bow- 
ed and grinned a little more grimly, 
while the boy held out his plate to re- 
ceive the results of all this assiduity. 
But they could not command a single 
word of broad English among them. 
Theirs only was the eloquence of nods 
and grimaces ; a monkey could have 
done as much, and in the present hu- 
mour of the old lady, would have been 
as much approved. The Ladder Dan- 


cer grew impatient, and seemed de- 
termined on an effort to close her la- 
bours. " Ah, madame!" she exclaim- 
ed. Madame was repeated by the man, 
and Madame was re- echoed by the boy. 
" Nane o' your nonsense wi' me," was 
the response from the stair-head; 
" your madam'ing, and I dinna ken 
what mair havers ye needna fash 
your head to stan' there a' day girning 
at me, and making sic outlandish 
sport ; I'm mair fule than 7ou, that 
bides to look at you ; a fine tale 
they'd hae to tell mat could say they 
saw me here, idling my precious time 
on the likes o' you." 

She now whispered one of the girls, 
who retired, and soon after returned,, 
giving her a small parcel, which she 
examined, and seemed to say all was 
right. She beckoned the Ladde^Dan- 
cer, who slid down with cat-like agU 
lity, and was instantly with her, stand- 
ing a step lower, in deference to the 
doughty dame. " Here," said she, 
with a gruff air, which was rather 
affected than real, ' ' tak these precious 
gifts," handing her a bunch of jRe- 
ligious Tracts; "see if ye canna find 
out your spiritual wants, and learn to 
seek for the ' Pearl of price.' My cer- 
tie, but ye're a weel-fau'rt huzzie, 
(examining her more narrowly,) but 
your gaits are no that commendable ; 
but for a' that, a mair broken ship has 
reached the land." I could observe 
that she slipped a half-crown into the 
hand of the Piedmontoise, and as she 
turned away to avoid thanks, an elder- 
ly gentleman (perhaps her husband) 
who stood by, said in a low voice, 
" That's like yoursell, Darsie, your 
bark was aye waur than your bite ony 

^Reminiscence** No. IP. 



(Concluded from last Number.) 

THE biographer having informed us, 
in the 6th chapter of his first volume, 
that Sheridan's literary account was 
closed, and having entered upon the 
commencement of his hero's political 
career, returns somewhat unexpected- 
ly in the seventh, to the scraps and 
sketches, poetical and dramatic, found 
among the lumber of his literary work- 
shop. It is not, however, a disagree- 
able surprise, for in the heteroge- 
neous mixture, we may discern many 
flashes of that lively genius which 
a due degree of patience and labour 
would have enabled to mould those 
crude materials into shape, and ex 
ftimo dare lucem. Some of them are 
strange enough, and must have un- 
dergone great alteration before co- 
ming to a producible form. One sub- 
ject for the comic muse was well cho- 
sen, and it is greatly to be regretted 
that he did not follow it up. He that 
made so much of so apparently trite a 
subject as scandal, could not have 
failed to succeed in so large and edi- 
fying a field as affectation. More than 
one good play might have grown out 
of such fertile materials. An epilogue 
never spoken, and without intimation 
of the play for which it was written, 
is the only finished article in the far- 
rago. It is well imagined, and neatly 
expressed, and affords, in my opinion, 
another strong instance of the readi- 
ness with which he undertook a work, 
and the ease with which he relinquish- 
ed it. It seems to me to have been 
written in winter, and designed for a 
play of his own, which he intended to 
bring out in the Spring. What pre- 
vented the completion of his task, it is 
now useless to inquire. 

From scraps and fragments such as 
Sheridan's carelessness left behind 
him, it is difficult, if not impossible, to 
draw just conclusions. Professed au- 
thors, and particularly poets, are very 
much in the habit' of committing to 
paper the ideas occasionally occurring 
to their minds, and that by fits and 
snatches, and also to try various modes 
of expressing the same thought, par- 
ticularly when looking for a rhyme. 
This is often done as an aid to the 


memory, persons being more apt to 
remember what they have written 
down, than what has only a transitory 
passage through the mind. Sometimes, 
too, the same thing will be written 
more than once, the composer proba- 
bly forgetting that he had noted it be- 
fore. It is, I think, very obvious that 
a finder of these fragments, when they 
happen to escape their usual fate 
the fire will be apt to form an erro- 
neous judgment, who makes their 
number, or their irregularity, a test 
of the real difficulty or real facility of 
composition. Some writers are less 
in the habit of previous noting down 
than others, their memories enabling 
them to retain much without such 
aid ; yet it will not thence necessarily 
follow that they have less of actual 
mental labour in composing. I cannot, 
therefore, altogether agree with the 
following observations of his biogra- 
pher. " The birth of his prose being, 
as we have already seen, so difficult, it 
may be imagined how painful was the 
travail of his verse. Indeed, the num- 
ber of tasks which he left unfinished, 
are all' so many proofs of that despair 
of perfection, which those best quali- 
fied to obtain it, are always the most 
likely to feel." 

What I have said above, will, I 
think, account for the error into which 
the biographer seems to me to have 
fallen, but if from scraps and frag- 
ments we have recourse to facts, sure- 
ly they will not bear us out in pro- 
nouncing " the birth of his prose to 
have been very difficult." The witty, 
pointed, and eloquent speeches, which, 
after a little parliamentary practice, 
he was never at a loss to produce, and 
his singular, and almost unrivalled 
display of oratory on the impeachment 
of Hastings, are abundant proofs o* 
his ready power of words, and, conse- 
quently, facility of composition. If 
we take from him those coaceits and 
witticisms which he appeared so fond 
of collecting, andsoindustriousin com- 
m it ting to paper, what will he lose in 
point of composition ? Nothing on 
the contrary, the composition will b*> 
better \yithout them at least without 
9 C 

Reminiscences. No. IV. 


some of them. As to his poetry, 1 
cannot see how either its difficulty or 
its facility can be measured by that of 
his prose there is no necessary con- 
nexion between them. Cicero is known 
to have been a bad writer of verse,, 
and Virgil or Horace might have been 
indifferent writers of prose. The true 
<rause of Sheridan's projecting so much 
and accomplishing so little, must be 
-ought, partly in his idle and desul- 
tory habits, and partly in the diversion 
of his talents from the drama to the 
senate. Of what he could do, when, 
as Johnson says, he set himself dog- 
gedly to work, we have demonstrative 
evidence he that could do so much 
nould certainly have done more, had 
he not been deterred, not by want of 
power, but of perseverance ; not by the 
absolute difficulties of the task, but 
by repugnance to the tediousness of 
the execution, and this repugnance be- 
came inevitable when he formed one 
of the anti-ministerial phalanx, whose 
patriotic efforts, according to this bio- 
grapher, though failing unfortunately 
to enrich themselves, did, neverthe- 
less, happily maintain and preserve 
ihe rights, liberties, and constitution 
of Great Britain, in spite of Billy Pitt's 
endeavours to destroy them all ! 

When I had written thus far, the 
Quarterly Review, in which are some 
articles of great interest, and among 
the rest, a review of Watkins' and 
Moore's Life of Sheridan, came into 
my hands. It is, as usual, a master- 
ly performance, and contains some 
things respecting the early part of 
Sheridan's connexion with the Lin- 
leys with which I was unacquainted. 
It also clears up, in a very satisfactory 
manner, several circumstances accom- 
panying his decline and dissolution, of 
which my knowledge, from residence 
in another country, was more limited. 
I am glad, however, to find, that nei- 
ther your correspondent, nor the Quar- 
terly, interferes much with the view 
I have hitherto taken of the subject, 
otherwise I should regret having oc- 
cupied so many of your columns. In 
what remains of my task, I shall ne- 
cessarily be more brief, avoiding the 
ground that has been trodden, and 
confining myself to matters which, in 
some Degree, fell under my own ob- 
servation, and in which I could not 
probably have been forestalled by ei- 
ther of the other writers for J speak 
of times, qute ipse vidi 

It is amusing enough to one who 
happened to live in London and its 
vicinity, for a very considerable por- 
tion of the time intervening between 
1775 and 1780, to hear the events of 
that stormy period discussed and dis- 
posed of, with all the confidence of 
certain knowledge, by a writer whose 
youth (if he was then born) precluded 
him from any personal acquaintance 
with the acts or the actors. To him, 
indeed, this might be no disadvantage^ 
considering, as the Quarterly has pro- 
ved, how little he is to be depended 
on in relating matters which he claims 
credit for having known. In the be- 
ginning of the 8th chapter, vol. I, 
having briefly mentioned the " folly 
and guilt of the American war, charge* 
able alike on the court and the peo- 
ple," (an unusual combination,) he 
observes, that " it was perhaps as diffi- 
cult for England to escape being cor- 
rupted by a long and virulent opposU 
tion to such principles as America as- 
serted, as it was for France to fight for 
the oppressed, without catching some 
of their enthusiasm for liberty." Now 
this is not quite a fair statement. The 
British supporters of the contest with 
the colonies, had no more idea of 
fighting against the principles of con- 
stitutional liberty, than of restoring 
Popery and the Pretender ; nor, had 
the British arms been successful, 
would any calculable difference of ge- 
neral sentiment have taken place at 
home. The very circumstance of its 
being a popular war is sufficient evi- 
dence of this, for John Bull would 
hardly have consented to put on others 
a yoke of which his own neck was 
subsequently to feel the weight. He 
looked upon himself as doing no more 
than what was right in compelling a 
very remote colony to repay the mo- 
ther country some part of the expense 
she had been at in supporting and de- 
fending it. There were, to my know- 
ledge, as ardent and sincere friends to 
the British constitution, (and perhaps 
a greater number,) among the sup- 
porters of the was, as among the op- 
posers of it. The mode in which thi? 
reimbursement should be effected was 
the grand question, and here I am very 
willing to admit, that the measure* 
pursued were not such as good policy 
or sound wisdom would have dictated. 
That America would one day becoinr 
independent, as we may even now sav 
of New South Wales, waseasilv fore- 

Richard Rrinsley Sheridan. Ac. 

seen, but no person, in the commence- 
ment of the dispute, entertained the 
remotest idea that it was so rapidly 
approaching. I look upon myself also 
as justified in saying, that its unfa- 
vourable termination is much less to 
be ascribed to the vigour, skill, and 
generalship of the Americans, than to 
the want of all three in the early con- 
ductors of -the an ti- American cam- 
paign. It is well known, at least it 
was confidently reported at that time, 
and I had it from some of the officers, 
that General Howe's camp was a scene 
of idleness, gaming, and dissipation 
of every kind, injurious to military 
discipline, and fatal to the cause it was 
his duty to support. A fallacious 
idea of being able to crush such un- 
warlike enemies whenever he should 
be disposed to seek them in the field, is 
supposed to have encouraged that pro- 
crastination which eventually brought 
defeat and disgrace upon the British 
arms. The error of subsequent com- 
manders divided that force which 
should have been concentrated, and 
sent detachments on different and dis- 
tant expeditions. Fortunately for the 
Americans, they possessed in Wash- 
ington a leader who well knew how to 
avail himself of every mistake com- 
mitted by those to whom he was op- 
posed. Had such generals as Great 
Britain now boasts of been at the head 
of her armies in America, the cam- 
paign could not have lasted a single 
year, for even as it was, her great de- 
fender sometimes despaired of success, 
and was candid enough to acknow- 
ledge how much of his good fortune 
was due to the ill conduct of his op- 
ponents. I was acquainted with some 
intelligent American loyalists at that 
time, from whom I obtained much in- 
formation on the general state of their 
country. So late as 1777, they thought 
the British arms would ultimately 
prevail, and had no doubt that nothing 
but ill management had protracted 
the contest so long. What I state re- 
specting general opinion will be more 
readily received, when I confess my- 
self to have been upon that occasion an 
anti-ministerialist ; not that I thought 
Lord North more inimical to the li- 
berties of his country than Fox or 
Barre, but that I could not reconcile 
his conduct towards America with 
justice or wisdom. The biographer is 
perfectly welcome to think differently 
of his lonldiip. ami to enlist him 

among the systematic coiihpuci* a- 
gainst British freedom. } am eon;- 
ibrted by having his great oracle atmv 
side of the question, for surely Mr- 
Fox would never have consented to n 
ministerial union with a man whose 
constitutional principles he did not 
think as sound as his own. Possibly, 
however, he might have done so witl> 
a pious view of converting a great po- 
litical sinner from the damning errors 
of Toryism to the saving doctrines of 
Whiggish orthodoxy. The offer of a 
good place was certainly no bad aid to 
the argument. Does the famous coa- 
lition remind the biographer of old 
Hudibras ? The passage, with a little 
change, will suit some political mi- 

What makes all doctrines plain and clear' 
About three thousand pounds a-year. 
And that which was provedjalse before, 
Proved true again ? three thousand 
more ! 

The biographer, in a sort of Hiber- 
nian preface, prefixed to works wliicl 
he neither corrected, selected, n'or edit 
ed, offers some reasons for delaying 
the publication of what ought to have 
accompanied a proper edition of them 
the life of the author. It is obvious 
enough that delay might have been 
productive of advantage, by affording 
time to collect authentic information, 
to repress the first hasty movements 
of partial friendship, and to cool that 
warmth which might be tempted to 
treat the characters of the living, and 
the memories of the dead, with inde- 
licacy, or disrespect. Conduct like 
this would not only have plucked 
danger from delay, but made it high- 
ly conducive to the credit of the'pr'o- 
crastinator. But what has it really 
done ? All that I can collect is, that 
it may have favoured u-s with a more 
copious list of closet sweepings ; but as 
to the other desiderata, the book might 
just as well (perhaps better) have been 
written in France or America as in 
London. It is dated, I perceive, from 
the Champs Elysees, and perhaps with 
more propriety than most men are 
aware, as a sly intimation that fiction 
has no unimportant share in the- con- 
tents. When Virgil brought his hero 
to light after a short sojourn in the 
Elysian fields, he took care to prepare 
his readers for the nature of the visit^ 
by informing them that he returncJ 
by the gate through which JupiU- 
delusive dreams 

20 1 

Reminiscences. Nu. IT. 

To the flame of freedom kindled by 
the American torch, the biographer, 
with many others, seems inclined to 
ascribe the Revolution in France. I 
am strongly disposed to doubt its ha- 
ving contributed, in any degree worth 
mentioning, towards that intestine 
conflagration. The seeds of discontent 
were sowed long before, and the saga- 
city of your countryman, Dr Smollett, 
pointed out, many years before, the 
consequences which must necessarily 
result from the state of things in 
France. (See Smollett's Travels,'] 
The French had a better model for 
establishing a free government, close 
to their own shores ; and the frequent 
reference of the early revolutionists to 
that model, shows that England, not 
America, afforded the example they 
proposed to follow. The army, work- 
ed upon by democrats, were the last 
who deserted their king; and had 
Louis XVI. been a king of vigorous 
mind, and warlike character, though 
he might not have been able, as he 
ought not to have been willing, to 
prevent the reform of abuses, and the 
establishment of a better constitution, 
there is no doubt that he might have 
saved the country from the miseries 
and atrocities of that inhuman revo- 
lution. Such they may well be per- 
mitted to call it, who, like me, felt 
the a,larm, the astonishment, the hor- 
ror which pervaded every mind not 
lost to the sentiments of common hu- 
manity, on the daily arrival of ac- 
counts from France during the rage 
of the revolutionary storm. Often, 
when the measure of relentless and 
undistinguishing cruelty -seemed to be 
full, even to overflowing, next day's 
packet brought an accumulation of ini- 
quity, from which the understanding 
revolted, as from crimes which could 
not be committed by human creatures, 
though the variety of the accounts 
did not admit of the smallest ques- 
tion. It is to this splendid period the 
biographer alludes in the following 
happy passage, immediately subse- 
quent to his observation of American 
influence upon French feelings. " Ac- 
cordingly, while the voice of philo- 
sophy was heard along the neighbour- 
ing snores, speaking aloud those oracu- 
lar warnings which preceded the death 
of the great PAN OF DESPOTISM," 
(Louis XVI. to wit,) " the courtiers 
and lawyers of England were, with 
an cmidous spirit, of servility, advising-. 

and sanctioning such strides of power 
as would not have been unworthy of 
the most dark and slavish times ! ! !" 

I am, sir, perfectly disposed not on- 
ly to forgive, but to applaud that zeal 
for liberty, which rejoiced in the first 
efforts of the French to new-model and 
reform their government. It was a 
very just and a very general feeling 
throughout these Islands. The scene, 
too, opened with pretty fair auspices ; 
but they must have been blind indeed, 
whose visionary sense could long be 
shut to the enormity of that tragic 
woe with which it was to close. Now, 
however, after all has passed after 
the curtain has fallen upon the dread- 
ful massacres, the horrible impieties, 
and the savage tyranny of the Demo- 
cratic reign after the termination of 
the splendid, but scarce less violent and 
sanguinary, career of the extraordinary 
Despot engendered by the vices of De- 
mocracy, Now, I say, to read such a 
paragraph as I have just quoted, is to 
me more than a matter of surprise 
it is one of the deepest regret. I did 
not think there was within his Ma- 
jesty's dominions a man of liberal 
education and cultivated mind capable 
of producing it. For the jealousy of 
political rivalship, and the little en- 
mities of opponent parties, we should 
never refuse to make allowance ; but 
gross violations of truth, sense, and 
decency, are unpardonable. 

In despite, however, of that " emu- 
lous spirit of servility," which render- 
ed English courts and English lawyers 
deaf to the " ORACULAR VOICE" of 
French charmers, announcing the fall 
of the great PAN or DESPOTISM, Eng- 
lish Liberty still survives ; and thanks 
to a few patriotic spirits, ' ' has a high 
station of freedom still left her." We 
are thankful for the concession, and 
admit that the fact is so, notwithstand- 
ing the sometime dangerous proximity, 
not of a French PAN, but of a French 
Pandemonium. But, sir, though your 
readers pretty well know and enjoy 
the effects of British liberty, perhaps 
they may not be aware of the cause. 
If the biographer is to be believed, we 
owe it entirely to three men, whose ta- 
lents no person more highly estimates 
than I do, though I cannot perfectly 
ascribe to them this Imperial Realm's 
escape, from the late danger of Gallic 
principles and Gallic power, and the 
present high state of her freedom. Lord 
Chatham, the head oi the TriumvU 


Rictiard Brinsley Sheridan. 

rate, is out of the question, having 
died before the aforesaid Oracular 
Voice pronounced its warnings; and, 
moreover, having, with his last breath, 
approved the judgment of these ser- 
vile lawyers who resisted the inde- 
pendence of the American colonies. 
The remaining two are Charles James 
Fox and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 
who, though through court influence, 
they did, all three of them, " some- 
times librate in their orbits," were yet 
the saving lights of liberty in those 
times, and ALONE preserved the Ark 
of the Constitution from foundering in 
the foul and troubled waters that sur- 
rounded it ! ! 

Truly, sir, the man that can write 
such stuff as this with the least hope 
of being believed, must have a most 
despicable opinion of his readers' un- 
derstanding. He must conceive them 
to be utterly unacquainted with the 
public events of the last 35 years, and, 
moreover, incapable of drawing conclu- 
sions from his own premises ; for the 
very statements made by himself are 
abundantly sufficient to prove the false- 
hood and futility of the foregoing quo- 
tation. Chatham was then no more. 
Fox unquestionably was a great man ; 
he understood the constitution of Eng- 
land, and he loved liberty, but he lo- 
ved power more, and even, by Moore's 
account, was not very scrupulous about 
the mode of obtaining it. One of his 
plans might have ruined the nation. 
He is admitted to have aimed at a per- 
petual Dictatorship through his India 
bill. Was this a measure worthy of 
the man whose object was to preserve 
inviolate the Ark of the Constitution ? 
Yes, says Tom Moore ; for it would 
have perpetuated ministerial power in 
Whiggish hands ; he and his colleagues 
would have ruled by means of their 
patronage, in defiance of all opponents, 
even with the Sovereign at their head. 
Absolute power, therefore, is perfectly 
constitutional when it is possessed by 
Whigs ! Excellent doctrine, no doubt. 
But supposing Fox and his colleagues 
not to abuse it, (if such a thing may 
be supposed,) are consequences to be 
disregarded ? Is it safe to attach such 
power to ministerial office ? May it 
not ere long fall into the hands of a 
king's favourite ; and in that case, what 
is there to prevent the king and his 
minister from carrying any measure, 
however unconstitutional, which am- 
bition, avarice, caprice, or pleasure. 

may suggest ? An artful king, in the 
place of honest George the Third, 
would perhaps have yielded to the 
measure, well knowing how easily it 
would be in his power at some future 
period to turn it to his own advantage. 
As to Richard Sheridan, I am willing 
to give him all the credit his extraor- 
dinary talents deserve ; and to lament 
rather than reprobate the counteract- 
ing propensities of his unfortunate 
temper ; but to rank him among the 
highest luminaries in the constellation 
of British Liberty, is a classification too 
preposterous for any Catalogue but 
Tom Moore's. 

The biographer of Brinsley, among 
other peculiarities, is mighty fond of 
acting contrary to what he professes, 
and of copying himself the faults he 
reprehends in others. In trope and 
figure, he does, as we have seen, out- 
do Sheridan himself; and while he 
censures the Bishop of Lincoln for in- 
troducing so much parliamentary his- 
tory into his life of Mr Pitt, more than 
one half of his own two bulky vo- 
lumes is employed on subjects of a si- 
milar nature. In their mode, how- 
ever, there is a difference, which, with 
readers of a certain description, will 
no doubt be in favour of the lay bio- 
grapher. The Bishop, exclusive of 
what fell within his own knowledge 
which, though by no means inconsi- 
derable, this angry critic seems to have 
overlooked has drawn largely from 
authentic records of those times ; 
whereas the other, as a biographical 
poet ought to do, has been principally 
indebted to his own imagination. 
Hence, as he tells us, though the Bi- 
shop's book may be bought, out of 
respect, I suppose, for the bench, yet 
nobody will read it ; whereas, every 
lover of romance will like to read, 
though he may not always be willing 
to purchase, Moore's Life of Sheridan. 
For my own part, I am tasteless enough 
to admire the condemned work, to think 
it, which is the highest praise I can 
bestow, worthy of the subject, and 
worthy of the author, and to long most 
earnestly for an opportunity of pur- 
chasing the fourth volume. Were all 
such works written with the same clas- 
sical chastity of style, the same mo- 
deration, and the same regard to truth, 
biography would hold a high place 
indeed, among the entertaining and 
edifying productions of literary labour. 
It is easy enough to sec what has pro-* 

Reminiscences. Nv. IV 

voked the waspish indignation of the 
little biographer. A plain narrative of 
William Pitt's early attainments, quick 
apprehension, profound knowledge, 
political sagacity, dignified demeanour, 
commanding eloquence, and inflexible 
integrity, had thrown his favourite 
Heroes too much into the shade. Of 
the first three, the Bishop, who had 
jbeen his tutor, was a most competent 
judge, and his testimony may be im- 
plicitly relied on. It is a mo^t inte- 
resting part of the work, confirmed, too, 
fbr a short time, by the letters of the Earl 
of Chatham, of which every reader must 
regret that he did not live to write 
more. Of the other qualities no per- 
son can be ignorant who lived in those 
times, and had even a moderate ac- 
quaintance with public affairs. His 
biographer had no occasion to ransack 
his ingenuity for explanations, excuses, 
false colourings, and palliations of this 
or that neglect of duty, inconsistency 
of conduct, or deviation from rectitude. 
All was fair and open, matter of fact, 
and matter of record. Mr Pitt was 
not exempt from fallibility, and there- 
fore might have committed errors of 
judgment; but he pursued, steadily 
and systematically, that which his un- 
derstanding led him to think right, 
and we may, at least, venture now to 
say, that he was not often mistaken. 
For the success of distant expeditions, 
and foreign armaments, he could net 
be responsible ; but it is perfectly evi- 
dent that there was but one way to 
put down him whose object was to en- 
slave Europe, and that was to arm 
Europe against him. One defect he 
had, but it was not of the mind: 
his constitution was delicate, and pre- 
mature death deprived him of the sa- 
tisfaction he would have felt in the 
downfall of the Imperial Despot. Mr 
Moore tells us, that death came op- 
portunely to save him from the morti- 
fication of losing that high situation 
which he had long so triumphantly 
enjoyed. This intimation is, I con- 
fess, new to me, who conceived his 
abilities as a statesman, and his inte- 
grity as a minister, to stand so high, 
as to render his removal, without his 
own consent, a matter of almost insu- 
perable difficulty. That consent might, 
indeed, have been obtained by de* 
ficiency of health; it was, I believe, 
the sole deficiency which would have 
done so but this piece of intelligence 
comes through the iwr*i palt*, and in 

the Elys-tan p>st-hig. So much, indeed, 
of his political information has tra- 
velled in the same channel, that, but 
for identity of names, I should fre- 
quently think myself reading of other 
persons and of other times. 

In fact, this elaborate and long-de- 
layed work is misnamed it ought to 
be called " An Apology for the Rash- 
ness, Inconsistency, and consequent 
Disappointments of the Whig Party, 
from the Death of the Earl of Chatham 
to that of his son William Pitt, and 
continued to the Death of Richard D, 
Sheridan, of whose Life and Writings 
a detailed History is also given, by the 
Author of the Fudge Family, the Two- 
penny Post-bag, and the Memoirs of 
Captain Rock." This would have 
prepared the public for what they were 
to get ; and the admirers of these three 
candid, temperate, and veracious com- 
positions, specified in the title, certafn- 
ly would not have been disappointed. 
The mischief of it is, that the Apology, 
which is obliged to have recourse to 
exaggeration, false colouring, and ex- 
travagant praise for the friend, ami 
for calumny, misrepresentation, and 
the supposition of evil motives for the 
enemy, must, in the judgment of every 
sound understanding, leave the matter 
much worse than it found it. I halJ 
close my observations on the political 
part of the Whig Apology, with a 
passage from the Apologist's second 
volume, 3d page. After thundering out 
an anathema on these slanderous bio- 
graphers, whoever they were, who said 
that old Sheridan died unattended by 
any of his nearest relatives an error 
likely enough to be committed without 
much criminality of intention as he 
died at Margate on his way to Lisbon , 
and with an unexpected rapidity of dis- 
solution, (would that no biographer 
had greater sins to answer for) he 
closes it with this fine passage, appli- 
cable indeed, but very ill applied : 
" Such are ever the marks that dul- 
ness (we may more frequently say ma- 
lice) leaves behind in its Gothic irrup- 
tions into the sanctuary of departed 
genius defacing what it cannot (ra- 
ther will not) understand polluting 
what it has not the soul to reverence, 
and taking revenge for its own dark- 
ness by the wanton profanation of all 
that is sacred in the eyes of others ! !' : 
Should the reader disapprove the bio- 
grapher's application., he lias not far 
to go for. another, 


Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 

The most interesting and agreeable 
parts of these volumes, because the 
least likely to be discoloured by party 
rancour, are those which relate to pri- 
vate anecdotes of the Sheridan and 
Linley families, and the various prose 
and poetical effusions of Brinsley and 
his friends. Some specimens of Mrs 
Sheridan's muse give a favourable 
idea of that bewitching woman's poe- 
tical talents. Their introduction need- 
ed no apology, as the only regret in 
the mind of the reader is, that he did 
not give more, or that he had not 
more to give. Much as they may seem 
to have been formed for each other, it 
was probably unfortunate for both, 
that Sheridan and Miss Linley ever 
met. Such brilliant and fascinating 
attractions would have been better di- 
vided. United as they happened to 
be, the necessary consequence was an 
endless course of extravagant and fa- 
shionable dissipation, the ruinous ten- 
dency of which, wanting the support 
of hereditary rank and revenue, was 
ill repaid by the flattery and applause 
of those whom it was their ambition 
to please. Married to a steady, sensi- 
ble man in her own sphere, Miss Lin- 
ley possessed talents capable of com- 
manding both fortune and fame. Pos- 
sibly she might have experienced that 
fortunate elevation which some accom- 
plished females, with perhaps inferior 
recommendations, have been lucky 
enough to obtain. Sheridan's precipi- 
tate career might have been checked 
by the prudence of a wife, who, 
with merit enough to please at home, 
wanted those shining qualities which 
excite admiration abroad. As it was, 
their domestic felicity seems to have 
been imperfect, and a wealthy inde- 
pendence was unattainable. 

The circle in which Sheridan first 
moved in London certainly contained 
many congenial spirits, who, though 
possessing talents of inferior lustre, 
yet were highly distinguished for wit 
and pleasantry, literary as well as con- 
vivial. Of their merits, as exhibited in 
the little records which remain, so 
successful a poet as the biographer 
must be considered a very competent 
judge. It is only where political pre- 
judice wrongs or .blinds him, that we 
demur to the competency of that judg- 
ment. A remarkable instance of this 
hallucination occurs in his character 
of Lord Thurlow, whom, at the dis- 
tance of about ifi vears, he thus takes 


upon him to describe.-" Lord Thur* 
low was one of those persons, who, be 
ing taken by the world at their own 
estimate of themselves, contrive to 
pass upon the times in which they live 
for much more than they are worth. 
His bluntness gave him credit for su- 
perior honesty, and the same peculia- 
rity of exterior" (a blunt coat, I sup- 
pose) e( gave a weight not their own 
to his talents ; the roughness of the 
diamond being, by a very common 
mistake," (Hibernice, a mistake new 
committed,) "made the measure of its 
value." Now, passing over the compo- 
sitional defects of this presumptuous 
estimate, what was the fact ? that no 
man owed less to exterior deportment 
for his elevation in the world thai 1 
Lord Thurlow. If there was a man ir 
England who raised himself to tlu 
highest professional eminence by sheer 
talent, it was Lord Thurlow if there 
was a man in England, whom strength 
of mind and depth of legal knowledge 
advanced and exalted, not by means oi 
blunt and uncourteous manners, but in 
despite of them, it was Lord Thurlow ! 
Fox possessed the advantages of birth, 
fortune, great connexions, fascinating 
conversation, and attractive manners. 
Thurlow wanted them all. If he did 
impose, it certainly was not on the 
people, for instead of courting popula- 
rity, he despised it. On whom then did 
he impose ? On that body of ignorant 
simpletons known by the name of the 
English Bar, incapable of distinguish- 
ing between the real and the false pre- 
tender to legal knowledge ; on Kings, 
Courts, Ministers of State, and Houses 
of Parliament z. e. the persons in the 
world least likely to be won by the 
rude and repulsive qualities of Thur- 
low. I knew several that were ac- 
quainted with Lord Thurlow, and I 
never heard them speak of him but as 
a man of most extensive knowledge 
and most extraordinary intellect. Of 
both these Samuel Johnson will be al- 
lowed a pretty competent judge. " I 
never meet Thurlow," said Johnson, 
" without I was going to say being 
afraid ; but that would not be true, 
for I am afraid of no man but I ne- 
ver do meet Thurlow without feeling 
that I have something great to en- 
counter." This, gentle reader, you 
will perceive, was said by that man, 
whom, perhaps, every literary man in 
England ?/v/.v afraid to on counter, savr. 
Thurlow ' 

Reminiscences. No. //' 

It is to be lamented, that the play- 
fulness, often indeed friendly, and not 
the less so for -being sometimes a little 
mischievous, which produced so much 
mirth and laughter in Sheridan's fa- 
miliar circle of lively friends, should 
have been recompensed with such an 
utter disregard of prudential consider- 
ations. It mars the pleasure of the 
reader to be perpetually reminded of 
the difficulties, distress, and annoy- 
ance, encountered and endured by per- 
sons endowed with faculties capable of 
rendering them useful as well as plea- 
sant, respectable as well as gay. With- 
out adverting to that more sacred re- 
sponsibility under which the favoured 
created stands to the Great Creator, 
what is so familiar in practice seems 
impossible in theory, viz. that a man 
of talents, conscious as he must be 
that he has duties to perform both to 
his neighbour and to himself, should, 
notwithstanding, on the winding-up 
of his account, have to reproach him- 
self with a wilful and wanton waste 
of all those talents, with a total neglect 
of all those duties, and with the mi- 
serable reflection, that all those talents 
produced for him was the composition 
of a merry song, a lively jest, a lucky 
pasquinade, the credit of a few bon- 
mots, or the transitory applause of a 
convivial meeting. A degree of idle 
playfulness is indeed often found cu- 
riously connected with wit, even in 
minds of vigorous genius and austere 
character. Of this Swift affords a very 
singular instance, several of whose fro- 
lics, and that too at an advanced pe- 
riod of life, were as whimsical and 
boyish as those of Sheridan himself. 
But he had the felicitous art of de- 
scending to trifles without compromi- 
sing dignity. Copious as were the ef- 
fusions of his wit, both oral and lite- 
rary, he never suffered them to inter- 
fere with more serious pursuits, whe- 
ther professional or political. And here, 
too, it may not be amiss to remark the 
great superiority of that truly original 
genius, which has given to what were 
deemed mere ephemeral sallies, some- 
times of playful, sometimes of satiri- 
cal humour, a vividness of colouring, 
a vigour of composition, and a richness 
of wit, which the envious and corro- 
ding hand of time has vainly laboured 
to efface. Though the interest they 
derived from the times in which they 
were written, and the persons who af- 
forded the subject, has long departed, 

yet are they for the most part read 
with a degree of pleasure and admira- 
tion, hardly inferior to what they at 
first excited. This is the test of true 
genius, of wit, originally impressive, 
and independent of local recommenda- 
tion and temporary support. 

The dramatic works of Sheridan will 
indeed make his fame coeval with the 
language in which they were written ; 
but these are finished productions of 
general, not particular interest. His 
Parliamentary Speeches will always 
rank high, if not among those of sena- 
torial wisdom, at least among those of 
senatorial eloquence. Such an occasion 
as the impeachment of Hastings af- 
forded, was perhaps the only one by 
which he could have attained such 
eminent celebrity, conversant as it was 
with subjects, on which, from their 
complication and remoteness, few were 
able to form any judgment, and afford- 
ing an interminable scope to every kind 
of weapon, rhetorical artifice, or rhe- 
torical ability, might be able to wield. 
Several of those speeches, particularly 
that most highly commended, by which 
the question of impeachment was car- 
ried in the House of Commons, were 
thought, if I remember right, to have 
been pretty well reported, though his 
biographer has been able to find so 
little worth .preserving. In this I be- 
lieve he has showed his judgment. 
Many passages no doubt were highly 
wrought, adorned with all the graces 
of polished diction, enlivened by the 
sportiveness of fancy, captivating by 
the charms of wit, or affecting by ap- 
peals to the passions. But there was 
too much show, and too little sub- 
stance it was a meteor blaze, not a 
consuming fire threatening to de- 
stroy all, it only scorched a little. 
Never were such great expectations, 
held out, such magnificent promises 
made, such an artillery of eloquence 
discharged, to so little purpose. It 
was, however, just what Sheridan 
wanted, a field wherein he might ex- 
patiate to the utmost extent of his wit, 
his imagination, his ingenuity, and his 
invention, without contradiction, with- 
out having recourse to the deep sources 
of legal knowledge, or legislative wis- 
dom, or restraint. Burke, whose in- 
temperate warmth brought it on, as 
he was the only person of the party, 
except periiaps Fox, who knew much 
of East Indian affairs, so he was, I 
very much suspect, the only one who 
11 hn 

felt serious iuti-rr^r m ihe event. 
ridarr's point \vfti sufficiently gained 
by the acquisition ut renown. 
^Of the- various political and party 
j'oerns and essays issuing from the 
peiw'ef Sheridan and his witty com- 
panions, though many of them were 
very successful in those days, how dif- 
ferent is their fate from those of Swift ! 
Though by no means destitute of hu- 
mour, it is so dependent upon times 
,id persons, that even the short lapse 
of forty years has almost robbed them 
of the interest they onee possessed. 
Vet some of them might still be worth 
preserving in a complete and correct 
edition of Sheridan's works a publi- 
cation still wanting. One of the luek- 
iest hits was made by Tickel, in his 
pamphlet entitled Anticipation, the 
laughable effects of which I well re- 
member. It professed to be a report 
of the speeches that were to be deli- 
vered in Parliament, and came out 
only a day or two before the meeting. 
The style' of the speeches was so well 
imitated, and the matter in many cases 
so happily forestalled, that, like Vulcan 
among Homer's gods, it caused inex- 
tinguishable laughter. What gave 
much zest to the joke was the igno- 
rance of most of the usual speaking 
members that any such pamphlet ex- 
isted. Their great surprise at the loud 
<nirth excited by speeches intended to 
make a very different impression, and 
the frequent cries of " Spoke, spoke!" 
the meaning of which they could not 
possibly comprehend, may be easily 
conceived. One of its effects was to 
shorten the debate, for, as the joke 
soon spread, many were afraid to ad- 
dress the House for fear of involving 
themselves in the predicament of those 
who had been s-o humorously antici- 
pated. Of such a work, of course, 
though the effect was great, the repu- 
tation was short-lived. 

I cannot help adverting for a mo- 
ment to page 94, volume II., in which 
the biographer undertakes to account 
for the violent anti-democraticism of 
Edmund Burke. Not certainly judg- 
ing from the " imaginative deport- 
ment of hijs.own intellect," which ne- 
ver alters its political course, he sup- 
poses that of Burke to have been actu- 
ated by the " accidental mood" of his 
mind. By this mood, whatever it 
might happen to be, his political con- 
Inet was, it seems, always determined. 


Sheridan, -20 ^ 

ami consequently his being Whig, Tory 
Reformist, Anti-reformist man of iht 
court, or man of the people, was rneiv 
matter of chance. The deterimnatiop 
being once made, lie entered into th.~ 
service with all the energy of talent, 
and all the blindness of zeaL Had 
there been no previous impression on 
the " imaginative deportment" when 
the astounding event of the French 
Revolution first burst upon him, " i?: 
would most probably have acted," 
says this biographer, l( in a sort oi 
mental catalepsy, and fixed his reason 
in' the very attitude in which it found 
it ! !" This, gentle reader, is illus- 
tration ! An astounding event bursting 
upon the raind (or, if you please, tVn- 
imaginary deportment) of Edmund 
Burke would affect it how? like a 
catalepsy, i. e. like a complaint produ- 
cing an insensibility that remains un- 
til the complaint is removed ! There 
were, it is true, multitudes rendered 
insensible by this said (( astounding 
event," but it was not by temporary 
but by everlasting deprivation of then 
senses. Among the living, I doubt if 
there was a single person of the time, 
and I include Edmund Burke, whose 
'" reason it left in the attitude in which 
it found it!" The meaning of llv 
illustration, if it can be said to hai^ 
any, is this, that if Burke had no- 
been previously influenced by sonre 
jealousy of his once dear friends Fo> 
and Sheridan, he would have hailed 
the te astounding event" with even 
greater warmth and louder acclama- 
tions than they did. Had they been 
against it, he would have been for it 
but they were for it ergo, the con- 
stitution of his mental catalepsy ne- 
cessarily produced his opposition. H 
wished to break with them, and thi 
was the first opportunity which pre- 
sented itself. But I, who happened 
to know something of Edmund Burke, 
(with numberless others of superior 
knowledge and judgment,) find it per- 
fectly easy to account for his antipa 
thy to the French Revolution on priri 
ciples very different indeed from a lit- 
tle pique to Richard Brinsley Sheri 
dan or Charles James Fox. He was 
a man, who to an ardent mind joined 
an extent of knowledge, a copiousness 
of ideas, a range of intellect, and a 
power of expression, almost unrivalled 
He saw the future Upas in the grow- 
ing plant his penetration was not u 
9 D 

3 i o Ren 

be imposed on by the cant of liberty, 
by the insincerity of profession, or by 
the deceptions plausibilities of theory. 
His object was to improve, not to de- 
stroy existing establishments, and see- 
ing what destruction was meditated, 
he sounded the trumpet of alarm. He 
was, moreover, a sincere Christian, 
and perceiving that the extinction of 
Christianity was among the ultimate 
objects of the new fanaticism, he em- 
ployed those abilities which God had 
bestowed on him, in defence of that 
religion which God had bestowed on 
man. It is puerile, it is ridiculous, to 
ascribe Burke's opposition to that civic 
pestilence which would have desolated 
ull Europe, to a coldness or jealousy 
between him and his pair of Whig 
friends. Burke would unquestionably 
have done what he did, had Sheridan 
and Fox never existed. It is much 
more rational to say, that their per- 
verseness in not being willing, or their 
blindness in not being able to discern 
consequences so obvious to his under- 
standing, exasperated him to the ex- 
tremity of renouncing their friendship, 
than to impute the breach of it to a 
cause so trivial and inadequate. These 
consequences were indeed obvious to 
so many understandings, and so much 
within the reach of ordinary compre- 
hension, that it seems no easy matter 
to account satisfactorily for the con- 
duct of those two remarkable men. 
Their cool indifference, when the fire 
was at their very doors ; their sworn 
attestation to the innocence of a rebel 
afterwards self-convicted, and then 
actually on his way to France to raise 
forces for invading Ireland, are, I 
hepe, only proofs of the little they 
knew, and the little pains they took to 
know anything in one of the most cri- 
tical times and situations in which 
England ever was placed. Their eyes 
indeed were afterwards opened, the 
wonder being that they could have 
been so long shut, and one of them at 
last embraced some subsequent occa- 
sions of atoning for past error and apa- 
thy, by lending his vigorous support 
in more ways than one, to the esta- 
blished government of the empire. 
The biographer's observations and rea- 
sonings on the subject of the French 
Revolution in this part of his book, are 
such only as would suit an event the 
very reverse of what has taken place. 
The conclusion they would naturally 
suggest to a person unacquainted with 

e*. .\o. jr. 

all that has passed, is, that it termina- 
ted most successfully in the establish- 
ment of a free constitution, supported 
by the wisest laws, effectually provi- 
ding for the happiness and welfare of 
the people ; a constitution founded in 
peace, maintained by industry, fortified 
by justice, and unstained by crime 
such a reader could not possibly sup- 
pose that a revolution so described,, 
justified, honoured, and applauded, as 
it was by the enlightened reason of 
Fox and Sheridan, and Tom Moore, 
and reprobated only by the intemper- 
ance of an aristocratic rhapsodist like 
Burke, should be found to falsify the 
judgment of the reasoners, and to ful- 
fil the predictions of the rhapsodist 
should, in short, terminate in misery, 
murder, rapine, cruelty, and disap- 
pointment ! Yet such was the case 
It was not the animated and just ob- 
servations of Fox and Sheridan on 
civil liberty, in general, or the inesti- 
mable value of a free constitution, as 
opposed to the debasing influence of a 
despotic system, that gave or could 
give offence to such a mind as Burke's, 
for they were the principles he always, 
supported ; but it was the preposterous 
application of them to the wild theo- 
ries, the indiscriminating ferocities, 
and the ephemeral changes of a giddy, 
savage, and self-created democracy. 

Mr Moore concludes the strangely 
inconsistent and contradictory obser- 
vations, which he, employing a very 
proper term, says he has hazarded on 
the transactions of this time, thus : 
" Englishmen, however, will long look 
back to that crisis with interest," 
(this is most assuredly true,) " and 
the names of Fox, Sheridan, and Grey 
will be affectionately remembered, 
when that sort of false elevation which 
poetic feeling now gives to the repu- 
tation of some who were opposed to 
them," (Pitt and Burke for instance, ) 
" shall have subsided to its due level, 
or been succeeded by oblivion." (I 
should like to know what sort of books 
will preserve the memory of the tri- 
umvirate when Pitt and Burke are 
forgotten. The only chance I see of 
it is but a bad one, viz. Tom Moore's 
Biography outliving the History of 
England!) " They who are against 
the general sympathies of mankind," 
(to wit, those of French Jacobins and 
modern Radicals,) " however they 
may be artificially buoyed up for the 
moment, have the current against 


Hichard Brinnky Sheridan 

them in the long run of time, while 
the reputation of those whose talents 
have been employed on the popular 
and generous side of human feelings," 
(what happy epithets ! how beauti- 
fully appropriate to the Robespierres, 
Marats, Paines, &c. &c. of the Revo- 
lutionary period !) "receives from all 
time an accelerating impulse from the 
countless hearts that go with it in its 
course ! ! !" (I wish Burke were living, 
that he might take a new lesson on 
the Sublime and Beautiful. The hap- 
py inference is, that the longer the 
French Revolution is remembered, the 
more will its laudators, and conse- 
quently its actors, be entitled to the 
veneration of mankind to what pro- 
digious fame will it be entitled in an- 
other century?) " Lord Chatham 
even now supersedes his son in fame, 
and will leave him at an immeasura- 
ble distance with posterity ! !" How 
they should ever be farther asunder 
than they are now, either in years or 
time, is not very conceivable but to 
Comment on nonsense, is lost labour. 

The following passage may afford 
the reader more entertainment. Speak- 
ing of Mr Canning, whom, by the 
by, we should hardly have expected 
to meet in this work, except perhaps 
to reprobate his apostacy from the 
righteousness of the new Whig doc- 
trines, the author having, by dint of 
intuitive penetration, rendered him- 
self perfectly acquainted with all the 
motives of Mr Canning's conduct, thus 
proceeds: "Some infusion of the spi- 
rit of the times into this body," (viz. 
the Ministerial, none of which knew 
anything of the spirit of the times in 
which they themselves lived,) " had 
become necessary even for its own 
preservation in the same manner as 
the inhalement of youthful breath has 
been recommended by some physi- 
cians to the infirm and superannuated." 
(Query would it not be advisable that 
Mr Canning should sleep between the 
Chancellor and Lord Liverpool ?) 
" This renovating inspiration the ge- 
nius of Mr Canning has supplied. 
His first political lessons were derived 
from sources too sacred to his young 
admiration to be forgotten." (To rind 
anything sacred in the sources alluded 
to, would afford ground for admira- 
tion indeed !) " He has carried the 
spirit of these lessons with him into 
*Jip rcunciU which h? joined," (ha- 

ving, of coarse, first tried his inocu 
lating hand on Mr Pitt,) if and by 
the vigour of the graft, which already 
shows itself in the fruits, bids fair to 
change altogether the nature of Tory- 
ism !" 

On this singular and superfine pas- 
sage, I am tempted to offer a few words, 
To the biographer's credit for political 
consistency some little objection might 
here be made. Were the departed 
Tories of the last and present century 
to rise in judgment against him, they 
could not at least complain of any un- 
due and partial leaning. All labour 
under the same indiscriminating charge 
of rooted antipathy "to the rights of 
the people, and slavish advocacy of 
the prerogatives of the Crown. All 
are equally destitute of true political 
worth, and sound political wisdom. 
Had he done the same by the living, 
it were impossible to find the smallest 
flaw in his title to political consisten- 
cy. A living Tory minister has, how- 
ever, somehow or other found favour 
in the sight of him, who could hardly 
forgive poor Sheridan's deviation from 
the ranks of Whiggery, even for a 
day even for the defence of the coun- 
try itself even without emolument,, 
or the hope of emolument. 

" O day and night, but this is wondrous 

This Whig minister, educated, as I 
conceive, not in the school of Fox, the 
sacred source of the biographer's poli- 
tical creed, but in that of Fox's great 
opponent and rival, is here presented, 
with a flowery wreath of flattery, which, 
if the gift be estimated by its rarity, 
must in his estimation exceed the va- 
lueof the famousPittdiamond. Aware> 
however, of the awkward surmises 
which might be suggested by a com- 
pliment so unexpected from his pen, 
so repugnant to his principles, and so 
alien from his habits, he has contrived 
to qualify it with no common portion 
of dexterous ingenuity. Mr Canning, 
it seems, is a Whig in disguise, and 
Tory only in show. He became, it is 
true, a pupil of the Pitt school, but it 
was to teach, not to learn. He had 
graduated in a different and holier 
college, and having privately taken 
out a doctor's diploma, we shall soon 
see him surpassing the celebrity of 
Dr Jenner himself. He is, according; 
to this biographer, now employed in 
the patriotic scheme of vaccinating 

the wliok body of Toryism, by the 
wholesome infusion of invigorating 
matter from the healthy pustules of 
modern Whiggery. Whether the de- 
sirable renovation is to take place at 
once, or reserved to bless future gene- 
rations, we are not distinctly inform- 
ed. Experienced adults are not fond 
of trying new quack medicines, and 
there may happen to be some who 
think the remedy worse than the dis- 
ease. Changing the name, Mr Can- 
ning might apply to his panegyrist a 
passage from Virgil : 
" Tommy, quod optanti Divum promit- 

tere nemo 
Auderet, volvendo dies enattulit ultro." 

" Let it never be forgotten," says 
this biographer, as if utterly forgetting 
the character he himself had been 
previously describing " Let it never 
be forgotten in estimating this part of 
his character," (viz. his character as a 
negligent payer of his debts, the very 
part of his character here least estima- 
ted,) " >that, had he been less consist- 
ent and disinterested in his public 
conduct, he might have commanded 
the means of being independent and 
respectable in his private. He might 
have died a rich apostate, instead of 
closing a life of patriotism in beggary. 
He might, to use a fine expression of 
his own, have hid his head in a coro- 
net, instead of earning for it the barren 
wreath of public gratitude ! While, 
therefore, we admire the great sacri- 
fice he made, let us be tolerant to the 
errors and imprudences it entailed on 
him ; and, recollecting how vain it is 
to expect anything unalloyed in this 
world, rest satisfied with the martyr, 
without requiring also the saint !" " 

This pretty morceau h,as very much 
the appearance of being 'furnished by 
another literary cook. The writer of 
the Life, tired of composition, and 
wishing for a nice bit to conelude the 
feast, might have requested a friend to 
supply it just giving a hint to throw 
in something about patriotism, con- 
sistency, saints, martyrs, or sacrifices. 
It seems hardly possible that the man 
who wrote the Life should have written 
the conclusion, it being precisely the 
reverse of what should be drawn from 
his own premises. After enumerating 
poor Sheridan'* incorrigible habits of 
<iissipation, his perpetual puerilities, 
hi* iH(l\ .in.! r.iM'ss r \travaganoo, 

. A'f. If 

his utter neglect of domestic manage, 
ment and economy, together with lus 
wanton abuse of those advantages, 
which his situation as manager of the 
first theatre in London, and possessor 
of talents unrivalled in the dramatic 
department, afforded him after, I say, 
enumerating and acknowledging all 
these, comes a pert little conclusion, to 
tell us that his errors and imprudences 
arose from the great sacrifice he made 
on the altar of public virtue, and that 
he died a patriotic beggar, instead of a 
rich and respectable apostate ! That 
apostacy might have made him rich, 
independent, and respectable, I do 
most freely admit ; but it was not apos- 
tacy from the virtues of Charles James 
Fox, but from the faults I am un- 
willing to call them vices of Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan. That such a man, 
as this biographer describes him to 
have been, should have died rich under 
any circumstances, was utterly impos- 
sible to pour riches into his lap, was 
like pouring water into a vessel with- 
out a bottom. Of Brinsley Sheridan 
it may have been said with as much 
truth as of any man I ever knew, that 
he had it in his power to be suce for- 
tunes faber. If he neglected to avail 
himself of that power, it was entirely 
and exclusively his own fault. The 
emoluments derivable from the play- 
house and the pen, he Aid, perhaps for 
it is impossible to speak with certainty 
of so uncertain a man sacrifice, not 
indeed on the altar of public good, but 
to the ambition of parliamentary dis- 
tinction, and the prospect of profitable 
state employment. The distinction he 
obtained, and it was all of which he 
could be sure, for he followed the for- 
tunes of a leader more famous for 
grasping at power than successful in 
holding it when possessed, and under 
whom, be it remembered, he never 
could have occupied more than a sub- 
ordinate situation. In this he only 
shared the lot of other associates ; and 
had prudence prepared him for what 
he knew to be a risk, mortification 
would have been the worst consequence 
of disappointment. His resources were 
great, though his patrimony was no- 
thing ; but multiplied misconduct ren- 
dered them all unavailing. 

What a pity that he had no friend, 
enlightened as this biographer now is, 
to whisper in his ear that happy doc- 
Irinf , by which wht KM then culled 

, Hkkard&ri 

Apostacy has been since rendered the 
means of political renovation ! There 
surely seems no reason why so able an 
officer as Sheridan might not slily 
have entered the ranks and received 
the pay-of Toryism, for the purpose of 
e,wtdrilling the troops, and bringing 
them over by degrees to the standard 
of Whiggery. He might then have 
had the credit of originating that art 
of political vaccination which his bio- 
grapher assures us is now so success- 
fully practised -by Doctor Canning. 

In estimating justly the character of 
tliis extraordinary man, we must steer 
a middle course, between blind admi- 
ration of his talents, and unqualified 
reprobation of his faults. By the for- 
mer he seems to have been led into 
those dissipated habits which ultimate- 
ly proved so disastrous, not because 
genius is naturally improvident, or 
abilities necessarily destitute of pru- 
dence, but because the possessor of 
i hem is usually exposed to temptations 
from which the less highly gifted are 
happily exempt. That Sheridan was 
constitutionally an idler, is I believe 
true ; but there seems to me no doubt 
that his idleness has been much over- 
rated, and that erroneous conclusions 
have been drawn from his boyish cha- 
racter as a neglector of school lessons. 
We find him at an early age exercising 
literary talent, anxious to turn it to 
piofit, and conscious that on its suc- 
cessful exertion his future fortunes 
were to depend. The labour and di- 
ligence employed on his dramatic 
works are fully apparent j and it is not 
surely unreasonable to believe, that 
the praise and profit accruing there- 
from would have maintained that la- 
bour and stimulated that diligence, 
had they not been counteracted by 
motives of stronger and more predo- 
minating influence. We are the more 
induced to think so, when we consider 
the pleasure he seemed to take in 
compositions of this kind, and the num- 
ber of sketches and skeletons of plays 
found among his loose papers. What 
that counteracting influence was, it is 
not very difficult to discover, and may, 
I think, be traced to the common 
parent of human vexation Vanity. 
There are but too many natures in 
which the sober voice of truth is 
4rownt(t hy th<? syren strains of li.n 

^r. 313 

tery, and he was one upon whose <ear, 
from particular circumstances, those 
strains fell with an impression almost 
irresistible, liaised suddenly into 
fashionable notice by the fame of his 
comedies, the brilliancy of his con- 
versational powers, and the singular 
attractions of his wife, he found him- 
self placed on a footing of freedom and 
equality with persons far above his 
proper sphere with associates whose 
gaiety and dissipation rested upon 
supports of which he was utterly des- 
titute high birth, great connexions, 
and hereditary revenue. Heedless of 
this disparity, he yielded to the seduc- 
tive fascinations of high life, and for- 
got that his pecuniary resources de- 
pended, not upon his company, but 
on himself ; and that, to maintain his 
new rank, he must support his old 
industry. From this infatuation he 
might have been awakened by impe- 
rious necessity, had not the delusive 
meteor of ambition pointed out an- 
other path to higher fame, and less 
laborious emolument. Hacfonte de- 
rivatur eludes. 

High as he might have stood among 
contemporaries through the splendour 
of his eloquence, his fame with pos- 
terity will be measured by what he 
comparatively affected to despise, his 
reputation as a Dramatist. On the 
mortifications and disappointments of 
his political life it is needless to en- 
large. All that we need observe is, 
that his greatest enemies, in fact though 
not in intention., were those by whom 
his ambitious propensities were fed, 
his parliamentary aid solicited, and 
his hopes of political advancement en- 
couraged. Of all with whom his se- 
natorial situation brought him into 
contact, the most sincere, the most 
constant, and the most beneficent of 
friends, was that exalted Personage to 
whom the perverseness of his biogra- 
pher chooses to consider him least in- 

He who coolly and carefully con- 
templates the circumstances of this ex- 
traordinary man's life, will be at no 
loss for an explanation of his conduct :, 
and a clew to his character. He will 
see a disposition naturally volatile, 
and a mind originally eccentric, urged 
to unfortunate excesses by the intoxi- 
cation of early praises, trie contagion 
of fashionable vanity, and the pursuit 
of political phantoms. With just ad 

SI 4 Hem . 

miration of his talents, and no infre- 
quent ground for approbation of his 
conduct, he will see much, too much, 
to censure and condemn. But while 
he laments the distress and calamity 
resulting from misconduct, he will not 
refuse to make charitable allowance 
for human frailty ; for a man unpre- 
paredly assailed by a succession of se- 
ductive blandishments, delusive hopes, 

No. IV. 

and potent temptations, resistible only 
by the soundest principles, the coolest 
judgment, and the firmest resolution. 
I am quite of the Quarterly Review- 
er's opinion, that a good Life of Sheri- 
dan, and a correct edition of his works, 
are still among' the desiderata of mo- 
dern literature. I am, &c. 

CORK, May t, 1826. 


No. I. 

IT is extremely probable that many 
of our readers will look upon a paper 
thus headed as a work of absolute su- 
pererogation. At a period when our 
country enjoys a profound peace, and 
the whole of Europe, worn out with the 
exertions of the last thirty years, is sup- 
posed to possess neither the ability nor 
inclination to interrupt that peace, it 
may, and doubtless will, be esteemed a 
very needless waste of time to enter into 
an elaborate inquiry into the Military 
Policy and Institutions of Great Bri- 
tain. We, however, are of a widelydif- 
ferent opinion., We consider the subject 
as one of vast importance at all times, 
and we think there are many circum- 
stances iii the aspect of things, as they 
now exhibit themselves, which render 
the present the most fitting of all sea- 
sons for dispassionately discussing it. 
Why we are of this opinion, it may be 
but fair to state ; and we shall do so, 
in few words, before we enter upon 
the proposed inquiry. 

In the first place, then, we would 
remind the public that he is but a bad 
pilot, who only begins to think of pro- 
viding against danger when his ship is 
overtaken by a storm. He, too, is but 
a sorry physician, who pays no atten- 
tion to the constitution of his patient, 
except during the moments that hemay 
be labouring under the paroxysms of 
disease. He, in like manner, is a states- 
man or politician wholly unworthy of 
the name, who dreams not of inqui- 
ring into the state of his country's de- 
fences, unless these defences be imme- 
diately threatened. On this account, 
were there no other reason to be as- 
signed, we are not disposed to consider 
an examination into the military re- 
sources of Old England as ill-timed or 
unnecessary, at whatever Reason, or 

under whatever circumstances, it may 
be undertaken. 

In the next place, we are quite sa- 
tisfied, that the most fitting of all sea- 
sons for instituting such inquiry, is 
one when, the excitation of the war 
being in some degree forgotten, and no 
immediate prospect of a renewal of 
hostilities before us, we are able ti 
take a calm and dispassionate survey 
of our own past proceedings, and to 
compare them with the results which 
have actually ensued upon them, with 
what they might have been, both in 
operation and effect. Such a season is 
the present. We may now canvass at will 
the conduct of ministers, generals, and 
admirals, without running the small- 
est risk of having the soundness of our 
arguments, if there be soundness in 
them, borne down by party feeling 
and party prejudice ; whilst of the 
justice or injustice of the conclusions, 
which depend for support upon mat- 
ters of fact, all men, in all stations, are 
competent to judge. If, however, it be 
true, as pastexperience seems to teach, 
that similar causes, operating undei 
similar circumstances, invariably pio- 
duce similar effects, then may we learn, 
from what this country has done du- 
ring the progress of the war which i 
ended, what it may, and, indeed, 
ought to do, whenever another wai 
shall break out. 

And lastly, though by no means <ic 
sirous nor accustomed to be the pro- 
phets of evil, we would humbly sug- 
gest, that he who calculates upon any 
very long continuance of the present 
peace, calculates on no sure grounds. 
It is indeed true, that for ten years Wf 
have managed to avoid embroiling our- 
selves with any of the continental na- 
tions, and t* at there are no ranees of 

The Military Policy and Institution* of Great Britain. A'o. /. 

complaint immediately before us which 
would justify us in pursuing a differ- 
ent line of conduct. It is likewise 
true, that the governments of Europe 
are generally tired of war ; that the 
exchequers of few states are in a 
fit condition to render the renewal of 
hostilities at all a safe measure ; and 

hence, that no war will be undertaken 
by any power merely to gratify the 
ambition of its rulers. But how are 
the inhabitants of diff&tent countries 
affected ? Is it not manifest that the 
most absolute of all the continental 
sovereigns totters at this moment upon 
his throne, and that simply because 
his numerous armies, grown discon- 
tented through want of employment, 
find leisure to discuss subjects of which 
their fathers never thought ? Is there 
nothing in the relative situations of 
the Turks and Greeks capable of en- 
dangering the tranquillity of Europe % 
Is it not in the highest degree proba- 
ble, that the part taken in that strug- 
gle by the subjects of France, Ger- 
many, and England, may lead to con- 
sequences not at present calculated 
upon ? And when we cast our eyes 
elsewhere, is there not much in the 
internal condition of the kingdoms of 
Spain and Portugal, in the divided 
and dismembered state of Italy, in the 
agitated feelings of many of the Ger- 
man States, and in the ill-concealed 
discontent which prevails even in 
France; are there not, in all this, 
many and striking indications that the 
peace which we are so anxious to pre- 
serve cannot be preserved much longer ? 
We are quite satisfied that the go- 
vernors of Europe will not quarrel 
among themselves, if they can avoid 
it ; but where a crowned head has no 
choice submitted, except to plunge 
into a foreign war, or to repress fre- 
quent domestic seditions, he will act 
rery weakly towards himself, and in a 
manner such as his neighbours have 
no right to expect, if he hesitate for 
one moment which course to adopt. 
In the North of Europe, then, we fancy 
that we can observe manifold symp- 
toms of a speedy interruption to the 
present general tranquillity ; and we 
care not to conceal that we cast our 
eyes upon the overgrown empire of 
Russia in looking for them. In like 
manner, let a revolution again take 
place, as before long it certainly will 
take place, either in the Peninsula 
or in Italy, and how long will it be 

ere we find ourselves under the neces- 
sity of drawing the sword P We per- 
mitted the late occupation of Spain by 
the French army, and the re- establish- 
ment of Ferdinand in absolute power 
by French bayonets ; and we did wise- 
ly because, as the event proved, the 
Spanish nation took no part in the re- 
volution which had deprived him of 
absolute power. But let a similar 
event occur again, and we may not 
find it so easy a matter to preserve a 
neutrality which shall not involve the 
loss of our own national honour, or 
considerably injure our national in- 
fluence. Were the mere love of peace 
capable of ensuring its continuance, 
in common, we suspect, with nil 
good men, we are ready to exclaim, 
God forbid that another war shall 
arise in our days, or the days of our 
children ; but as we see small ground 
of hope that the case shall be so, we 
conceive that we shall not mis-spend 
either our own or the reader's time in 
taking a concise survey of what appear:* 
to us to be the most useful line of poli- 
cy to be adopted, whenever we are again 
called upon to buckle on our armour. 
There is not on record one instance 
of a great nation, which has so tho- 
roughly underrated her own strength, 
as England, during the entire progress 
of the late war, underrated hers. Pos- 
sessed of a population even at the com- 
mencement of that war, of upwards of* 
fourteen millions of souls ; and having, 
at one period, a regular army at our 
disposal of more than three hundred 
thousand men ; when our militia, our 
local militia, our volunteers and yeo- 
manry, fell little short of four hundred 
thousand ; and when that mighty mul- 
titude could, on the appearance of dan- 
ger, have been increased to twice the 
amount, we were so weak ajs to confess 
to the world, and affirm among our- 
selves, that England neither was, nor 
ever could be, a great military nation. 
The language thus employed has not 
yet fallen totally into disuse. We are 
still held up, by a certain class of rea- 
soners, as a power which has no busi- 
ness to interfere at all in the politics 
of Continental Europe, because, for- 
sooth, we have not the means to inter- 
fere with effect, being, as they are 
pleased to represent us, no military 
nation. Now, before we offer an opi- 
nion on this head, it may be necessary 
to define with precision what the terra 
>i military nation means. 

'24 fi The Af-llitary Pofn-y <tnd 

We consider that to be a military 
nation, which is engaged in t'requ.-m 
wars ; and we look upon that as a great 
military nation, which brings its wars, 
for the most part, to a glorious issue. 
We consider that nation to contain at 
least the elements of military influence, 
which possesses a population not insig- 
nificant in point of numbers ; brave, 
hardy, lovers of their country, because 
its civil institutions secure to them the 
blessings of rational liberty ; whose 
pecuniary resources are competent to 
the maintenance of a standing army, 
;ind whose governors are wise enough 
to keep a standing army at all times 
on foot. Now, if this definition be cor- 
rect, what is England, and what has 
she always been? No nation in the 
world has been involved in more fre- 
quent wars than our own ; no nation 
iff the world has brought her wars to a 
close so uniformly successful. Eng- 
land is therefore both a military nation, 
and a great military nation ; but were 
her character not thus determined, it 
is, at all events, quite clear, that she 
possesses -every requisite for speedily 
becoming one. 

It must, however, be confessed, that 
England has never, at least in modern 
times, made the most of her own re- 
sources. When the Revolutionary War 
began, we had resigned ourselves so 
exclusively to the prosecution of com- 
mercial pursuits, that the necessity of 
supporting our commerce by force of 
arms seems almost to have been for- 
gotten. We had fleets on the ocean, it 
is true, and we had armies, ' or rather 
regiments, embodied ; but the former 
were not, either in point of equipment 
or construction, at all superior to those 
of the enemy ; whilst the latter were 
esteemed wonderfully inferior. By dint 
of determined gallantry, our fleets suc- 
ceeded in destroying those of the powers 
opposed to us 5 and, as was but natu- 
ral, our sailors obtained, as they deser- 
ved to obtain, the respect and confi- 
dence of their countrymen. The de- 
fects under which they had at first 
laboured were carefully remedied ; the 
vessels were provided with stores in 
abundance ; fresh ships were built and 
manned, with a degree of energy un- 
equalled in other countries ; and squa- 
drons were sent to sea, more than equal, 
both in point of numbers and equip- 
ment, to overpower all opposition. This 
was wise poncy, and it produced the 
best results. But a naval superiority 

tai-H. A'o. /. TAu_ 

\vl!l never secure for om ci hv.. 
belligerent states any lasting triumph 
over her rival ; and hence, though ow 
flag waved in triumph wherever on< 
ships could swim, we found, at the Hos - 
of twenty years of expensive warfare, 
that we were just as far from reducin; 
our adversary to terms as we we^e 
when the war began. 

We are not going to cast blame upoir 
the then rulers of the nation, because 
of the vast importance which they at- 
tached to a naval superiority. There 
cannot be a doubt that the safety of 
this country- depended then, depends 
now, and probably ever will depend, 
in a principal degree, upon her mam* 
taining the superiority of the ocean , 
but we do blame them for attempting 
nothing besides ; and for the very im- 
politic and expensive manner in which 
they saw fit to prosecute the war frr 

No great while elapsed ere it becaim* 
manifest to the whole world, that T',u. 
land and France must and would con- 
tinue hostilities, till one or other of 
them should be totally ruined. There 
was, indeed, a period during the late 
war, when not their respective exist- 
ences only were conte'nded for, but 
when the question appeared to be, 
whicli of these two powers was to sway 
the sceptre of the world ; at least, such 
was undeniably the ultimate end of 
Buonaparte's exertions ; and the only 
means left to us of preventing his suc- 
cess, was, on our parts, to make a similar 
effort. Things ought never, it is true, 
to have come to this ; and had out 
measures been as prompt and as daring 
as they might have been, things never 
would have come to this. But to this 
they did come ; and in this view we 
ought to have regarded them. Whence 
came it aboutthatBuonaparte's scheme* 
approached so very near to their ful- 
filment ? We reply, because Great Bri- 
tain distrusted, or underrated, her own 
resources ; and never ventured to op- 
pose, as she might have opposed, her 
individual strength to the strength of 
her adversary. 

Our mode of prosecuting the late 
war was, till within a very few years 
of its close, a great deal too timid ; 
and even at the last, we made not the 
exertions which we might have made 
We were too fond of considering our- 
selves exclusively in the light of a na- 
val power, and too ready to over-rate 
he military power of the enemy. Win* 

Tiic Military Policy and- Institutions o]' Great Britain. No. /, 21* 

ever dreamed that British soldiers 
could stand before French soldiers, or 
British generals make head against 
the generals of France, till of late ? 
yet the soldiers of Great Britain were 
always composed of the same materials 
as her seamen, and the spirit which 
produce4 so many distinguished ad- 
mirals was never wanting among our 
generals. The consequence was, as 
our readers must perfectly recollect, 
that there was not an ai*my in Europe 
which we were not more ready to take 
into our pay, and to employ against 
the enemy, than our own. At the very 
moment when we had under arms 
three hundred thousandBritish troops, 
were we subsidising every contempti- 
ble continental power ; and whilst 
our own brave fellows were cooped up 
idly in garrison, Germans, Prussians, 
and Russians, were paid by us for 
fighting not our battles but their own. 
There never was a more ruinous or 
mistaken policy, than that which led 
to the subsidising system, notwith- 
standing that Lord Chatham began, 
and Mr Pitt continued it. It served 
at once to drain our own coffers, to fill 
those of the enemy, and to bring us 
into contempt among all other nations 
of the world. 

But, it may be said, our troops were 
not altogether idle. Whilst we em- 
ployed the armies of the allies to fight 
our enemy on the Continent of Eu- 
rope, we employed our own in crip- 
pling his means, by depriving him of 
his possessions beyond seas. Let us 
see by how much he was the loser, 
and we the gainer, in this respect. 

We took possession, at a vast ex- 
pense, of the French West India 
islands. By this means the French 
nation were cut ofT from their sup- 
plies of sugar, coffee, and rum, and 
we obtained so many additional settle- 
ments from which to derive these com- 
modities. All this is very true ; but, 
in the first place, we stood in no need 
of such addition, our own islands be- 
ing more than sufficient to supply our 
own wants ; and, in the next place, it 
was not we who hindered the importa- 
tion of colonial produce- in to France, 
but the French ruler himself. Had 
not he prohibited the measure, we 
should have gladly furnished the 
French people with as mueh coffee, 
sugar, and rum, as they could re- 
quire. The French, however, did 


very well without these things ; and, 
in a military point of view, they were 
strengthened, as we were weakened,by 
the garrisons which it behoved us to 
keep in these our newly- acquired pos* 

. In the East, too, our arms were suc- 
cessful. The Isles of France, of Bata- 
via, with the other settlements be- 
longing either to France proper, or to 
the states reduced under her vassal- 
age, were wrested from the enemy ; 
and the authority of Great Britain 
alone, of European nations, establish- 
ed throughout the Indian seas. This., 
likewise, is true ; and perhaps' of all 
the conquests which we effected, these 
were the least injurious to our mili- 
tary strength, because they were rich 
enough to defray their own expenses, 
and were retained in subjection by 
native troops. But jvhen we look to 
the other points of our victories, and 
to the method adopted of securing 
them ; to Malta, for example, a bar- 
ren rock, in which five or six batta- 
lions were usually wanted ; to Heli- 
goland, LampedosaJ Ceuta, and Ma- 
deira; of what importance to us was 
the acquisition, or of what injury to 
the enemy was the loss, of such places ? 
As soon as we found our adversary 
marshalling the whole of Europe 
against us, had we seriously under- 
taken the conquest of such places as 
Sardinia, Zealand, and Sicily, then 
indeed we should have added to ov.r 
own strength in the exact proportion 
by which we weakened his, because 
each of these countries is populous 
and fertile; would have more than 
defrayed the expenses attendant upon 
its preservation, and would have sup- 
plied our armies with able recruit 
But to pass these by, seizing on eve v 
little rock or island which chanced to 
take our fancy, was merely to fritte* 
away our own resources, without in 
the slightest degree affecting those of 
the enemy. 

Again, in every expedition in which, 
their land forces were employed, it 
seemed, during many years of the 
late war, to be the policy of govern- 
ment tc-send out just as u;any soldiery 
and no more, as they deemed capable 
of performing the service proposed. 
When the Duke of York embarked 
for Holland, he carried with him a, 
corps of some twenty thousand men ; 
and what was the result" His Uoyaj. 
2 'E 

818 The Military Policy and Institutions of Great Britain. No. I. 

Highness could effect nothing ; and a 
brave general, with as fine a little 
army as ever took the field, retired, 
almost disgraced, to our own shores. 
Was this owing to any want of means 
on our part ? Very far from it. We 
had then more than one hundred thou- 
sand regular troops in the different 
towns of Great Britain and Ireland. 
Why were not at least fifty thousand 
of these permitted to take part in the 
labours of their comrades ? 

The expedition into Egypt, too, un- 
der Sir Ralph Abercromby, of what 
force did it consist ? And to what uses 
were its successful results turned ? A 
handful of troops succeeded, by dint 
of gfeat gallantry, in crushing the 
power of France in that quarter. 
Doubtless this was one great object 
gained; but why not endeavour to 
derive greater advantages from suc- 
cess than even this ? Egypt, of all the 
countries in the world, might, per- 
haps, have been the most easily, and 
most advantageously, annexed to the 
British dominions. It was the design 
of the French to annex it to theirs ; 
and but for the destruction of their 
fleet and army, they would have suc- 
ceeded. Yet the French were by no 
means popular among the natives, 
while we were. But with our usual 
timidity, we had hardly gained firm 
footing in that country when we with- 
drew ; and, with our usual vacillation, 
we had hardly withdrawn, when we 
repented that we had done so. A se- 
cond expedition was accordingly sent 
out, composed of five thousand men, 
which, as might have been expected, 
failed in doing anything. 

Of the expeditions fitted out against 
the Spanish settlements in South Ame- 
rica, it is not possible to speak in 
terms of even moderate condemnation. 
Not only were they quite inadequate 
in point of numbers for the purposes 
designed ; but, in the case of General 
Whitelock at least, family influence 
or personal favour were permitted to 
determine a point, which ought to 
have been decided by the talents of 
the individual alone. A command was 
intrusted to him, of which he soon 
showed that he knew not how to make 
use. Yet the disaster at Buenos Ayres 
was not of so decisive a nature as that 
it might not have been ultimately re- 
medied, had the army employed there 
consisted of adequate numbers ; in- 
, neither that, nor the loss of a divi- 

sion at Monte Video, could have oc- 
curred, but for the timid policy of our 
government. We made ourselves, by 
our efforts in that quarter, the laugh- 
ing-stock of the people whom we in- 

Look we now to our military deal- 
ings with Corsica and Zealand. Of the 
former island, we took possession at 
the request of the inhabitants. It was 
then, as it is now, a strong and rich 
district ; and so far from weakening 
us by demanding a large garrison for its 
defence, it might have furnished us at 
any moment with five or six thousand 
excellent troops. How did we act 
there ? We quarrelled with the peo- 
ple, because they would not be per- 
suaded to adopt all our views respect- 
ing civil government ; and having 
done this, on the first threat of an at- 
tack by France, we abandoned the 
island. So it was with respect to the 
populous and fertile island of Zealand. 
Though we had actually subdued it, 
and had every reason to believe that 
the people would have submitted will- 
ingly to our authority, we dreaded to 
keep possession, because, forsooth, it 
might be possible for the French ar- 
mies to invade it across the ice, on an 
average in one winter out of nine or 
ten. Yet we were so much in want of 
a safe harbour in these seas, that we 
occupied and retained possession of 

We have ventured to suggest, that 
as soon as the designs of France to 
marshal against Engknd the whole of 
Europe became apparent, England, 
in self-defence, and upon every prin- 
ciple of sound and fpir policy, was 
called upon to make conquest of as 
many valuable districts as circum- 
stances might enable her to subdue. 
The two islands of Sicily and Sardi- 
nia, for example, instead of being 
the one tamely resigned to the will of 
the enemy, and the other, under the 
specious title of an ally, hung like a 
millstone round our necks, ought bona 
fide to have been subjected to British 
authority, and incorporated into the 
British empire, after the same fashion 
by which Holland and Italy became 
parts of the empire of France. In the 
days of the Romans, Sicily was found 
to be capable, not only of supporting 
herself, but of materially increasing 
the wealth of the Eternal City. During 
the late war, its King and Court were 
pensionaries upon British bounty, and 

1826.3 The Military Policy and Institutions of Great Britain. No./. 

its fortresses governed by troops paid 
out of the British treasury ; and all 
this because, forsooth, we could not 
act so unjustly towards an allied sove- 
reign, as to deprive him of his heredi- 
tary dominions. This extreme deli- 
cacy towards the feelings of strangers, 
no matter at what amount of domestic 
burthens it may be indulged, did even 
greater injury to the military power 
of England, than would have been ef- 
fected by half-a-dozen defeats. 

Notwithstanding all this, however, 
notwithstanding the parcelling out and 
separation of many thousand men, 
scattered here and there over almost 
the whole surface of the ocean, it ap- 
pears from the returns at the Adju- 
tant-General's office, that at no period 
of the war were there fewer than one 
hundred thousand regular soldiers ab- 
solutely at the disposal of government. 
Now were these employed? At the 
moment when Austria and Prussia were 
in arms against the common enemy, 
we fitted out an expedition to assist 
their efforts. It was, perhaps, the 
finest and most powerful which we 
had ever sent from our shores; it 
consisted of no fewer than forty thou- 
sand men. What did it effect? In- 
stead of being landed somewhere with- 
in reach of the allied armies, or which 
would perhaps have been equally ef- 
fectual, instead of making a descent 
upon the coast of France, and march- 
ing to Paris, at a time when the whole 
force of France was mustered upon the 
banks of the Rhine, the expedition 
was turned in the direction of the 
Scheldt, Flushing was bombarded, the 
little unhealthy isle of Walcheren oc- 
cupied for a few weeks, some half- 
dozen ships of war seized, and there 
the thing ended. Even the paltry ad- 
vantages gained, the command, for in- 
stance, of the navigation of the Scheldt, 
which, in spite of a not very salubri- 
ous climate, might unquestionably 
have been retained, were relinquish- 
ed ; and a force, sufficient, as matters 
then stood, to determine the issues of 
the war, returned, to waste its time in 
the garrisons of England. 

In the meanwhile the fate of Aus- 
tria and Prussia was sealed ; and the 
subsidies with which we had under- 
taken to supply them, arrived in good 
tune for the discharge of the tribute 
imposed upon them by their conqueror. 
But Europe was now beginning to 
grow -festive under the iron yoke of 

Napoleon ; and his outrageous con- 
duct in the Peninsula had stirred up 
against him a spirit, which all his ef- 
forts never succeeded in crushing, 
Spain and Portugal were in arms. 
Not at any former period had such 
an opportunity been presented to us, 
of acting like a great military nation, 
as we were. The moment discontents 
began to exhibitthemselves, we ought 
to have landed an army in Spain, not 
like that of Sir John Moore, consist- 
ing of five-and-twenty thousand men, 
but of three times that number an 
army capable of seeking the enemy, 
and of beating him wherever he pould 
be found not a corps so weak as to 
compel its leader to consider conti- 
nually, haw he would best avoid bring- 
ing matters to the issue of a battle. 
Bwt we did not thus act, and for this 
reason, that as yet we had not learned 
to believe, either that our troops were 
sufficiently brave, or our generals suf 
ficiently experienced, to cope with 
those of France. Under this idea our 
principal care seems to have been, not 
to endanger the safety of more British 
soldiers than was necessary, as if an 
army were not for the most part safe, 
in exact proportion to its physical or 
numerical strength. We were thei^ 
too, full of the most mistaken notions 
concerning the valour and hardihood 
of our alKes. The Spanish patriots 
were considered equal of themselves 
to drive their invaders beyond the 
Pyrenees ; and the presence of a Bri- 
tish army was deemed useful amongst 
them, only as a sort of nucleus, about 
which their gallant bands might collect. 
What absurdity there was in all this ! 
as if undisciplined hordes, however 
personally brave, could contend, with 
any prospect of success, against the 
most veteran troops in Europe ; and 
as if it were even possible to bring 
against an enemy a force too -over- 
whelming. The consequences were 
exactly such as might have been look- 
ed for ; the Spanish levies were dis- 
persed ; and our army, after beating 
an enemy before whom it had reluc- 
tantly retreated, was withdrawn from 
the country. 

Of the expedition which sailed for 
Portugal under the command of Sir 
Arthur Wellesley, it is almost need-< 
less to speak ; neyer was anything so 
grievously mismanaged. In the first 
place, the force employed (somewhere 
about 13 or 1 4,000 men) rendered it 

Tlie Military Policy and Institutions of 'Urtut Britain. aVo. /. '.C.Auj 

utterly impracticable to effect any- 
thing very great; and, in the next 
place, the extraordinary policy which 
dispatched first one general officer to 
supersede Sir Arthur, and then a third 
to supersede Sir Arthur's successor, 
during the very progress of operations, 
of all methods, was the most effectual to 
ensure an absolute failure. But enough 
of these details ; it is now high time 
to explain for what purpose they have 
been given. 

It appears to us, then, that-glorious as 
the issue of the late war has been, that 
issue might have been brought about 
at a much earlier period, and at a far 
less expense to the nation, had we 
been but conscious of our own native 
strength. We struggled for the com- 
mand of the sea, and we obtained it ; 
but we made not the use of our suc- 
cess which we ought to have made ; 
we were contented to rest there, where- 
as we ought to have regarded it as a 
step to a similar superiority by land. 
If it be said that England was at no 
period competent to meet France 
single-handed in the field, we need 
only refer the objector to the days of 
Agincourt and Cressy for proof to the 
contrary. England was, and is, ta- 
pable of waging by land, as well as by 
sea, a successful war against France, 
if she choose. England, during the 
late war, might have brought one hun- 
dred thousand men to bear on any 
given point; why did she not thus 
employ them ? Was it because the 
expense of transporting so large an 
army beyond seas, and of maintaining 
them there, was greater than she could 
defray ? Surely not ; since these troops 
must be, and actually were supported 
somewhere ; and the mere cost of 
landing them on the continent could 
Hot have been enormous. It is very 
true, that we carry on war in a man- 
ner widely different from that pursued 
by other nations ; that when in the 
country of allies, we not only spare 
their property, but add to it ; and that 
even of our enemies we are more 
tender than of ourselves ; yet under 
all these disadvantages, the expense of 
keeping on the continent such an 
army as has been stated above, would 
have proved vastly inferior to the ex- 
penses actually incurred in subsidi- 
sing the armies of our allies. Now, 
one hundred thousand British troops, 
nnder the command of a Wellington, 
would, we are satisfied, play the same 

game to-morrow, and would have play- 
ed the same game then, which was 
played many generations ago by the 
armies of Edward and Henry. 

We must again repeat, what has 
been distinctly asserted already, that 
we blame no party for attaching a 
greater degree of importance to the 
naval than to the military superiority 
of Great Britain. Long may that su- 
periority be .maintained ; for when it 
ceases, we need hardly expect to hold 
the rank which we now hold among 
the nations of the earth. But even 
that must not be regarded as a thing- 
impossible. No doubt, we possess 
better harbours, a greater extent of 
sea-coast, and better means of making 
skilful seamen than any other single 
European state ; but our harbours are 
not superior, our line of coast is far 
less extensive, and our national vanity, 
great as it undeniably is, will hardly 
tempt us to put ourselves in competi- 
tion, in all or any of these heads, with 
the whole of Europe united. Should 
it therefore happen, that the whole of 
Europe shall at any time combine 
against us, may not our naval supe- 
riority come to an end ? Nay, more ; 
by the repeal of our Navigation Laws, 
and the consequences thence arising, 
is it not self-evident, that we have 
actually laboured to decrease our own 
opportunities, and to increase the op- 
portunities of other nations, to rear up 
a race of skilful seamen ? At this mo- 
ment we may have a fleet capable of 
asserting the honour of the British 
fhg, as it was asserted before ; but let 
a few years pass, as they are passing 
now, a:*d will the case be so ? The 
matter is, to say the best of it, doubt- 
ful. But were it not doubtful ; were 
it a thing fixed and unalterable as 
fate can make it, that the British fleet 
shall always continue superior toother 
fleets, it does not therefore follow, 
that Britain ought to rely wholly upon 
her ships. If she desire to hold her 
rank as a great nation, she must ac- 
quire a more decided military spirit 
than ever ; for the time is not, in our 
opinion, very distant, when she will be 
called upon to exert it. 

It is sincerely to be hoped, that the 
government of England will never be 
induced by popular clamour, or by 
an injudicious anxiety of lowering to 
its utmost point the weight of public 
burthens, to reduce our military esta- 
blishments, to far as that, when the 

The Military Policy and Institutions oj Great Britain. No. I. 221 

hour of peril arrives, we shall not be 
prepared to meet it. In giving utter- 
ance to this sentiment, we by no 
means wish to be understood as de- 
siring to witness any great increase of 
the regular army. The army, as now 
constituted, is, in point of numbers at 
least, fully competent to all the cases 
to which it can be applied. It is suf- 
ficiently numerous to render the for- 
mation and proper discipline of one of 
thrice the amount a work of ease, and 
comparative celerity, whenever that 
measure shall become necessary ; and 
that, in a time of profound peace, is 
the great object for which a standing 
army should be kept on foot. But 
when we consider how much may de- 
pend upon the condition of these new 
armies after they shall have been 
raised, it is not going too far to assert, 
that we cannot be too anxious respect- 
ing the efficiency of the rorps which are 
to instruct them. When we go to war 
again, we must make up our minds to 
prosecute hostilities with vigour, not 
only by sea, but by land. If the im- 
provements which are daily making in 
the application of steam to the purposes 
of navigation, lay us not under the 
necessity of fighting on our own 
shores (a prospect which, however 
unpleasant, ought not by any means 

to be overlooked), we shall find that 
by far the readiest, and, as a necessary 
consequence, the least expensive mode 
of bringing our wars to a conclusion, 
will be to carry them into the heart 
of our enemy's country. To effect 
this end our naval superiority furnish- 
es us with the most ample means. 
We may select our point of disem- 
barkation along the whole sea-coast of 
Europe ; and secure at home, in the 
protection afforded by the fleet and 
our domestic force, we may send all, 
or almost all, our armies abroad. 
This is our true military policy ; not 
to fritter away our resources in tri- 
fling captures, nor to make our cam- 
paigns in small detachments, quite 
incapable of producing any serious 
impression ; but either to keep at 
peace, under all manner of insults, 
or to make ourselves formidable to 
the nations around us. Henceforward 
we must act as principals, not as 
allies, in any war in which we may 
happen to be involved ; and we must 
fight with men, not with money. But 
this we slrJl not be able to do unless 
our armies shall be preserved in a pro- 
per state, both as to numbers and disci- 
pline; and how that is most likely 
to be brought about, it shall be the 
object of a future paper to show. 



MR NORTH, It is about four years 
since your potent pen terminated an 
eloquent eulogium on the distinguish- 
ed nobleman at the head of his Ma- 
jesty's government, in the following 
words : " We are of the people ; 
and we believe that we speak with 
the popular voice, when we say of the 
minister as the Greek said of Fabri- 
cius ' It would be easier to turn the 
sun from his course, than this man 
from the paths of integrity/ we know 
nothing nobler in human praise." 
You applauded his public speaking 
for its " impressive sincerity," you 
ascribed its influence upon the senate, 
not only to the vigour of his under- 
standing, but to its palpable origina- 
tion in his own conviction, and to his 
habitually addressing himself to the 
question, *.' not as the advocate of a 
side, but as a powerful yet amicable 
inquirer into the truth,' you cele- 

brated the " wisdom and manliness" of 
his administration as its legitimate title 
to public esteem, you regarded that 
administration as incapable of stoop- 
ing " to drink the muddy stream of 
street-popularity," you reproached 
the nobleman, of whom he was once 
the " peculiar antagonist," with the 
self-inflicted degradation of " a con- 
nexion with the rabble of Whiggism." 
You now characterize this same ad- 
ministration as the patrons of quacks, 
and projectors, and innovators, you 
now accuse them of subjecting them- 
selves to the dictation of that very 
(< rabble of Whiggism," you now re- 
present them as men who are busy in 
ensnaring the public understanding and 
maddening the public feeling, as men 
affecting, nevertheless, to be the instru- 
ments of public opinion merely, as men 
who court spurious popularity, as men 
who prevail by trick and hypocrisy ! 

232 Strictures on the Parliamentary Logic of" Philosophical Statesmen." QAug. 

Are you inconsistent ? Are you self- 
oontradictory ? No, sir. His Lord- 
ship has changed not honest Chris- 
topner North. His change had, it is 
true, commenced at the period to 
which I have referred ; but of the 

progress which the New Opinions had . 

made in dispossessing his Lordship's tially are, in active operation could 
former political tenets, no man in the not have been carried ; and I believe, 
country had any adequate conception, would not have been propounded to 
m assertion which I advance Parliament. 

under which we have acquired so 
much honourable influence r under 
which, I might rather say, this coun- 
try has become the arbitress of nations 
those uncalled-for innovations, had 
they been resisted by this one man 
alone, instead of being, as they par- 

This is an assertion 
with confidence, seeing that it was not 
then detected even by your sagacity. 
Nevertheless, indications of it did exist 
symptoms of the philosophical epi- 
demic had made their appearance even 
in the mind of his Lordship. They 
were not noted. The oversight was 
natural; for who would have been 
prompt to suspect such a man of ha- 
ving transmuted himself from a sober- 
minded statesman into a modern philor 
sopher ? Had you been led by such a 
suspicion to a narrow and scrutinizing 
investigation, I believe that your praise 
of his Lordship would have been con- 
siderably modified. The transmuta- 
tion is now pretty fully -vcertained ; 
and both remarkable and lamentable 
it is in a very extraordinary degree. 

It is remarkable, inasmuch as the 
long political life of his Lordship has 
been. marked by a temper, a sobriety, 
a steadiness and good sense, the attri- 
bution of which to him has heretofore 
been unanimous. In reading his more 
recent appeals to Parliament wherein 
I have encountered so much confusion 
of ideas, so much inconsequence of ar- 
gument, so much startling paradox, so 
much sophistical straining, and occa- 
sionally a tone which I know not how 
to distinguish from that of petulance 
I have asked myself, is this the Earl 
of Liverpool ? 

It is lamentable almost beyond pre- 
cedent, inasmuch as those portentous 
changes which amount to the total 
'eversion of our established system of 
commercial policy of that system 
which has been reared with so much 
wisdom which has been cherished 
with so much vigilance which has 
been defended with so much courage 

Eheu, quam brevibus pereunt ingentia 
fatis ! 

I regard his Lordship as one who has 
given a casting vote I consider his 
Lordship's hand to have been upon the 
rudder. A responsibility like this is 
one which, I think, few men would 
feel inclined to covet. 

Apostacy is, conventionally, a harsh 
term ; and it cannot but be peculiarly 
ungrateful to one who has been hi- 
therto accustomed to follow his politi- 
cal career, with feelings of respectful 
and affectionate admiration, so to de- 
nominate his Lordship's abrupt dere- 
liction of his former opinions. His 
colleagues and followers tell us that 
their change of sentiment is an adapt- 
ation of their course " to the varying 
circumstances of the world." What 
these variations are, we are not in- 
formed ; but I think that we have, on 
the contrary, the authority of minis- 
ters themselves against the proposi- 
tion. Men who merit the name of 
statesmen should, I think, adapt their 
policy to changes which either have 
taken place, or which are likely to take 
place, in the world. But that of mi- 
nisters is confessedly and ostensibly 
founded, not upon the existence of such 
changes nor yet upon the probabi- 
lity of such chances but upon the 
hope that the world will adapt itself 
to their flimsy and untried theories !* 
Are not the creatures (correspondents 
I mean) of their newspaper, at this 
very moment, abusing independent 
governments in the grossest language, 
because they do not model themselves 
after the new fashion prescribed to 
them ? Between this time and the 

* Vide Mr Huskisson's speech on the 24th of February last, pp. 50, 51, and 52. 
Hatchard. The reader will there find that what, in the pompous phraseology of 
diplomatists, is called the basis of the new commercial relations, is nothing but a 
recommendation of them to the French Government. " France," says the Right 
Hon. Gentleman, " has received our invitation, and has thus taken a first step," 
This he .calls " a practical approximation !" 

Strictures on the Parliamentary Logic of'*' Philosophical Statesmen-."' 

meeting of Parliament, you will see a 
regular confluence of these preparatory 
communications from aH quarters, all 
condemning the obstinacy of the world, 
and lauding the wisdom of ministers. 
It is painful to denominate this change 
an apostacy ; but, sir, neither is this 
a land of freedom, if such a truth 
may not be spoken ; nor is language 
of any use, if it may not serve to ex- 
press appropriately that which has 
been conceived justly. The permanent 
interests, moreover, of a great empire, 
are too immensely important to per- 
mit the intervention, as an obstacle to 
their defence, of an over-scrupulous 
delicacy. The example of such a man 
as Lord Liverpool must be powerful 
whether for good or for evil. His 
apostacy was a subject which might 
have shaken the sturdiest and most 
stoical resolution nil admirari ; but it 
it has annihilated, by its misehievous 
sanction, all surprise, if surprise were 
ever felt, at the tergiversation of men 
neither gifted with his once (alas ! Mr 
North, his once) solid understanding, 
nor with his lofty spirit. One thing, 
however our disgust at that tergirer- 
sation it cannot annihilate. 

To a certain portion of the public 
press that disgust is largely due. It 
has applaudingly attended upon all the 
vacillations and tortuosities of a fickle- 
minded administration. Every rash as- 
severation and every hasty retractation, 
all that has been said", and all that 
has been unsaid, all the revolution- 
ary cant and jargon of their new- 
fledged Liberalism their flippant dog- 
matism their affectation of a conci- 
liatory tone, combined with their real 
intolerance of spirit in discussion the 
very turn, the very cast, the very hue 
of their thinking all these have been 
copied with most sycophantic supple- 
ness and servility \ 

Is there aught upon earth so con- 
temptible as a human echo ? Princi- 
ples, which yesterday were proclaimed 
with beat of drum, and blast of trum- 
pet, as the dictates of consummate 
wisdom, are vilipended to-day, and 
proscribed, and discarded, to make 
room for their very opposites. The 
Minister's mandate goes forth; and 
the commendations, with which the 
former were literally bedaubed, are 
promptly and alertly transferred to the 
latter by these flexible persons. The 
business of the echo, to be sure, is to 
repeat the dictamina of his master, 

not to judge, to weigh, to consider,- 
what has the echo to do with judg- 
ment, and reflection, and deliberation ? 
The use of these would destroy his 
very essence expectare sonos, ad quos 
sua verba remittat. 

For specimens of this kind of echo- 
ism, let us turn over the file of any 
journal employed in the honourable ser- 
vice of puffing every act of ministers. 
The chances are infinite that the first 
article of any length, which presents it- 
self, proves to be an essay on the infal- 
libility of ministers ; e . g. what have 
we here ? neither more nor less than 
a piece of dehortation, recommending 
the people of great Britain to abstain 
from the unpatriotic act of comment- 
ing on the proceedings of government ! 
Thus inditeth one of these thick-and- 
thin gentlemen of the press : '* In a 
season of great public calamity and 
distress, the first and most imperative 
duty of statesmen of all parties, is to 
bend the whole force of their under- 
standing to discover and promote the 
application of suitable remedies to the 
disorders of the state. We cannot, 
therefore, estimate very highly either 
the wisdom or the patriotism of those, 
who, at such a season, employ their 
faculties in the discovery of captious 
objections to the plans proposed by 
government." The necessity of inqui- 
ry is here urged in the first sentence ; 
nevertheless, in the second, the ini- 
quity of discussion is proscribed by the 
assumption, that every objection start- 
ed against the politics now in vogue 
must, be captious, and can proceed only 
from men destitute of " wisdom and 
patriotism !" Oh ! indubitably the 
ministry being a perfect concentration 
of " wisdom and patriotism" them- 
selves, how can their opponents be 
other than fools and caballers? But 
suffer the " gentleman" to explain 
himself farther. He speaks, you arc 
to understand, not of objections in the 
abstract, but of " captious " objections. 
Against these it is that he directs his 
deprecation. " It is the part of wis- 
dom and patriotism, in such a state of 
things, to consider gravely the ten- 
dency of any proposed measure, with 
reference to existing circumstances, 
rather than to snatch at a momentary 
triumph, by contrasting it with the 
former language or intention of the 

The argumentum ad hominem has 
whatever to do with the in- 

224 Strictures on //* Varliamwtary 7/ 

trinsic merits of a?*/ question. Oh ! 
certainly nothing can be more unwise 
and unpatriotic, in a discussion upon 
the expediency of granting extraordi- 
nary powers, than to enter upon the 
question which that discussion neces- 
sarily involves namely, whether the 
confidence claimed he, or he not, me- 
rited ; and whether the previous con- 
duct of the claimants do, or do not, 
evince that steadiness and consistency 
which (were not these extraordinary 
times) would be regarded as condi- 
tions indispensable in the establish- 
ment of such a claim. Certain official 
persons whom the utter worthless- 
ness of the low Whigs, and the supine- 
ness of more reputable men, have in- 
Tested already with a power which, 
under constitutional forms and sem- 
blance, is almost despotic come to 
Parliament, and demand the liberty of 
infringing, without any inquiry, an 
established law. To contend that the 
concession of such a power would be 
a measure fraught With present evil, 
and most pernicious as a precedent for 
the future, was very " captious," no 
doubt. But when honourable mem- 
bers proceeded to. the enormity of 
plainly declaring that ministers, who 
had given proof after proof of so much 
volatility, did not appear to know very 
well what they were about, and con- 
sequently ought not to be trusted so 
blindly and implicitly, when a gen- 
tleman of unquestionable talents rose 
in his place, and pronounced them to 
be " the weakest administration this 
kingdom had ever beheld," when the 
walls of Parliament resounded with 
the accents of reprobation and mis- 
trust, this was not to be borne. The 
fautors of administration became fu- 
rious, and their zeal ran them, of 
course, into absurdity ; for monstrous- 
ly absurd it was, and impudent too, to 
stop the mouth of a senator with the 
exclamation, that he who employed 
the argumeniitm ad homincm, cannot 
be an honest man ! 

I transcribe the following notable 
piece of profundity, because many 
good people will be ready to accuse me 
of caricaturing the sentiments of this 
writer. The arqumentum ad hominem 
" cannot/' says he, " be employed 
upon a practical question of serious 
and urgent importance, without indi- 
cating, on the part of those who resort 
to it, a lann-Ti table poverty of i flea, an 

v'c <//'' riiiiosnjjlncut Statesmen." j^Aiig. 

inexcusable acrimony of feeling, to- 
wards their political opponents, and an 
litter insensibility or disregard to the 
national welfare !" Why, the argu- 
mentum ad hominem was in this case 
actually an argument u-m ad rem !, 
Ministers, in demanding a trust, do, 
by a necessary implication, affirm their 
trust-worthiness. A gentleman, find- 
ing their present conduct to be grossly 
inconsistent with their former profes- 
sions, declares they are not trust- 
worthy, and is told that such a com- 
parison is not lawful argument ! What 
next ? 

Can anything be more ludicrous 
than a writer of this stamp in the act 
of sermonizing upon " wisdom and 
patriotism" ? Perhaps his political eco- 
nomy may be thought equally so. He 
tells us that the foreign corn to be 
thrown into consumption will be re- 
placed by an equal or larger quantity 
from abroad ; '* and thus an extraor-* 
dinary demand for our manufactures, 
equal to the amount of corn imported., 
will be created from the continent.". 
These are the persons, sir, whose sup- 
port is so invidiously contrasted with 
our factious opposition ! 

But this, says our lecturer, is " a 
season of great public calamity," and 
therefore not a fit one for animadver- 
sions upon the course which ministers 
are pursuing. Thus it is with him ! 
Is the political sky unclouded? Is. 
there not a breath of discontent stir- 
ring ? Why, this scribe will then ex- 
claim, do you seek to disturb the una- 
nimity which so happily prevails ? 
Do symptoms of insubordination ma- 
nifest themselves ? Would you, he 
will then exclaim, in such a crisis, 
impede the machinery and diminish 
the moral force of government ? 
What the learned Bsotian, in literali- 
ty, means to say, is, that there is no 
proper time for anything but fulsome 
panegyric. I cannot adopt this sla- 
vish doctrine. I think, on the con- 
trary, that the season best adapted for 
admonition must depend much upon 
the character of the person to be ad- 
monished ; and that of ministers has 
developed some striking proofs that 
they (I mean the liberalized portion of 
them) are no exceptions to the almost 
universal effect of the res secundce upon 
the human mind. They have had " a 
fair breeze in the poop of them " so 
lone?, that a head-wind of a miuute's 

1826.] Strictures on the Parliamentary Logic of et Philosophical Statesmen." 225 

duration fills them with qualms and and demeanour have been as unexcep- 
irritation. Their ears, so long attuned tionable as that of their vilifiers have 
to flattery, cannot bear the discord- not been accustomed to hear from men 
ance of rebuke it " grates harsh in power. It is the language of into- 
lerance it is the language of bigotry 
it is the language of insult it is 
employed against those who are per- 
haps the equals of the Right Honoura- 
ble Orator in almost everything that is 
not adventitious as gentlemen as 
men of honour as men of cultivated 
understandings. If it is not becoming 
in a minister of the crown, infinitely 
incongruous is it with his superadded 
character of a professor of Liberality. 
Is the Right Honourable Gentleman 
aware that the nonsense of that vitu- 
perative sally has relieved, with not a 
little merriment, the bitter feelings 
which have been created by its injus- 
tice ? Not to repeat what is said upon 
a sect so contemptible having drawn 
such an ebullition of anger from such 
a person, it is asked, whether the ap~ 
prehension of Jacobinism be, or be 
not, a political sentiment ? And if it 
be, what is meant by saying, that they 
who oppose the march of intellect, 
from a belief that they are withstand- 
ing the inroad of Jacobinism, are a 
sect, but not a political one ? People 
smile at the notion of the right ho- 
nourable gentleman and his colleagues 
ff toiling for the advantage of man- 
kind." They do say, it were much to 
be wished that our great men would 
lay aside this cosmopolitan humanity ; 
and, leaving mankind to take care of 
itself, enter into a serious review of 
what they are doing for the dwad van- 
tage of their own country. Adverting 
to " those heights " which they tell 
us they have reached, people ask, whe- 
ther the Treasury Bench is the posi- 
tion u from which alone extended 
views of human nature can be taken" ? 
Again, sir, they are ready to acknow- 
ledge that the party opposed to mini- 
sters is " small in numbers, saidpower- 
' less in might" and weak in strength) 
if he pleases ; but they ask, what has 
made the ministry so strong? My 
barber, sir, who is a great politician, 
asked me, a week ago, whether I did 
not think it ridiculous to talk any 
longer about the Fox-and-North coa- 
lition? for, said he, I think it has 
been far out-Heroded by that of the 
Tories and Whigs and Radicals of our 
day. I have been puzzled since to 
imagine whence he stole the remark, 
2 F 

thunder" upon that delicate organ 
The incense, proffered by men odious 
for their reckless, and profligate, and 
selfish politics, is tinhaled with dis- 
tended nostril ; wliile the more ho- 
nourable remonstrant is repelled with 
a supercilious contumely. His repre- 
sentations, whether erroneous or not, 
were arguments addressed to the rea- 
son, not stimulants applied to preju- 
dice and passion. But cant syco- 
phantic cant has been, and still is, 
too powerful for common sense ; there 
is no coping with it upon equal terms. 

Those representations, sir, have 
been characterized as " a doctrine and 
a spirit actuating little minds ; who, 
(which) incapable of reaching those 
heights from which alone extended 
views of human nature can be taken, 
console and revenge themselves, by 
calumniating and misrepresenting those 
who have toiled to those heights, for 
the advantage of mankind !" Now, I 
think it may be questioned, whether 
the Right Honourable Gentleman who 
uttered this bit of raving (for it is no- 
thing better) is in a frame of mind 
perfectly reasonable ? Whether the in- 
toxicating atmosphere of adulation 
have not somewhat turned his head 
with very false and erroneous estimates 
of his own powers of mind, relatively 
to those of the persons whom he was 
so presumptuously contemning in that 
harangue ? It is useless to appeal, by 
argument, except to reason ; and 
which of the twain was it that dicta- 
ted or suggested the greater part of 
that speech cool reason, or stimulated 
vanity ? Nothing but a formidable 
secession from the ministerial phalanx 
will reduce the pulse of the latter 
nothing else will awaken our philoso- 
phical lords of the ascendant from their 
dream of superlative greatness. They 
will be roused from it by and by. Let 
us have patience. 

That they who dare to set up a 
theory, or advance a proposition, not 
perfectly pleasing to the taste of the 
Right Hon. Gentleman, are, quoad 
that difference of sentiment, men of 
little minds, incapables, a faction ! 
is a kind of overbearing and despotical 
language, which the free people of this 
country those I mean whose conduct 

Strictures on thq Parliamentary Logic of " Phib^ticat Statesmen,'' 

Had it been from Maga, I must have 
recollected it; and I know no other 
journal that would have spoken a little 
plain truth so boldly. 

Has the Right Honourable Gentle- 
man reflected upon the multitude of 
virtues which this invective against us 
(for I am very willing to declare my- 
self a member of the "faction/') ac- 
cumulates, by implication, and with 
the coolest assumption possible, upon 
those who lend ministers their sup- 
port ? It cannot be affirmed, as it has 
been, that merely by impugning the 
doctrines which they have propounded, 
a man evinces littleness of mind, and 
exhibits himself as an envious calnm- 
niator, and as an enemy of his species ; 
without being affirmed, at the same 
time, that all who assent and clap 
their hands, do thereby prove them- 
selves to be men of enlarged and com- 
prehensive minds, whose truth and 
purity are not to be questioned, who 
have nothing of the partizan about 
them, who are the friends of humani- 
ty, and the promoters of universal im- 
provement and happiness! Does he 
believe that the portion of the politi- 
cal world which happens to co-ope- 
rate with ministers, is composed of the 
only persons whose motives will stand 
the test of examination ? How many 
of these, his zealous supporters, are 
acquainted with all their motives ? 
How many have ever instituted this 
self-examination at all ? How many, 
were that inquisition rigidly prosecu- 
ted, would find their principles of ac- 
tion to be perfectly taintless, perfectly 
disinterested, perfectly unimpeachable 
on the ground of inexcusable igno- 
rance or neglect? That which a French 
writer of some eminence says of bad 
books is equally true of bad measures 
and systems : " Souvent on loue par 
Jlatterie un ouvrage, a cause de celui 
qui 1'a fait, qui tient un poste consi- 
derable, qui a de grands revenus, qui 
est un noinme de credit, et qui a d'au- 
tres qualites qui n'ont aucun rapport 
avec son livre. On voit bien, qui ces 
louanges cesseroient si cet homme 
perdoit ses emplois, ce credit, ces re- 
venus, ou ces qualites, quand meme il 
feroit des livres infiniment meilleurs, 
Quelquefois on loue par sottise, parce- 

Su'on n'entend point les matieres dont 
s'agit, et que Ton trouve beau ce 
que Ton ne comprend pas. D'autrefois 
on loue par imitation, ou par complai- 
sance ; nans en avoir aucvne raz>ow, .* 

ce nest quon le voit faire a d'autres, 
quoique Ton ne sache point s'ils ont 
raison. Apres cela qu'on parle d'ap- 
probation cle livres ou d'autres sem- 
blables louanges ; et que Ton aille van- 
ter la reputation qui n'est fondee que 
sur les louanges trompeuses !" Now, 
seeing that, lofty as are the heights 
from which the fright Hon. Gen- 
tleman takes his views of humani- 
ty, he can nevertheless scan its mi- 
nute foibles, these truths could not 
have been concealed from his intui- 
tion ; upon what plea of right, or jus- 
tice, or propriety, fit to be produced, 
does he accuse honourable opponents 
of being exclusively actuated by feel- 
ings and principles more than base 
more than simply wicked while 
his own adherents are complimented 
with the contrast which their conduct 
exhibits? I say more than simply 
wicked ; for the spirit of revenge as- 
cribed to us is that which springs from 
a gratuitous hatred of greatness, to 
which we cannot attain : and is not 
that the very kind of hatred which 
poets who do not diminish the fea* 
tures or dimensions of anything: at* 
tribute to the inhabitants of hell ? 

We feel 

Our power sufficient to disturb bis Hea- 

And with perpetual inroads to alarm, 
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne ; 
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge." 

I have interrogated myself it may 
be perhaps with my full portion of 
that self-love, which is inseparable 
from anything human and I do not 
find that my mind is possessed with 
these diabolical sentiments : I do not 
discover in myself that enmity to all 
improvement so confidently imputed 
by the Right Honourable Gentleman, 
And thousands of gentlemen of thy 
highest character, intellectual and mo- 
ral, who cannot regard certain dan- 
gerous novelties as improvements, are, 
I am sure, ready to make the same 
disclaimer. The Right Honourable 
Gentleman could not know that we 
are actuated by such sentiments he 
does not know that measures, whose 
issue is most problematical, are im- 
provementshe does not know whe- 
ther these measures will fulfil his the- 
oretical anticipations, or whether they 
will involve the country in the horrors 
of civil confusion, and, consequently, 
he has nothing better than bald conr. 
jecture on which to build the asser- 

'.j Strictures on the Parliamentary Logic of " Phiksophical Statesmen " 21' r 

point the honour and prosperity of the 
country / !" And the Earl of Liver- 
pool told my Lord Waithman, that 
he felt no disesteem for him in re- 
turn ! ! It was on the llth of that very 
month one week after the Premier 
was lauded for his exertions to promote 
the honour of the country that the 
same Lord Waithman thus spoke, at 
a meeting of Farringdon Ward : " It 
would actually appear as if the citi- 
zens had gone upon a regular look-out 
for fools Ministers liked tliis mode of 
representation. They would rather see 
the city represented by a block or a .stone 
than by active and efficient men. They 
had only to point to the city of London 
whenever a rotten borough was men- 
tioned, and a full answer was given." 
Thus spoke his lordship, as sourly as 
though his face had been washed with 
crab- verjuice all the <{ becks, and 
nods, and wreathed smiles," in which 
that same face had been dressed a 
week before, having entirely vanished ! 
One month after this meeting, an- 
other dinner took place Mr Canning 
going to pay his respects to " the 
concentrical dignity." His lordship's 
face once more beamed with pleasure 
and satisfaction, and he told the com- 
pany that " he thought his Majesty's 
Ministers" (the patrons of city fools, 
and the abettors of city bribery, of the 
month before) " were entitled to the 
respect of the city of London" ! ! ! 
Such is Conciliation in the concrete ! 
Where is the nose which does not cor- 
rugate where are the lips which do 
not curl at such scenes as these ? 

But these are " irritating topics ;" 
this is a rekindling of the embers of 
angry feeling ! All very true, but not 
much to the purpose. This kind of 
dissuasive is one of the many specious 
artifices of cant, by which easy John 
Bull suffers himself to be humbugged 
into acquiescence. It is neither more 
nor less than a cry raised by those 
who are employed in deluding, and 
sophisticating, and emasculating the 
public mind by the delinquents 
themselves against the incommodi- 
ous penalty of subsequent exposure. 
But if men of honour must be vindi- 
cated from aspersion, what imports it 
that the complexion of the hypocrite 
blanch with rage ? Is the chief use of 
newspapers to while away a vacant 
half hour ? Are they to be gent away 
with the coffee-pot, or tea-urn, and no 
more thought of? Are the documents 

tion, that his opponents desire " to 
roll back the tide of civilization." We 
do not see with his eyes; therefore, 
we are an envious, little-minded fac- 
tion I Admirable logic! Magnanimous 
Liberality ! 

As our motives have been so roughly 
and unceremoniously assailed etpuis- 
que je suis en train de sincerite' I take 
leave to ask, Is the Right Honourable 
Gentleman himself much in the habit 
of analyzing his own ? Was he ne- 
ver led to that scrutiny did he ne- 
ver feel a momentary shudder in con- 
templating the real character of men, 
who, but the other day, as it were, 
poured out against him the most 
envenomed and rascally invectives 
of men who recently grinned the sa- 
vage grin of applause upon the dark 
threats of an obscure cut- throat ? Does 
he never start with self-mistrust, like 
the orator of antiquity, when he re- 
flects that these literary ruffians, who 
were not long ago hoarse in croaking 
their denunciations, are now straining 
their throats in his praise ? A single 
morning's collation would produce 
some curious juxtapositions of ribald 
execration and can ting panegyric, from 
the same pen or lips, and applied to 
the same object ; and the motley ex- 
hibition would make a figure in an 
Essay on Conciliation, should any 
gentleman, upon whom the mantle of 
Kabelais has descended, feel disposed 
to favour the public with such a " nice 
little book." 

The following is not designed as an 
exemplification of that deep atrocity 
it is rather calculated to relax the fea- 
tures into a broad grin, than to con- 
tract them with horror it is only a 
specimen of the new Liberality now in 
fashion ; and its drollery is not a little 
heightened by its having shone forth 
in the " Concentrical dignify of the 
city of London." It was on March 4, 
1824, that Lord Liverpool dined with 
some city gentlemen, one of whom 
was " the concentrical dignity ;" and 
that dignity, in a speech which it 
made, thus delivered itself: " Al- 
though he (Lord Waithman) might 
often have expressed opinions at va- 
riance with those which were known 
to be entertained by the Noble Lord 
(Liverpool), he was not the less dis- 
posed to give his lordship credit for 
just and honourable motives, they 
might be taking different roads, but 
both were striving to reach the same 

228 Strictures on the 'Parliamentary Logic oj t{ philosophical Statesmen." [[Aug. 

not pleased, should have sinister mo- 
tives imputed to them." Will he now 
allow us to urge the same plea ? Will 
he give us leave to claim a little in- 
dulgence for the infirmity of our na- 
ture ? Will he permit us to deny the 
inference, that all with whom he is 

which they contain to serve only for 
present delusion, and not for future 
detection? Every speech, of a man 
who makes himself pragmatical and 
public, is a document, and those which 
I have cited are as instructive as they 
are amusing. It is useful it is 
wholesome to reproduce them, now 
and then, to a people who are said to 
be born with every physical perfection 
but that of memory. When the voice 
of obloquy is declaiming against us, 
shall our lips be closed in humility 
and silence ? Shall we not show what 
manner of men are the objects of mi- 
nisterial Conciliation ? Shall we fear 
to tell those Conciliationists that we 
can do very well without their good 
opinion ? And that we scorn to share 
it with the new objects of their com- 
prehensive civility? It may enrich a 

low Whig, but honest men will prefer wnat coarsely, to De sure, Dut aouna- 
the paupertas opulentior of their own antly beyond all precedent, and beyond 
self-respect. They who would have all propriety. The brush would not 
it, must stoop for it, and it is not 
worth picking up. When it pleases 
the Right Hon. Rhetorician 

not pleased have some sinister motive? 
You see, sir, how impossible it is " to 
keep bad company" uncontaminated : 
how impossible it is for a gentleman 
to take up the profession of Liberalism, 
without laying aside the practice of 
liberality. Mr Huskisson a perse- 
cuted man ! and we as bad as the de- 
stroyers of Galileo ! ! What ! could 
not " enthusiastic cheers," and count- 
less blandishments, operate as a seda- 
tive to the irritation arising from a 
rough phrase or two? Surely never 
was public man so flattered ! some- 
what coarsel to be sure, but abund- 


to revile us, we will think of the qua- 
lity of that popularity which he is 
pursuing so eagerly and we shall 
want no better consolation. 

It really is a capital joke, to hear 
the Right Honourable Secretary repre- 
sent his valuable friend the President 
as a persecuted man ! A persecuted 
man ! Poor Mr Huskisson ! A pitiable 
case it is, no doubt, that he cannot 
convert his boasted majorities, of three 
and four to one, into an unanimous 
vote ! It is, I confess, a hard and mor- 
tifying discouragement to that philan- 
thropic person, to find his estimable 
labours, diurnal and nocturnal,* re- 
quited by so much " wanton " cen- 
sure. But suppose this censure he 
somewhat perverse and wrong-mind- 
ed, (and what if a little ill-natured 
railing have accompanied it?) is not 
this human nature, especially wiien 
great interests are at stake? And 
would the Right Hon. Orator banish 
human nature from his liberalized 
House of Commons ?" Such, sir, with 
the alteration of one word, is the very 
question which himself put, some 
years ago, to the rabid reformers, then 
in full cry against government. He 
then thought it very hard, that " all 
with whom they (the reformers) were 

lay it on thick enough, and his friends 
have taken the trowel. He cannot 
expect his " enemies " to do this, and 
what great man is without enemies ? 

The much -lauded speech of the 
much -lauded President lies before me, 
and by its side the newspaper essay 
already cited. The latter rails odd- 
ly enough against the argumentum 
ad hominem, as the resource of a man 
poor in ideas, and yet about one half 
of that speech consists of that very 
kind of argument. To the argument 
itself to the mere retaliation upon 
Mr Baring I see no objection at all. 
Nothing in the world can be more 
fair than to oppose, to an antagonist 
who brings into debate the weight of 
his authority, proofs of the variation 
and inconsistency of that authority 
with itself, and thus to counteract its 
undue preponderance. I see no reason 
why the Hon. Member for Taun- 
ton should not, if guilty of very gross 
inconsistency, be compared to the 
changeable grasshopper upon the Royal 
Exchange. This inference respects 
that honourable gentleman merely. 
But there is another, touching the 
character of commercial men gene- 
rally, which runs as follows: " I 
own I am more and more distrustful 
of the predictions of these practical 
authorities," (Speech, p. 38.) Why 
so? Because experience has shown 

' His daily labour and his nightly toil." Speech of Mr Canning Feb. 24 

1826.3 Strictures on the Parliamentary Logic of " Philosophical Statesman." 229 
them to result from the selfish solid- proofs that a rash and wavering mi- 

tude of those authorities, for their own 
particular interests. (Ib. p. 60.) Yet, 
notwithstanding this depreciatory opi- 
nion upon practical authorities, the 
former sanction of Mr Baring is pro- 
duced, to show that Ministers are not 
theorists ! When this sanction is ad- 
duced in defence of their measures, 
he is " the greatest practical authori- 
ty, perhaps, this country affords;" 
but, when his later opinions are to be 
discredited, he is a weather-cock ! So 
fare the merchants : " a prediction," 
in favour of the new system, is read at 
length and with great emphasis, and 
yet the House is induced to refuse the 
prayers of the mercantile petitioners 
against the system, partly by repre- 
sentations of their selfishness and in- 
competency to judge ! 

It is no part of ray intention to fol- 
low the Right Hon. President in all 
his criminations of Mr Baring. One is, 
however, too delectable to be passed. 
" It was in 1825," says he, " that 
so many new factories were erected ; 
so many new mills set at work ; so 
many new looms occupied. Thus at the 
very time when, to satisfy the predic- 
tion of the Hon. Member for Taunton, 
this trade should have been in a state 
of rapid decline, the manufacturers 
were building to an excess that had 
never been equalled in the periods of 
their greatest prosperity." The " very 
time" here spoken of was February 
1825 ; the silk trade, argues he, was 
then rapidly advancing instead of de- 
clining; and thus its predicted des- 
truction before the arrival of July 5, 
1826, is falsified ! ! Now, this " very 
time," to be worth a pin's-head as an 
argument against Mr Baring's predic- 
tion, should have been shown to be, 
not apparently only, but really a time 
of prosperity ; that is, of prosperity 
with a prospect of continuance : yet is 
it actually described by the Right 
Hon. Gentleman, as a period of insane 
speculation, that speculation to which 
himself attributes almost exclusively 
the present distress of the trading 
community ! I venture to say, in spite 
of the edict against all gainsayers of 
Ministers, that this is stark-staring 
nonsense that the speech of the 
Right Hon. Gentleman is full of such 
.nonsense and ,that it is by such 
arguments as these that the country 
is hilled into its present somnolency ! 
Such arguments as these are taken as 

vigation of the country ! This, sir, 
ich in these days of " enlighten- 

mstry are cautious and surefooted ! 

This same annus mirabilis of 1825, 
whatever mischiefs it may have in- 
flicted upon the country, has done the 
Right Honourable President no little 
service. This year of madness and 
" extravagance of speculation," en- 
abled him to prove that our prosperity 
was on the increase that the silk and 
wool trades were flourishing and, at 
the very time when the shipowners were 
petitioning Parliament against his 
ruinous projects, and stating the decay 
of British Shipping, to prove its aug- 
mentation ! ! Such is the burthen of 
the Right Honourable Gentleman's 
shallow and disingenuous speech on the 

ment" is received as argument, would 
have been derided as nonsense a cen- 
tury ago. I presume that it is non- 
sense undeniable for any man to put 
forth, as indications of prosperity, 
those circumstances which himself 
has stated as palpable causes of the 
distress in trade. Glorious is " the 
march of the Intellect" in these days ! 

The petition of the London mer- 
chants in 1820 was re-introduced, by 
the Right Honourable President, as an 
infallible vindication of Ministers from 
the imputation of being theorists. 
" Why," says he, " do I lay so muck 
stress upon this petition? For the 
purpose of showing that, if the go- 
vernment have pursued this course, 
we have done so, not on the recom- 
mendation of visionaries and theorists, 
but of practical men of business." 
(Speech, p. 26.) He and his col- 
leagues are not visionaries ; their 
advisers are not visionaries ; and 
these are not visionaries, because 
they are merchants and traders ! 
Good very good ! Now, how does he 
know that merchants cannot be vision- 
ary ? How does he k now that they can- 
not be the dupes of visionaries ? Look 
at the petition ; says he, it will prove 
at any rate, that these traders are not 
visionaries ; for, " as I have already 
said, it is not the exposition of any 
speculative doctrine !" I also say, 
look at the petition ; which^ if it be 
not replete with doctrines conceived in 
the wildest spirit of speculation is 
not composed of words, neither are 
those words composed of letters. 

The petition begins properly, not 
at the beginning, but at resolution 

230 Strictures on the Parliamentary Logic of" Philosophical Statesmen." 

sixth ; the five former being a lauda- 
tion, in general terms, of Free Trade, 
and nothing worth the subject they 
were petitioning upon being the expe- 
diency, and feasibility, and humanity, 
of suddenly introducing such a system, 
under those circumstances, and re- 
latively to those interests of the coun- 
try, which have grown out of a policy 
the very reverse. This resolution de- 
clares, that " although the particular 
production which could not stand 
against unrestrained foreign compe- 
tition would be discouraged ; yet, as 
no importation could be continued, 
for any length of time, without a cor- 
responding exportation, direct or in- 
direct, there would be an encourage- 
ment, for the purpose of that exporta- 
tion, of some other production, to which 
our situation might be better suited ; 
thus affording at least an equal, pro- 
bably a greater, and certainly a more 
beneBcial employment of our capital 
and labour." Foreign importations 
Jannot diminish domestic produce ! ! ! 
Now, sir, if all the Presidents the 
world can produce were to affirm the 
contrary, I would take leave to say 
that these petitioners have advanced a 
proposition most impudently opposed 
to known and recorded facts. Why 
were the laws prohibitive of India silks 
enacted ? A century ago, the literal 
desertion of entire streets the reduc- 
tion of the number of looms from 
thousands to hundreds the dispersion 
y ver the face of the country of an in- 
dustrious population, converted, by an 
inundation of foreign-wrought silks, 
into ragged mendicants these calami- 
ties were then thought to be a sufficient 
ground for legislative interference. 
The silks were prohibited : the streets 
consequently re-inhabited ; the looms 
re-occupied ; the beggars doffed their 
rags, and the jug and the loaf once 
more stood before them. But tempora 
tnubintnr, et nos the political philo- 
sophers of our day tell you, that you 
are a fool, if you cannot contemplate 
v/ith coolness a state of things the 
most wretched, which may possibly 
terminate, " after a length of time," 
in the attainment of some prospective 
good ! In the manufacture, whose 
destruction is so calmly anticipated, 
an immense capital is embarked, and, 
what is of deeper import, a large po- 
pulation is employed. The master is 

told that he may transfer his capital, 
and the workman that he may turn 
his hand, to some other branch of 
trade or manufacture. But, good Mr 
Philosopher, it will be painful to us to 
begin the world again, arid to com- 
mence a new life of self-instruction in 
manual dexterity it will be useless to 
carry our labour and industry to an 
overstocked market, where it is not 
wanted. Is this fitting ? Is this 
right? Why not? replies the Philoso- 
pher. Are we, who consume your pro- 
duce, to pay you an enormous tax, be- 
cause you cannot compete with other 
nations? But, sir, is that the only 
aspect under which the subject is to be 
viewed ? Has not this trade been long 
fostered by the legislature ? Have our 
governors a moral right to overthrow 
it so abruptly ? My good friends, our 
governors have a right to resist every 
claim which is incompatible with " the 
advantage of mankind." But, Mr 
Philosopher, is not the happiness of 
mankind made up of national, and 
national of individual happiness ? 
Consider our families do you knout 
how long they may be without bread ? 
Not exactly ; but it is demonstrable, 
that the very importation, which 
brings ruin to your trade, cannot be 
continued " for any length of time," 
(for any length of time !) without a 
corresponding exportation; and this 
will encourage some other production J 
and then, my friends, cannot you con- 
sole yourselves with the philanthropic 
reflection, that you are ruined " for 
the advantage of mankind" ? 

What do you, Mr North what can 
any man whose eyes, like yours, are 
open think of the assertion, that this 
petition contains " no exposition of 
speculative doctrine" ? 

The next resolution declares, that 
very few of the prohibitory duties are 
of any ultimate benefit to the classes 
in whose favour they were instituted ! 
I will venture to assert with confi- 
dence, that the man who penned this 
petition has maintained a hundred 
times, that monopolists have no right 
to enrich themselves at the public ex- 
pense ! 2dly, The Right Hon. admi- 
rer of this petition tells us, that " the 
premium of monopoly" enjoyed by 
the silk trade, amounts to four mil- 
lions annually !* What the devil then 
do the petitioners mean, by saying 

* This is to be " simply '* transferred to the Exchequer, should the manufacture* 

8^6.|3 Strictures on the Parliamentary Logic of :< Philosophical Statesmen" 25 1 

of crack-brained enthusiast ? He as- 
serts, that the subscribers of the peti- 
tion " were practical men of business." 
Is it not absolutely ridiculous to put 
forth such a document as the produc- 
tion of sober men of business ? He 
says they are not visionaries. I affirm, 
without hesitation, that if they co