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Cornell  University  Library 
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Ballads,  critical  reviews,  tales,  variou 


3  1924  013  562  073 


Cornell  University 
Library 


The  original  of  tliis  book  is  in 
tlie  Cornell  University  Library. 

There  are  no  known  copyright  restrictions  in 
the  United  States  on  the  use  of  the  text. 


http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013562073 


THE  BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION 


THE    WORKS    OF 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTIONS  BY 
HIS  DAUGHTER,  ANNE  RITCHIE 


IN    THIRTEEN    VOLUMES 

Volume  XIII. 
BALLADS   AND    MISCELLANIES 


Jsscph  Bro  A '. 


b^hjJjl-t^oulji^^^ 


PuhliahPdbyHarperBralhBrs.NewYork 


BALLADS 

CRITICAL   REVIEWS,  TALES 

VARIOUS   ESSAYS,  LETTERS 
SKETCHES,  Etc. 

BY 

WILLIAM      MAKEPEACE     THACKERAY 
WITH  A  LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR 

BY 

LESLIE  STEPHEN 
AND  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY   THE  AUTHOR 
GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK,  AND  JOHN  LEECH 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

1899 


4.PHICAL  EDITIC 


THE  BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION  OF 

W.  M.  THACKERAY'S  COMPLETE  WORKS 

Edited   by   Mrs.  Anne   Thackeray   Ritchie 


The  volumes  are  issued  as  far  as  possible  in  order  of  original  publication 


1.  VANITY  FAIR 

2.  PENDENNIS 

3.  YELLOWPLUSH  PAPERS,  Etc. 

4.  BARRY  LYNDON,  Etc. 

5.  SKETCH  BOOKS 

6.  CONTRIBUTIONS    TO 

"PUNCH,"  Etc. 


7.  HENR'^  ESMOND,  Etc. 

8.  THE  NEWCOMES 

9.  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS,  Etc. 

10.  THE  VIRGINIANS 

11.  PHILIP,  Etc. 

12.  DENIS  DUVAL,  Etc. 

13.  BALLADS  &  MISCELLANIES 


Illustrated,     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops, 
$1  75  per  volume 


HARPER   &    BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

NEW     YORK    AND     LONDON 


Copyright,  1899,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

All  rights  rfurved 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION  : 

I.    BALLADS         ...... 

P.S. CONCERNING       GRANDFATHERS      AND 

MOTHERS  ..... 

THE   FAMOUS    HISTORY   OF   LORD   BATEMAN 
II.    DRAMATIC    FUND    SPEECH 
III.    NOTE-BOOKS  ..... 


PAGE 

• 

XV 

GEAND- 

xxxvi 

Iv 

. 

Ixii 

,            , 

Ixiv 

BALLADS 

SONG    OF   THE   VIOLET 

THE   CHRONICLE    OF   THE    DRUM,    PART   I. 

„  „  „  PART   II. 

THE   KING    OF    BRENTFORD's    TESTAMENT 

FAIRY   DAYS      .... 

PEG   OF   LIMAVADDY 

TITMARSH's    carmen   IILLIENSE 

JEAMES   »F   BUCKLEY    SQUARE A   HELIGY 

LINES    UPON    MY    SISTER's    PORTRAIT 

A   DOE   IN    THE    CITY 

RONSARD   TO    HIS    MISTRESS 

THE   WHITE    SQUALL 

THE   AGE   OP    WISDOM 

THE   MAHOGANY    TREE 

THE    CANE-BOTTOM'd    CHAIR 

"AH,    BLEAK   AND    BARREN   WAS    THE   MOOR' 

vii 


3 

4 
10 
19 
27 
29 
34 
38 
41 
42 
44 
46 
50 
51 
52 
54 


VIU 


CONTENTS 


the  eose  upon  my  balcony  .... 

abd-el-kadee  at  toulon  ;  oe,  the  caged  ha"vvk 

at  the  chuech  gate     . 

the  end  op  the  play    . 

the  ballad  qp  bouillabaisse 

may-day  ode. 

the  pen  and  the  album 

Lucy's  biethday    . 

the  yankee  volunteees 

piscatoe  and  piscateix 

soeeows  op  weethee     . 

the  last  op  may  . 

the  legend  op  st.  sophia  op  kioff 

pocahontas    . 

peom  pocahontas  . 

vanitas  vanitatum 

little  billee 

MES.    KATHEEINE's    LANTEEN 
CATHEEINE   HAYES    . 


PA8B 

55 

56 

58 

59 

62 

65 

69 

72 

73 

76 

78 

79 

80 

98 

99 

100 

103 

105 

107 


LOVE-SONGS   MADE   EASY 

SEEENADE .  .   113 

THE  MINAEET  BELLS .114 

COME  TO  THE  GEEENWOOD  TEEE    ...  115 

TO  MAEY .  .   116 

WHAT   MAKES    MY   HEAET    TO    THEILL   AND   GLOW?  .       117 

THE   GHAZUL,    OE   OEIENTAL   LOVE-SONG  : 

THE   EOCKS .       120 

THE  MEEEY  BAED 121 

THE  CAIQUE 122 

MY  NORA 123 


CONTENTS 


ix 


FIVE   GERMAN   DITTIES 

FAQE 

A   TRAGIC    STORY 127 

THE   CHAPLET 128 

THE   KING   ON    THE   TOWEE 129 

TO   A   VERY   OLD    WOMAN 130 

A   CREDO 131 

FOUR   IMITATIONS   OF   BfiRANGER 

LE  Eoi  d'yvetot      . 135 

THE  KING  OF  YVETOT         137 

THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD  .     .     .139 

LE  GRENIEE 140 

THE  GARRET 142 

ROGER-BONTEMPS 144 

JOLLY  JACK 146 

IMITATION   OF  HORACE 

TO   HIS    SERVING   BOY 151 

AD   MINISTRAM 151 


OLD   FRIENDS   WITH   NEW   FACES 

friar's    SONG  .... 
KING  CANUTE  ..... 
THE   WILLOW-TREE     ..... 
THE   WILLOW-TREE    (ANOTHER   VERSION)       . 
WHEN   MOONLIKE   ORE    THE   HAZURE   SEAS  . 


155 
156 

159 
161 
164 


CONTENTS 


ATEA   CURA 

COMMANDBES    OF   THE    FAITHFUL 

EEQUIESCAT 

DEAE   JACK 

WHEN   THE   GLOOM   IS   ON   THE   GLEN 
THE   EBD    FLAG  .  .  .  . 

THE   KNIGHTLY   GUEEDON 
THE   ALMACK'S    adieu 


PASS 

165 
166 
167 
168 
169 
170 
171 
173 


LYRA  HIBERNICA 

THE   ROSE    OP   FLOEA  .......       177 

THE    PIMLICO    PAVILION 178 

LAEEY   o'tOOLE .       181 

THE   BATTLE   OF   LIMERICK  .  .  .  .  .  .182 

ME.     MOLONY's      account     OF     THE     BALL     GIVEN     TO     THE 

nepaulese   ambassadoe   by  the  peninsulae  and 

oeiental  company  .         .  .  .         .         .  .186 

the  last  leish  geievance     .  .  .         .         .  .189 

the  ceystal  palace       .         .  .  .         .         .  .191 

molony's  lament   .         .         .  ,  .         .         .  .196 

THE   BALLADS   OF   POLICEMAN   X 
JACOB  homnium's  hoss 201 

THE  THEEE  CHEISTMAS  WAITS 206 

THE    BALLAD   OF   ELIZA   DAVIS 211 

THE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  OF  THE  FOUNDLING  OF  SHOEEDITCH  215 
LINES  ON  A  LATE  HOSPICIOUS  EWENT  .  .  .  .218 
THE  WOFLE  NEW  BALLAD  OF  JANE  RONEY  AND  MARY  BROWN  222 
DAMAGES,    TWO    HUNDRED    POUNDS 224 


CONTENTS 

A   WOEFUL   NEW   BALLAD   OF   THE    PEOTESTANT    CONSPIRACY 

TO    TAKE    THE    POPE's    LIFE 

THE   OEGAN-BOY's    APPEAL 

THE   KNIGHT   AND   THE   LADY 


XI 

PAGE 

227 
230 
232 


THE   SPECULATORS 235 


CEITIOAL   REVIEWS 

caelyle's  feench  revolution 

fashnable  pax  and  polite  annygoats 

steictuees  on  PICTUEES 

a  second  lecture  on  the  fine  arts 

geoege  ceuikshank 

a  piotoeial  ehapsody   . 

a  pictorial  ehapsody  :  concluded 

on'  men  and  pictuees    . 

jeeome  paturot ;  with  consideeations  on 

GENBEAL 

A   BOX   OF    NOVELS    .... 

MAY   GAMBOLS  .... 

PICTUEE   GOSSIP  .... 

A  BEOTHEE  OF  THE  PEESS  ON  THE  HISTOEY  OF  A  LITERARY 
MAN,  LAMAN  BLANCHAED,  AND  THE  CHANCES  OF  THE 
LITEEAEY   PEOPESSION 

JOHN   leech's    PICTUEES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER      . 


NOVELS    IN 


239 
251 
261 
272 
285 
320 
341 
361 

384 
398 
419 
446 


465 
480 


TALES 


the  peopessoe 
Bluebeard's  ghost 


493 
508 


xii  CONTENTS 

VARIOUS   ESSAYS,   LETTERS,   SKETCHES,   ETC. 

pAan 

TIMBUCTOO •       531 

BEADING    A    POEM,    PART   I •       534 

„  „  PART   11.         .  .  .  .  •  .544 

A  ST.  Philip's  day  at  pakis,  part  i.     .         .         •         •     552 
.,  »  „  part  II 562 

shrove    TUESDAY   IN    PARIS .566 

MEMORIALS   OF   GORMANDISING 573 

MEN   AND   COATS 598 

GREENWICH WHITEBAIT  .  .  .  .  .  .614 

AN   EASTERN    ADVENTURE   OP   THE   FAT   CONTRIBUTOR  .       621 

THE   DIGNITY   OF   LITERATURE    ......       629 

MR.    THACKERAY   IN    THE   UNITED   STATES  .  .  .  .634 

GOETHE   IN   HIS   OLD   AGE  ......       640 

A   LEAF   OUT   OF   A    SKETCH  BOOK 643 

DR.    JOHNSON   AND   GOLDSMITH 648 

THE   HISTORY   OF   DIONYSIUS   DIDDLER           ....       652 
THE   ORPHAN    OF   PIMLICO 671 

THE  LIFE  OF  W.  M.  THACKERAY  (1811-1863). 
By  Leslie  Stephen  (Reprinted  from  the  "Dic- 
tionary OF  National  Biography")        .         .         .     687 

A    BIBLIOGRAPHY    OF    THE    WORKS    OF    W.    M. 

THACKERAY         .  719 

INDEX 745 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTEATIONS 


POETEA.IT    OF   W.    M.    THACKERAY      . 

Frvm  a  Brawmg  by  Swmuel  Lmirence,    Engraved  by  Brawn. 


COVEE   OF    "second    FUNEEAL   OF   NAPOLEON^ 

TOM   fool's    POETFOLIO    . 

THBEE    AEE    NO    MAIDS     . 

EDITOE   AND    AUTHOE       . 

SKETCHES — lEISH    BALLADS 

MON    CHEVAL   BOIT 

LA    PLUIE 

VIVALDI 

))  .  .  0 

DOBDS    FAMILY 

SOLDIBE   AND    PEASANT    GIEL 

BUCK   AND   NUESEMAID  . 

MUSICIANS      . 

YSSENGIETTEEY 

FAMILY    GEOUP 

NAVAL   COUETESY  . 

POETEAIT    OF   AECHDBACON    THACKERAY 

PORTRAIT    OF    MRS.    THACKERAY,    WIDOW 
OF   ARCHDEACON   THACKERAY  . 

POETEAIT   OF   W.    M.    THAOKEEAY,    THE   GRAND- 
FATHER   a 749-1 8 13)        .  .  .  . 
xiii 


Frontispiece 


page 


To  face  page 


XVI 

xxiv 
xxvi 
xxvi 

xxvii 

xxviii 

xxviii 

xxix 

XXX 

xxxi 
xxxii 
xxxiii 
xxxiii 
xxxiv 

XXXV 
XXXV 

xxxvi 


xl 


xiv  LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

RICHMOND    THACKERAY,     HIS    WIFE    AND 


CHILD  (w.  M.  THACKERAY  AT  THREE 

YEARS    OP   age) 

From  a  Drawing  by  Chinrwry  i 
THE   COURSE  .... 
PEOPLE   AT    TABLE. 
GENTLEMAN   PROPOSING  . 
THE   WILL       .... 
NAPOLEON   AND   MAJOR   GAHAGAN 
THE   BALLAD   OF   LORD   BATEMAN 


To  face  page  xlviii 
page 


li 
li 
lii 

lii 

liii 
pages  Iv  to  Lxi 


CRITICAL   REVIEWS 

PHILOPROGENITIVENESS  . 
IGNORANCE   IS   BLISS 

TELL   TALE     

TERM    TIME    ..... 

JANUARY LAST   YEAR's   BILLS 

MAY 

MAY — BEATING   THE   BOUNDS  . 

JUNE HOLIDAY   AT   THE   PUBLIC   OFFICES 

JUNE 

AUGUST — "  SIC  OMNES  '' . 


To  face  page  286 
300 
302 
304 
306 
308 
310 
312 
314 
316 


VARIOUS    ESSAYS,   LETTERS,    SKETCHES 


THE    PAT    CONTRIBUTOR  . 

DR.    JOHNSON   AND   GOLDSMITH 

THE   HISTORY    OP   DIONYSIUS    DIDDLER 

THE    ORPHAN   OF    PIMILICO 


.    To  face  page  626 

page  649 

.    pages  653  to  G69 

.,      673  to  685 


INTEODUCTION 

TO 

MISCELLANIES 

1840-1863 

I 

BALLADS 

When  my  father  first  published  his  "  Ballads  and  Poems," 
he  wrote  a  preface,  dated  Boston,  October  27,  1855,  saying: 
"  These  ballads  have  been  written  during  the  past  fifteen  years, 
and  are  now  gathered  by  the  author  from  his  own  books  and 
the  various  periodicals  in  which  the  pieces  appeared  originally. 
They  are  published  simultaneously  in  England  and  America, 
where  a  public  which  has  been  interested  in  the  writer's  prose 
stories,  he  hopes,  may  be  kindly  disposed  to  his  little  volume 
of  verses." 

The  next  edition  of  the  "Ballads"  was  that  of  1861,  when 
Messrs.  Bradbury  &  Evans  published  the  "  Miscellanies." 

"The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum"  came  out  in  a  little  volume  in 
1841,  and  was  published  with  the  "Second  Funeral  of  Napo- 
leon." It  was  a  cheap  little  book,  costing  a  few  pence ;  but  I 
see  that  by  one  of  those  curious  freaks  of  fashion,  with  which 
it  is  diflScult  to  sympathise,  a  copy  was  sold  lately  at  Sotheby's 
for  £19  ;  and  another,  so  The  Times  states,  realised  forty  guineas 
a  little  while  ago.  The  "  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon  ''  was 
reprinted  in  The  Cornhill  Magazine  for  January  1866,  two 
years  after  my  father's  death,  with  a  prefatory  note  by  Mr. 
Greenwood.     He  writes :  "  The  intelligent  public  of  the  time 


MISCELLANIES 


refused  to  read  it.  The  gentleman  who  sends  us  the  original 
MS.  from  which  we  reprint  the  long-forgotten  narrative,  says : 
'  I  had  the  pleasure  of  editing  the  tiny  volume  for  Mr.Titmarsh, 
and  saw  it  through  the  press,  and  after  a  while,  on  the  dismal 

THE    SECOND    FUNERAL 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE   DRUM, 


By  Mb.  M.  A.  TITMARSH. 


COVER   OF        SECOND   PtTNERAL   OP   NAPOLEON. 


tidings  that  the  little  effort  made  no  impression  on  the  public, 
Mr.  Titmarsh  wrote  to  me  from  Paris  a  pretty  little  note,  com- 
mencing, "  So  your  poor  Titmarsh  has  made  another  fiasco. 
How  are  we  to  take  this  great  stupid  public  by  the  ears  ?   Never 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

mind,  I  think  I  have  something  which  will  surprise  them  yet."  ' 
He  had  just  begun  '  Vanity  Fair.'  " 

The  story  of  "  Little  Billee  "  is  told  by  Mr,  Samuel  Bevan  in 
a  book  called  "  Sand  and  Canvas,"  in  which  that  ballad  was  first 
printed  under  the  title  of  "  The  Three  Sailors."  It  was  in  the 
autumn  of  1844,  at  Rome,  that  Mr.  Bevan  met  my  father,  who 
was  then  on  his  way  back  from  the  East.  "  I  met  Titmarsh," 
Mr.  Bevan  writes,  "  at  many  of  the  evening  parties  which  were 
held  by  the  artists  at  this  season.  .  .  . 

"  Perhaps  the  greatest  display  of  this  sort  was  made  on  a  cer- 
tain holiday,  when  the  whole  of  us  dined  together  at  Bertini's, 
and  he  was  voted  into  the  chair.  .  .  .  Just  at  this  time  there 
was  a  schism  among  the  members  of  the  English  Academy  in 
Rome,  and  an  important  question  was  fresh  on  the  tapis ;  it  was 
no  wonder,  therefore,  that  a  considerable  portion  of  the  even- 
ing was  consumed  in  long-winded  speeches,  and  had  it  not  been 
for  a  proposal  on  the  part  of  our  friend  Beardman  '  to  take  the 
basso  part  in  a  glee,'  a  harmonious  feeling  would  hardly  have 
been  arrived  at.  His  instigation  was  succeeded  by  a  call  for  a 
song  from  the  chair,  amid  a  vociferous  shout  of  '  Viva  Tit- 
marsh  !'  and  a  deafening  clatter  of  dessert  furniture. 

"  Our  great  friend  assured  us  he  was  unable  to  sing,  but  wonld 
endeavour  to  make  amends  by  a  recitation,  if  some  one  in  the 
meantime  would  make  a  beginning.  Whilst  a  few,  therefore,  on 
the  right  of  the  chair  were  tantalising  the  company  by  a  tortured 
version  of  one  of  Calcott's  glees,  Titmarsh,  busy  with  his  tablets, 
produced  the  affecting  narrative  of  the  Three  Sailors,  of  which  he 
soon  after  delivered  himself  in  a  fittingly  lugubrious  tone  of  voice." 

Next  to  Little  Billee,  Policeman  X  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most 
popular  of  incarnations. 

The  great  constable  seems  to  have  been  made  for  Punch  and 
Punch  for  him,  as  he  treads  his 

"  Beat  with  steady  steps  and  slow, 
All  huppandownd — of  Eanelagh  Street; 
Ranelagh  Street,  Pimlico. 

While  marching  huppandownd — 
Upon  that  fair  May  morn — 
Beold  the  booming  cannings  sound, 
A  Royal  child  is  born!" 


xviii  MISCELLANIES 

Had  Policeman  X  been  still  among  us  there  is  no  knowing  what 
different  awards  might  not  have  been  made  of  certain  honours 
lately  distributed ;  as  he  himself  justly  observes — 

"The  Poit-Laureat's  crownd, 
I  think  in  some  respex, 
Egstremely  shootable  might  be  found, 
For  honest  Pleasemau  X" 

The  ballads  of  Policemen  X  are  in  the  "  Miscellanies,"  all  except 
'■  The  Organ  Boy's  Appeal,"  which  was  ray  father's  last  poetical 
contribution  to  Punch.  "  Jacob  Omnium's  Hoss  "  interested  and 
amused  us  all  at  the  time  it  came  out.  In  this  ballad,  Pleaseman 
X  exclaims — 

"  Who  was  this  master  good, 

Of  whomb  I  makes  these  rhymes? 

His  name  is  Jacob  Homnium  Exquire ; 

And  if  I'd  committed  crimes, 

Good  Lord!  I  wouldn't  'are  that  man. 

Attack  me  in  the   Times! " 

As  I  quote  from  Pleaseman  X  there  comes  before  me  the 
well-remembered  stately  figure  of  Jacob  Omnium,  so  dignified, 
so  gallant,  that  keen,  handsome  face,  so  significant  with  sense 
and  wit.  I  can  think  of  no  one  very  easily  comparable  in  looks 
or  in  manner  with  Mr.  Higgins,  that  most  lovable  and  most 
fearable  gentleman.  Nor  can  I  imagine  how  any  average  jury 
of  the  usual  stature  ever  found  courage  to  give  a  verdict  against 
him.  "  I  would  give  half-a-crown  an  hour,"  my  father  used  to 
say,  "  if  only  Higgins  would  stand  outside  in  the  garden  and  let 
me  make  studies  from  his  figure." 

One  morning — it  must  have  been  on  the  1st  of  May  1851 — my 
father  was  sitting  at  breakfast  in  the  bow-windowed  dining-room 
in  Young  Street,  when  we  came  in  and  found  him  reading  The 
Times.  He  held  out  the  sheet  and  pointed  to  his  name  at  the  foot 
of  a  long  column  of  verses,  the  Ode  upon  the  Great  Exhibition — 

"  But  yesterday  a  naked  sod, 
The  dandies  sneered  from  Rotten  Row, 
And  cantered  o'er  it  to  and  fro ; 

And  see  'tis  done ! 
As  though  'twere  by  a  wizard's  rod, 
A  blazing  arch  of  lucid  glass 
Leaps  like  a  fountain  from  the  grass 
To  meet  the  sun !" 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

He  said  he  liked  the  simile  of  the  fountain,  it  was  so  simple  and 
yet  it  described  the  building  exactly. 

Our  old  friend  Sir  Henry  Cole  was  one  of  the  chief  origi- 
nators of  the  Great  Exhibition  of  '51,  and  he  used  often  to  come 
and  talk  about  the  scheme  to  my  father,  who  greatly  admired  it, 
and  who  has  written  more  than  one  account  of  that  wonderful 
building.  Besides  the  ode  in  the  Times  there  is  also  the  poem 
by  Mr.  Malony  of  Malony,  which  was  published  in  Punch — 

"  With  jauial  foire 
Thransfuse  me  loyre, 
Ye  sacred  nymphs  of  Findus, 
The  whoile  I  sing 
That  wondthrous  thing. 
The  Palace  made  o'  windows !" 

The  "  Legend  of  St.  Sophia  of  Kiofi  "  provided  its  author  with 
an  unexpected  little  experience  when  he  was  lecturing  on  the 
"  Four  Georges  "  in  Scotland.     He  wrote  from  Aberdeen  : — 

"  I  wonder  if  sneering  is  of  the  devil  and  laughter  is  not' 
wicked  ?  At  a  delightful  industrial  school  at  Aberdeen  (where 
the  children's  faces  and  voices  choked  me  and  covered  my  spec- 
tacles with  salt  water)  the  founder  of  the  school,  Sheriff  Watson, 
pulled  my  '  Ballads '  out  of  his  pocket,  and  bade  one  of  the  little 
ones  read  out,  '  A  hundred  years  ago  and  more,  a  city  built  by 
burghers  stout,  and  fenced  with  ramparts  round  about,'  which 
the  little  man  did  in  an  innocent  voice,  and  a  strong  Scotch  ac- 
cent of  course  ;  but  the  tone  of  levity  in  the  ballad  pained  me 
coming  from  guileless  lips,  and  I  turned  away  ashamed  and  said 
to  myself,  '  Pray  God  I  may  be  able  some  day  to  write  some- 
thing good  for  children.'  That  will  be  better  than  glory  or  Par- 
liament. We  must  try  and  do  it,  mustn't  we  ?  As  soon  as  we 
have  made  a  competence  for  the  two  young  ones,  we  must  see 
if  we  can  do  anything  for  the  pleasure  of  young  ones  in  general. 
That  truth  suggested  itself  to  me  in  the  industrial  schools  in 
Aberdeen." 

The  lines  to  K.  E.  P.  are  well  known — "  The  Pen  and  the 

Album  "— 

"Stranger,  I  never  writ  a  flattery, 
Nor  signed  the  page  that  registered  a  lie." 

Miss  Perry  has  given  her  own  notes  about  my  father,  and 


XX  MISCELLANIES 

they  have  been  published  by  Mrs.  Brookfield  in  her  collection 
of  letters.  "  In  most  cases  there  is  a  prelude  of  friendship,"  says 
the  lady,  who  so  faithfully  remembers  the  past,  "  but  Mr.  Thack- 
eray and  I  went  through  no  gradations  of  growth  in  our  friend- 
ship," and  she  goes  on  to  compare  it  to  Jack's  beanstalk,  which 
reached  up  sky-high  without  culture,  and,  "  thank  God,"  she 
says,  "  so  remained  to  the  end." 

Miss  Perry  adds  that  they  frequently  met  at  the  Miss  Berrys. 
By  degrees  these  ladies,  who  had  not  liked  my  father  at  first, 
began  to  care  for  him.  They  read  his  works 'with  delight,  says 
Miss  Perry,  and  whenever  they  were  making  up  a  pleasant  din- 
ner, used  to  say  they  must  have  Thackeray.  Miss  Berry's  criti- 
cisms seem  to  have  been  somewhat  biased  by  her  friendships. 
She  found  Miss  Austen  so  tedious,  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand her  works  having  obtained  "  such  a  celebrity." 

"  Thackeray  and  Balzac,"  she  observed,  "  write  with  great  mi- 
nuteness, but  do  so  with  a  brilliant  pen."  "  Here,"  says  Miss 
Perry,  "  Thackeray  made  two  bows,  one  for  himself  and  one  for 
Balzac." 

Miss  Agnes  Berry  died  before  her  sister,  and  my  father  always 
maintained  she  was  the  more  gifted  of  the  two.  He  took  us  to 
see  her  once  when  we  were  children,  a  pretty,  gentle  eveille  little 
old  lady,  in  a  white  tippet  with  pink  ribbons,  who,  besides  know- 
ing Horace  Walpole,  had  danced  with  Gustavus  of  Sweden  at  a 
court  ball,  and  who  lived  to  nearly  ninety. 

There  were  some  schools  at  Pimlico  for  which  Miss  Perry 
and  her  sister  Mrs.  Elliot  were  greatly  responsible,  and  which 
always  interested  my  father.  When  Miss  Perry  found  odd  sov- 
ereigns lying  under  the  children's  subscription  lists,  she  used  to 
attribute  them  to  him,  knowing  his  ways.  On  one  occasion  she 
found  a  pen  and  ink  sketch  in  the  account  book  itself,  of  chil- 
dren crowding  round  the  schoolmistress,  who  was  represented 
ladling  out  soup  into  mugs  of  various  sizes.  So  much  for  the 
owner  of  the  album,  in  which  my  father  wrote  the  charming 
lines — 
*  "  Kind  lady,  till  ray  last  of  lines  are  penned, 

My  master's  love,  grief,  laugiiter  at  an  end, 
Whene'er  I  write  your  name  may  I  write  friend." 

Among  the  women's  names  he  ever  wrote  as  friends'  names 


INTRODtrCTlON  xxi 

was  that  of  Helen  Faucit,  "  one  of  the  sweetest  women  in 
Cliristendom,"  as  my  father  called  her.  Her  gracious  gift  of 
genius  belonged  to  the  world,  the  charm  of  her  goodness  was 
for  her  home  and  for  those  who  loved  her. 

To  a  second  K.  E.  P.,*  whcralso  cared  for  my  father,  some  lines 
were  written — 

"  An  old  lantern  brought  to  me ! 

Ugly,  dingy,  battered,  black 

(Here  a,  lady,  I  suppose, 

Tarning  up  her  pretty  nose), 

Pray,  sir,  take  the  old  thing  back, 

I've  no  taste  for  brick-a-brac. 

Please  to  mark  the  letters  twain 

(I'm  supposed  to  speak  again), 

Graven  on  the  lantern  pane, 

Can  you  tell  me  who  was  she, .  ■ 

Mistress  of  the  flowery  wreath. 

And  the  anagram  beneath. 

The  mysterious  K.  E.  ?" 

They  were  among  the  last  verses  my  father  ever  wrote.  K.  E. 
has  had  many  friends,  but  few  more  appreciative  than  he  was. 
I  once  asked  the  lady  of  the  lantern  if  she  had  any  memento  of 
my  father  or  any  of  his  letters,  but  she  said  that  when,  he  died 
she  had  tied  them  all  together  with  a  ribbon  and  put  them  in 
the  fire  and  watched  them  burn  away  to  ashes. 

A  friend  of  earlier  days,  called  Eug6rie,|  used  to  sit  to  my 
father  for  Amelia  in  "  Vanity  Fair,"  for  the  Miss  Osbornes,  for 
various  charming  figures  in  "  Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball."  It  is  the 
remembrance  of  my  mother  which  comes  back  as  I  look  at.  the 
picture  of  the  cane-bottom'd  chair,  "  that  bandy-legged,  high- 
shouldered,  worm-eaten  seat." 

"  It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place, 
She'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck  and  a  smile  on  her  face, 
A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair. 
And  she  sat  there,  and  bloomed  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair." 

He  once  told  his  neighbour.  Dr.  Merriman,  that  this  was  his 
favourite  among  his  ballads.     One  more  poem  should  be  men- 

*  Mrs.  Charles  Perugini,  the  younger  daughter  of  Charles  Dickens, 
f  Almost  as  I  write  her  name  I  hear  of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Wynne  at  Nice, 
January  1899. 


xxii  MISCELLANIES 

tioned  here,  the  ballad  of  "  Catherine  Hayes,"  to  which  allusion 
was  made  in  the  preface  to  "  Barry  Lyndon."  The  original 
version  has  only  just  been  sent  me  through  the  kindness  of  my 
old  friend  Dr.  Weir  Mitchell  of  New  York,  and  it  is  republished 
for  the  first  time,  in  this  volume. 

In  that  preface  I  told  the  story  of  the  confusion  which  arose 
in  the  mind  of  the  Irish  public  between  the  murderess  Catherine 
Hayes  and  the  popular  singer  of  that  name,  and  how  my  father 
sent  the  ballad  on  the  subject  to  Adelaide  Procter. 

One  of  the  letters  to  Miss  Procter  shows  that  my  father  had 
time  to  read  other  people's  verses  as  well  as  to  rewrite  his  own — 

"36  Onslow  Square, /sme  4(1860). 
"  My  DEAR  Adelaide, — Thank  you  for  the  little  book  with 
the  kind  little  inscription  on  the  first  page.     There  will  always 

be  an  "  a "  between  us,  won't  there?  and  we  shall  like  each 

other  out  of  our  books  and  melancholies  and  satires,  and  poetries 
and  proses.  Why  are  your  verses  so  very,  very  grey  and  sad  ? 
I  have  been  reading  them  this  morning  till  the  sky  has  got  a 
crape  over  it — other  folks'  prose  I  have  heard  has  sometimes  a 
like  dismal  effect,  one  man's  specially  I  mean,  with  whom  I  am 
pretty  intimate,  and  who  writes  very  glumly,  though  I  believe 
he  is  inwardly  a  cheerful,  wine-bibbing,  easy-going  person,  liking 
the  wicked  world  pretty  well  in  spite  of  all  his  grumbling.  We 
can't  help  what  we  write  though  ;  an  unknown  something  works 
within  us  and  makes  us  write  so  and  so.  I'm  putting  this  case 
de  me  (as  usual)  and  de  te.  I  don't  like  to  think  you  half  so  sad 
as  your  verses.  I  like  some  of  them  very  much  indeed,  especially 
the  little  tender  bits.  All  the  allusions  to  children  are  full  of  a 
sweet,  natural  compassionateness ;  and  you  sit  in  your  poems 
like  a  grey  nun  with  three  or  four  little  prattlers  nestling  round 
your  knees,  and  smiling  at  you,  and  a  thin  hand  laid  upon  the 
golden  heads  of  one  or  two  of  them  ;  and  having  smoothed  them 
and  patted  them,  and  told  them  a  little  story,  and  given  them  a 
bonbon,  the  grey  nun  walks  into  the  grey  twilight,  taking  up 
her  own  sad  thoughts  and  leaving  the  parvulos  silent  and  wist- 
ful. There  goes  the  Angelus  !  There  they  are,  lighting  up  the 
chapel.  Go  home,  little  children,  to  your  bread  and  butter  and 
teas,  and  kneel  at  your  bedside  in  crisp  little  nightgowns. 


INTKODUOTION  xxiii 

"  I  wonder  whether  this  has  anything  on  earth  to  do  with 
Adelaide  Anne  Procter's  poems  ?  I  wish  the  tunes  she  sang 
were  gayer  ;  but  que  voulez  vous  f  The  Lord  has  made  a  multi- 
tude of  birds  and  fitted  them  with  various  pipes  (there  goes 

singing  in  her  room,  with  a  voice  that  is  not  so  good  as 

Adelaide  Sartorises',  but  which  touches  me  inexpressibly  when 
I  hear  it),  and  the  chorus  of  all  is  Laus  Domino. 

"  I  am  writing  in  this  queer  way,  I  suppose,  because  I  went 
to  St.  Paul's  yesterda}' — Charity  Children's  day,  miss,  and  the 
sight  and  sound  immensely  moved  and  charmed  yours  aSection- 
ately,  dear  Adelaide,  W.  M.  Thackeray." 

When  my  father  wrote  a  poem  he  used  to  be  more  agitated 
than  when  he  wrote  in  prose.  He  would  come  into  the  room 
worried  and  excited,  saying,  "  Here  are  two  more  days  wasted. 
I  have  done  nothing  at  all.  It  has  taken  me  four  mornings' 
work  to  produce  six  lines."  Then,  after  a  further  struggle,  all 
would  go  well. 

There  is  some  such  account  given  in  the  life  of  Lady  Blessing- 
ton  concerning  the  little  poem  called  "  Piscator  and  Piscatrix." 
He  nearly  gave  it  up  in  despair,  but  finally  the  pretty  verses 
came  to  him. 

I  have  still  some  of  his  poems  torn  down  the  centre.  They 
are  as  often  as  not  in  pencil. 

The  volume  of  "  Ballads"  finishes  with  "  The  End  of  the  Play," 
of  which  the  last  verses  might  seem  almost  to  speak  of  his  own 
history — 

"  My  song  save  this  is  little  worth  ; 
I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth. 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide, 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth. 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still. 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth. 
To  men  of  gentle  will." 

If  ever  peace  came  at  Christmas-time  to  a  man  of  gentle  will, 
it  was  to  the  writer  of  those  lines.  "  Good  Will "  was  the  name 
some  one  gave  him  in  some  verses  written  after  his  death. 


MISCELLANIES 


TOM    fool's    POKTPOLIO. 


INTRODUCTION 


The  pictures  and  stetches  from  which  we  have  heen  drawing 
are  not  yet  exhausted.  Among  those  which  are  here  published 
some  tell  their  own  stories,  some  have  to  do  with  things  belong- 
ing to  many  long-agos  of  fun  and  youthful  impression.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  illustration  to  the  old  song,  "There  are  no 
Maids  like  English  Maids,"  or  the  sketches  from  wood  blocks 
or  the  Irish  Ballads,  or  the  notes  from  abroad,  such  as  Mon 
Cheval  Boit  and  La  Pluie,  and  the  pretty  group  of  the  Soldier 
and  the  Peasant  Girl.  The  Buck  seems  of  English  extraction, 
but  the  Musicians  and  Yssengiettery  certainly  come  from  the 
land  of  Caran  d'Ache,  who  was  not  yet  in  existence.  Tom  Fool's 
country,  who  shall  divine  ? 

Besides  these  sketches  we  give  others,  such  as  the  portraits 
of  the  Dobus  family,  in  their  different  avocations. 

Here,  also,  are  the  adventures  of  "  Vivaldi,"  with  their  de- 
lightful horrors,  which  have  never  yet  been  put  before  the  public, 
and  of  which  a  more  elaborate  version  is  in  the  British  Museum. 
The  MS.  was  sent  to  us  for  verification,  a  discriminating  little 
schoolboy  having  bartered  his  collection  of  stamps  for  it  with  an- 
other little  schoolboy,  who  had  become  the  lawful  possessor  of 
the  picture  by  inheritance,  I  think.  The  family  of  the  stamp-col- 
lector demurred,  if  I  remember  rightly,  and  thought  the  stamps 
far  too  valuable  to  part  with  for  mere  sketches;  but  Professor 
Colvin,  at  the  British  Museum,  finally  settled  the  controversy  by 
ofiering  a  sum  of  money,  which  was  accepted,  and  the  pictures 
are  now  safely  in  their  niche  in  the  British  Museum. 


MISCELLANIES 


fer^,p^f'>"f:il[tli'  M 


THERE    ARE    NO   MAIDS. 


BDITOB   AND   AUTHOB. 


INTRODUCTION 


SKETCHES — IRISH    BAIXADS. 


MISCELLANIES 


INTRODUCTION 


7JL'^^^}i'^-i^cL^'.. 


~-r    A,  unuTM^niaH  c^  iiMn 


'     ^    Sun&eo/v. 


MISCELLANIES 


'}'V 


•ftc  oi^^ncftli  /..vfcn.  ^  breads:.  )t*6r. 


Co^c^  i.]5MmX  *litWovv«<.  VA)iul,-birU» 


-    P^^ 


cCr  Ji^'~J)ohuJ      M.K 


ted.)   f(Un6a  'i>  ohui 


13 


DOBPS    FAMILY. 


xxxu 


MISCELLANIES 


SOLDIER    AND    PEASANT    OIKL. 


^^JM, 


BDCK  AND   NOKSEMAID, 


XXXIV 


MISCELLANIES 


YSSENGIETTERY. 


YSSENGIETTERF. 


FAMILY  QROtrP. 


y  J         ! 

HATAL   OO0BTI1ST. 


xxxvi  MISCELLANIES 

P.S.—CON-GEBNING    GRANDFATHERS  AND 
GRANDMOTHERS 

The  author  of  "  Vanity  Fair  "  was  always  very  much  interested 
in  his  grandfathers  and  grandmothers^ong  before  the  present 
fashion  for  heredity  had  set  in.  I  have  often  heard  him  describe 
the  Thackerays  as  a  race,  though  he  did  not  seem  exactly  to  be^ 
long  to  it  himself.  They  were  tall,  thin  people,  with  marked 
eyebrows,  and  clear  dark  eyes,  simple,  serious.  They  were 
schoolmasters,  parsons,  doctors,  Indian  Civil  Servants,  and  some 
officers  thrown  in  to  give  us  an  air.  My  father  once  went  to 
see  the  place  in  Yorkshire — Hampsthwaite,  near  Harrogate — 
from  whence  his  ancestors  first  came,  and  he  took  me  with  him. 
We  walked  through  the  village  and  down  a  steep  road,  until  we 
came  to  an  old  grey  bridge  across  the  rushing  Nidd,  beyond 
which  rolls  a  long  line  of  hills.  (Visiting  the  place  again  with 
my  own  children  after  a  lifetime,  it  seemed  even  prettier  to  me 
than  I  remembered  it.  The  waters  were  fuller,  the  ash  trees 
had  spread  their  branches,  starting  from  between  the  rocks 
and  hanging  over  the  stream.)  I  have  been  told  that  there  is 
a  brook  called  the  Thackwray  not  far  from  Hampsthwaite  (wray 
means  running  water).  After  walking  through  the  village  my 
father  went  into  the  old  church.  The  clergyman  came  out  to 
meet  him,  and  showed  us  the  Parish  Registers,  kept  in  an  an- 
cient, worm-eaten  chest,  where  Dorothys  and  Cicelys  and  Tim- 
othys and  Timotheas  were  inscribed  from  1660  downwards.  We 
were  told  that  the  Thackeray  farm  was  an  old  Elizabethan  dwell- 
ing, which  had  only  lately  been  pulled  down,  and  which  had 
stood  on  the  slope  on  the  other  side  of  the  stream.  For  two 
hundred  years  or  more  generations  of  farmers  had  dwelt  among 
these  hills  and  breathed  the  life-giving  Yorkshire  air,  before  the 
first  of  their  race  came  to  the  front. 

This  worthy  was  Elias  Thackeray  of  Hampsthwaite,  a  hand- 
some man  and  a  good  scholar,  who  went  to  Cambridge,  took 
orders,  and  was  appointed  to  the  living  of  Hawkhurst  in  his 
native  Yorkshire.  Elias  Thackeray  never  married,  but  his  broth- 
er Timothy,  the  farmer,  had  a  well-favoured  son  called  Thomas, 
who  also  distinguished  himself  at  his  books,  and  was  finally  or- 
dained and  became  a  schoolmaster.     He  was  then  successively 


ARCHDEACON    THACKERAY 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

a  master  at  Eton,  Headmaster  of  Harrow  in  1746,  Chaplain  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales  in  1748.  In  the  Whitehall  Evening  Post 
for  Tuesday  the  28th  of  June  of  that  year  we  read :  "  On  Sun- 
day last  the  Rev.  Dr.  Thackeray,  master  of  the  school  at  Harrow 
on  the  Hill,  kissed  H.  R.  H.  the  Prince  of  Wales's  hand  on 
being  appointed  one  of  his  Chaplains -in -Ordinary."  This 
piece  of  news  appears  among  other  more  important  facts,  such 
as  the  Return  of  the  French  from  the  Netherlands,  Conferences 
between  Marshal  Saxe  and  the  Envoy- Extraordinary  of  the 
King  of  Poland,  Account  of  Admiral  Byng's  successful  en- 
counter in  the  Mediterranean  with  a  convoy  of  eighty  ships. 
Dr.  Thackeray  was  Archdeacon  of  Surrey  at  his  death  in  1760. 

The  Archdeacon  is  described  as  a  dignified  person,  with  a 
charming  manner,  dark  eyes,  and  a  powdered  wig ;  he  must 
have  been  a  good  Headmaster,  for  he  more  than  doubled  the 
numbers  at  Harrow.  He  was  just  about  to  be  made  a  bishop 
when  he  died,  but  none  of  his  descendants,  although  there 
were  a  great  many  of  them,  ever  reached  to  such  a  dignity. 
He  was  also  distinguished  as  an  apparition,  and  is  said  to  have 
been  seen  walking  into  his  own  house  a  few  hours  after  his  death. 

We  have  a  picture  kindly  given  to  us  by  the  Rennell  Rodds ; 
it  is  that  of  an  old  lady  sitting  in  a  red  velvet  chair.  She  wears 
loner  white  gloves  up  to  her  elbows,  a  grey  dress  with  short 
frilled  sleeves  made  in  the  fashion  of  George  the  Third's  time, 
a  white  kerchief  folded  and  tucked  away  into  black  velvet 
bands,  a  quaint  cap  with  a  frill  to  it  tied  under  her  chin.  She 
also  wears  a  big  black  silk  apron,  and  sits  demurely  with  her 
hands  folded.  Her  face  is  pleasant  but  determined,  as  should 
be  that  of  the  mother  of  sixteen  children  and  the  wife  of  a  Head- 
master of  Harrow.  When  Miss  Anne  Woodward  married  Dr. 
Thackeray,  a  family  historian  declares  that  they  were  the  hand- 
somest couple  of  their  time.  Their  grandchildren  certainly 
were  very  good-looking  people,  and  I  can  trace  a  look  of  many 
of  the  old  lady's  descendants  in  her  own  spirited,  smiling  face. 
William  Makepeace,  Mrs.  Thackeray's  sixteenth  child,  was  my 
father's  grandfather.  He  went  to  India,  and  soon  after  his 
return  home,  still  a  young  man,  but  already  somewhat  broken 
in  health,  he  settled  with  his  wife,  Amelia  Richmond  Webb,  at 
Hadley,  in  Middlesex,  where  were  born  many  sons  and  daughters. 


xxxviii  MISCELLANIES 

The  story  of  William  Makepeace  ThacJieray  the  first,  as  well 
as  of  his  seven  sons,  has  been  told  by  Sir  William  Hunter  in 
his  delightful  and  spirited  records  of  the  history  of  an  empire, 
with  the  story  of  the  making  of  which  he  has  interwoven  the 
lives  of  these  good,  self-respecting,  and  public-spirited  young  men. 

In  Sir  William's  pages  we  find  the  earlier  history  of  the 
father  of  them  all,  William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  the  "  elephant 
hunter"  as  he  is  called,  "arriving  in  India  on  his  seventeenth 
birthday  with  his  mother's  Bible  in  his  trunk."  We  hear  of 
his  rapid  promotion  under  Mr.  Cartier,  the  predecessor  of 
Warren  Hastings  as  Governor  of  Bengal ;  of  the  wild  territo- 
ries he  was  set  to  govern,  of  his  adventurous  wanderings,  his 
speculations  in  elephants  and  tigers,  his  audacious  disputes  with 
the  Court  of  Directors — all  happening  within  the  ten  years  he 
remained  in  India.  He  was  not  unlike  the  hero  of  a  fairy  tale, 
somewhat  limited,  but  brave  and  single-minded.  Family  feeling 
was  strong  in  this  enterprising  young  civilian.  He  sailed  for 
India  in  1766;  in  1768,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  he  had  sent 
home  for  his  sisters,  Jane,  ten  years  his  senior,  and  Henrietta, 
who  was  a  little  younger  and  very  beautiful.  Sir  William  quotes 
the  old  family  story  of  Mrs.  Thackeray's  exclamation,  "  If  there 
is  a  sensible  man  in  India,  he  will  find  out  my  Jane." 

This  is  a  copy  of  the  petition  of  the  sisters : 

""  To  the  Hon"''  the  Court  of  Directors— 
"  For  the  Hon"'  East  India  Company. 
"  The  humble  petition  of  Jane  and  Henrietta  Thackeray — 
"  Sheweth 

"  That  your  Petitioner  having  a  Brother  in  your  Service,  a 
writer  in  Bengal,  who  is  desirous  of  their  going  there,  and  an 
invitation  being  also  sent  them  by  John  Cartier  Esq',  they  there- 
fore humbly  beg  permission  so  to  do,  by  one  of  the  Ships  bound 
thither,  and  the  Security  required  will  be  duly  given  by 

Your  Honours'  most  obedient  Servants 
(signed)  ^''''^  Thackeray. 

"Endorsed:  Henribtta  Thackeray. 

"  Request  of  Misses  Jane  and  Henrietta  Thackeray  to  go  to 
their  friends  at  Bengal.  Read  in  Court. 

"Granted.  2  Nov.  1768," 


MRS.  THACKERAY 
Widovj  of  Archdeacon  Thackeray 


INTEODUCTION  xxxix 

Eventually  under  their  young  brother's  auspices  the  two  sisters 
both  married,  Jane  became  the  wife  of  Major  Rennell,  and 
Henrietta  married  Mr.  Harris,  chief  of  the  Council  of  Dacca. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  in  Calcutta  also  married  about 
this  time.  His  wife  was  Amelia  Richmond  Webb,  a  daughter 
of  Colonel  Richmond  Webb,  who  commanded  a  company  at  the 
battle  of  Culloden,  and  lies  buried  in  the  East  Cloister  of  West- 
minster Abbey.*  Colonel  Webb  was  a  kinsman  of  the  General 
Webb  who  appears  in  "  Esmond." 

A  letter  from  Colonel  Webb  to  his  son  still  exists,  and  is  char- 
acteristic enough  to  be  inserted  here : — 

Col.  R.  Webb  to  his  Son. 

"  Bath,  Aitgust  25,  1765. 

"  Mt  dear  Richmond, — I  have  received  a  letter  this  day,  by 
which  I  perceive  that  there  is  no  likelyhood  of  getting  you  to 
the  East  Indies  (in  the  fair  and  genteel  prospect  I  would  send 
you)  this  next  year.  ...  In  the  meantime,  you  have  time 
enough ;  you  may  keep  at  your  college,  and  as  I  shall  be  in  Lon- 
don I  will  procure  a  master  to  instruct  you  in  arithmetic,  that 
you  may  not  go  abroad  ignorant  of  what  every  man  must  know, 
and  every  mechanic  does  know.  You  shall  be  taught  under 
my  eye,  and  will  not  have  it  to  learn  among  little  boys  when 
you  go  abroad,  but  be  immediately  able  to  enter  on  merchant's 
accounts.  As  to  the  Church,  it  does  not  seem  to  be  your  choice, 
and  therefore  I'll  not  name  it. 

"  If  the  two  new  pair  of  shoes  and  two  new  pair  pumps  are 
not  made,  forbid  them,  and  only  bespeak  one  pair  of  each ; 
which  will  serve  you  to  wear  in  college.  Pray,  are  your  new 
clothes  made  ?     Write  me  word  by  return  of  post.  .  .  . 

"  I  do  not  doubt  of  your  readiness  to  acquiesce  in  whatever  I 
propose,  that  you  will  make  a  figure  in  whatever  way  of  life  fort- 
une shall  put  you  in.     I  am  convinced  that  you  will  conduct 

*  His  name  is  recorded  on  a  tablet  on  the  cloister  wall.  The  inscription 
on  the  gravestone  below  has  been  worn  away  by  the  steps  of  the  congrega- 
tions passing  into  the  Abbey,  but  the  tablet  has  been  restored  quite  lately  by 
one  of  the  family  of  the  Moores :  it  records  Colonel  Webb's  virtues  in  the 
language  of  the  day,  and  tells  of  the  death  of  his  wife  Sarah  Webb,  who  could 
not  long  survive  her  loss. 


xl  MISCELLANIES 

yourself  with  honour  and  good,  and  keep  clear  of  vice  and  idle- 
ness, these  rocks  which  so  many  youths  split  upon;  and  for  my 
part,  if  Heaven  spares  my  life,  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  protect, 
encourage,  and  support  you  in  anything  that's  praiseworthy. 

"  Be  honest  and  good,  you  have  a  good  stock  of  learning 
which  I  hope  you  won't  neglect.  Make  yourself  master  of  your 
pen  and  your  sword,  and  you  will  be  enabled  to  serve  your 
king,  country,  yourself  and  friends,  and  there's  nothing  that 
you,  who  are  born  a  gentleman  and  educated  like  one,  may  not 
pretend  to.  .  .  . 

"  I  must  now  busy  myself  with  putting  all  your  sisters  out, 
and  Mama  and  you  and  I  spend  the  winter  in  London. — Adieu, 
my  dear  boy.     '  R-  Webb." 

The  younger  Richmond  subsequently  entered  the  army  and 
was  killed  in  the  American  War. 

Apparently  the  poor  Webb  sisters  were  all  "  put  out,"  as  their 
father  says,  and  shipped  off  to  India.  Three  of  them  married 
there.  Amelia  met  Mr.  Thackeray  at  Calcutta,  at  the  age  of 
seventeen.  Another,  Augusta,  became  Mrs.  Evans ;  a  third, 
Sarah,  married  Mr.  Peter  Moore.  On  the  unmarried  daughter, 
Charlotte,  some  sad  tragedy  seems  to  have  fallen  ;  although  her 
start  in  life  was  happy.  After  the  Thackerays'  departure  for 
England  she  made  her  home  with  Mrs.  Moore.  One  of  this  lively 
lady's  letters  describing  her  sister's  adventures  has  been  pre- 
served, and  reads  like  a  page  out  of  "  Evelina  "  or  "  Cecilia." 

From  Mrs.  Moorb  in  Calcutta  to  Mrs.  Thackeray 
in  England. 

"  The  day  following  Dr.  Williams  being  discarded  as  a  lover 
came  Mr.  Wodsworth,  who  had  teased  us  with  his  company  al- 
most incessantly  for  some  time  before.  He  took  Mr.  Moore 
aside  and  declared  a  most  violent  love  for  Charlotte,  entreating 
that  P.  M.  should  give  him  his  interest.  Mr.  Moore  replied  with 
great  coolness  that  she  was  at  her  own  disposal,  and  that  he  did 
not  mean  to  interfere.  Mr.  Wodsworth  then  came  to  me  and 
told  me  that  Mr.  Moore  had  something  to  say  to  me.  I  accord- 
ingly went  out,  and  was  a  little  astonished  at  Wodsworth's  as- 


W.  M  THACKERAY,  THE  GBANDfATHER  (17W-1B13) 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

surance.  I  rejoined  the  company  with  a  very  grave  aspect,  and 
took  no  further  notice,  but  saw  that  Mr.  W.,  agreeable  to  Ms 
bold  and  constant  custom,  had  stayed  supper  without  being  aslced. 
We  had  not  an  opportunity  to  mention  the  matter  to  Charlotte, 
so  that  you  may  guess  her  surprise  when,  as  we  were  walking 
with  the  Auriols  to  the  door,  Mr.  W.  laid  hold  on  her,  and  with- 
out further  preface  began  with,  '  0  dear  Miss  Webb,  don't  dis- 
tract iTie,  I  love  you  to  distraction.'  Poor  Charlotte,  who  was 
thunderstruck  at  so  abrupt  and  indelicate  a  declaration,  was 
much  provoked,  and  turning  short  on  him  only  said,  '  Bless  me, 
sir,  you're  mad,  sure ! '  and  immediately  joined  us  in  the  ve- 
randah. Notwithstanding  this  rebuff  he  had  the  boldness  to 
come  the  next  day  to  tea,  and  joined  us  in  our  walk ;  but  we  re- 
ceived him  very  coolly,  and  hardly  spoke  to  him,  and  Mr.  Moore 
took  this  opportunity  of  telling  him  he  must  be  much  less  fre- 
quent in  his  visits.  He  expressed  great  concern  lest  Mr  Thom- 
son should  have  overheard  his  speech  to  Charlotte.  Mr.  Moore 
told  him  he  might  well  be  ashamed  of  it,  for  he  never  heard 
anything  like  it  in  his  life,  and  added  that  he  spoke  so  loud, 
that  not  only  Mr  Thomson,  but  the  two  Mr.  Auriols  must  have 
heard  it.  You  know  P.  M.  loves  a  little  mischief.  Here  endeth 
the  chapter  of  Mr.  Wodsworth. 

"  Auriol  of  late  has  paid  her  very  great  and  constant  atten- 
tion, which  she  seems  to  receive  with  much  pleasure."  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Moore  goes  on  to  hope  that  Charlotte  will  soon  make  np 
her  mind,  as  Augusta, — still  wearing  short  frocks,  and  with  her 
hair  over  her  forehead, — is  also  beginning  to  receive  verses  and 
offers,  which  she  refuses  with  great  spirit. 

The  following  pathetic  letter  from  the  mother  in  England  to 
Warren  Hastings — which  was  found  in  the  British  Museum  and 
given  us  by  Mr.  Malcolm  Low — comes  in  vivid  contrast  to  all  the 
merriment  and  feasting : — 

From  Mrs.  Webb  to  Warren  Hastings,  Esq. 

"London,  High  Street,  Marylebone, 
•'December  20,  1781. 

"  Sir, — Distracted  with  the  sufferings  of  our  dear  beloved  and 
unfortunate  daughter,  Charlotte  Webb,  I  hope,  will  plead  my  ex- 


xlii  MISCELLANIES 

cuse  for  the  liberty  of  thus  addressing  you  on  her  behalf.  Ap- 
prehending Mr.  Evans  may  possibly  be  absent  from  Calcutta,  as 
(or?)  fearing  any  other  accident  should  put  it  out  of  his  power 
to  convey  our  dear  child  to  England,  in  compliance  to  most  ear- 
nest and  repeated  request.  If,  therefore,  she  is  not  already  on 
her  passage  home,  I  beg  and  implore  that  you,  Sir,  will  have  the 
great  goodness  and  compassion  to  her  wretched  state,  and  ours, 
as  to  have  her  conveyed  home  with  all  possible  speed  and  safety, 
which  shall  ever  be  esteemed  as  the  greatest  obligation,  which 
favour  I  should  never  have  presumed  to  ask,  but  that  urgent  ne- 
cessity prompts  me  to  it ;  the  miserys  she  has  already  sufEered, 
and  the  great  loss  of  time  past  owing  to  Mrs.  Moore's  imprudence 
in  keeping  her  summer  after  summer  since  her  first  illness,  which 
has  perhaps  rendered  all  our  future  endeavour  to  recover  her, 
lost.  These  dreadful  considerations,  together  with  their  com- 
pleting her  tradgedy  by  a  sham  marriage,  all  which  shocking 
events  makes  her  poor  father  and  I  really  fear  that  even  murder 
may  be  the  next  cruel  scene  with  which  we  may  be  presented. 
Our  troubles  and  reflections  are  of  the  bitterest  kind,  that  so 
good,  so  fine  a  girl  should  meet  with  such  a  load  of  woes,  for,  if 
there  are  Truth,  Innocence,  and  Honour  in  the  Humane  breast, 
our  dear  Charlotte  Webb  had  her  full  portion.  Such  was  her 
character  from  infancy  while  in  England,  but  that  fatal  period 
in  which  I  unhappily  suffered  her  to  depart  from  under  the  pro- 
tection of  her  parents  has  ruined  her,  and  I  am  the  innocent 
cause,  for  which  I  shall  never  forgive  myself. 

"  Pardon,  Sir,  my  thus  trespassing  on  your  time  and  patience, 
but  I  trust  your  humanity  will  consider  this  comes  from  an  un- 
happy mother,  who  weeps  over  every  line  as  she  writes,  so  full 
is  my  heart  of  sorrow  for  my  dear  Charlotte,  that  I  am  almost 
frantic.  Her  father  and  I  have  both  wrote  long  letters  to  Mr. 
Evans  pressing  him  to  send  our  poor  girl  home,  we  likewise  got 
a  friend  to  convey  a  small  letter  to  the  same  purpose  over  land. 
But  she  has  suffered  so  very  much  and  so  have  we,  on  her  ac- 
count, which  has  obliged  us  to  try  every  method  to  convey  our 
wishes  to  Mr.  Evans,  and  even  (here  a  word  or  two  blurred)  feel- 
ing heart,  and  which  I  hope  will  apologise  for  the  freedom. — I 
have  the  honor  to  be.  Sir,  your  most  obliged  and  most  humble 
servant,  Sarah  Webb." 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

This  letter  makes  us  realise,  as  indeed  does  many  another  in- 
stance, what  a  remarkable  role  Warren  Hastings  was  called  on 
to  perform.  He  seems  to  have  been  Father  Confessor  as  well  as 
Dictator  to  the  whole  colony.  They  turn  to  him  in  every 
difficulty,  invariably  counting  on  his  help  and  good  offices. 

Seven  or  eight  years  later  we  find  Amelia  Thackeray  and  Sarah 
Moore  and  their  husbands  settled  on  Hadley  Green,  where  they  are 
afterwards  joined  by  Henrietta,  now  Mrs.  Harris,  a  widow,  and  vis- 
ited by  Jane  and  her  distinguished  husband,  Major  James  Rennell. 

Some  volumes  of  old  letters  were  lately  found  at  a  second- 
hand bookseller's  ;  they  are  from  Great-grandpapa  Thackeray, 
the  elephant-hunter,  and  chiefly  addressed  to  his  solicitor.  Mr. 
Thackeray  seems  fond  of  business,  and  is  deputed  to  look  after 
investments  for  his  brothers  and  sisters.  He  has  also  wards 
who  have  been  left  to  his  guardianship.  They  had  been  sent 
by  their  dying  father  in  India  to  Mr.  Thackeray's  care,  and  to 
that  of  Mr.  Morgan  Thomas  the  friendly  man  of  business.  They 
arrived  with  a  patrimony  consisting  among  other  things  of  dia- 
monds and  cashmere  shawls,  to  be  disposed  of  for  their  benefit. 
Mrs.  Rennell  is  prepared  to  buy  some  of  the  treasures.  Mr. 
Thackeray's  family  is  so  large,  he  cannot  have  his  wards  to  stay 
with  him,  he  says.  The  family  preoccupies  him  very  much.  .One 
year  he  is  engaged  in  having  it  "  occulated,"  another  year  he 
and  his  wife  have  just  returned  from  France,  to  find  Mrs.  Moore 
and  her  little  family  established  on  the  Green.  There  is  a  story 
of  a  black  boy,  who  has  stolen  Mrs.  Thackeray's  purse  with  "  a 
guinea  "  in  it,  the  year  in  which  my  grandfather,  Richmond 
Thackeray,  was  born.  Great-grandpapa  Thackeray  wishes  the 
black  boy  out  of  the  house,  and  begs  Mr.  Thomas  to  find  him  a 
lodging  at  a  hairdresser's  until  he  can  be  sent  on  board  ship. 
One  might  be  puzzled  by  this  cure  for  dishonesty,  but  the 
writer  goes  on  to  explain  that  at  the  barber's  the  boy  might 
make  some  progress  in  hairdressing,  which  would  be  of  service 
to  him  in  India,  and  enable  him  to  earn  an  honest  living  there, 
without  stealing  purses.  Parents  nowadays  might  envy  Mr. 
Thackeray's  complaints  of  the  expenses  of  education.  "  I  can 
speak  from  experience,"  he  says,  "  it  is  to  me  a  most  serious 
matter.     My  son's  bills  at  Eton  for  the  last  year  came  to  near 


xliv  MISCELLANIES 

£80."  Incidentally  some  of  the  family  names  occur— the  other 
dwellers  upon  Hadley  Green  are  mentioned.  Mr.  Peter  Moore 
arrives  from  India,  brothers  and  sisters  cross  the  scene;  so 
does  Mr.  Cartier,  his  former  chief,  and  a  Mr.  Baronneau,  who 
lends  Mrs.  Thackeray  his  carriage. 

Mrs.  Bayne,  the  family  historian,  tells  us  how  Mr.  Thackeray  al- 
ternately wore  a  pepper  and  salt  suit,  and  a  blue  one  with  brass  but- 
tons, and  that  Mrs.  Thackeray  used  to  dress  in  white,  and  lie  upon  a 
sofa,  rather  to  the  scandal  of  her  more  energetic  contemporaries. 

Among  the  various  letters  bound  up  with  Mr.  Thackeray's  is 
a  very  unexpected  epistle  addressed  to  one  of  the  wards  by  Miss 
Amelia  Alderson,  better  known  as  Mrs.  Opie.  They  had  met 
on  some  country  visit.  It  is  as  long  as  letters  seemed  to  be  in 
those  days,  and  a  somewhat  ponderous  mixture  of  heavy  flirta- 
tion and  lively  good  advice. 

It  was  from  this  family  home  on  Hadley  Green  that  the  sons 
started  one  by  one — never  to  return. 

Six  of  them  followed  their  father's  example,  and  went  to 
India ;  William,  Richmond,  Tom,  Webb,  St.  John,  Charles,  each 
one  in  turn,  some  soldiers,  some  civil  servants.  Richmond,  my 
own  grandfather,  went  out  at  sixteen,  in  the  Company's  Civil 
Service,  and  held  various  appointments.  He  was  the  only  one 
of  the  Indian  brothers  who  married,  and  my  own  father  was  his 
only  son.  The  history  of  William  is  also  told — the  handsomest 
and  foremost  of  them  all.  He  was  the  friend  of  Sir  Thomas 
Munro,  the  Governor  of  Madras,  and  he  worked  with  him  for 
many  years.  The  task,  says  Sir  William,  assigned  to  Munro 
and  his  assistants  was  to  bring  order  to  chaos,  and  substitute  a 
fair  revenue  system  for  extortion  by  the  sword.  "  They  spent 
their  days  in  the  saddle,  and  their  nights  in  tents,  in  ruined 
forts,  and  Hindu  temples,  or  under  the  shadow  of  some  crum- 
bling town  gate.  One  by  one  each  hamlet  was  visited,  and  the 
people  were  assured  that  the  British  Government  only  asked  for 
a  moderate  rental,  and  would  protect  them  in  the  undisturbed 
possession  of  their  homesteads."  William  Thackeray  was 
famous  for  his  horses  and  horsemanship,  as  well  as  for  being  an 
authority  on  financial  subjects.  He  was  President  of  the  Board 
of  Revenue  in  the  Madras  Government  when  he  died,  January 
11,  1823,  aged  forty-four. 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

St.  John  Thackeray  was  also  in  the  Civil  Service ;  he  was 
chosen  to  help  to  bring  into  order  the  territories  just  won  from 
the  Mahrattas,  and  we  read  that  he  lost  his  life  as  he  advanced 
unguarded  with  a  flag  of  truce  to  a  Kittur  fort  which  the  in- 
surgents had  seized.  Webb,  who  had  a  special  gift  for  lan- 
guages, lived  but  a  year  after  his  arrival  as  a  Madras  civilian, 
but  he  lived  long  enough  to  make  his  mark. 

Then  there  is  the  story  of  Thomas,  killed  in  action  in  the 
Nepal  War  of  1814,  after  showing  "  extraordinary  valour."  We 
have  a  letter  dated  from  the  camp,  "  On  ye  banks  of  the  Jumna." 
It  is  docketed  in  a  sister's  handwriting,  "  My  beloved  brother 
Thomas's  last  letter,  written  fourteen  days  before  he  fell." 

"The  appearance  of  a  left-hand  epistle,"  he  says,  "will  not 
alarm  you,  my  dear  Charlotte,  even  though  you  should  not  have 
been  apprised  of  the  trifling  accident  which  gives  me  no  pain 
and  little  uneasiness,  except  that  it  will  for  a  time  put  it  out  of 
my  power  to  write  to  you.  I  trust,"  he  continues,  "  I  shall  soon 
have  occasion  to  address  you  again,  to  thank  you  for  the  Had- 
ley  news,  and  very  shortly  my  right  hand  will  be  able  to  apologise 
for  this  awkward  attempt  of  my  left  to  express  my  afEection." 

It  is  odd  to  read  letters  in  the  familiar  family  phraseology, 
almost  not  quite  in  the  familiar  handwriting — letters  full  of  the 
doings  of  people  who  are  almost  not  quite  those  one  has  known. 
Here  is  a  letter  of  1801  ;  it  is  written  to  his  sister  by  my  grand- 
father at  the  age  of  nineteen  from  the  college  at  Calcutta.  It 
is  very  like  one  of  my  father's  early  letters. 

"I  hope  to  be  out  of  this  in  ten  months,"  he  says;  "I  am 
almost  sorry  I  entered  it,  as  the  people  begin  to  give  themselves 
airs,  and  you  know  I  always  hated  a  jack  in  office.  I  could 
make  Mater  laugh  with  a  few  anecdotes,  but  I  believe  it  is  dan- 
gerous, and  therefore  will  not  indulge  myself.  Should  I  leave 
college  next  December  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  here,  but  I  sup- 
pose you  won't  come  without  a  formal  invitation. 

A  CARD. 

Mb.  Thackeray  requests  the  honour  of  Miss  Thackeray's  com- 
pany at  his  house  in  Calcutta. 

"Joking  apart,  I  think,  my  dear  Emily,  should  I  leave  college 


xlvi  MISCELLANIES 

by  that  time,  and  you  have  no  great  fears,  you  had  better  come. 
.  .  .  For  next  to  our  dear  father  and  mother  you  have  no  bet- 
ter friend  than  me." 

My  kind  young  grandfather  goes  on  making  plans  for  his 
family  at  home,  just  as  my  own  father  used  to  do.  "  Should 
any  accident,  which  God  forbid,  happen  in  England,  this  would 
be  a  good  situation  for  the  whole  family."  Then  he  speculates 
about  his  father  being  appointed  to  some  place  at  home.  "  But 
I  could  not  see  him  attending  a  levee  of  a  lord,  whose  highest 
good  quality  would  be  totally  obscured  by  the  least  conspicuous 
one  of  Pater's."  "  Go  down  the  Grove,"  he  says  in  a  post- 
script, "and  read  this  on  the  bench  by  yourself,  and  then  per- 
haps you  will  have  patience  to  make  out  the  epistle." 

There  are  some  brotherly  jokes  in  it ;  he  is  sending  his  letter 
by  the  hand  of  a  friend,  "  a  good  sort  of  man  ;  indeed,  I  intend 
him  for  either  an  admirer  of  yours  or  one  of  the  Moores  i.e. 
if  you  are  not  already  married."  The  Moore  cousins  lived  next 
door  to  the  Thackerays  at  Hadley.  Mr.  Peter  Moore  was  named 
my  father's  guardian  in  my  grandfather's  will.  He  was  an  in- 
teresting and  brilliant  man,  the  friend  of  Sheridan,  who  indeed 
died  in  Mr.  Moore's  house  in  Westminster.  He  was  M.P.  for  Cov- 
entry for  twenty-one  years.*     Fortune  deserted  him  in  later  life. 

There  is  a  second  letter  from  Richmond  Thackeray  to  his 
mother,  urging  that  his  sister  when  she  comes  to  India  should 
bring  letters  of  introduction,  "  for  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  he 
says,  "  I  am  very  far  from  a  lady's  man.  It  will  be  my  and 
William's  business  to  see  that  Emily  is  as  well  provided  with 
everything  as  possible.  I  find  economy  will  carry  a  small  salary 
a  great  way,  and  am  in  hopes  of  having  at  least  800  rupees  a 
month  before  she  arrives."  Emily  accepted  the  invitation,  and 
my  grandfather  then  writes  to  beg  that  another  of  his  sisters 
may  come  out.  It  is  Charlotte  he  wishes  for,  beautiful  Char- 
lotte, barely  sixteen.  Augusta  he  loves  quite  as  well,  he  says, 
but  he  has  set  his  heart  on  Charlotte. 

Parents  in  those  days  were  less  influenced  by  their  children's 
wishes  than  they  are  now.  Charlotte  remained  at  Hadley,  Augusta 

*  Mr.  Richmond  Moore  ot  Guildford  has  a  fine  oil  painting  of  Mr.  Peter 
Moore. 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

was  sent  out  to  her  brother,  being  next  in  rotation.  She  was  a 
very  stately,  and,  when  I  knew  her,  a  most  alarming  old  lady. 
I  just  came  up  to  her  knees,  and  used  to  gaze  in  awe  at  her  white 
stockings  and  sandalled  shoes,  as  she  walked  along  the  Champs 
Elysees,  where  so  many  of  our  relations  had  congregated  by  that 
time.  Among  these  was  Charlotte,  my  Great-aunt  Ritchie  ;  and 
I  loved  her,  as  who  did  not  love  that  laughing,  loving,  romantic, 
handsome,  humorous,  indolent  old  lady.  Shy,  expansive  in  turn, 
she  was  big  and  sweet  looking,  with  a  great  look  of  my  father. 
Though  she  was  old  when  I  knew  her,  she  would  still  go  ofE  into 
peals  of  the  most  delightful  laughter,  just  as  if  she  were  a  girl. 
When  she  was  still  quite  young,  soon  after  her  parents'  death 
(both  of  whom  she  had  devotedly  nursed  with  the  help  of  her 
brother  Charles),  she  came  out  of  the  house  at  Hadley  one  day 
dressed  in  the  deepest  mourning,  and  got  into  the  London  coach 
which  passed  through  the  village.  She  looked  so  blooming,  and 
so  beautiful  in  her  crape  veils,  that  Mr.  John  Ritchie,  a  well-to- 
do  merchant  of  a  suitable  age,  who  was  travelling  in  the  coach, 
fell  in  love  with  her  then  and  there.  He  inquired  who  she  was, 
"  paid  his  addresses,''  and  was  accepted  very  soon  after. 

One  autumn  day,  just  before  his  second  visit  to  America,  my 
father  sent  for  an  open  carriage  and  a  pair  of  horses,  and  we 
drove  to  Hadley,  near  Barnet,  to  see  the  early  Thackeray  home. 
It  was  a  square  family  house,  upon  a  green.  It  was  not  high, 
but  spread  comfortably,  with  many  windows,  and  it  was  to  let. 
The  Thackerays  were  gone  from  it  long  since,  the  seven  sons  and 
the  many  daughters. 

My  father  seemed  to  know  it  all,  though  he  had  never  been 
there  before.  He  went  into  the  garden  exclaiming,  There  was 
the  old  holly  tree  that  his  father  used  to  write  about.  Half  the 
leaves  were  white  on  the  branches  that  spread  across  the  path  ; 
that  gravel  path,  which  my  grandfather,  Richmond  Thackeray, 
used  to  roll  as  a  boy,  and  which  he  longed  for  in  India  some- 
times. At  the  back  of  the  drawing-room  was  a  study,  with  a 
criss-cross  network  of  wire  bookcase  along  the  walls  ;  it  was  here 
that  Amelia  Thackeray  was  sitting  when  her  husband  came  in 
agitated  and  very  pale  ;  he  said  there  was  terrible  news  from 
India,  and  as  she  started,  terrified,  from  her  seat,  he  exclaimed, 
"Not  William,  not  William,  but  Webb."     " 0  Webb,  my  Webb," 


xlviii  MISCELLANIES 

cried  the  poor  motlier,  and  dropped  senseless  on  the  ground. 
She  never  quite  recovered  the  use  of  her  limbs,  though  she  re- 
gained consciousness.  Until  then  she  had  never  told  anybody 
that  she  loved  Webb  the  best  of  all  her  children.  We  have  but 
one  record  of  her  own,  a  letter  written  to  her  son  St.  John,  aged 
sixteen,  at  the  East  India  College,  Hertford,  written  with  very 
motherly  and  touching  expressions  : — 

Mrs.  W.  M.  Thackeray  to  St.  John  Thackeray. 

"December  12,  180T. 
"  I  feel  impatient  to  wish  my  dear  boy  every  success,  at  the 
same  time  not  to  feel  discouraged  should  it  prove  otherwise  than 
my  anxious  wishes  would  have  it.  If  you  do  but  profit  by  the 
past,  which  can't  be  recalled,  it  will  still  prove  beneficial  by  af- 
fording you  experience  for  the  future ;  for,  as  you  most  justly 
observe,  'the  loss  of  time  in  youth  is  certainly  most  unfortunate, 
because  irreparable.'  But,  thank  God,  ray  dear  boy  has  still  left 
enough  of  early  youth  to  redeem  all  past  neglect,  and  since, 
thank  God,  he  has  sense  and  true  understanding  to  enable  him 
to  perceive  the  mighty  advantages  of  diligence  in  order  to  sow 
in  due  season  to  make  sure  of  a  good  harvest.  ...  I  feel 
much  for  your  approaching  trial  on  Saturday,  and  can't  forbear 
recommending  you,  my  dearest  St.  John,  still  to  exert  your 
utmost  until  that  day  in  getting  by  heart  the  parts  you  have  to 
exhibit  in  as  perfectly  as  possible.  Do  your  best  and  leave  the 
rest  to  Providence.  Be  sure  on  no  account  to  neglect  your 
precious  health.  Kemember  that  a  cheerful,  open  countenance 
and  fine,  graceful  carriage  is  the  characteristic  of  a  gentleman 
and  a  young  man  of  sense.  To  feel  quite  well — and  to  be  so — 
are  quite  essential  requisites  towards  succeeding.  Pray  be  at 
the  trouble  to  peruse  this  y/iih.  attention,  and  forget  not  the  hints 
of  your  most  afEectionate  mother, 

"  A.  T. 

"  F.S.—^Be  as  neatly  dressed  as  possible  on  Saturday,  and  with 
your  own  pleasing,  manly,  yet  modest,  open  countenance  you  need 
not  fear  that  any  one  will  excel  my  dear  boy  ;  and  the  next  year 
I  am,  please  God,  at  least  certain  that  in  superiority  of  talents 


Published  b^Harper and Bros.Newybrk  -. 


IJSrTRODTJCTION  xlix 

and  abilities,  as  well  as  person,  none  will  surpass  you.     God 
ever  bless  you." 

Amelia  Thackeray  was  only  a  little  over  fifty  when  she  died ; 
she  and  her  husband  were  both  buried  at  Hadley  in  the  church- 
yard. I  can  remember  my  own  father  as  he  stood  by  the  stone 
which  was  half  hidden  in  the  ivy  at  his  feet.  "  Do  you  see 
what  is  written  there,"  he  said  gravely,  and  with  his  finger  he 
pointed  to  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  carved  upon  the  slab. 

I  have  never  seen  any  picture  of  Mrs.  Amelia  Thackeray,  but 
there  are  pretty  miniatures  of  Mrs.  Peter  Moore,  gay,  and 
sprightly,  and  of  another  sister,  Mrs.  Evans,  a  very  charming 
person  to  look  at.  The  Webbs,  if  they  took  after  my  father's 
favourite  hero,  General  Webb,  must  have  been  an  audacious, 
outspoken .  race.  Any  reserve  in  the  family  comes  from  the 
Thackeray  side  of  the  house.  My  father  used  to  say  that  it 
was  through  his  grandmother  that  the  wits  had  come  into  the 
family,  for  certainly  Great-grandpapa  Thackeray  was  a  practical 
but  not  at  all  a  clever  man. 

There  is  a  picture  we  used  to  look  at  in  the  nursery  at  home, 
and  which  my  own  children  look  at  now  as  it  hangs  upon  the 
wall.  It  is  a  water-colour  sketch  delicately  pencilled  and  tinted, 
done  in  India  some  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago  by  Chin- 
nery,  a  well-known  artist  of  those  days,  who  went  to  Calcutta 
and  drew  the  people  there  with  charming  skill.  This  picture 
represents  a  family  group ;  father,  mother,  infant  child,  a  sub- 
ject which  has  been  popular  with  painters  ever  since  they  first 
began  their  craft.  Long  before  Raphael's  wondrous  art  was 
known  this  particular  composition  was  a  favourite  with  artists 
and  spectators,  as  I  think  it  will  ever  be  from  generation  to 
generation,  while  mothers  continue  to  clasp  their  little  ones  in 
their  arms.  This  special  group  of  Thackerays  is  almost  the 
only  glimpse  we  have  of  my  father's  earliest  childhood,  but  it 
gives  a  vivid  passing  impression  of  that  first  home  which  lasted 
so  short  a  time.  My  long,  lean  young  grandfather  sits  at  such 
ease  as  people  allowed  themselves  in  those  classic  days,  propped 
in  a  stiff  chair  with  tight  white  ducks  and  pumps,  and  with  a 
kind  grave  face.     He  was  at  that  time  collector  of  the  district 


1  MISCELLANIES 

called  the  24  Pergunnahs.  My  grandmother,  a  beautiful  young 
woman  of  some  two-and-twenty  summers,  stands  draped  in 
white,  and  beside  her,  perched  upon  half-a-dozen  big  piled 
books,  with  his  arms  round  his  mother's  neck,  is  her  little  son, 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  a  round-eyed  boy  of  three  years 
old,  dressed  in  a  white  muslin  frock.  He  has  curly  dark  hair, 
and  a  very  sweet  look  and  smile.  This  look  was  almost  the 
same  indeed  after  a  lifetime.  Neither  long  years  of  work  and 
trouble,  nor  pain  nor  chill  anxiety  ever  dimmed  its  clear  simplic- 
ity, though  the  gleam  of  his  spectacles  may  have  sometimes  come 
between  his  eyes  and  those  who  did  not  know  him  very  well.* 
My  father  would  take  his  spectacles  ofE  when  he  looked  at 
this  old  water-colour.  "It  is  a  pretty  drawing,"  he  used  to 
say,  but  he  added  that  if  his  father  in  the  picture  had  risen 
from  the  chair  in  which  he  sat,  he  would  have  been  above  nine 
feet  high  from  the  length  of  the  legs  there  depicted.  My 
father  could  just  remember  him,  a  very  tall  thin  man  rising  out 
of  a  bath.  He  could  also  remember  the  crocodiles  floating  on 
the  Ganges,  and  that  was  almost  all  he  ever  described  of  India, 
though  in  his  writings  there  are  many  allusions  to  Indian  life.  A 
year  after  this  sketch  was  painted  the  poor  young  collector  died 
of  a  fever  on  board  a  ship,  where  he  had  been  carried  from  the 
shore  for  fresher  air.  Forty  years  afterwards  my  father  de- 
scribed a  visit  he  paid  to  Paris  to  his  aunt  Mrs.  Halliday,  the 
Augusta  who  was  sent  to  India  in  the  place  of  Charlotte.  The 
old  lady  was  ill,  and  wandering  in  her  mind,  and  she  imagined 
herself  still  on  board  that  ship  on  the  Ganges  beside  her  dying 
brother.  Richmond  Thackeray  was  little  over  thirty  when  he 
died.  The  account  of  his  solid  and  lasting  work  in  India  is 
given  by  Sir  William  Hunter,  and  must  not  be  altogether  omitted 
here.  He  seems  to  have  had  the  family  gift  for  administration, 
for  brilliant  and  conscientious  public  work.  His  tastes  and 
amusements  curiously  recall  my  father's — his  drawings,  his  love 
of  art,  the  paint  box  with  the  silver  clasps,  the  horses,  the  port- 
folios of  prints,  the  bric-a-brac,  his  collections  of  various  kinds, 
and  his  pleasure  in  hospitality.     Richmond  Thackeray  was  a 

*  Much  of  this  is  reprinted,  by  tlie  permission  of  Messrs.  Scribner,  from 
the  St.  Nicholas  Magazine. 


INTRODUCTION  li 

reserved  man,  but  he  was  no  recluse.  He  was  a  great  road 
maker,  I  have  been  told.  As  for  his  love  of  drawing,  it  will  be 
seen  from  the  facsimiles  here  given  how  great  his  taste  was,  and 


i45fe&iiftj 


THE  COURSE. 


PEOPLE  AT  TABLE. 


from  whom  my  own  father  inherited  his  love  of  drawing.     His 
grave  *  is  in  the  old  cemetery  at  Calcutta,  where  he  was  laid 

*  An  Indian  correspondent  has  sent  me  the  photograph  of  the  tall  obelisk 
put  up  to  the  memory  of  Richmond  Thackeray. 


Hi  MISCELLANIES 

with  all  sympathy  and  respect.  Richmond  Thackeray's  widow 
remained  out  in  India  with  her  mother  and  sisters.  She  must 
have  been  about  twenty-five  when  she  married  for  the  second 
time. 

Meanwhile  her  little  son  had  come  back  to  England  with  a 
cousin  of  his  own  age,  both  returning  under  the  care  of  a 
civilian,  Mr.  James  Macnab,  who  had  promised  to  befriend  the 
children  on  the  journey  home,  and  of  whose  kindness  we  have 
often  heard  in  after  times. 

There  was  an  ofBcer  called  Reed  on  board  the  ship,  whom 


V      Hi  K  iJ-titi    I   AH  i-j 


GENTLEMAN    PROPOSING. 


my  father  met  long  after  when  lecturing  in  the  North,  and  with 
whom  he  talked  over  those  almost  forgotten  days.  In  one  of 
the  "  Roundabout  Papers "  there  is  a  mention  of  this  coming 
home,  and  of  the  cousin  Richmond  Shakespear,  who  had  been 
his  little  playfellow  and  friend  from  the  time  of  their  birth ; 
there  is  a  description  of  a  ghaut  or  river  stair  in  Calcutta,  and 
of  the  day  "  when  down  those  steps  to  a  boat  which  was  wait- 
ing, came  two  children  whose  mothers  remained  on  the  shore." 
One  of  these  ladies  was  never  to  see  her  boy  more,  he  says, 
speaking  of  his  aunt  Mrs.  Shakespear  —  the  Emily  to  whom 
Richmond  Thackeray's  letter  had  been  written.  My  grand- 
mother's was  a  happier  fate,  for  she  returned  to  make  a  home 


iNTHODtrCTlON 


llii 


for  her  son,  ahd  to  see  him  grow  up  and  prosper,  and  set  his 
mark  upon  the  time. 

"  When  I  first  saw  England,"  my  father  writes  in  his  lecture 
upon  George  III.,  "  she  was  in  mourning  for  the  young  Princess 
Charlotte,  the  hope  of  the  Empire.  I  came  from  India  as  a 
child,  and  our  ship  touched  at  an  island  on  the  way  home,  where 
my  black  servant  took  me  a  long  walk  over  rocks  and  hills  until 


HAPOIEON  AND  MAJOR  GAHAGAN. 


we  reached  a  garden,  where  we  saw  a  man  walking.  'That  is 
he,'  said  the  black  man,  '  that  is  Buonaparte  ;  he  eats  three  sheep 
every  day,  and  all  the  little  children  he  can  lay  hands  on.'  " 

The  traveller  was  six  years  old  when  he  landed.  He  was  sent 
to  Fareham,  in  Hampshire,  to  the  care  of  his  mother's  aunt  and 
grandmother  in  the  same  quiet  old  house  where  his  mother  also 
had  lived  as  a  child.  "  Trix's  house  "  it  was  called  in  those 
days,  and  still  may  be  for  all  I  know.  It  stood  in  Fareham  High 
Street,  with  pretty  old-fasbioned  airs  and  graces,  with  a  high 


liv  MISCELLANIES 

sloping  roof  and  narrow  porch.  The  front  windows  looted 
across  a  flower  bed  into  the  village  roadway,  the  back  windows 
opened  into  a  pleasant  fruit  garden  sloping  to  the  river.  It  was 
from  this  house  that  my  grandmother  had  started  to  go  to  India 
when  she  was  about  sixteen,  dressed  for  the  journey  in  a  green 
cloth  riding-habit,  so  she  used  to  tell  us.  She  was  destined  to 
be  married,  to  be  a  mother,  and  a  widow,  and  to  be  married 
again,  before  a  decade  had  gone  by. 

It  was  to  Fareham  my  father  returned  in  thought  at  the  end 
of  his  life,  and  where  he  meant  to  place  the  closing  scenes  of 
"  Denis  Duval." 


INTEODUCTION 


Iv 


Ivi 


MISCELLANIES 


/i»/iiS  ilti  ^^  <»■/&•  ^B^xm"'  ^•fuc- 
■iftn  ytt  f'''''^^^'^'  !^i«.«ni  yW^t^  ' 

,:(ue -^iva, ^rx,^  -^i^^t^^jS^ 


*  These  drawings  of  Lord  Bateman  were  found  by  Mrs.  Julia  Stephen  in 
iin  old  drawer,  where  they  had  been  forgotten  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and 
were  given  to  me  by  her.  The  sketches  here  reproduced  are  a  reduced  fac- 
simile of  the  originals.  This  particular  page  is  very  carefully  coloured,  the 
rest  of  the  drawings  are  in  pen  and  ink, 


INTRODUCTION 


Ivii 


V    ORD  Bateman  he  was  a  noble  lord, 
MA  A  noble  lord  of  high  degree. 
He  shipped  himself  on  board  a  ship. 
Some  foreign  country  he  would  go  see 

He  sailed  East,  and  he  sailed  West, 
Until  he  came  to  proud  Turkey, 

Where  he  was  taken  and  put  to  prison,* 
Until  his  life  was  almo&t  weary. 


Iviii 


MISCELLANIES 


■WiwAic 


And  in  thft  prison  there  gre\^  treCi 

It  grew  so  stout  and  strong. 
Where  he  was  chained  by  themiddle. 

Until  his  life  was  til  moat  gone. 

This  Turk  he  had  one  only  daughter. 
The  fairest  creature  my  eyea  did  sec. 

She  stole  the  keys  of  her  father's  prison. 
And  9  wore  Lord  sateman  she  would  set  free 

Have  you  got  houses  have  you  got  lands. 

Or  does  Northmnbetland  beloijg  to  thee. 
What  would  you  giveto  iEhe  fair  young  lady « 
-.  Th&t  out  of  prison  would  set  you  free- 

V     I  have  got  houses.  I  have  got  lands. 
^  >     And  half  Northumberland  belongs  tome, 
I'llgive  it  all  tothefaic  young  lady, 
l^at  out  of  prisojD  would  set  me  free. 

O  then  she  took  liim  to  her  father's  hall, 
And  gave  to  him  the  best  of  wine. 

And  every  health  she  drank  unto  him, 
I  wish  Lord  Bateman  that  you  were  miaek 

Now  in  seven  years  III  make  a  vow, 
And  seven  years  Til  keep  it  strong, 

Uyou'U  wed  with  no  other  woman, 
I  willwedwiUi  no  other  man. 

O  then  she  took  him  to  her  father's  harbour 
And  gave  to  him  a  ship  of  fbme, 

FareweU  farewell  ta^you.Lord  Baxemen 
I'm  a&aid  I  ne'ea^  shall  see  you  acain; 


INTKODUCTION 


lix 


k 


MISCELLANIES 


Whatnews  what  news,  my  proud  young  por. 
What  news  hast  thou  brought  unto  me  (ter 
There  is  the  fairest  of  all  young  creatures, 
^  That  e'er  my  two  eyes  did  see. 

She  has  got  rings  on  every  finger, 

And  round  oneoftheraslie  has  got  threes 
And  as  much  gay  cipathing  round  her  mid. 

As  would  buy  all  Northumberland,    (die 
She  bids  you  send  her  a  slice  of  bread, 

And  a  bottle  of  the  best  wine. 
And  not  forgetting  the  fair  young  lady, 

Who  did  release  you  when  close  confined, 

LordBateman  he  then  in  a  passion  flew. 
And  broke  his  sword  in  splinters  three. 

Saying  1  will  give  all  my  father's  riches. 
That  if  Sophia  has  crossed  the  sea. 

Then  up  spoke  the  young  bride's  mother, 
Who  never  was  heard  to  speak  so  free, 

You'll  not  forget  my  only  daughter. 
That  if  Sophia  has  crossed  the  sea. 

■  U    ]} 


INTRODUCTION 


Ixi 


/^  I  own  I  made  a  bride  of  yotir  daughter, 

y  She's  neither  the  better  nor  verse  for  me 

/)  j  She  came  to  me  wlt}i  her  horse  and  saddle, 

M  i '  She  may  go  back  in  her  coach  and  three. 

LtordBateman  prepared  another  marriage. 
With  both  their  Hearts  so  ftill  of  glee. 

riPrange  no  more  in  foreign  countries. 
Now  since  Sophia  has  crossed  the  sea. 


"l^- 

^ 


Ixii  MISCELLANIES 

II 
DEAMATIC  FUND  SPEECH 

Mr,  Bram  Stoker  kindly  obtained  for  me  the  report  of  a 
speech  delivered  on  the  thirteenth  anniversary  festival  of  the 
General  Theatrical  Fund,  held  at  the  Freemason's  Tavern  on  the 
29th  of  March  1858,  W.  M.  Thackeray  in  the  chair,  and  all 
the  Vice-Presidents,  with  well-known  names,  such  as  Dickens, 
Landseer,  Lytton,  Milnes,  Macready,  &c.,  present  on  the  occa- 
sion.    The  chairman's  speech  was  as  follows : — 

"You  are  not  perhaps  aware — I  only  became  acquainted  with 
the  fact  this  very  day — that  the  celebrated  Solon  was  born  592 
years  before  the  present  era.  He  was  one  of  the  Seven  Sages 
of  Greece.  He  invented  a  saying,  as  each  of  the  wise  men  are 
said  to  have  done.  He  was  a  warrior,  a  statesman,  a  philoso- 
pher, of  considerable  repute.  I  make  these  statements  to  you, 
being  anxious  to  give  you  a  favourable  idea  of  my  learning,  and 
also  pleased  to  think  of  the  perplexity  of  some  ingenuous  per- 
sons here  present  who  are  asking  themselves,  'What  on  earth 
does  he  mean  by  dragging  in  old  Solon,  neck  and  heels,  to  pre- 
face the  toast  of  the  evening.'  Solon  once  attended  one  of 
Thespis's  dramatic  entertainments — a  professional  godfather  to 
professional  gentlemen  here  present,  the  inventor  of  the  drama, 
who  used  to  go  about  from  place  to  place,  as  we  read,  and  act 
his  plays  out  of  a  waggon ;  I  suppose  a  stage  waggon.  Well, 
the  great  Solon  having  attended  one  of  poor  Thespis's  per- 
formances, sent  for  that  wandering  manager  when  the  piece  was 
over,  and  it  is  recorded  flapped  his  cane  down  upon  the  ground 
and  said  to  Thespis,  'How  dare  you  utter  such  a  number  of  lies 
as  I  have  heard  you  tell  from  your  waggon  ?' 

"  The  first  manager  of  the  world  humbly  interceded  with  the 
great  magistrate,  beak,  or  Mayor  before  whom  he  stood,  and 
represented  that  his  little  interludes  were  mere  harmless  fictions 
intended  to  amuse  or  create  laughter  or  sympathy,  that  they 
were  not  to  be  taken  as  matter-of-fact  at  all.  Solon  again 
banged  his  stick  upon  the  ground,  ordered  the  poor  vagrant 
about  his  business,  saying  that  the  man  who  will  tell  fibs  in  a 


INTEODUCTION  Ixiii 

play  will  forge  a  contract.  Plutarch  relates  the  anecdote  in  his 
celebrated  Life  of  Solon.  .  .  .  Thespis  and  Solon,  who  were 
alive  twenty-four  hundred  years  ago,  have  left  their  descendants : 
Thespis  continues  to  this  time,  and  there  are  Solons  too. 
Solon  has  a  little  not  illegitimate  suspicion  regarding  Thespis, 
or  Solon  is  a  pompous  old  humbug,  and  calls  out  to  his  children 
to  keep  away  from  that  wicked  man,  passes  the  door  of  his 
booth  with  horror,  and  thanks  Heaven  he  is  so  much  more 
virtuous  than  that  vagrant.  Or  finally,  and  this  is  the  more 
charitable  and  natural  supposition,  Solon  is  simply  stupid,  can't 
understand  a  joke  when  it  is  uttered;  and  when  the  artist  sings 
before  him,  or  plays  his  harmless  interlude,  slaps  his  great 
stupid  stick  on  the  ground  and  says,  '  I  never  heard  such  lies 
and  nonsense  in  my  life.'  Suppose  Solon  says  that  because  he 
is  virtuous  there  should  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale,  all  youth,  all 
life,  all  pleasure,  all  honest  humour  laugh  in  the  pompous  old 
dotard's  face,  and  continue  their  fun.  The  curtain  shall  rise, 
the  dance  shall  go  on ;  Harlequin  shall  take  Columbine  round 
the  waist,  clowns  shall  prig  the  sausages.  Hamlet  shall  kill  his 
wicked  old  Uncle  ;  Pauline  shall  walk  up  and  down  the  garden 
with  Claude  Melnotte  ;  William  shall  rescue  Susan  from  the 
hands  of  the  amatory  but  kind-hearted  Crosstree.  We  will 
have  our  provision  of  pleasure,  wonder,  laughter,  tears,  in  spite 
of  old  Solon,  though  he  flourish  a  stick  as  big  as  a  beadle's. 

"  Now  I  take  it  be  a  most  encouraging  sign  for  Thespis  that 
he  is  becoming  orderly,  frugal,  prosperous,  a  good  accountant, 
a  good  father  to  his  children,  a  provider  against  a  rainy  day,  a 
subscriber  to  such  an  admirable  institution  as  this  which  we 
have  all  met  to-night  to  support." 

Mr.  Dickens  winds  the  proceedings  up  with  a  pretty  compli- 
ment, saying  "  That  none  of  the  present  company  can  have 
studied  life  from  the  stage  waggons  of  Thespis  downwards  to 
greater  advantage,  to  greater  profit,  and  to  greater  contentment 
than  in  the  airy  books  of  '  Vanity  Fair.' 

"  To  this  skilful  showman,  who  has  so  much  delighted  us, 
and  whose  words  have  so  charmed  us  to-night,  ...  we  will  now, 
if  you  please,  join  in  drinking  a  bumper  toast.  To  the  chair- 
man's health." 

13  3 


\xiv  MISCELLANIES 

III 
NOTE-BOOKS 

Thbee  is  almost  material  for  another  lecture  in  the  note- 
books which  remain  for  "  The  Four  Georges,"  of  which  notes  a 
certain  number  are  here  reproduced  as  they  stand.  Some  of 
the  quotations  are  so  intei'esting  that  they  are  given  verbatim, 
even  though  they  may  be  familiar  to  many  of  our  readers. 

Most  of  the  annotations  to  the  "  Lectures  on  the  Humourists  " 
were  added  by  Mr.  Hannay  at  my  father's  request,  as  the  publi- 
cation only  took  place  after  his  start  for  America.  Of  the  note- 
books which  served  for  these  I  have  no  trace.*  The  extracts 
here  given  all  concern  the  Four  Georges.  These  first  pages  were 
evidently  intended  to  make  part  of  the  lecture  on  George  the  First. 

l''he  Konigsmarks. — Count  Philip  of  Konigsmark  descended 
from  an  ancient  noble  family  of  Brandenburg,  where  there  is  a 
place  of  that  name.  The  Konigsmarks  had  also  passed  over 
into  Sweden,  where  they  had  acquired  property,  and  this  Swed- 
ish branch  especially  distinguished  itself  by  producing  several 
powerful  men.  Philip's  grandfather,  Hans  ChristofE,  was  first 
page  at  the  court  of  Frederic  Ulric  of  Brunswick,  and  in  the 
storm  of  the  Thirty  Years  War  rose  to  be  a  famous  general ; 
was  a  partisan  of  Gustavns  Adolphus  of  Torstensohn,  stormed 
Prague,  and  contributed  to  the  Peace  of  Westphalia.  By  this 
peace  the  principalities  of  Verden  and  Bremen  were  ceded  to 
the  Swedes,  over  which  Hans  Christoff  became  governor,  build- 
ing a  castle  near  Stade,  which  he  named  after  his  wife,  Agathen- 
burg.  In  1651  he  received  the  title  of  Count,  and  died  a  field- 
marshal  at  Stockholm  in  1663.     He  left  his  children  an  income 

*  Nor  have  I  any  of  the  notes  for  "  Esmond,"  except  one  very  small 
memorandum-book.  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  who  has  read  my  father  to  such 
good  purpose,  would  have  liked  him  to  give  another  version  of  the  character 
of  the  Old  Pretender.  Mr.  Lang  has  his  authorities  for  defending  the  morals 
of  James  Stuart,  and  for  rehabilitating  those  of  the  lady  mentioned  as 
Queen  Oglethorpe.  He  has  written  an  interesting  account  of  her  as  the 
member  of  a  respectable  family  who  lived  and  died  in  loyal  devotion  to  the 
Stuarts  in  their  misfortunes. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixv 

of  130,000  dollars,  so  that  his  sons  were  enabled  to  marry  into 
the  first  Swedish  houses,  with  the  daughters  of  lords  who  had 
espoused  German  princesses.  No  one  understood  how  to  levy 
booty  better  than  this  bold  partisan  of  the  Thirty  Years  War. 
In  Lower  Saxony  he  cut  down  whole  forests,  and  sold  the  wood 
to  the  merchants  of  Hamburg  and  Bremen.  In  Prague  he  took 
an  immense  plunder,  having  seized  no  less  than  twelve  barrels 
of  gold  in  the  house  of  Count  Collorado,  the  Commandant. 
He  was  a  fierce,  passionate  man,  of  herculean  build  and  giant 
strength.  When  he  was  angry  his  hair  bristled  on  his  head 
like  that  of  a  boar,  so  that  his  friends  and  foes  were  frightened 
at  him.  Tn  his  castle  of  Agathenburg  he  had  his  portrait  paint- 
ed after  this  fashion,  jokingly  bidding  the  painter  so  to  depict 
him  that  the  world  might  see  the  fierce  countenance  which  had 
frightened  the  enemy  in  the  Thirty  Years  War. 

(Part  of  the  next  paragraph  is  given  in  the  Lecture  itself.) 

One  of  his  sons  was  Otto  Wilhelm,  a  notable  lion  in  the  great 
society  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  a  great  traveller  to  for- 
eign lands  and  courts.  He  had  for  tutor  Esaias  Pufiendorfl, 
brother  of  the  famous  philosopher  who  was  afterwards  Swedish 
Envoy  to  Vienna.  With  this  leader  the  young  bear  frequented 
various  German  universities ;  learnt  to  ride  at  Blois  and  An- 
gers; made  the  grand  tour  of  France,  Spain,  Portugal,  and  Eng- 
land; and  in  1667,  being  then  twenty-six  years  old,  appeared 
as  ambassador  at  the  Court  of  Louis  XIV.  He  had  to  make  a 
Swedish  speech  at  his  reception  before  the  most  Christian  king, 
and  forgetting  his  speech  recited  the  Paternoster  and  several  other 
prayers  in  Swedish  to  the  edification  of  the  Court  at  Versailles, 
not  one  of  whom  understood  a  word  of  his  lingo  with  the  exception 
of  his  own  suite,  who  had  to  keep  their  gravity  as  best  they  might. 

Subsequently  he  entered  into  the  French  service,  raising  for 
the  king  the  regiment  of  Royal  Allemand.  He  died,  finally,  in 
1 688,  before  Negropont,  in  Morea — generalissimo  of  the  Vene- 
tian army  against  the  Turks. 

Count  Philip  Konigsmark,  Otto's  nephew,  the  lover  of  the  an- 
cestress of  the  Brunswick  kings  of  England,  was  born  in  1662. 
He  inherited  from  his  mother  the  beauty  of  the  noble  Swedish 
house  of  Wrangel,  and  was  as  handsome  a  gallant,  and  as  dis- 


Ixvi  MISCELLANIES 

solute  a  cavalier  as  any  of  his  time.  In  youth  he  had  been  bred 
up  with  the  Electress  of  Hanover  at  her  father's  court  of  Zcll, 
and  vowed  to  her  Electoral  Highness  that  he  had  loved  her  from 
those  early  days,  though  not  daring  at  this  modest  period  to  de- 
clare his  passion.  From  Zell  the  young  gentleman  came  over 
to  one  Faubert's  Academy  in  London,  perfecting  his  education 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  polite  court,  of  which  the  Chevalier 
de  Grammont  has  left  such  an  edifying  history.  And  here  the 
lad  was  implicated  in  that  notorious  adventure  of  which  his 
elder  brother,  Carl  Johann,  was  the  chief  actor,  and  which  ended 
in  a  murder  and  a  criminal  trial. 

Carl  Johann  had  the  fierceness  of  his  grandfather  the  Boar, 
and  the  accomplishments  of  his  uncle  the  Field-Marshal  and 
pretty  fellow.  He  began  his  life  at  fifteen  in  gaming  and  all 
sorts  of  adventures  in  love  and  war.  His  uncle  introduced  him 
to  the  world  at  Paris,  whence  he  shipped  himself  for  Malta,  and 
took  part  with  the  knights  of  the  Order  in  a  crusade  against  the 
Barbaresques.  He  fought  so  bravely  that  he  won  the  Malta 
Cross,  though  he  was  only  eighteen  years  old,  and  a  Protestant 
to  boot.  Returning  from  this  campaign  he  visited  Leghorn, 
Rome,  Venice,  lona,  Madrid,  Lisbon,  and  Paris  again  finally  ; 
and  it  was  on  this  journey  that  he  was  accompanied  by  the 
Countess  of  Southampton,  who  was  so  desperately  in  love  with 
him,  that  she  followed  him  everywhere  in  page's  clothes.  In 
1680  he  sought  service  in  the  English  army,  and  performed 
wonders  at  the  siege  of  Tangiers,  whence  returning  covered  with 
laurels,  and  forgetting  my  Lady  Southampton,  his  page,  who  sub- 
sided into  a  convent  with  her  little  daughter,  Konigsmark  fell 
in  love  with  the  rich  and  lovely  Elizabeth  Percy,  heiress  of  the 
Earls  of  Northumberland  and  widow  of  the  Lord  Ogle,  last  son 
of  the  Cavendish  Dukes  of  Newcastle.  Charming  as  Konigs- 
mark was,  the  widow  preferred  to  him  another  pretty  fellow, 
Thomas  Thynne  of  Longleat,  "Tom  of  Ten  Thousand,"  as  he 
was  called  in  those  days — a  gentleman  of  the  highest  fashion, 
who  had  the  friendship  of  Rochester,  and  royally  entertained 
the  Duke  of  Monmouth  at  his  princely  Wiltshire  mansion.  Lord 
Ogle's  widow  was  but  sixteen  years  old  when  she  espoused  the 
Lord  of  Longleat,  and  it  was  agreed  that  she  should  pass  a  year 
on  the  Continent  away  from  her  husband  ere  they  dwelt  together, 


INTRODUCTION  kvii 

Konigsmark,  indignant  at  this  preference  shown  to  "  Tom  of 
Ten  Thousand,"  engaged  three  gentlemen  to  murder  Mr.  Thynne, 
who  accordingly  was  shot  in  his  carriage  on  the  night  of  the 
12th  of  February  1682.  Both  the  Konigsmarks  were  taken  up 
for  this  murder,  the  actors  in  which,  stoutly  refusing  to  peach 
against  tlieir  employers,  were  duly  hanged,  and  the  Konigs- 
marks left  England  to  finish  their  brilliant  careers  elsewhere. 

The  young  gentleman  from  Faubert's  Academy  entered  the 
service  of  the  Elector  Ernest  Augustus  of  Hanover,  and  became 
lieutenant-colonel  in  a  regiment  of  his  Electoral  Highness'  dra- 
goons, and  here  he  renewed  the  relations  with  the  fair  young 
Princess  of  Zell,  which  ended  so  lucklessly  for  the  pair. 

Crisett  calls  Sophia  Dorothea's  fatiier,  the  Duke  of  Zell,  an 
old  Trojan,  and  an  excellent  huntsman.  He  kept  some  famous 
champagne  for  King  William's  tasting,  and  gave  his  minister. 
Lord  Lexington,  a  bottle  of  it. 

George  I.  assisted  at  the  raising  of  the  siege  of  Vienna  and 
the  defeat  of  the  Turks  in  1684  ;  he  made  three  campaigns  in 
Austria  and  Hungary,  where  he  commanded  a  body  of  1000 
men  of  Brunswick.  In  1689  he  was  with  8000  before  Bonn  ;  in 
1690  he  commanded  11,000  with  the  Spaniards  ;  and  in  '92,  '93, 
a  like  number  being  with  his  father's  troops  under  King  William. 

The  Royal  Household. — A  Dean  of  the  Chapel  Royal,  five 
other  Almoners  and  Clerks  of  the  Closet,  forty-eight  Chaplains- 
in-Ordinary,  six  Chaplains  at  Whitehall,  and  Household  Chap- 
lains at  Kensington  and  Hampton  Court,  twenty-seven  gentle- 
men and  ten  children  of  the  Chapel  ;  besides  Organist,  Lutenist, 
Violist,  and  Tuner  of  the  Regals,  Confessor  of  the  Household, 
Organ-blower,  Bell-ringer,  and  Surplice -washers;  one  officer, 
whose  salary  is  £18,  is  called  the  "Cock  and  Cryet."  Add  to 
these  three  French,  two  Dutch,  and  three  German  Lutheran 
chaplains.  And  fancy  King  Geoi'ge,  who  did  not  care  a  fig  for 
any  religion,  with  this  prodigious  train  of  professional  theolo- 
gians. 

Then  come  His  Majesty's  Household  oflicers  (under  com- 
mand of  his  Grace  William,  Duke  of  Devonshire,  Lord  Steward), 
attending  in  the  several  offices  below  stairs.  These  begin  with 
the  ten  noblemen  and  gentlemen  forming  the  supervisional 
Board  of  Green  Cloth,  with  salaries  varying  from  £1.300  to  £500 


Ixviii  MISCELLANIES 

a  year.  After  these  follow  the  officers  of  the  Accompting  House, 
Bakehouse,  Pantry,  Cellar,'  Buttery,  Spicery,  Confectionery, 
Ewry,  Laundry,  King's  Kitchen  (in  which  there  are  thirty-five 
male  persons,  such  as  cooks,  yeomen,  scourers,  turn-broaches, 
&c.).  After  the  Kitchen  comes  the  Larder,  Acatery,  Poultery, 
Scalding-house,  Pastry,  Scullery,  and  Woodyard ;  then  the  Al- 
moners, Gate  Porters,  Cartakers,  Tailcartakers,  Officers  of  the 
Hall,  Marshals,  Vergers,  and  Breadbearers,  Wine  Porters,  Clerks 
and  Purveyors,  in  all  174  in  number,  with  salaries  amounting 
altogether  to  £1300. 

Now  we  come  to  the  King's  servants  upstairs  under  my  Lord 
Chamberlain,  the  most  noble  Charles,  Duke  of  Bolton:  he  has  a 
Vice  Chamberlain,  45  Gentlemen  of  the  Privy  chamber,  4  Cup- 
bearers, 4  Sewers,  18  Gentlemen  Ushers,  14  Grooms  of  the 
Chambers,  4  Pages  of  the  Presence  Chamber,  6  of  the  Bed 
Chambers  and  Back  Stairs,  8  Servers,  28  Officers  of  the  Ward- 
robe and  Armoury,  a  Treasurer  and  Comptroller  of  the  Chamber, 
a  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  and  Assistants,  10  Serjeants-at- 
Arms,  a  Groom  Porter,  a  Master  of  the  Revels,  a  Knight  Har- 
binger and  a  Secretary  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  44  Messengers 
and  2  Clerks  of  the  Cheque,  30  Musicians,  a  Physician-in-Ordi- 
nary,  3  Apothecaries,  2  Surgeons,  30  Housekeepers,  Warders, 
Surveyors,  Rangers,  Woodwards,  1 3  Trumpeters,  4  Kettle  Drums 
and  a  Drum-major,  a  Repairer  of  Bridges,  a  Master  of  the 
Tennis  Court,  a  Master  of  the  Barges,  and  48  Watermen. 

The  Court. — Our  first  Georges'  Court  was  rather  a  dull  one. 
"Their  Majesties  don't  seem  to  be  fond  of  noisy  pleasures," 
says  Mr.  Pollnitz,  a  peripatetic  fortune-hunter  and  ambulatory 
court-newsman  of  the  last  century,  whose  works  were  very 
eagerly  read  by  our  great-great-grandfathers. 

Any  gentleman  who  wished  to  go  to  Court  had  but  to  send 
his  name  to  the  King's  Lord  Chamberlain,  or  Queen  Caroline's 
Master  of  the  Horse,  and  the  interview  was  granted.  The 
Queen's  Drawing-room  was  held  at  10  o'clock  at  night  in  those 
days,  and  thrice  in  a  week  ;  this  reception  took  place  in  three 
great  saloons  of  St.  James's,  made  by  the  direction  of  Queen 
Anne  the  only  tolerable  rooms  in  the  palace.  The  King  came 
attended  by  the  Queen,  who  was  led  by  the  Prince  of  Wales 
when  he  was  not  in  disgrace,  and  accompanied  by  her  royal 


INTEODTCTION  Ixix 

daughters.  Their  Majesties  conversed  for  a  few  moments  with 
such  persons  as  they  were  pleased  to  distinguish,  after  which 
the  Queen  made  a  profound  curtsey  to  the  King,  and  went  to 
cards  for  about  an  hour,  retiring  at  midnight.  On  other  days 
their  Majesties  partook  of  the  delights  of  the  opera  or  the  play- 
house. The  former  was  a  very  splendid  and  costly  aristocratic 
resort.  A  seat  in  the  gallery  cost  five  shillings,  and  the  boxes 
a  guinea.  The  theatre  was  illuminated  with  a  multiplicity  of 
expensive  wax  candles ;  and  as  for  the  singers,  some  of  those 
warbling  sopranos  from  the  Pope's  chapel  were  paid  no  less  a 
sum  than  £1500  a  year. 

"  You  will  observe,  amongst  the  livery-servants  of  the  King 
and  their  Royal  Highnesses,  a  most  remarkable  circumstance 
which  you  will  not  encounter  in  your  visits  in  any  other  court 
of  Europe,  viz. :  that  the  footmen  when  they  are  in  waiting 
wear,  instead  of  a  hat,  plain  caps  of  black  velvet,  made  like  the 
caps  of  running-footmen.  His  Majesty  preferred  a  chair,  slow 
as  that  conveyance  was — doubtless  because  the  city  of  London 
was  one  of  the  worst  paved  in  Europe."  That  queer  traveller, 
PoUnitz,  from  whom  I  have  extracted  the  invaluable  informa- 
tion just  given  regarding  the  habits  of  the  European  courts  and 
footmen,  deplores  pathetically  the  state  of  his  bones  after  a 
ride  in  a  London  hackney-coach  of  the  year  1725.  The  horses 
galloped,  it  appears,  over  those  abominable  roads,  but  the 
wretched  coaches  had  no  springs,  and  the  story  goes  that  the 
French  king  offered  to  make  a  bargain  with  the  English  king 
some  years  previous,  and  to  provide  London  with  paving  stones, 
if  his  Britannic  Majesty  would  lay  down  Versailles  with  gravel. 

The  Town. — My  friend  Peter  Cunningham  has  a  print  of 
Piccadilly  planted  with  trees  and  thick  heavy  railings  before 
them,  about  the  time  of  King  William  III. ;  a  few  boys, 
beggars,  and  dogs  sauntering  about  the  countrified  place,  and 
my  Lord  Duke  of  Albemarle  bolt  upright  in  jack -boots,  a 
mounted  servant  with  saddle-bags  following  him,  riding  forth 
from  his  great  gate  at  Clarendon  House,  which  the  porter  and 
other  servants  are  closing  behind  his  Grace.  The  porter  is  in  a 
long  tasseled  gown,  with  a  mace  in  his  hand.  Such  figures  you 
still  see  amongst  Roman  and  Prussian  noblemen. 

All  beyond  Pall  Mail   is  country.     Chesterfield  House  was 


Ixx  MISCELLANIES 

not  built  until  sixty  years  afterwards,  nor  the  great  Mayf  air  district 
northward,  where  London  has  now  dwelt  for  some  six  score  years. 

The  grand  house-warming  of  Chesterfield  House  took  place 
in  1751.  The  lovely  Gunnings— those  stars  of  beauty — were 
present,  and  it  was  there  that  Duke  Hamilton  fell  so  .raptur- 
ously in  love  with  the  younger  sister,  that  he  called  for  a  parson 
and  married  her  with  a  curtain-ring  at  midnight  on  the  night  after. 

At  Oxford  and  Tyburn  Road  began  country  again.  There 
were  fields  then  all  the  way  to  Hampstead — fields  profusely 
ornamented  by  cut-throats  and  footpads.  Fields  stretched  all 
the  way  eastward  to  Montague  House  and  Bedford  House ;  the 
Foundling  Hospital  lay  pleasantly  in  the  country  ;  it  has  taken 
about  a  century  to  build  the  most  genteel  district  of  spacious 
squares  and  broad  streets  which  run  northwards  to  the  foot  of 
Hampstead  Hill  and  westward  across  hundreds  of  once  pleasant 
acres  to  Bayswater.  I  can  myself  remember  the  sublime  Belgravia 
a  marshy  flat;  snipes  have  been  shot  in  it  quite  within  the  memory 
of  man ;  and  amiable  footpads  sprang  out  of  the  hedges,  as  gentle- 
folk knew  to  their  cost  in  their  journeys  from  Chelsea  to  town. 

The  Spectator  and  Tatler  are  full  of  delightful  glimpses  of 
the  town-life  of  those  days.  .  .  .  Under  the  arm  of  that  charm- 
ing guide  one  can  go  to  the  opera,  the  puppet-show,  or  the 
cock-pit.  We  can  see  Broughton  and  Figg  set  to,  we  can 
listen  to  Robinson  and  Senesino,  we  can  appraise  the  different 
merits  of  Pinkerman  and  Bullock.  "  Mr.  William  Bullock  and 
Mr.  William  Pinkerman  are  of  the  same  age,  profession,  and 
sex.  They  both  distinguished  themselves  in  a  very  particular 
manner  under  the  discipline  at  Crabtree's,  with  this  only  differ- 
ence, that  Mr.  Bullock  has  the  most  agreeable  squall  and  Mr. 
Pinkerman  the  most  graceful  shrug.  Pinkerman  devours  a 
cold  chick  with  great  applause ;  Bullock's  talent  lies  chiefly  in 
asparagus.  Pinkerman  is  very  dextrous  at  conveying  himself 
under  a  table,  Bullock  is  no  less  active  in  leaping  over  a  stick ; 
and  Pinkerman  has  a  great  deal  of  money,  but  Mr.  Bullock  is  the 
taller  man."  Delightful  kindly  humour,  how  it  lives  and  smiles 
yet,  after  a  hundred  and  fifty  years — with  gentle  sympathy, 
with  true  loving-kindness,  with  generous  laughter. 

Shall  we  take  a  boat  and  go  in  company  with  two  of  the 
finest  gentlemen  in  the  world,  Sir  Roger  Je  Coverley  and  Mr. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxi 

Spectator,  to  Spring  Garden  ?  There  is  another  Spring  Garden 
in  the  town,  near  to  where  Mrs.  Centlivre  lives,  the  jolly  widow 
of  Queen  Anne's  Jolly  Yeoman  of  the  Month,  where  Coiley  Gib- 
ber has  a  house  near  to  the  Bull  Head  Tavern  ;  come,  let  us  go 
take  water  with  Sir  Roger  and  take  a  turn  in  this  delightful 
place.  We  can  have  other  amusements  if  we  like,  and  my  be- 
fore-quoted friend,  Baron  de  Pollnitz,  will  conduct  us  to  those. 
I  warrant  me  that  old  rogue  knew  every  haunt  of  pleasure  in 
every  city  in  the  world,  and  that  he  would  not  have  been  shock- 
ed by  some  of  the  company  from  whom  Sir  Roger's  noble  eyes 
turned  away  with  such  a  sweet,  simple  rebuke. 

From  Pollnitz. — "  At  the  chocolate  house,  where  I  go  every 
morning,  there  are  dukes  and  other  peers  mixed  with  gentlemen ; 
to  be  admitted  there  needs  nothing  more  than  to  dress  like  a 
gentleman.  At  one  o'clock  they  go  to  Court  to  the  King's  levee, 
and  from  thence  to  the  Queen's  apartments,  where  is  commonly 
a  great  number  of  ladies  very  well  dressed.  At  three  o'clock 
they  all  retire  to  their  several  apartments.  Dinners  here  are 
very  expensive,  and  parties  at  taverns  very  much  in  fashion. 

"  When  the  company  breaks  up  from  table,  if  it  be  fine  weath- 
er they  go  out  again  for  the  air,  either  in  a  coach  to  Hyde  Park, 
where  the  ring  is,  or  else  on  foot  to  St.  James's  Park.  In  the 
winter  they  make  visits  till  the  plays  begin.  After  the  opera  or 
plays  the  company  goes  to  the  assemblies,  or  else  they  repair  to 
the  drawing-room.  At  midnight  they  go  to  supper ;  the  com- 
panies formed  at  the  taverns  are  the  merriest,  and  at  daylight 
the  jolly  carouser  returns  home.  Judge  now,  after  what  I  have 
said,  whether  a  young  gentleman  has  not  enough  to  amuse  him- 
self at  London,  as  at  Paris  or  Rome.  Believe  me,  that  they  who 
say  this  city  is  too  melancholy  for  them  only  say  so  to  give  them- 
selves an  air." 

Queen  Caroline. — There  are  some  curious  specimens  of  Queen 
Caroline's  spelling.  She  wrote  to  Leibnitz :  "  Nous  panson  ii 
faire  tradevuire  votre  Deodise  "  ;  and  to  a  contemporary  mon- 
arch, "  Le  ciel,  chalou  de  notre  bonheur,  nous  vien  d'enlever  notre 
adorable  reine ;  le  coup  fadalle  m'a  ploug6e  dans  une  affliction 
mordelle,  et  il  y  a  rien  qui  ne  puise  consoller.     Je  vous  plaint  de 

tout  mon  ccBur  Monsieur  et  suis  avec  un  parfait  adachement 

Votre  servant,  Caroline." 


Ixxii  MISCELLANIES 

The  King  was  always  talking  of  her  when  she  was  gone,  and 
judging  what  she  would  have  thought  had  she  been  alive  regard- 
ing events  of  the  day.  He  ordered  payment  to  be  continued  to 
all  her  officers  and  servants,  and  of  all  her  contributions  to  be- 
nevolent societies,  in  order  that  nobody  should  suffer  by  her 
death  but  himself.  Baron  Bourkman  had  a  portrait  of  his  wife, 
which  the  King  asked  to  see,  and  bade  the  Baron  leave  it  with 
him  till  he  rang.  At  the  end  of  two  hours  the  Baron  was  called, 
and  found  the  King  in  tears,  who  said,  "  Take  it  away — take  it 
away." 

Prince  Frederick  of  Wales. — Without  being  such  a  wretch  as 
his  fond  papa  and  mamma  held  him  to  be,  the  Prince  Frederick 
of  Wales  was  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  very  virtuous  character, 
quarrelled  with  papa,  made  debts,  sowed  wild  oats  as  Princes  of 
Wales  will  do,  and  died  but  little  lamented  except  by  his  Prin- 
cess, who  was  balked  of  her  natural  wish  to  be  Queen  of  Eng- 
land. They  say  she  was  in  an  awful  state  for  some  days  after 
that  tragic  disappointment.  Let  us  throw  a  respectful  curtain 
over  that  royal  anguish. 

Mackay,  Bute's  Secretary. — The  peace  of  1763  was  made  with 
money :  there  was  no  other  way  of  conquering  the  opposition. 
Tlie  money  went  through  my  hands :  £80,000  was  the  sum  em- 
ployed. Forty  M.P.'s  had  lost  £1000  apiece,  eighty  others  £500. 
A  regular  counting-house  was  opened  in  the  Treasury,  where  mem- 
bers came  and  received  the  price  of  their  treason  in  bank-notes. 

When  the  peace  of  '63  was  made,  the  Princess  of  Wales  cried  : 
"  Now  my  son  is  King  of  England." 

Murphy  dedicated  a  play  to  Lord  Bute,  and  narrating  the  cir- 
cumstance at  Holland  House,  Lord  Hillsborough  asked  Murphy 
whether  his  lordship  had  invited  him  to  sit  down.  "  No,"  said 
Murphy,  "  he  walked  me  up  and  down  a  long  gallery  during  the 
whole  time."     "  I  thought  so,"  said  Lord  Hillsborough. 

From  the  Correspondence  between  Lady  Hertford  and  Lady 
Pomfret. — "  Mrs.  Purcell  sent  to  me  yesterday  to  ask  if  I  would 
see  the  Princess  Mary's  clothes  and  laces.  They  were  all  laid  in 
order  on  the  two  tables,  which  are  the  whole  length  of  the  poor 
Queen's  state  bedchamber,  from  whence  the  bed  is  removed. 
There  are  four  nightgowns,  three  trimmed,  and  one  blue  tabby 
embroidered  with  silver.     Four  sacks  or  robes,  all  trimmed — 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxiii 

that  for  the  wedding  night  in  silver  tissue,  faced  and  doubled 
to  the  bottom  with  pink  coloured  satin,  and  trimmed  with  a 
silver  point-d'Espagne.  The  stifE-bodiced  gown  she  is  to  be 
married  in  is  very  nearly  the  same  as  the  Princess  Royal's  was. 
There  is  an  embroidery  upon  white,  with  gold  and  colours  verv 
rich,  and  a  stuff  on  a  gold  ground,  prodigiously  fine,  witli 
flowers  shaded  up  the  middle  of  the  breadths  like  painting,  and 
a  kind  of  embossed  work  of  blue  and  silver  towards  the  edges. 
Mrs.  Purcell  assured  me  that  she  bought  the  gold  by  itself  be- 
fore the  stufE  was  woven,  and  that  there  was  in  it  no  less  than 
eighteen  pounds  weight." 

Atterbury. — Macaulay  in  the  Encyclopmdia  has  hit  some 
awfully  damaging  blows  at  the  reputation  of  Pope's  friend  At- 
terbury, at  the  scantiness  of  his  scholarship,  the  blunders  of  his 
Greek,  the  duplicity  of  his  life  as  a  priest  and  politician.  Was 
selfishness  more  undisguised,  were  principles  looser,  were  temp- 
tations greater  for  public  men  in  those  days  than  ours  ?  They 
certainly  lied  more  broadly  and  boldly  than  nowadays,  and  their 
friends  were  not  so  much  shocked  at  discovered  treason.  At- 
terbury went  off  to  exile,  putting  a  Bible  into  Pope's  hand, 
giving  him  a  parting  blessing,  and  telling  him  a  parting  fib. 
The  year  1721,  in  Atterbury's  opinion,  was  the  hour  of  dark- 
ness and  the  power  thereof. 

Here  is  a  paragraph  contrasting  Lord  Chesterfield's  character 
of  George  I.  with  Addison's.  "  George  I.  was  an  honest,  dull 
German  gentleman,  as  unfit  as  he  was  unwilling  to  act  the  part 
of  king,  which  is  to  shine  and  to  oppress,"  says  Lord  Chester- 
field. "  Lazy  and  inactive  in  his  pleasures,  which  were  there- 
fore lowly  sensual,  he  was  coolly  intrepid,  and  indolently  benevo- 
lent. He  was  difiident  of  his  own  parts,  which  made  him  speak 
little  in  public,  and  prefer,  in  his  social,  which  were  his  fa- 
vourite, hours  the  company  of  wags  and  buffoons.  Even  his 
mistress,  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  with  whom  he  passed  most  of 
his  time,  was  very  little  above  an  idiot."  Addison  declares 
him,  on  the  contrary,  "  to  be  the  most  amiable  monarch  that 
ever  filled  a  throne." 

From  Reliquice  Hearniance. — "  George,  Duke  of  Northumber- 
land, Charles  the  Second's  son,  being  at  King  George's  court, 
by  chance  touched  the  Prince   of   Wales,  who  turned  round 


Ixxiv  MISCELLANIES 

fiercely  and  said,  '  One  can't  move  here  for  bastards  !'  '  Sir,' 
said  Northumberland,  'my  father  was  as  great  a  king  as  yours, 
and  as  for  our  mothers,  the  less  we  say  about  them  the  better. 

From  the  same  source  comes  the  following  character  of 
George  II.  : — 

"  George  II.  was  very  well-bred,  but  in  a  stifiE  and  foj-mal 
manner.  He  spoke  French  and  Italian  well,  English  very  prop- 
erly, but  with  something  of  a  foreign  accent.  He  had  a  con- 
tempt for  the  belles  lettres,  which  he  denominated  trifling.  He 
troubled  himself  little  about  religion,  but  jogged  on  in  that  which 
he  had  been  bred,  without  scruples,  doubts,  zeal,  or  inquiry." 

Chatham,  writhing  under  the  "  malign  influence  "  which  had 
turned  him  out  of  George  III.'s  confidence,  ruefully  recalled  the 
superior  frankness  of  the  King's  grandfather.  "  Among  his 
many  royal  virtues,"  says  Chatham,  "  was  eminently  that  of 
sincerity.  He  had  something  about  him  which  made  it  possible 
to  know  whether  he  liked  or  disliked  you." 

George  II.  was  prejudiced  against  his  father's  minister,  but 
wisely  kept  him.  George  III.,  who  would  be  a  king,  disliked 
Chatham,  and  dismissed  him. 

George  III. — My  father  had  an  old  kinswoman  for  whom  he 
had  a  great  regard.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  well-known  ad- 
miral, who  presented  Nelson  at  Court  after  the  battle  of  the 
Nile.  "  Lady  Rodd  told  me  "  (my  father  writes)  "  that  all  that 
George  III.  said  to  Nelson  was,  '  My  lord,  this  is  very  rainy 
weather.  I  heard  you  were  too  ill  to  come  out  in  rainy  weather.'  " 
Moore  mentions  a  similar  story  of  Nelson's  mortification  at  the 
King's  treatment  of  him. 

The  King  asked  the  Duchess  of  Gordon  how  she  liked  Lon- 
don. "  Not  much,  sir ;  it  is  knock,  knock  all  day  ;  and  friz,  friz 
all  night." 

A  Scotch  lady  saw  the  King  robing  for  Parliament.  Two 
peers  put  his  robes  on,  but  he  lifted  his  crown  with  his  own 
hands  ;  and,  placing  it  on  himself,  he  looked  round  to  us  all  a 
perfect  king,  and  his  tongue  never  lay. 

Boots. — Mr.  Frost,  of  Hull,  remembers  going  on  the  terrace  at 
Windsor  about  1 803-4,  and  seeing  the  royal  family  walking  there. 
He  was  obliged  to  take  o£E  his  boots  before  going  on  the  terrace, 
and  people  at  the  gate  supplied  shoes  or  slippers  to  strangers. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxv 

Lord  North. — Having  made  up  a  quarrel  between  the  King 
and  the  Prince,  Lord  North  besought  the  latter  to  conduct  him- 
self differently  in  future.  "  Do  so  on  all  accounts,"  said  Lord 
North ;  "  do  so  for  your  own  sake — do  so  for  your  excellent 
father's  sake — do  so  for  the  sake  of  that  good-natured  man 
Lord  North,  and  don't  oblige  hira  again  to  tell  the  King,  your 
good  father,  so  many  lies  as  he  has  been  obliged  to  tell  him 
this  morning." 

Drink. — The  pulse  of  pleasure  beat  more  strongly  a  hundred 
years  since  than  it  appears  to  do  in  our  languid  century.  There 
was  more  amusement  and  more  frolicking,  more  commerce 
among  mankind,  a  very  great  deal  more  idleness,  so  much  so 
indeed  that  one  wonders  how  business  was  done.  I  knew  a 
Scotch  judge,  a  famous  bon-vivant,  who  was  forced  to  drink 
water  for  two  months,  and  being  asked  what  was  the  effect  of 
the  regime,  owned  that  he  saw  the  world  really  as  it  was  for 
the  first  time  for  twenty  years.  For  a  quarter  of  a  century  he 
had  never  been  quite  sober.  The  fumes  of  the  last  night's 
three  bottles  and  whisky-toddy  inflamed  all  the  day's  thought 
and  business.  He  transacted  his  business,  got  up  his  case, 
made  his  speech  as  an  advocate,  or  delivered  his  charge  as  a 
judge  with  great  volubility  and  power;  but  his  argument  was 
muzzy  with  dreams ;  he  never  saw  the  judge  before  him  except 
through  a  film  of  whisky.  I  wonder  how  much  claret  went  to 
inflame  the  judgment  of  the  orator  and  the  auditors  of  the 
House  of  Commons  which  debated  the  American  War?  Men 
dined  at  three  o'clock,  and  regaled  themselves  with  beer,  wine, 
and  quantities  of  punch  after.  What  business  were  they  good 
for  after  such  a  diet?  The  best  thing  they  could  do  was  to 
play  at  cards  perhaps,  and  then  about  ten  or  eleven,  you  know, 
they  would  be  hungry  again  and  behold,  broiled  bones  and 
Madeira  and  more  punch — quantities  more  punch — and  to  bed 
after  midnight,  and  plenty  of  rest  required  to  sleep  off  all  that 
feasting ;  and  compute  the  mere  time  for  pleasure,  and  there 
remain  really  but  three  or  four  hours  for  work,  with  a  headache. 
A  lady  of  little  more  than  my  own  age  has  told  me  that  at  her 
father's  table — he  was  a  peer  of  ancient  name  and  large  estates 
in  the  Midland  counties — dinner  was  served  at  two  or  three,  the 
old  nobleman  sitting  with  such  company  as  the  county  afforded, 


Ixxvi  MISCELLANIES 

and  strong  ale  went  on  all  dinner  time,  then  port,  then  punch, 
then  supper,  and  so  forth.  People  in  those  days  were  continu- 
ally carried  away  drunk  and  put  to  bed,  and  I  suppose  had  no 
shame  in  meeting  their  families  the  next  morning.  No  wonder 
the  pulse  of  pleasure  beat  with  all  this  liquor  to  inflame  it ! 

Father  of  Whitstable.— There  was  a  parson  who,  if  any  of  his 
congregation  held  up  a  lemon  whilst  he  was  preaching,  could 
not  resist,  but  finished  his  discourse  and  went  to  the  public- 
house  for  punch. 

1111.  A  rencontre  at  the  Adelphi  Tavern  between  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Bate  of  the  Morning  Post  and  Captain  Andrew  Robinson 
Stony,  in  consequence  of  a  paragraph  reflecting  upon  a  lady ; 
after  firing  a  case  of  pistols  without  effect  they  fought  with 
swords,  and  each  received  a  wound ;  but  they  were  interrupted, 
and  the  Captain  on  the  following  Sunday  married  the  lady. 

Cards. — The  soldier  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  the  pack  of 
cards,  which  he  spread  before  the  Mayor.  "  When  I  see  the 
ace,"  he  said,  "  it  puts  me  in  mind  that  there  is  one  God  only ; 
when  I  see  the  deuce,  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  F.  and  the  S. ; 
when  I  see  the  tray,  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  F.,  S.,  and  H.  G. ; 
when  I  see  the  four,  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  four  Evangelists 
that  penned  the  Gospel,  viz.,  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John ; 
when  I  see  the  five,  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  five  wise  virgins 
who  trimmed  the  lamps — there  were  ten,  but  five  were  shut  out ; 
when  I  see  the  six,  it  puts  me  in  mind  that  in  six  days  heaven 
and  earth  were  made ;  when  I  see  the  seven,  it  puts  me  in  mind 
of  Sunday ;  when  I  see  the  eight,  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  the 
eight  righteous  persons  who  were  in  the  ark ;  when  I  see  the 
nine,  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  nine  lepers  that  were  healed — 
there  were  ten,  but  nine  never  returned  thanks  ;  when  I  see  the 
ten,  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  ten  commandments ;  when  I  see 
the  king  and  queen,  I  think  of  their  Majesties,  and  long  life  to 
them ;  and  when  I  see  the  knave,  of  the  rogue  who  brought  mc 
before  your  worship. 

"  When  I  count  how  many  spots  there  are  in  a  pack  of  cards, 
I  find  365  ;  how  many  cards  in  a  pack,  52  ;  how  many  tricks  in 
a  pack,  13.  Thus  you  see  this  pack  of  cards  is  Bible,  almanac, 
Common  Prayer-book,  and  pack  of  cards  to  me." 

Then  the  Mayor  called  for  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  piece  of  good 


INTEODUCTION  Ixxvii 

cheese,  and  a  pot  of  good  beer,  and  giving  the  soldier  a  piece 
of  money,  bid  him  go  about  his  business,  saying  he  was  the 
cleverest  man  he  had  ever  seen. 

In  1793,  Dr.  Rennell  of  the  Temple  wrote  a  sermon  against 
card-playing,  and  put  it  under  Fox's  door  in  South  Street. 

A  friend  of  mine,  one  of  the  few  great  whist-players  still  ex- 
tant in  London,  told  me  that  he  knew  a  few  years  since  at  the 
Portland  Club  a  very  agreeable  old  Irish  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  who  had  come  to  London  of  late,  had  a  good  house,  gave 
excellent  dinners,  and  told  a  hundred  pleasant  anecdotes  of  the 
great  world  of  fifty'  years  ago.  It  came  out  after  a  while  that 
the  poor  old  gentleman  had  been  of  this  great  world  himself, 
and  had  been  detected  hiding  "  nines  "  at  the  game  of  Macao 
with  Charles  Fox,  and  had  been  forced  to  retire.  He  returned, 
and  was  found  out  again  after  fifty  years  of  exile.  Poor  old 
Punter !  The  second  discovery  killed  him.  He  went  home  to 
Ireland  and  presently  died. 

There  was  a  certain  Jones  said  to  have  borrowed  £10,000  in 
half-crowns;  these  little  debts  were  not  debts  of  honour,  and 
not,  therefore,  necessarily  to  be  repaid.  It  was  different  with 
debts  of  honour.  This  same  Jones  having  lost  £5  to  the  Colo- 
nel Dash  at  the  Admiralty  Coffee-house  (fancy  two  gentlemen 
gambling  in  the  forenoon  at  a  cofiee-house  now  !),  and  it  being 
near  dinner-time,  the  Colonel  declined  playing  any  longer.  Mr. 
Jones  whispered  that  he  was  a  little  out  of  cash,  and  hoped  the 
Colonel  would  give  him  credit.  "  How  is  that,  sir  ?"  cries  the 
Colonel ;  "  when  I  saw  you  come  out  of  Drummond's  an  hour 
ago  ?"  "  It  was  because  I  went  to  pay  in  all  my  money,  and 
have  not  a  shilling  left,"  says  Jones.  "  So  much  the  better, 
give  me  your  draft."  "  Sir,  I  have  not  a  cheque  about  me." 
"  Then,  by  Jove!  you  must  go  out  of  the  window  and  get  one." 
Half-crown  Jones  pleaded  for  being  kicked  out  of  doors  and 
not  thrown  out  of  window  —  and  kicked  out  he  accordingly 
vpas. 

Sir  Fletcher  Norton  had  the  reputation  of  not  adhering  strict- 
ly to  truth.  It  was  imputed  to  him  that  he  said,  "  My  dear  lady 
is  the  most  unfortunate  player  of  cards  that  ever  was  known. 
She  has  played  at  whist  for  twenty  years,  and  never  had  a 
trump."      "  Nay,"  said  somebody,  "  how  can  that  be  ?     She 


Ixxviii  MISCELLANIES 

must  have  had  a  trump  when  she  dealt  ?"  "  Oh,  as  to  that,"  said 
he,  "  she  lost  every  deal  during  the  whole  twenty  years  !" 

Queen  Charlotte. — At  her  marriage  Queen  Charlotte  was 
dressed  in  white  and  silver,  an  endless  mantle  of  violet-coloured 
velvet,  lined  with  ermine,  and  attempted  to  be  fastened  on  her 
shoulder  by  a  bunch  of  large  pearls,  dragged  itself  and  the  rest 
of  her  clothes  half  down  her  waist.  On  her  head  was  a  beauti- 
ful little  tiara  of  diamonds ;  she  had  a  diamond  necklace  and  a 
stomacher  worth  £60,000,  which  she  is  to  wear  at  her  coronar 
tion.     Besides,  she  had  hired  diamonds  for  £9000. 

The  Queen  said  of  the  "  Sorrows  of  Werther,"  "  It  is  very 
finely  writ  in  German,  and  I  can't  bear  it." 

Nelson  apud  Collingwood. — "  My  friend  Nelson,  whose  spirit 
is  equal  to  all  undertakings,  and  whose  resources  are  fitted  to  all 
occasions,  was  sent  with  three  sail  of  the  line  and  some  other 
ships  to  Teneriffe  to  surprise  and  capture  it.  After  a  series  of 
adventures,  tragic  and  comic,  that  belong  to  romance,  they  were 
obliged  to  abandon  their  enterprise.  Nelson  was  shot  in  the 
right  arm  when  landing,  and  was  obliged  to  be  carried  on  board. 
He  himself  hailed  the  ship  and  desired  the  surgeon  would  get 
his  instruments  ready  to  disarm  him.  And  in  half-an-hour  after 
it  was  off  he  gave  all  the  orders  necessary  for  carrying  on  their 
operations,  as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  him." 

Successors  of  Brummell.  —  Mr.  Ball  Hughes,  called  the 
"  Golden  Ball,"  may  be  mentioned  first  for  his  taste  in  dress, 
equipages,  appointments.  The  papers  rang  with  his  doings :  he 
was  a  man  of  exceedingly  good  taste,  and  in  whatever  he  did  he 
never  lost  sight  of  the  appearance  and  character  of  a  gentleman. 
Coaching  was  the  rage  of  his  day,  and  those  who  saw  his  well- 
built,  dark  chocolate-coloured  coach,  with  the  four  white  horses 
a^d  two  neat  grooms  in  brown  liveries  behind,  saw  that  it  was 
possible  for  a  gentleman  to  drive  four-in-hand  without  adopt- 
ing the  dress  and  manners  of  a  stage-coachman.  Mr.  Ball  was 
a  beautiful  dresser :  his  colours  were  quiet — chiefly  black  or 
white — and  he  was  the  only  man  we  ever  saw  who  could  carry  off  a 
white  waistcoat  in  a  morning.  He  was  the  introducer  of  the 
large  black-fronted  cravats  which  helped  to  set  ofE  the  other- 
wise difficult  attire.  No  man,  it  has  been  said,  is  a  hero  to  his 
valet-de-chambre,  but  the  illustrious  Ball  wais  an  exception  to  this 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxix 

rule,  for  we  heard  his  valet  publicly  declare  at  a  table  d'hdte  in  a 
continental  town,  that  he  was  the  handsomest  man  in  the  place, 
except  his  master. 

Him  Pea-Green  Hayne  followed,  conspicuous  for  the  colour 
of  his  coat  and  his  dressing-case,  which  cost  £1500.  Lord 
Wellesley  also  must  be  mentioned  as  a  dandy  of  eminence,  and 
one  of  the  first  that  turned  back  the  wristbands  of  his  shirts ; 
and  after  him  Mr.  Bayley's  name  must  be  recorded.  Mr.  Bayley 
was  a  dandy  of  the  butterfly  order,  a  patron  of  bright  colours, 
light-blue  coats,  coloured  silk  cravats,  and  fancy  waistcoats.  To 
have  seen  him  cantering  up  Rotten  Row  of  a  summer's  evening 
on  his  well-groomed  hack,  perfuming  the  air  as  he  fanned  the 
flies  from  his  noble  horse  with  his  well-scented  handkerchief, 
and  to  observe  him  in  the  crush-room  of  the  opera  with  gauze 
silk  stockings,  thin  pumps,  and  silver  buckles,  his  hair  hanging 
in  ringlets  over  his  ears,  with  a  waistcoat  of  pink  and  blue  satin 
embroidered  with  silver  and  gold — a  stranger  would  have  set 
him  down  as  an  effeminate  puppy,  and  yet  this  languid  dandy, 
one  night  single-handed,  actually  thrashed  all  the  watchmen  in 
Bond  Street ! 

It  is  sad  to  be  obliged  to  own  that  all  these  heroes  came  to 
misfortune  like  Brummell.  The  paper  from  which  I  quote  says 
"  Ball  has  for  some  time  resided  in  Paris  ;  Hayne,  we  believe, 
lives  at  Brussels ;  Mr.  Wellesley  is  also  abroad ;  and  the  last 
time  we  saw  Mr.  Bailey  he  was  vegetating  on  the  beach  at  Os- 
tend."     (Fraser,  1837.) 

The  Prince  drove  a  beautiful  phaeton  and  six,  the  leaders 
guided  by  a  diminutive  postilion  and  the  rest  driven  by  himself, 
and  is  to  be  revered  as  one  of  the  latest  supporters  of  hair  pow- 
der. The  Princess,  his  consort,  said  that  he  looked  like  a  great 
serjeant-major  with  his  powdered  ears ;  which  speech,  when  it 
reached  the  powdered  ears,  offended  their  royal  owner. 

In  1794  the  Stadtholder  who  had  fled  from  Holland  was  the 
guest  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  amused  his  host  and  the  pub- 
lic by  his  great  alacrity  in  sleeping.  The  Princess  commanded 
a  play  for  him  ;  he  slept  and  snored  in  the  box  beside  her,  and 
was  only  awakened  with  difl5culty.  He  was  invited  to  a  ball, 
fell  asleep  whilst  eating  his  supper,  and  snored  so  loud  as  to  vie 
with  the  music.  Other  celebrated  sleepers  were  Lord  North, 
13  4 


Ixxx  MISCELLANIES 

Selwyn,  and  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  regarding  whom  Eldon  is  de- 
lighted to  record  the  circumstance  that  the  Duke  was  performing 
his  usual  music  when  a  paper  was  read  from  the  village  of  Great 
Snorham,  in  Norfolk. 

•-  Jockey  of  Norfolk "  had  a  clergyman  who  was  a  valuable 
friend  to  him.  The  Duke,  when  drunk,  lost  his  voice,  but  retained 
the  use  of  his  limbs;  his  friend  retained  his  power  of  speech,  but 
could  not  stand.  So  the  Duke  who  could  not  speak  rang  the 
bell,  and  the  parson  who  could  not  move  ordered  more  wine. 

In  1798,  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  Norfolk  drank  "  the  peo- 
ple, the  only  scource  of  legitimate  power,"  for  which  the  King 
removed  him  from  the  Lieutenancy  of  the  West  Riding  and  the 
Colonelcy  of  the  West  York  Militia.  Fox  repeated  the  toast  at 
Brooks's,  and  the  King  struck  his  name  off  the  list  of  Privy 
Councillors.  You  remember  what  uniform  he  wore,  blue  and 
bufi,  and  who  wore  it  on  their  side  of  the  Atlantic  ? 

George  IV. — Mr.  Milnes,  who  knew  him  well,  says  he  never 
was  in  a  house  with  twenty  people  but  he  fascinated  them  all. 
He  (Mr.  M.)  gives  a  counter-story  to  Jesse's  of  Brummell,  as  told 
by  Brummell  himself,  that  on  arrival  at  Calais  the  King  sent 
Lord  Blomfield  to  Mr.  Brummell  with  his  snuff-box,  saying,  "  No 
one  knew  how  to  mix  snuff  so  well  in  old  times,  would  Brummell 
fill  his  box!"  And  at  the  same  time  the  King  told  Blomfield  to 
inquire  what  the  poor  dandy's  circumstances  were.  Brummell 
may  have  told  both  stories,  pro  and  con  the  King,  his  lies  were 
constant,  and  at  the  end  of  his  time  he  was  utterly  untrustworthy. 

Lady  Hertford  said  the  reason  George  IV.  broke  from  the 
Whigs  was  that,  being  on  terms  of  "entire  confidence"  with  a 
celebrated  lady,  he  went  one  day  to  visit  her,  and  found  Lord 
Grey  in  possession  already,  from  which  time,  Lady  Hertford 
said,  he  never  could  bear  the  sight  of  a  Whig. 

"  The  Prince  was  a  very  plain  dresser — nothing  flaunting  in 
his  attire  at  all."  How  does  this  accord  with  the  sale  of  his 
wondrous  wardrobe  at  his  death  ? 

W^e  read  that  three  waggons  were  needed  to  bring  the  royal 
wardrobe  from  Windsor  to  London.  It  was  displayed  in  two 
chambers  in  Mount  Street  at  the  King's  cabinetmakers.  In  the 
former  were  the  coronation  robes,  regimentals,  British  and  for- 
eign, covered  with  a  profusion  of  lace,  robes  of  the  various  or- 


INTKODUCTION  Ixxxi 

ders  of  which  the  late  King  was  a  member,  ermine  and.  silken 
hose ;  the  other  room  contained  the  habiliment  of  ordinary  wear 
— coats,  waistcoats,  trousers,  and  especially  boots,  shoes,  and 
hats  enough  to  equip  a  regiment.  One  spectator  purchased  150 
hats,  200  whips,  and  a  great  portion  of  the  contents  of  this 
room.  Among  the  buyers  we  hear  of  Prince  Esterhazy,  Lord 
Londonderry  a  cane  at  the  price  of  30  guineas,  and  Lord 
Chesterfield  purchased  for  220  a  cloak  lined  with  sable,  the 
original  cost  of  which  was  800.  Hamlet,  the  jeweller,  bought 
the  whole  of  the  gold-headed  canes. 

Gray's  description  of  Southampton  Row  in  I'ZSO. — "  I  am  now 
settled  in  my  new  territories  commanding  Bedford  Gardens  and 
all  the  fields  as  far  as  Highgate  and  Hampstead,  with  such  a 
concourse  of  moving  pictures  as  would  astonish  you — so  rus  in 
Mr6e-ish  that  I  believe  I  shall  stay  here,  except  little  excursions 
and  vagaries,  for  a  year  to  come.  What  though  I  am  separated 
from  the  fashionable  world  by  the  broad  St.  Giles's  and  many 
a  dirty  court  and  alley,  yet  here  is  quiet  and  air  and  sunshine. 
However,  to  comfort  you,  I  shall  confess  that  I  am  basking 
with  heat  all  the  summer,  and,  I  suppose,  shall  be  blown  down 
all  the  winter,  besides  being  robbed  every  night.  I  trust,  how- 
ever, that  the  Museum,  with  all  its  manuscripts  and  rarities  by 
the  cartload,  will  make  amends  for  the  aforesaid  inconveniences. 
I  this  day  passed  through  the  jaws  of  the  great  leviathan  super- 
intendent of  the  Eeading-room." 

Johnsoniana. — Besides  his  household,  Johnson  had  a  score  of 
outdoor  dependants  on  his  bounty,  "  People  who  didn't  like  to 
see  him,"  he  said,  "  unless  he  brought  ''em  money."  He  called 
upon  his  rich  friends  to  help  them,  making  it  his  duty  to  urge 
their  charity  upon  them. 

He  excused  himself  for  turning  his  back  upon  a  lord  because 
his  lordship  was  not  in  a  rich  dress  becoming  his  rank. 

Rudely  treated  by  Dr.  Johnson,  Dean  Barnard  wrote : 

"  Dear  Knight  of  Plympton,  teach  me  how 
To  suffer  with  unclouded  brow 
And  smile  serene  as  thine 
The  jest  uncouth,  the  truth  severe, 
Like  thee  to  turn  my  deafest  ear 
And  calmly  drink  my  wine." 


Ixxxii  MISCELLANIES 

Johnson  always  praised  Addison,  though  he  did  not  seem 
really  to  like  him. 

He  was  greatly  disgusted  with  the  coarse  language  used  on 
board  a  man-of-war.  He  asked  an  officer  what  was  the  name 
of  some  part  of  the  ship,  and  was  answered  it  was  the  place 
where  the  loblolly  man  kept  his  loblolly.  The  reply  he  con- 
sidered as  "  disrespectful,  gross,  and  ignorant."  I  should  like 
to  have  seen  his  face  when  the  officer  spoke. 

He  said  of  a  pious  man,  "  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of 
contfadieting  a  Bishop." 

He  once  saw  Chesterfield's  son  in  Dodsley's  shop,  and  was  so 
much  struck  by  his  awkward  manner  and  appearance,  he  could 
not  help  asking  wh6  the  gentleman  was. 

Johnson's  Funeral. — His  body  was  brought  out  of  Bolt  Court 
preceded  by  two  clergymen,  to  a  hearse  and  six  in  Fleet  Street. 
This  was  followed  by  the  executors,  Reynolds,  Sir  W.  Scott, 
&c.,  in  a  coach  and  four ;  by  the  Literary  Club  in  eight  coaches 
and  four;  by  two  coaches  and  four  containing  the  pall-bear- 
ers, Burke,  Windham,  Bunbury,  &c.  After  these  followed  two 
other  mourning-coaches  and  four,  and  thirteen  gentlemen's  car- 
riages closed  the  procession.  He  was  deposited  in  the  Abbey 
by  the  side  of  Mr.  Garrick,  with  the  feet  opposite  Shakespeare's 
monument. 

Not  far  from  Johnson's  grave,  by  the  monument  to  Addison, 
stands  the  bust  which  was  put  up  by  some  of  my  father's  friends 
to  his  memory.  It  is  not  in  marble  that  he  is  best  portrayed, 
but  in  the  constant  impressions  of  his  life  and  words  and  ways, 
and  in  these  collected  fragments  enough  has  been  given  to  show 
what  he  was  in  himself,  something  more  than  a  writer  and 
master  of  his  art. 

A.  I.  R. 

I3th  February  1899. 


'  /  have  to  thank  those  old  and  new  friends,  and  old  friends'  children,  who 
have  assisted  me  to  put  these  notes  together  ;  most  of  all  my  sister-in-law, 
Emily  Ritchie,  whose  help  has  alone  enabled  me  to  finish  this  work. 


BALLADS 


BALLADS 


SONG  OF  THE   VIOLET 


A  HUMBLE  flower  long  time  I  pined 
Upon  the  solitary  plain, 
And  trembled  at  the  angry  wind, 
And  shrank  before  the  bitter  rain. 
And  oh  !  'twas  in  a  blessed  hour 

A  passing  wanderer  chanced  to  see, 
And,  pitying  the  lonely  flower. 
To  stoop  and  gather  me. 

I  fear  no  more  the  tempest  rude, 

On  dreary  heath  no  more  I  pine. 
But  left  my  cheerless  solitude. 

To  deck  the  breast  of  Caroline. 
Alas  !  our  days  are  brief  at  best. 

Nor  long,  I  fear,  will  mine  endure. 
Though  sheltered  here  upon  a  breast 

So  gentle  and  so  pure. 

It  draws  the  fragrance  from  my  leaves, 
It  robs  me  of  my  sweetest  breath. 

And  every  time  it  falls  and  heaves, 
It  warns  me  of  my  coming  death. 

But  one  I  know  would  glad  forego 
AU  joys  of  life  to  be  as  I ; 

An  hour  to  rest  on  that  sweet  breast, 
.  And  then,  contented,  die. 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM 


Paet  I. 

A  T  Paris,  hard  by  the  Maine  barriers, 
/A         Whoever  will  choose  to  repair, 
-»     *■   Midst  a  dozen  of  wooden-legged  warriors 

May  haply  fall  in  with  old  Pierre. 
On  the  sunshiny  bench  of  a  tavern 

He  sits  and  he  prates  of  old  wars. 
And  moistens  his  pipe  of  tobacco 

With  a  drink  that  is  named  after  Mars. 

The  beer  makes  his  tongue  run  the  quicker, 

And  as  long  as  his  tap  never  fails. 
Thus  over  his  favourite  liquor 

Old  Peter  will  tell  his  old  tales. 
Says  he,  "  In  my  life's  ninety  summers 

Strange  changes  and  chances  I've  seen, — 
So  here's  to  all  gentlemen  drummers 

That  ever  have  thumped  on  a  skin. 

'  Brought  up  in  the  art  military 

For  four  generations  we  are  ; 
My  ancestors  drumm'd  for  King  Harry, 

The  Huguenot  lad  of  Navarre. 
And  as  each  man  in  life  has  his  station 

According  as  Fortune  may  fix, 
While  Cond^  was  waving  the  baton, 

My  grandsire  was  trolling  the  sticks. 

'  Ah  !  those  were  the  days  for  commanders  ! 
What  glories  my  grandfather  won. 
Ere  bigots,  and  lacqueys,  and  panders 
The  fortunes  of  France  had  undone  ! 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM 

In  Germany,  Flanders,  and  Holland, — 

What  foeman  resisted  us  then  1 
No ;  my  grandsire  was  ever  victorious, 

My  grandsire  and  Monsieur  Turenne. 

"  He  died  :  and  our  noble  battalions 

The  jade  fickle  Fortune  forsook  ; 
And  at  Blenheim,  in  spite  of  our  valiance, 

The  victory  lay  with  Malbrook. 
The  news  it  was  brought  to  King  Louis ; 

Corbleu  !  how  His  Majesty  swore 
When  he  heard  they  had  taken  my  grandsire : 

And  twelve  thousand  gentlemen  more. 

"  At  Namur,  Ramillies,  and  Malplaquet 

Were  we  posted,  on  plain  or  in  trench  r 
Malbrook  only  need  to  attack  it. 

And  away  from  him  scamper'd  we  French. 
Cheer  up  !  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys, — 

'Tis  written,  since  fighting  begun. 
That  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  conquer. 

And  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  run. 

To  fight  and  to  run  was  our  fate : 

Our  fortune  and  fame  had  departed. 
And  so  perish'd  Louis  the  Great, — 

Old,  lonely,  and  half  broken-hearted. 
His  coffin  they  pelted  with  mud. 

His  body  they  tried  to  lay  hands  on ; 
And  so  having  buried  King  Louis, 

They  loyally  served  his  great-grandson. 

"  God  save  the  beloved  King  Louis  ! 

(For  so  he  was  nicknamed  by  some). 
And  now  came  my  father  to  do  his 

King's  orders  and  beat  on  the  drum. 
My  grandsire  was  dead,  but  his  bones 

Must  have  shaken,  I'm  certain,  for  joy. 
To  hear  daddy  drumming  the  English 

From  the  meadows  of  famed  Fontenoy. 

"  So  well  did  he  drum  in  that  battle 

That  the  enemy  showed  us  their  backs  ; 
Corbleu  !  it  was  pleasant  to  rattle 
The  sticks  and  to  follow  old  Saxe  ! 


BALLADS 

We  next  had  Soubise  as  a  leader, 

And  as  luck  hath  its  changes  and  fits, 

At  Rossbach,  in  spite  of  dad's  drumming, 
'Tis  said  we  were  beaten  by  Fritz. 

"  And  now  daddy  cross'd  the  Atlantic, 

To  drum  for  Montcalm  and  his  men ; 
Morbleu  !  but  it  makes  a  man  frantic 

To  think  we  were  beaten  again  ! 
My  daddy  he  cross'd  the  wide  ocean. 

My  mother  brought  me  on  her  neck. 
And  we  came  in  the  year  fifty-seven 

To  guard  the  good  town  of  Quebec. 

"  In  the  year  fifty-nine  came  the  Britons, — 

Full  well  I  remember  the  day, — 
They  knocked  at  our  gates  for  admittance, 

Their  vessels  were  moor'd  in  our  bay. 
Says  our  general,  '  Drive  me  yon  red  coats 

Away  to  the  sea  whence  they  come  ! ' 
So  we  march'd  against  Wolfe  and  his  bull-dogs, 

We  marched  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

"  I  think  I  can  see  my  poor  mammy 

With  me  in  her  hand  as  she  waits, 
And  our  regiment,  slowly  retreating, 

Pours  back  through  the  citadel  gates. 
Dear  mammy  she  looks  in  their  faces, 

And  asks  if  her  husband  has  come  1 — 
He  is  lying  all  cold  on  the  glacis. 

And  wiU  never  more  beat  on  the  drum. 

"  Come,  drink,  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys  ! 

He  died  like  a  soldier  in  glory ; 
Here's  a  glass  to  the  health  of  all  drum-boys, 

And  now  I'll  commence  my  own  story. 
Once  more  did  we  cross  the  salt  ocean, 

We  came  in  the  year  eighty-one  ; 
And  the  wrongs  of  my  father  the  drummer 

Were  avenged  by  the  drummer  his  son. 

"  In  Ohesapeak  Bay  we  were  landed. 
In  vain  strove  the  British  to  pass  : 
Rochambeau  our  armies  commanded. 
Our  ships  they  were  led  by  De  Grasse 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM 

Morbleu  !  how  I  rattled  the  drumsticks 
The  day  we  march'd  into  Yorktown ; 

Ten  thousand  of  beef-eating  British 
Their  weapons  we  caused  to  lay  down. 

"  Then  homewards  returning  victorious, 

In  peace  to  our  country  we  came, 
And  were  thanked  for  our  glorious  actions 

By  Louis,  Sixteenth  of  the  name. 
What  drummer  on  earth  could  be  prouder 

Than  I,  while  I  drumm'd  at  Versailles 
To  the  lovely  Court  ladies  in  powder. 

And  lappets,  and  long  satin-tails  'i 

"The  princes  that  day  pass'd  before  us, 

Our  countrymen's  glory  and  hope ; 
Monsieur,  who  was  learned  in  Horace, 

D'Artois,  who  could  dance  the  tight-rope. 
One  night  we  kept  guard  for  the  Queen 

At  Her  Majesty's  opera  box. 
While  the  King,  that  majestical  monarch, 

Sat  filing  at  home  at  his  locks. 

"  Yes,  I  drumm'd  for  the  fair  Antoinette, 

And  so  smiling  she  look'd  and  so  tender. 
That  our  officers,  privates,  and  drummers, 

AU  vow'd  they  would  die  to  defend  her. 
But  she  cared  not  for  us  honest  fellows. 

Who  fought  and  who  bled  in  her  wars, 
She  sneer'd  at  our  gallant  Rochambeau, 

And  turned  Lafayette  out  of  doors. 

"  Ventrebleu  !  then  I  swore  a  great  oath, 

No  more  to  such  tyrants  to  kneel ; 
And  so,  just  to  keep  up  my  drumming. 

One  day  I  drumm'd  down  the  Bastille. 
Ho,  landlord  !  a  stoup  of  fresh  wine. 

Come,  comrades,  a  bumper  we'll  try. 
And  drink  to  the  year  eighty-nine 

And  the  glorious  fourth  of  July  ! 

"  Then  bravely  our  cannon  it  thunder'd 
As  onwards  our  patriots  bore. 
Our  enemies  were  but  a  hundred. 
And  we  twenty  thousand  or  more. 


BALLADS 

They  carried  the  news  to  King  Louis. 

He  heard  it  as  calm  as  you  please, 
And,  like  a  majestical  monarch, 

Kept  filing  his  locks  and  his  keys. 

"  We  show'd  our  Republican  courage, 

We  storm'd  and  we  broke  the  great  gate  in, 
And  we  murder'd  the  insolent  governor 

For  daring  to  keep  us  arwaiting. 
Lambesc  and  his  squadrons  stood  by  : 

They  never  stirr'd  finger  or  thumb. 
The  saucy  aristocrats  trembled 

As  they  heard  the  republican  drum. 

"  Hurrah  !  what  a  storm  was  a-brewing  ! 

The  day  of  our  vengeance  was  come  ! 
Through  scenes  of  what  carnage  and  ruin 

Did  I  beat  on  the  patriot  drum ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  famed  tenth  of  August : 

At  midnight  I  beat  the  tattoo. 
And  woke  up  the  pikeraen  of  Paris 

To  follow  the  bold  Barbaroux. 

"  With  pikes,  and  with  shouts,  and  with  torches 

March'd  onwards  our  dusty  battalions. 
And  we  girt  the  tall  castle  of  Louis, 

A  million  of  tatterdemalions  ! 
We  storm'd  the  fair  gardens  where  tower'd 

The  walls  of  his  heritage  splendid. 
Ah,  shame  on  him,  craven  and  coward. 

That  had  not  the  heart  to  defend  it ! 

"  With  the  crown  of  his  sires  on  his  head, 

His  nobles  and  knights  by  his  side. 
At  the  foot  of  his  ancestors'  palace 

'Twere  easy,  methinks,  to  have  died. 
But  no :  when  we  burst  through  his  barriers, 

Mid  heaps  of  the  dying  and  dead. 
In  vain  through  the  chambers  we  sought  him — 

He  had  turn'd  like  a  craven  and  fled. 

"  You  all  know  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  1 
'Tis  hard  by  the  Tuileries  wall. 
Mid  terraces,  fountains,  and  statues. 
There  rises  an  obelisk  tall. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM 

There  rises  an  obelisk  tall, 

All  garnish'd  and  gilded  the  base  is  : 
'Tis  surely  the  gayest  of  all 

Our  beautiful  city's  gay  places. 

"  Around  it  are  gardens  and  flowers, 

And  the  Cities  of  France  on  their  thrones 
Each  crown'd  with  his  circlet  of  flowers. 

Sits  watching  this  biggest  of  stones  ! 
I  love  to  go  sit  in  the  sun  there. 

The  flowers  and  fountains  to  see, 
And  to  think  of  the  deeds  that  were  done  there 

In  the  glorious  year  ninety-three. 

"  'Twas  here  stood  the  Altar  of  Freedom  ; 

And  though  neither  marble  nor  gilding 
Was  used  in  those  days  to  adorn 

Our  simple  republican  building, 
Corbleu  !  but  the  mSee  guillotine 

Cared  little  for  splendour  or  show. 
So  you  gave  her  an  axe  and  a  beam, 

And  a  plank  and  a  basket  or  so. 

"  Awful,  and  proud,  and  erect. 

Here  sat  our  republican  goddess. 
Each  morning  her  table  we  deck'd 

With  dainty  aristocrats'  bodies. 
The  people  each  day  flocked  around 

As  she  sat  at  her  meat  and  her  wine  : 
'Twas  always  the  use  of  our  nation 

To  witness  the  sovereign  dine. 

"  Young  virgins  with  fair  golden  tresses, 

Old  silver-hair'd  prelates  and  priests, 
Dukes,  marquises,  barons,  princesses. 

Were  splendidly  served  at  her  feasts. 
Ventrebleu  !  but  we  pampered  our  ogress 

With  the  best  that  our  nation  could  bring, 
And  dainty  she  grew  in  her  progress. 

And  called  for  the  head  of  a  King  ! 

"  She  called  for  the  blood  of  our  King, 

And  straight  from  his  prison  we  drew  him ; 
And  to  her  with  shouting  we  led  him, 

And  took  him,  and  bound  him,  and  slew  him 


10  BALLADS 

'  The  monarchs  of  Europe  against  me 
Have  plotted  a  godless  alliance  : 

I'll  fling  them  the  head  of  King  Louis,' 
She  said,  '  as  my  gage  of  defiance.' 

"  I  see  him  as  now,  for  a  moment, 

Away  from  his  gaolers  he  broke  ; 
And  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold, 

And  linger'd,  and  fain  would  have  spoke. 
'  Ho,  drummer  !  quick,  silence  yon  Capet,' 

Says  Santerre,  '  with  a  beat  of  your  drum. 
Lustily  then  did  I  tap  it. 

And  the  son  of  Saint  Louis  was  dumb." 


Part  II. 

"  The  glorious  days  of  September 

Saw  many  aristocrats  fall ; 
'Twas  then  that  our  pikes  drank  the  blood 

In  the  beautiful  breast  of  Lamballe. 
Pardi,  'twas  a  beautiful  lady  ! 

I  seldom  have  look'd  on  her  like  ; 
And  I  drumm'd  for  a  gallant  procession, 

That  marched  with  her  head  on  a  pike. 

"  Let's  show  the  pale  head  to  the  Queen, 

We  said — she'll  remember  it  well. 
She  looked  from  the  bars  of  her  prison. 

And  shriek'd  as  she  saw  it,  and  fell. 
We  set  up  a  shout  at  her  screaming. 

We  laugh'd  at  the  fright  she  had  shown 
At  the  sight  of  the  head  of  her  minion — 

How  she'd  tremble  to  part  with  her  own  ! 

"  We  had  taken  the  head  of  King  Capet, 

We  called  for  the  blood  of  his  wife ; 
Undaunted  she  came  to  the  scaffold. 

And  bared  her  fair  neck  to  the  knife. 
As  she  felt  the  foul  fingers  that  touch'd  her, 

She  shrank,  but  she  deigned  not  to  speak  : 
She  look'd  with  a  royal  disdain, 

And  died  with  a  blush  on  her  cheek  ! 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM  11 

"  'Twas  thus  that  our  country  was  saved  ; 

So  told  us  the  safety  committee  ! 
But  psha  !  I've  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

All  gentleness,  mercy,  and  pity. 
I  loathed  to  assist  at  such  deeds, 

And  my  drum  beat  its  loudest  of  tunes 
As  we  offered  to  justice  offended 

The  blood  of  the  bloody  tribunes. 

"  Away  with  such  foul  recollections  ! 

No  more  of  the  axe  and  the  block ; 
I  saw  the  last  fight  of  the  sections. 

As  they  fell  'neath  our  guns  at  Saint  Roch. 
Young  Bonaparte  led  us  that  day ; 

When  he  sought  the  Italian  frontier, 
I  foUow'd  my  gallant  young  captain, 

I  foUow'd  him  many  a  long  year. 

"  We  came  to  an  army  in  rags, 

Our  general  was  but  a  boy 
When  we  first  saw  the  Austrian  flags 

Flaunt  proud  in  the  fields  of  Savoy. 
In  the  glorious  year  ninety-six, 

We  march'd  to  the  banks  of  the  Po  ; 
I  carried  my  drum  and  my  sticks, 

And  we  laid  the  proud  Austrian  low. 

"  In  triumph  we  enter'd  Milan, 

We  seized  on  the  Mantuan  keys ; 
The  troops  of  the  Emperor  ran. 

And  the  Pope  he  fell  down  on  his  knees." — 
Pierre's  comrades  here  call'd  a  fresh  bottle. 

And  clubbing  together  their  wealth, 
They  drank  to  the  Army  of  Italy, 

Aiid  General  Bonaparte's  health. 

The  drummer  now  bared  his  old  breast. 

And  show'd  us  a  plenty  of  scars. 
Rude  presents  that  Fortune  had  made  him 

In  fifty  victorious  wars. 
"  This  came  when  I  follow'd  bold  Kleber — 

'Twas  shot  by  a  Mameluke  gun ; 
And  this  from  an  Austrian  sabre, 

When  the  field  of  Marengo  was  won. 


12  BALLADS 

"  My  forehead  has  many  deep  furrows, 

But  this  is  the  deepest  of  all : 
A  Brunswicker  made  it  at  Jena, 

Beside  the  fair  river  of  Saal. 
This  cross,  'twas  the  Emperor  gave  it ; 

(God  bless  him  !)  it  covers  a  blow ; 
I  had  it  at  Austerlitz  fight. 

As  I  beat  on  my  drum  in  the  snow. 

"  'Twas  thus  that  we  conquer'd  and  fought ; 

But  wherefore  continue  the  story  ? 
There's  never  a  baby  in  France 

But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  glory, - 
But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  fame. 

His  sorrows  and  triumphs  can  tell, 
How  bravely  Napoleon  conquer'd, 

How  bravely  and  sadly  he  fell. 

"  It  makes  my  old  heart  to  beat  higher. 

To  think  of  the  deeds  that  I  saw ; 
I  foUow'd  bold  Ney  through  the  fire. 

And  charged  at  the  side  of  Murat." 
And  so  did  old  Peter  continue 

His  story  of  twenty  brave  years ; 
His  audience  follow'd  with  comments — 

Rude  comments  of  curses  and  tears. 

He  told  how  the  Prussians  in  vain 

Had  died  in  defence  of  their  land ; 
His  audience  laugh'd  at  the  story. 

And  vow'd  that  their  captain  was  grand  ! 
He  had  fought  the  red  English,  he  said. 

In  many  a  battle  of  Spain  ; 
They  cursed  the  red  English,  and  prayed 

To  meet  them  and  fight  them  again. 

He  told  them  how  Russia  was  lost, 

Had  winter  not  driven  them  back ; 
And  his  company  cursed  the  quick  frost. 

And  doubly  they  cursed  the  Cossack. 
He  told  how  the  stranger  arrived ; 

They  wept  at  the  tale  of  disgrace  ; 
And  they  long'd  but  for  one  battle  more. 

The  stain  of  their  shame  to  efface. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM  13 

"  Our  country  their  hordes  overrun, 

We  fled  to  the  fields  of  Champagne, 
And  tought  them,  though  twenty  to  one, 

And  beat  them  again  and  again  ! 
Our  warrior  was  conquer'd  at  last ; 

They  bade  him  his  crown  to  resign ; 
To  fate  and  his  country  he  yielded 

The  rights  of  himself  and  his  line. 

'  He  came,  and  among  us  he  stood. 

Around  him  we  press'd  in  a  throng : 
We  could  not  regard  him  for  weeping. 

Who  had  led  us  and  loved  us  so  long. 
'  I  have  led  you  for  twenty  long  years,' 

Napoleon  said  ere  he  went ; 
'  Wherever  was  honour  I  found  you. 

And  vrith  you,  my  sons,  am  content ! 

"  '  Though  Europe  against  me  was  arm'd, 
Your  chiefs  and  my  people  are  true ; 
I  stUl  might  have  struggled  with  fortune, 
And  baffled  all  Europe  with  you. 

"  '  But  France  would  have  suffer'd  the  while, 
'Tis  best  that  I  suflfer  alone ; 
I  go  to  my  place  of  exile. 

To  write  of  the  deeds  we  have  done. 

"  '  Be  true  to  the  king  that  they  give  you. 
We  may  not  embrace  ere  we  part ; 
But,  General,  reach  me  your  hand. 
And  press  me,  I  pray,  to  your  heart.' 

"  He  call'd  for  our  battle  standard ; 

One  kiss  to  the  eagle  he  gave. 
'  Dear  eagle  ! '  he  said,  '  may  this  kiss 

Long  sound  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave  ! ' 
'Twas  thus  that  Napoleon  left  us  ; 

Our  people  were  weeping  and  mute. 
As  he  passed  through  the  lines  of  his  guard 

And  our  drums  beat  the  notes  of  salute. 


14  BALLADS 

"  I  look'd  when  the  drumming  was  o'er, 

I  look'd,  but  our  hero  was  gone  ; 
We  were  destined  to  see  him  once  more, 

When  we  fought  on  the  Mount  of  St.  John. 
The  Emperor  rode  through  our  files ; 

'Twas  June,  and  a  fair  Sunday  morn. 
The  lines  of  our  waniors  for  miles 

Stretch'd  wide  through  the  Waterloo  com. 

"  In  thousands  we  stood  on  the  plain. 

The  red-coats  were  crowning  the  height ; 
'  Go  scatter  yon  English,'  he  said  ; 

'  We'll  sup,  lads,  at  Brussels  to-night.' 
We  answer'd  his  voice  with  a  shout ; 

Our  eagles  were  bright  in  the  sun ; 
Our  drums  and  our  cannon  spoke  out, 

And  the  thundering  battle  begun. 

"  One  charge  to  another  succeeds, 

Like  waves  that  a  hurricane  bears ; 
All  day  do  our  galloping  steeds 

Dash  fierce  on  the  enemy's  squares. 
At  noon  we  began  the  fell  onset : 

We  charged  up  the  Englishman's  hill ; 
And  madly  we  charged  it  at  sunset — 

His  banners  were  floating  there  still. 

"  — Go  to  !  I  will  tell  you  no  more ; 

You  know  how  the  battle  was  lost. 
Ho  !  fetch  me  a  beaker  of  wine. 

And,  comrades,  I'll  give  you  a  toast, 
I'll  give  you  a  curse  on  all  traitors. 

Who  plotted  our  Emperor's  ruin  ; 
And  a  curse  on  those  red-coated  English, 

Whose  bayonets  helped  our  undoing. 

"  A  curse  on  those  British  assassins. 

Who  order'd  the  slaughter  of  Ney  ; 
A  curse  on  Sir  Hudson,  who  tortured 

The  life  of  our  hero  away. 
A  curse  on  all  Russians — I  hate  them — 

On  all  Prussian  and  Austrian  fry  ; 
And  oh  !  but  I  pray  we  may  meet  them, 

And  fight  them  again  ere  I  die." 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM  15 

'Twas  thus  old  Peter  did  conclude 

His  chronicle  with  curses  fit. 
He  spoke  the  tale  in  accents  rude, 

In  ruder  verse  I  copied  it. 

Perhaps  the  tale  a  moral  bears 

(All  tales  in  time  to  this  must  come), 
The  story  of  two  hundred  years 

Writ  on  the  parchment  of  a  drum. 

What  Peter  told  with  drum  and  stick, 

Is  endless  theme  for  poet's  pen  : 
Is  found  in  endless  quartos  thick. 

Enormous  books  by  learned  men. 

And  ever  since  historian  writ. 

And  ever  since  a  bard  could  sing, 
Doth  each  exalt  with  all  his  wit 

The  noble  art  of  murdering. 

We  love  to  read  the  glorious  page, 

How  bold  Achilles  kill'd  his  foe ; 
And  Turnus,  fell'd  by  Trojans'  rage, 

Went  howling  to  the  shades  below. 

How  Godfrey  led  his  red-cross  knights. 

How  mad  Orlando  slash'd  and  slew ; 
There's  not  a  single  bard  that  writes 

But  doth  the  glorious  theme  renew. 

And  while,  in  fashion  picturesque. 

The  poet  rhymes  of  blood  and  blows. 
The  grave  historian  at  his  desk 

Describes  the  same  in  classic  prose. 

Go  read  the  works  of  Reverend  Coxe, 

You'll  duly  see  recorded  there 
The  history  of  the  self-same  knocks 

Here  roughly  sung  by  Drummer  Pierre. 

Of  battles  fierce  and  warriors  big. 

He  writes  in  phrases  dull  and  slow. 
And  waves  his  cauliflower  wig, 

And  shouts  "  Saint  George  for  Marlborow  ' " 


16  BALLADS 

Take  Doctor  Southey  from  the  shelf, 
An  LL.D., — a  peaceful  man  ; 

Good  Lord,  how  doth  he  plume  himself 
Because  we  beat  the  Corsican  ! 


From  first  to  last  his  page  is  filled 

With  stirring  tales  how  blows  were  struck. 

He  shows  how  we  the  Frenchmen  kill'd, 
And  praises  God  for  our  good  luck. 

Some  hints,  'tis  true,  of  politics 

The  Doctor  gives  and  statesman's  art : 

Pierre  only  bangs  his  drum  and  sticks, 
And  understands  the  bloody  part. 

He  cares  not  what  the  cause  may  be, 
He  is  not  nice  for  wrong  and  right ; 

But  show  him  where's  the  enemy. 
He  only  asks  to  drum  and  fight. 

They  bid  him  fight, — perhaps  he  wins ; 

And  when  he  tells  the  story  o'er. 
The  honest  savage  brags  and  grins. 

And  only  longs  to  fight  once  more. 

But  luck  may  change,  and  valour  fail. 
Our  drummer,  Peter,  meet  reverse, 

And  with  a  moral  points  his  tale — 
The  end  of  all  such  tales — a  curse. 

Last  year,  my  love,  it  was  my  hap 

Behind  a  grenadier  to  be, 
And,  but  he  wore  a  hairy  cap, 

No  taller  man,  methinks,  than  me. 

Prince  Albert  and  the  Queen,  God  wot 
(Be  blessings  on  the  glorious  pair  !), 

Before  us  passed.     I  saw  them  not — 
I  only  saw  a  cap  of  hair. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE   DRUM  17 

Your  orthodox  historian  puts 

In  foremost  rank  the  soldier  thus, 
The  red-coat  bully  in  his  boots, 

That  hides  the  march  of  men  from  us. 


He  puts  him  there  in  foremost  rank, 
You  wonder  at  his  cap  of  hair  : 

You  hear  his  sabre's  cursed  clank. 
His  spurs  are  jingling  everywhere. 

Gro  to  !  I  hate  him  and  his  trade  : 
Who  bade  us  so  to  cringe  and  bend, 

And  all  God's  peaceful  people  made 
To  such  as  him  subservient  1 

TeU  me  what  find  we  to  admire 
In  epaulets  and  scarlet  coats — 

In  men,  because  they  load  and  fire. 
And  know  the  art  of  cutting  throats  1 


Ah,  gentle,  tender  lady  mine  ! 

"The  winter  wind  blows  cold  and  shriU ; 
Come,  fill  me  one  more  glass  of  wine. 

And  give  the  silly  fools  their  will. 

And  what  care  we  for  war  and  wrack. 
How  kings  and  heroes  rise  and  fall  f 

Look  yonder,*  in  his  coflBn  black 
There  lies  the  greatest  of  them  all ! 

To  pluck  him  down,  and  keep  him  up. 
Died  many  miUion  human  souls. — 

'Tis  twelve  o'clock  and  time  to  sup ; 
Bid  Mary  heap  the  fire  with  coals. 

He  captured  many  thousand  guns ; 

He  wrote  "  The  Great "  before  his  name  ; 
And  dying,  only  left  bis  sons 

The  recollection  of  his  shame. 

*  This  ballad  was  written  at  Paris  at  the  time  of  the  Second  Funeral  of 
Napoleon. 


18  BALLADS 


Though  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 
He  died  without  a  rood  his  own ; 

And  borrow'd  from  his  enemies 
Six  foot  of  ground  to  lie  upon. 

He  fought  a  thousand  glorious  wars, 
And  more  than  half  the  world  was  his ; 

And  somewhere  now,  in  yonder  stars. 
Can  tell,  mayhap,  what  greatness  is. 


1841. 


THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTAMENT 


THE  noble  King  of  Brentford 
Was  old  and  very  sick, 
He  summon'd  his  physicians 
To  wait  upon  him  quick ; 
They  stepp'd  into  their  coaches 
And  brought  their  best  physick. 

They  cramm'd  their  gracious  master 
With  potion  and  with  pill ; 

They  drench'd  him  and  they  bled  him : 
They  could  not  cure  his  ill. 
"  Go  fetch,"  says  he,  "  my  lawyer ; 
I'd  better  make  my  will." 

The  monarch's  royal  mandate 

The  lawyer  did  obey ; 
The  thought  of  six-and-eightpence 

Did  make  his  heart  full  gay. 
"  What  is't,"  says  he,  "your  Majesty 

Would  wish  of  me  to-day  % " 

"  The  doctors  have  belabour'd  me 
With  potion  and  with  pill : 
My  hours  of  life  are  counted, 

0  man  of  tape  and  quill ! 

Sit  down  and  mend  a  pen  or  two ; 

1  want  to  make  my  will. 

"  O'er  all  the  land  of  Brentford 
I'm  lord,  and  eke  of  Kew  : 

I've  three-per-cents  and  five-per-cents ; 
My  debts  are  but  a  few ; 

And  to  inherit  after  me 
I  have  but  children  two. 


20  BALLADS 

"  Prince  Thomas  is  my  eldest  son ; 

A  sober  prince  is  he, 
And  from  the  day  we  breech'd  him 

Till  now — he's  twenty-three — 
He  never  caused  disquiet 

To  his  poor  mamma  or  me. 


"  At  school  they  never  flogg'd  him ; 
At  college,  though  not  fast. 
Yet  his  little-go  and  great-go 

He  creditably  pass'd, 
And  made  his  year's  allowance 
For  eighteen  months  to  last. 


"  He  never  owed  a  shilling, 
Went  never  drunk  to  bed, 
He  has  not  two  ideas 

Within  his  honest  head — 
In  all  respects  he  diifers 

From  my  second  son,  Prince  Ned. 

"  When  Tom  has  half  his  income 
Laid  by  at  the  year's  end. 

Poor  Ned  has  ne'er  a  stiver 
That  rightly  he  may  spend, 

But  sponges  on  a  tradesman. 
Or  borrows  from  a  friend. 

"  While  Tom  his  legal  studies 

Most  soberly  pursues, 
Poor  Ned  must  pass  his  mornings 

A-dawdling  with  the  Muse  : 
While  Tom  frequents  his  banker. 

Young  Ned  frequents  the  Jews. 

"  Ned  drives  about  in  buggies, 
Tom  sometimes  takes  a  'bus  ; 

Ah,  cruel  fate,  why  made  you 
My  children  differ  thus  ? 

Why  make  of  Tom  a  dullard, 
And  Ned  a  genius  ?  " 


THE    KING    OF    BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT     21 

"  You'll  cut  him  with  a  shilling," 
Exclaimed  the  man  of  wits  : 
"I'll  leave  my  wealth,"  said  Brentford, 

"  Sir  Lawyer,  as  befits. 
And  portion  both  their  fortunes 
Unto  their  several  wits." 


"  Your  Grace  knows  best,"  the  lawyer  said  ; 
"  On  your  commands  I  wait." 
"  Be  silent,  sir,"  says  Brentford, 
"  A  plague  upon  your  prate  ! 
Come  take  your  pen  and  paper. 
And  write  as  I  dictate." 

The  will  as  Brentford  spoke  it 
Was  writ  and  signed  and  closed ; 

He  bade  the  lawyer  leave  him. 
And  turn'd  him  round  and  dozed  ; 

And  next  week  in  the  chiu'chyard 
The  good  old  King  reposed. 

Tom,  dressed  in  crape  and  hatband. 

Of  mourners  was  the  chief; 
In  bitter  self-upbraidings 

Poor  Edward  showed  his  grief : 
Tom  hid  his  fat  white  countenance 

In  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

Ned's  eyes  were  full  of  weeping, 

He  falter'd  in  his  walk  ; 
Tom  never  shed  a  tear. 

But  onwards  he  did  stalk. 
As  pompous,  black,  and  solemn 

As  any  catafalque. 

And  when  the  bones  of  Brentford — 
That  gentle  King  and  just — 

With  bell  and  book  and  candle 
Were  duly  laid  in  dust, 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  says  Thomas, 
"  Let  business  be  discussed. 


22  BALLADS 

"  When  late  our  sire  beloved 
Was  taken  deadly  ill, 

Sir  Lawyer,  you  attended  him 
(I  mean  to  tax  your  bill) ; 

And,  as  you  signed  and  wrote  it, 
I  prithee  read  the  will." 


The  lawyer  wiped  his  spectacles, 
And  drew  the  parchment  out ; 

And  all  the  Brentford  family 
Sat  eager  round  about : 

Poor  Ned  was  somewhat  anxious, 
But  Tom  had  ne'er  a  doubt. 

"  My  son,  as  I  make  ready 
To  seek  my  last  long  home, 
Some  cares  I  had  for  Neddy, 

But  none  for  thee,  my  Tom  : 
Sobriety  and  order 

You  ne'er  departed  from. 

"  Ned  hath  a  brilliant  genius. 
And  thou  a  plodding  brain  ; 

On  thee  I  think  with  pleasure. 
On  him  with  doubt  and  pain." 

("You  see,  good  Ned,"  says  Thomas, 
"  What  he  thought  about  us  twain.") 

"  Though  small  was  your  allowance, 

You  saved  a  little  store ; 
And  those  who  save  a  little 

Shall  get  a  plenty  more." 
As  the  lawyer  read  this  compliment, 

Tom's  eyes  were  running  o'er. 

"The  tortoise  and  the  hare,  Tom, 

Set  out  at  each  his  pace ; 
The  hare  it  was  the  fleeter, 

The  tortoise  won  the  race  ; 
And  since  the  w^orld's  beginning 

This  ever  was  the  case. 


THE    KING    OF    BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT     23 

"  Ned's  genius,  blithe  and  singing, 

Steps  gaily  o'er  the  ground ; 
As  steadily  you  trudge  it, 

He  clears  it  with  a  bound  ; 
But  dulness  has  stout  legs,  Tom, 

And  wind  that's  wondrous  sound 


"  O'er  fruits  and  flowers  alike,  Tom, 
You  pass  with  plodding  feet ; 

You  heed  not  one  nor  t'other, 
But  onwards  go  your  beat ; 

While  genius  stops  to  loiter 
With  all  that  he  may  meet ; 

"  And  ever  as  he  wanders. 

Will  have  a  pretext  fine 
For  sleeping  in  the  morning. 

Or  loitering  to  dine. 
Or  dozing  in  the  shade, 

Or  basking  in  the  shine. 

"  Your  little  steady  eyes,  Tom, 
Though  not  so  bright  as  those 
That  restless  round  about  him 
His  flashing  genius  throws. 
Are  excellently  suited 
To  look  before  your  nose. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  then,  for  the  blinkers 
It  placed  before  your  eyes ; 

The  stupidest  are  strongest. 
The  witty  are  not  wise ; 

Oh,  bless  your  good  stupidity  ! 
It  is  your  dearest  prize. 

"  And  though  my  lands  are  wide, 

And  plenty  is  ray  gold. 
Still  better  gifts  from  Nature, 

My  Thomas,  do  you  hold — 
A  brain  that's  thick  and  heavy, 

A  heart  that's  dull  and  cold. 


24  BALLADS 

"  Too  dull  to  feel  depression, 
Too  hard  to  heed  distress, 

Too  cold  to  yield  to  passion 
Or  silly  tenderness. 

March  on — your  road  is  open 
To  wealth,  Tom,  and  success. 


"  Ned  sinneth  in  extravagance, 
And  you  in  greedy  lust." 

("!'  faith,"  says  Ned,  "our  father 
Is  less  polite  than  just.") 

''  In  you,  son  Tom,  I've  confidence, 
But  Ned  I  cannot  trust. 


"  Wherefore  my  lease  and  copyholds, 

My  lands  and  tenements, 
My  parks,  my  farms,  and  orchards. 

My  houses  and  my  rents, 
My  Dutch  stock  and  my  Spanish  stock, 

My  five  and  three  per  cents, 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas  " 

("What,  all?"  poor  Edward  said. 

"  Well,  well,  I  should  have  spent  them. 
And  Tom's  a  prudent  head  ") — 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas, — 
To  you  IN  TEUST  for  Ned." 

The  wrath  and  consternation 

What  poet  e'er  could  trace 
That  at  this  fatal  passage 

Came  o'er  Prince  Tom  his  face ; 
The  wonder  of  the  company. 

And  honest  Ned's  amaze  1 

"  'Tis  surely  some  mistake," 
Good-naturedly  cries  Ned ; 

The  lawyer  answered  gravely, 
"  'Tis  even  as  I  said ; 

'Twas  thus  his  gracious  Majesty 
Ordain'd  on  his  death-bed. 


THE    KING    OF    BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT     25 

"  See,  here  the  will  is  witness'd. 

And  here's  his  autograph." 
"  In  truth,  our  father's  writing," 

Says  Edward,  with  a  laugh ; 
"  But  thou  shalt  not  be  a  loserj  Tom ; 

We'll  share  it  half  and  half." 

"  Alas  !  my  kind  young  gentleman, 
This  sharing  cannot  be ; 
'Tis  written  in  the  testament 

That  Brentford  spoke  to  me, 
'  I  do  forbid  Prince  Ned  to  give 
Prince  Tom  a  halfpenny. 

'  He  hath  a  store  of  money, 

But  ne'er  was  known  to  lend  it ; 
He  never  helped  his  brother ; 

The  poor  he  ne'er  befriended  ; 
He  hath  no  need  of  property 

Who  knows  not  how  to  spend  it. 

"  '  Poor  Edward  knows  but  how  to  spend, 

And  thrifty  Tom  to  hoard ; 
Let  Thomas  be  the  steward  then, 

And  Edward  be  the  lord  ; 
And  as  the  honest  labourer 

Is  worthy  his  reward, 

"  '  I  pray  Prince  Ned,  my  second  son, 
And  my  successor  dear, 
To  pay  to  his  intendant 

Five  hundred  pounds  a  year ; 
And  to  think  of  his  old  father, 
And  live  and  make  good  cheer.' " 

Such  was  old  Brentford's  honest  testament, 

He  did  devise  his  moneys  for  the  best. 

And  lies  in  Brentford  church  in  peaceful  rest. 
Prince  Edward  lived,  and  money  made  and  spent ; 

But  his  good  sire  was  wrong,  it  is  confess'd. 
To  say  his  son,  young  Thomas,  never  lent. 

He  did.     Young  Thomas  lent  at  interest. 
And  nobly  took  his  twenty-five  per  cent. 


26  BALLADS 

Long  time  the  famous  reign  of  Ned  endured 

O'er  Ohiswick,  Fulham,  Brentford,  Putney,  Kew, 

But  of  extravagance  he  ne'er  was  cured. 

And  when  both  died,  as  mortal  men  will  do, 

'Twas  commonly  reported  that  the  steward 
Was  very  much  the  richer  of  the  two. 


FAIRY  DAYS 


BESIDE  the  old  hall-fire — upon  my  nurse's  knee, 
Of  happy  fairy  days — what  tales  were  told  to  me  ! 
I  thought  the  world  was  once — all  peopled  with  princesses, 
And  my  heart  would  beat  to  hear — their  loves  and  their  distresses ; 
And  many  a  quiet  night, — in  slumber  sweet  and  deep, 
The  pretty  fairy  people — would  visit  me  in  sleep. 

I  saw  them  in  my  dreams — come  flying  east  and  west, 
With  wondrous  fairy  gifts — the  new-bom  babe  they  bless'd ; 
One  has  brought  a  jewel — and  one  a  crown  of  gold. 
And  one  has  brought  a  curse — but  she  is  wrinkled  and  old. 
The  gentle  Queen  turns  pale — to  hear  those  words  of  sin. 
But  the  King  he  only  laughs — and  bids  the  dance  begin. 

The  babe  has  grown  to  be — the  fairest  of  the  land, 

And  rides  the  forest  green — a  hawk  upon  her  hand. 

An  ambling  palfrey  white — a  golden  robe  and  crown  : 

I've  seen  her  in  my  dreams — riding  up  and  down  : 

And  heard  the  ogre  laugh — as  she  fell  into  his  snare, 

At  the  little  tender  creature — who  wept  and  tore  her  hair ! 

But  ever  when  it  seemed — her  need  was  at  the  sorest, 

A  prince  in  shining  mail — comes  prancing  through  the  forest, 

A  waving  ostrich-plvraie — a  buckler  burnished  bright ; 

I've  seen  him  in  my  dreams — good  sooth  !  a  gallant  knight. 

His  lips  are  coral  red — beneath  a  dark  moustache ; 

See  how  he  waves  his  hand — and  how  his  blue  eyes  flash  ! 

"  Come  forth,  thou  Paynira  knight !  " — he  shouts  in  accents  clear. 
The  giant  and  the  maid — both  tremble  his  voice  to  hear. 
Saint  Mary  guard  him  well ! — he  draws  his  falchion  keen, 
The  giant  and  the  knight — are  fighting  on  the  green. 
I  see  them  in  ray  dreams — his  blade  gives  stroke  on  stroke, 
The  giant  pants  and  reels — and  tumbles  hke  an  oak  ! 


28  BALLADS 

With  what  a  blushing  grace — he  falls  upon  his  knee 

And  takes  the  lady's  hand — and  whispers,  "  You  are  free  !  " 

Ah  !  happy  childish  tales — of  knight  and  faerie  ! 

I  waken  from  my  dreams — but  there's  ne'er  a  knight  for  me ! 

I  waken  from  my  dreams — and  wish  that  I  could  be 

A  child  by  the  old  hall-fire — upon  my  nurse's  knee  ! 


PEG   OF  LIMAVADBY 


RIDING  from  Coleraine 
(Famed  for  lovely  Kitty), 
Came  a  Cockney  bound 
Unto  Derry  city ; 
Weary  was  his  soul, 

Shivering  and  sad,  he 

Bumped  along  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 

Mountains  stretch'd  around. 

Gloomy  was  their  tinting, 
And  the  horse's  hoofs 

Made  a  dismal  dinting ; 
Wind  upon  the  heath 

Howling  was  and  piping, 
On  the  heath  and  bog. 

Black  with  many  a  snipe  in. 
Mid  the  bogs  of  black, 

Silver  pools  were  flashing, 
Crows  upon  their  sides 

Pecking  were  and  splashing. 
Cockney  on  the  car 

Closer  folds  his  plaidy. 
Grumbling  at  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 

Through  the  crashing  woods 

Autumn  brawl'd  and  bluster'd, 
Tossing  round  about 

Leaves  the  hue  of  mustard ; 
Yonder  lay  Lough  Foyle, 

Which  a  storm  was  whipping. 
Covering  with  mist 

Lake,  and  shores,  and  shipping 


30  BALLADS 

Up  and  down  the  hill 

(Nothing  could  be  bolder), 
Horse  went  with  a  raw 

Bleeding  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Where  are  horses  changed  ?  " 

Said  I  to  the  laddy 
Driving  on  the  box  : 

"  Sir,  at  Limavaddy." 

Limavaddy  inn's 

But  a  humble  bait-house, 
Where  you  may  procure 

Whisky  and  potatoes ; 
Landlord  at  the  door 

Gives  a  smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 

Who  to  his  hotel  come. 
Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a  stocking. 
With  a  wary  foot 

Baby's  cradle  rocking. 

To  the  chimney  nook 

Having  found  admittance, 
There  I  watch  a  pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens ; 
(Playing  round  the  fire, 

Which  of  blazing  turf  is, 
Roaring  to  the  pot 

Which  bubbles  with  the  murphies.) 
And  the  cradled  babe 

Fond  the  mother  nursed  it, 
Singing  it  a  song 

As  she  twists  the  worsted  ! 

Up  and  down  the  stair 

Two  more  young  ones  patter 
(Twins  were  never  seen 

Dirtier  or  fatter). 
Both  have  mottled  legs, 

Both  have  snubby  noses, 
Both  have Here  the  host 

Kindly  interposes : 


PEG    OF    LIMAVADDY  31 

"  Sure  you  must  be  froze 

With  the  sleet  and  hail,  sir : 
So  will  you  have  some  punch, 

Or  will  you  have  some  ale,  sir  1 " 

Presently  a  maid 

Enters  with  the  liquor 
(Half-a^pint  of  ale 

Frothing  in  a  beaker). 
Gads  !  I  didn't  know 

What  my  beating  heart  meant : 
Hebe's  self,  I  thought, 

Entered  the  apartment. 
As  she  came  she  smiled. 

And  the  smile  bewitching, 
On  my  word  and  honour, 

Lighted  all  the  kitchen  ! 

With  a  curtsey  neat 

Greeting  the  new  comer, 
Lovely,  smiling  Peg 

Offers  me  the  rummer ; 
But  my  trembling  hand 

Up  the  beaker  tilted. 
And  the  glass  of  ale 

Every  drop  I  spilt  it : 
Spilt  it  every  drop 

(Dames,  who  read  my  volumes, 
Pardon  such  a  word) 

On  my  what-d'ye-call-'ems ! 

Witnessing  the  sight 

Of  that  dire  disaster. 
Out  began  to  laugh 

Missis,  maid,  and  master ; 
Such  a  merry  peal 

'Specially  Miss  Peg's  was 
(As  the  glass  of  ale 

Trickling  down  my  legs  was), 
That  the  joyful  sound 

Of  that  mingling  laughter 
Echoed  in  my  ears 

Many  a  long  day  after. 


32  BALLADS 


Such  a  silver  peal ! 

In  the  meadows  listening, 
You  who've  heard  the  bells 

Einging  to  a  christening ; 
You  who  ever  heard 

Oaradori  pretty, 
Smiling  like  an  angel. 

Singing  "  Giovinetti " ; 
Fancy  Peggy's  laugh. 

Sweet,  and  clear,  and  cheerful, 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  half-a-pint  of  beer  fuU  ! 

When  the  laugh  was  done. 

Peg,  the  pretty  hussy. 
Moved  about  the  room 

Wonderfully  busy ; 
Now  she  looks  to  see 

If  the  kettle  keep  hot ; 
Now  she  rubs  the  spoons, 

Now  she  cleans  the  teapot ; 
Now  she  sets  the  cups 

Trimly  and  secure  : 
Now  she  scours  a  pot, 

And  so  it  was  I  drew  her. 

Thus  it  was  I  drew  her 

Scouring  of  a  kettle 
(Faith  !  her  blushing  cheeks 

Redden'd  on  the  metal !) 
Ah  !  but  'tis  in  vain 

That  I  try  to  sketch  it ; 
The  pot  perhaps  is  like. 

But  Peggy's  face  is  wretched. 
No  !  the  best  of  lead 

And  of  india-rubber 
Never  could  depict 

That  sweet  kettle-scrubber ! 

See  her  as  she  moves, 

Scarce  the  ground  she  touches 
Airy  as  a  fay. 

Graceful  as  a  duchess : 


PEG    OP    LIMAVADDY  33 

Bare  her  rounded  arm, 

Bare  her  little  leg  is, 
Vestris  never  show'd 

Ankles  like  to  Peggy's. 
Braided  is  her  hair, 

Soft  her  look  and  modest, 
Slim  her  little  waist 

Comfortably  bodiced. 

This  I  do  declare, 

Happy  is  the  laddy 
Who  the  heart  can  share 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Married  if  she  were 

Blest  would  be  the  daddy 
Of  the  children  fair 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Beauty  is  not  rare 

In  the  land  of  Paddy, 
Fair  beyond  compare 

Is  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 

Citizen  or  Squire, 

Tory,  Whig,  or  Radi- 
cal would  all  desire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Had  I  Homer's  fire. 

Or  that  of  Serjeant  Taddy, 
Meetly  I'd  admire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
And  till  I  expire, 

Or  till  I  grow  mad,  I 
Will  sing  unto  my  lyre 

Peg  of  Limavaddy ! 


TITMARSH'8  CARMEN  LILLIENSE 


Lille:  Sept.  2,  1843. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 

How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 
/  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 

A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


WITH  twenty  pounds  but  three  weeks  since 
From  Paris  forth  did  Titmarsh  wheel, 
I  thought  myself  as  rich  a  prince 
As  beggar  poor  I'm  now  at  Lille. 

Confiding  in  my  ample  means — 

In  troth,  I  was  a  happy  chiel ! 
I  passed  the  gates  of  Valenciennes, 

I  never  thought  to  come  by  Lille. 

I  never  thought  my  twenty  pounds 

Some  rascal  knave  would  dare  to  steal ; 

I  gaily  passed  the  Belgic  bounds 

At  Qui^vrain,  twenty  miles  from  LUle. 

To  Antwerp  town  I  hastened  post, 
And  as  I  took  my  evening  meal, 
I  felt  my  pouch, — my  purse  was  lost, 

0  Heaven  !     Why  came  I  not  by  LiUe  1 

I  straightway  called  for  ink  and  pen. 
To  Grandmamma  I  made  appeal ; 
Meanwhile  a  loan  of  guineas  ten 

1  borrowed  from  a  friend  So  leal. 


TITMARSH'S    CAEMEN    LILLIENSE  35 

I  got  the  cash  from  Grandmamma 

(Her  gentle  heart  my  woes  could  feel), 

But  where  I  went,  and  what  I  saw, 
What  matters  ?     Here  I  am  at  Lille. 


My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone. 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  cash,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


II. 

To  stealing  I  can  never  come. 

To  pawn  my  watch  I'm  too  genteel : 

Besides,  I  left  my  watch  at  home — 
How  could  I  pawn  it  then  at  Lille  ? 

"  La  note,"  at  times  the  guests  will  say. 

I  turn  as  white  as  cold  boil'd  veal ; 
I  turn  and  look  another  way, 

/  dare  not  ask  the  bill  at  Lille. 

I  dare  not  to  the  landlord  say, 

"  Good  sir,  I  cannot  pay  your  bill ; " 

He  thinks  I  am  a  Lord  Anglais, 
And  is  quite  proud  I  stay  at  Lille. 

He  thinks  I  am  a  Lord  Anglais, 
Like  Rothschild  or  Sir  Robert  Peel, 

And  so  he  serves  me  every  day 

The  best  of  meat  and  drink  in  Lille. 

Yet  when  he  looks  me  in  the  face 

I  blush  as  red  as  cochineal ; 
And  think,  did  he  but  know  my  case, 

How  changed  he'd  be,  my  host  of  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ^ 

I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


BALLADS 


m. 


The  sun  bursts  out  in  furious  blaze, 
I  perspirate  from  head  to  heel ; 

I'd  like  to  hire  a  one-horse  chaise — 
How  can  I,  -without  cash  at  LUle  1 

I  pass  in  sunshine  burning  hot 
By  caf&  where  in  beer  they  deal ; 

I  think  how  pleasant  were  a  pot, 
A  frothing  pot  of  beer  of  LUle  ! 

What  is  yon  house  with  walls  so  thick, 
All  girt  around  with  guard  and  grille  ? 

O  gracious  gods  !  it  makes  me  sick. 
It  is  the  prison-house  of  LiUe  ! 

0  cursed  prison  strong  and  barred. 
It  does  my  very  blood  congeal ! 

1  tremble  as  I  pass  the  guard. 

And  quit  that  ugly  part  of  LUle. 

The  church-door  beggar  whines  and  prays, 

I  turn  away  at  his  appeal : 
Ah,  church-door  beggar  !  go  thy  ways  ! 

You're  not  the  poorest  man  in  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


rv. 

Say,  shall  I  to  yon  Flemish  church. 
And  at  a  Popish  altar  kneel  ? 

Oh,  do  not  leave  me  in  the  lurch, — 
I'U  cry,  ye  patron-saints  of  Lille  ! 

Ye  virgins  dressed  in  satin  hoops. 
Ye  martyrs  slain  for  mortal  weal, 

Look  kindly  down  !  before  you  stoops 
The  miserablest  man  in  LUle. 


TITMARSH'S    CARMEN    LILLIENSE  37 

And  lo  !  as  I  beheld  with  awe 

A  pictured  saint  (I  swear  'tis  real), 
It  smiled,  and  turned  to  Grandmamma ! — 

It  did  !  and  I  had  hope  in  Lille  ! 

'Twas  five  o'clock,  and  I  could  eat, 
Although  I  could  not  pay  my  meal : 

I  hasten  back  into  the  street 

Where  lies  my  inn,  the  best  in  Lille. 

What  see  I  on  my  table  stand, — 

A  letter  with  a  well-known  seal  ? 
'Tis  Grandmamma's  !     I  know  her  hand, — 

"  To  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  Lille." 

I  feel  a  choking  in  my  throat, 

I  pant  and  stagger,  faint  and  reel ! 
It  is — it  is— a  ten-pound  note, 

And  I'm  no  more  in  pawn  at  Lille ! 

[He  goes  off,  by  the  diligence  that  evening,  and  is  restored  to  the  bosom  of 
his  happy  family.] 


JEAMES  OF  BUCKLEY  SQUARE 

A   HELIGT 

COME  all  ye  gents  vot  cleans  the  plate, 
Come  all  ye  ladies'  maids  so  fair — 
VUe  I  a  story  vill  relate 
Of  cruel  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 
A  tighter  lad,  it  is  confest, 

Neer  valked  with  powder  in  his  air, 
Or  vore  a  nosegay  in  his  breast, 

Than  andsum  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 

0  Evns  !  it  vas  the  best  of  sights. 

Behind  his  Master's  coach  and  pair, 
To  see  our  Jeames  in  red  plush  tights, 

A  driving  hoff  from  Buckley  Square. 
He  vel  became  his  hagwilletts. 

He  cocked  his  at  with  such  a  hair ; 
His  calves  and  viskers  vas  such  pets. 

That  hall  loved  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 

He  pleased  the  hupstairs  folks  as  veil. 

And  o  !  I  vithered  vith  despair, 
Missis  vould  ring  the  parler  bell, 

And  call  up  Jeames  in  Buckley  Square. 
Both  beer  and  sperrits  he  abhord 

(Sperrits  and  beer  I  can't  a  bear). 
You  would  have  thought  he  vas  a  lord 

Down  in  our  All  in  Buckley  Square. 

Last  year  he  visper'd,  "  Mary  Ann, 
Ven  I've  an  under'd  pound  to  spare, 

To  take  a  public  is  my  plan. 

And  leave  this  hojous  Buckley  Square.'' 


JEAMES  OF  BUCKLEY  SQUARE      39 

0  how  my  gentle  heart  did  bound, 

To  think  that  I  his  name  should  hear  ! 

"  Dear  Jeames,"  says  I,  "  I've  twenty  pound," 
And  gev  them  him  in  Buckley  Square. 


Our  master  vas  a  City  gent, 

His  name's  in  railroads  everywhere. 
And  lord,  vot  lots  of  letters  vent 

Betwigst  his  brokers  and  Buckley  Square : 
My  Jeames  it  was  the  letters  took, 

And  read  them  all  (I  think  it's  fair). 
And  took  a  leaf  from  Master's  book, 

As  hothers  do  in  Buckley  Square. 


Encouraged  with  my  twenty  pound, 

Of  which  poor  /  was  unavare. 
He  wrote  the  Companies  all  round, 

And  signed  hisself  from  Buckley  Square. 
And  how  John  Porter  used  to  grin, 

As  day  by  day,  share  after  share, 
Came  railvay  letters  pouring  in, 

"  J.  Plush,  Esquire,  in  Buckley  Square." 


Our  servants'  All  was  in  a  rage — 

Scrip,  stock,  curves,  gradients,  bull  and  bear, 
Vith  butler,  coachman,  groom  and  page, 

Vas  all  the  talk  in  Buckley  Square. 
But  0  !  imagine  vot  I  felt 

Last  Vensday  veek  as  ever  were ; 
I  gits  a  letter,  which  I  spelt 

"  Miss  M.  A.  Hoggins,  Buckley  Square." 


He  sent  me  back  my  money  true — 

He  sent  me  back  my  lock  of  air. 
And  said,  "  My  dear,  I  bid  ajew 

To  Mary  Hann  and  Buckley  Square. 
Think  not  to  marry,  foolish  Hann, 

With  people  who  your  betters  are  : 
James  Plush  is  now  a  gentleman. 

And  you — a  cook  in  Buckley  Square. 


40  BALLADS 

"  I've  thirty  thousand  guineas  won, 

In  six  short  months,  by  genus  rare ; 
You  little  thought  what  Jeames  was  on, 

Poor  Mary  Hann,  in  Buckley  Square. 
I've  thirty  thousand  guineas  net. 

Powder  and  plush  I  scorn  to  vear ; 
And  so.  Miss  Mary  Hann,  forget 

For  hever  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square." 


LINES   UPON  MY  SISTER'S  PORTRAIT 

BY   THE   LOED    SOUTHDO\Wf 

THE  castle  towers  of  Bareacres  are  feir  upon  the  lea, 
Where  the  cliffi  of  bonny  Diddlesex  rise  up  from  out  the  sea  : 
I  stood  upon  the  donjon  keep  and  view'd  the  country  o'er, 
I  saw  the  lands  of  Bareacres  for  fifty  miles  or  more. 
I  stood  upon  the  donjon  keep — it  is  a  sacred  place, — 
Where  floated  for  eight  hundred  years  the  banner  of  my  race ; 
Argent,  a  dexter  sinople,  and  gules  an  azure  field ; 
There  ne'er  was  nobler  cognisance  on  knightly  warrior's  shield. 

The  first  time  England  saw  the  shield  'twas  round  a  Norman  neck, 
On  board  a  ship  from  Valery,  King  William  was  on  deck. 
A  Normau  lance  the  colours  wore,  in  Hastings'  fatal  fray — 
St.  WUlibald  for  Bareacres  !  'twas  double  gules  that  day  ! 
O  Heaven  and  sweet  Saint  Willibald  !  in  many  a  battle  since 
A  loyaJ-hearted  Bareacres  has  ridden  by  his  Prince ! 
At  Acre  with  Plantagenet,  with  Edward  at  Poictiers, 
The  pennon  of  the  Bareacres  was  foremost  on  the  spears  ! 

'Twas  pleasant  in  the  battle-shock  to  hear  our  war-cry  ringing : 
Oh  grant  me,  sweet  Saint  Willibald,  to  listen  to  such  singing ! 
Three  hundred  steel-clad  gentlemen,  we  drove  the  foe  before  us. 
And  thirty  score  of  British  bows  kept  twanging  to  the  chorus  ! 
0  knights,  my  noble  ancestors  !  and  shall  I  never  hear 
Saint  Willibald  for  Bareacres  through  battle  ringing  clear  ? 
I'd  cut  me  off  this  strong  right  hand  a  single  hour  to  ride. 
And  strike  a  blow  for  Bareacres,  my  fathers,  at  your  side  ! 
Dash  down,  dash  down  yon  mandolin,  beloved  sister  mine ! 
Those  blushing  lips  may  never  sing  the  glories  of  our  line  : 
Our  ancient  castles  echo  to  the  clumsy  feet  of  churls. 
The  spinning-jenny  houses  in  the  mansion  of  our  Earls. 
Sing  not,  sing  not,  my  Angeline  !  in  days  so  base  and  vile, 
'Twere  sinftd  to  be  happy,  'twere  sacrilege  to  smUe. 
I'll  hie  me  to  my  lonely  hall,  and  by  its  cheerless  hob 
I'll  muse  on  other  days,  and  wish — and  wish  I  were — A  Snob. 


A   DOE  IN  THE  CITY 


LITTLE  Kitty  Loeimek, 
Fair,  and  young,  and  witty, 
■^   What  has  brought  your  ladyship 
Rambling  to  the  City  1 

All  the  Stags  in  Capel  Court 

Saw  her  lightly  trip  it ; 
AH  the  lads  of  Stock  Exchange 

Twigg'd  her  muff  and  tippet. 

With  a  sweet  perplexity. 

And  a  mystery  pretty. 
Threading  through  Threadneedle  Street, 

Trots  the  little  Kitty. 

What  was  my  astonishment — 
What  was  my  compunction, 

When  she  reached  the  Offices 
Of  the  Didland  Junction  ! 

Up  the  Didland  stairs  she  went, 

To  the  Didland  door,  Sir; 
Porters,  lost  in  wonderment, 

Let  her  pass  before.  Sir. 

"  Madam,"  says  the  old  chief  Clerk, 

"  Sure  we  can't  admit  ye." 
"  Where's  the  Didland  Junction  deed  ? " 

Dauntlessly  says  Kitty. 

"  If  you  doubt  my  honesty. 

Look  at  my  receipt.  Sir." 
Up  then  jumps  the  old  chief  Clerk, 

Smiling  as  he  meets  her. 


A   DOE    IN    THE    CITY  43 

Kitty  at  the  table  sits 

(Whither  the  old  Clerk  leads  her), 
"  /  deliver  this,"  she  says, 

"  As  my  act  and  deed,  Sir." 

When  I  heard  these  funny  words 

Come  from  lips  so  pretty, 
This,  I  thought,  should  surely  be 

Subject  for  a  ditty. 

What !  are  ladies  stagging  it  ? 

Sure,  the  more's  the  pity  ; 
But  I've  lost  my  heart  to  her, — 

Naughty  little  Kitty. 


RONSARD  TO  HIS  MISTRESS 

"  Quand  vous  serez  bien  vieille,  au  soir  k  la  chandelle, 
Assise  aupres  du  feu  devisant  et  filant, 
Direz,  chantant  mes  vers  en  vous  esmerveillant : 
Bonsard  me  o^lebroit  du  temps  que  j'^tois  belle." 

SOME  winter  night,  shut  snugly  in 
Beside  the  faggot  in  the  hall, 
I  think  I  see  you  sit  and  spin, 
Surrounded  by  your  maidens  all. 
Old  tales  are  told,  old  songs  are  sung. 

Old  days  come  back  to  memory ; 
You  say,  "  When  I  was  fair  and  young, 
A  poet  sang  of  me  !  " 

There's  not  a  maiden  in  your  hall, 

Though  tired  and  sleepy  ever  so, 
But  wakes,  as  you  my  name  recall, 

And  longs  the  history  to  know. 
And,  as  the  piteous  tale  is  said. 

Of  lady  cold  and  lover  true. 
Each,  musing,  carries  it  to  bed, 

And  sighs  and  envies  you  ! 

"  Our  lady's  old  and  feeble  now," 

They'll  say  ;  "  she  once  was  fresh  and  fair. 
And  yet  she  spurn'd  her  lover's  vow. 

And  heartless  left  him  to  despair  : 
The  lover  lies  in  silent  earth. 

No  kindly  mate  the  lady  cheers : 
She  sits  beside  a  lonely  hearth, 

With  threescore  and  ten  years  !  " 

Ah  !  dreary  thoughts  and  dreams  ai-e  those. 
But  wherefore  yield  me  to  despair, 


EONSAED    TO    HIS    MISTRESS  45 

While  yet  the  poet's  bosom  glows, 

While  yet  the  dame  is  peerless  fair  ? 
Sweet  lady  mine  !  while  yet  'tis  time 

Eequite  my  passion  and  ray  truth, 
And  gather  in  their  blushing  prime 

The  roses  of  your  youth ! 


THE   WHITE  SQUALL 


ON  deck,  beneath  the  awning, 
I  dozing  lay  and  yawning ; 
It  was  the  grey  of  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  arose ; 
And  above  the  funnel's  roaring, 
And  the  fitful  winds  deploring, 
I  heard  the  cabin  snoring 

With  universal  nose. 
I  could  hear  the  passengers  snorting, 
I  envied  their  disporting — 
Vainly  I  was  courting 
The  pleasure  of  a  doze  ! 

So  I  lay,  and  wondered  why  light 
Came  not,  and  watched  the  twilight. 
And  the  glimmer  of  the  skylight. 

That  shot  across  the  deck 
And  the  binnacle  pale  and  steady. 
And  the  dull  glimpse  of  the  dead-eye. 
And  the  sparks  in  fiery  eddy 

That  whirled  from  the  chimney  neck. 
In  our  jovial  floating  prison 
There  was  sleep  from  fore  to  mizen. 
And  never  a  star  had  risen 

The  hazy  sky  to  speck. 

Strange  company  we  harboured  ; 
We'd  a  hundred  Jews  to  larboard. 
Unwashed,  uncombed,  unbarbered — 

Jews  black,  and  brown,  and  grey ; 
With  terror  it  would  seize  ye. 
And  make  your  souls  uneasy. 
To  see  those  Kabbis  greasy. 

Who  did  nought  but  scratch  and  pray : 


THE    WHITE    SQUALL  47 

Their  dirty  children  puking — 
Their  dirty  saucepans  cooking — 
Their  dirty  fingers  hooking 
Their  swarming  fleas  away. 

To  starboard,  Turks  and  Greeks  were — 
Whiskered  and  brown  their  cheeks  were — 
Enormous  wide  their  breeks  were, 

Their  pipes  did  puff  alway ; 
Each  on  his  mat  allotted 
In  silence  stnoked  and  squatted, 
Whilst  round  their  children  trotted 

In  pretty,  pleasant  play. 
He  can't  but  smile  who  traces 
The  smiles  on  those  brown  faces, 
And  the  pretty  prattling  graces 

Of  those  small  heathens  gay. 

And  so  the  hours  kept  tolling, 
And  through  the  ocean  rolling 
Went  the  brave  Iberia  bowling 

Before  the  break  of  day 

When  A  SQUALL,  upon  a  sudden. 
Came  o'er  the  waters  scudding ; 
And  the  clouds  began  to  gather, 
And  the  sea  was  lashed  to  lather. 
And  the  lowering  thunder  grumbled, 
And  the  lightning  jumped  and  tumbled, 
And  the  ship,  and  all  the  ocean, 
Woke  up  in  wild  commotion. 
Then  the  wind  set  up  a  howling, 
And  the  poodle  dog  a  yowling. 
And  the  cocks  began  a  crowing, 
And  the  old  cow  raised  a  lowing. 
As  she  heard  the  tempest  blowing ; 
And  fowls  and  geese  did  cackle. 
And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 
Began  to  shriek  and  crackle  ; 
And  the  spray  dashed  o'er  the  funnels, 
And  down  the  deck  in  runnels ; 
And  the  rushing  water  soaks  all. 
From  the  seamen  in  the  fo'ksal 
To  the  stokers  whose  black  faces 
Peer  out  of  their  bed-places ; 


48  BALLADS 


And  the  captain  he  was  bawling, 
And  the  sailors  pulling,  hauling, 
And  the  quarter-deck  tarpauling 
AVas  shivered  in  the  squalling ; 
And  the  passengers  awaken, 
Most  pitifully  shaken ; 
And  the  steward  jumps  up,  and  hastens 
For  the  necessary  basins. 

Then  the  Greeks  they  groaned  and  quivered, 

And  they  knelt,  and  moaned,  and  shivered, 

As  the  plunging  waters  met  them. 

And  splashed  and  overset  them ; 

And  they  call  in  their  emergence 

Upon  countless  saints  and  virgins  ; 

And  their  marrowbones  are  bended. 

And  they  think  the  world  is  ended. 

And  the  Turkish  women  for'ard 

Were  frightened  and  behorror'd ; 

And  shrieking  and  bewildering, 

The  mothers  clutched  their  children ; 

The  men  sang  "Allah  !  Illah  ! 

Mashallah  Bismillah ! " 

As  the  warring  waters  doused  them 

And  splashed  them  and  soused  them, 

And  they  called  upon  the  Prophet, 

And  thought  but  little  of  it. 


Then  all  the  fleas  in  Jewry 

Jumped  up  and  bit  like  fury ; 

And  the  progeny  of  Jacob 

Did  on  the  main-deck  wake  up 

(I  wot  those  greasy  Eabbins 

Would  never  pay  for  cabins) ; 

And  each  man  moaned  and  jabbered  in 

His  filthy  Jewish  gaberdine. 

In  woe  and  lamentation, 

And  howling  consternation. 

And  the  splashing  water  drenches 

Their  dirty  brats  and  wenches ; 

And  they  crawl  from  bales  and  benches 

In  a  hundred  thousand  stenches. 


THE    WHITE    SQUALL 

This  was  the  White  Squall  famous, 

Which  latterly  o'ercame  us, 

And  which  all  will  well  remember 

On  the  28th  September ; 

When  a  Prussian  captain  of  Lancers 

(Those  tight-laced,  whiskered  prancers) 

Came  on  the  deck  astonished, 

By  that  wild  squall  admonished, 

And  wondering  cried,  "  Potztausend  ! 

Wie  ist  der  Sturm  jetzt  brausend  ? " 

And  looked  at  Captain  Lewis, 

Who  calmly  stood  and  blew  his 

Cigar  in  all  the  bustle. 

And  scorned  the  tempest's  tussle. 

And  oft  we've  thought  thereafter 

How  he  beat  the  storm  to  laughter ; 

For  well  he  knew  his  vessel 

With  that  vain  wind  could  wrestle ; 

And  when  a  wreck  we  thought  her. 

And  doomed  ourselves  to  slaughter, 

How  gaily  he  fought  her. 

And  through  the  hubbub  brought  her, 

And  as  the  tempest  caught  her. 

Cried,  "  George  !  some  brandy- and-wateb  ! ' 

And  when,  its  force  expended. 
The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 
And  as  the  sunrise  splendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea, 
I  thought,  as  day  was  breaking. 
My  little  girls  were  waking. 
And  smiling,  and  making 

A  prayer  at  home  for  me. 

1844. 


THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM 


HO,  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin. 
That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear. 
All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win. 
This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin, — 
Wait  tiU  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains, 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer ; 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  BonnybeU's  window  panes, — 

Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass. 
Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear — 

Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass. 

Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass. 
Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Pledge  me  round,  I  bid  ye  declare, 

AU  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  grey, 

Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  passed  away  1 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 
The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 

May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list. 

Or  look  away,  and  never  be  missed. 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian's  dead,  God  rest  her  bier. 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne  ! 

Marian's  married,  but  I  sit  here 

Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 


THE  MAHOGANY  TREE 


CHEISTMAS  is  here : 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we : 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  Mahogany  Tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom  ; 
Night-birds  are  we : 
Here  we  carouse, 
Singing  like  them. 
Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  sport, 
Boys,  as  we  sit ; 
Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short — 
When  we  are  gone. 
Let  them  sing  on 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew, 
Happy  as  this ; 
Faces  we  miss, 
Pleasant  to  see. 


Kind  hearts  and  true, 
Gentle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun. 
Lurks  at  the  gate  : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
Happy  we'll  be  ! 
Drink,  every  one ; 
Pile  up  the  coals. 
Fill  the  red  bowls. 
Bound  the  old  tree  ! 

Drain  we  the  cup. — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up ; 
Empty  it  yet ; 
Let  us  forget. 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone ! 
Life  and  its  ills. 
Duns  and  their  bills. 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn. 
Blue-devil  sprite. 
Leave  us  to-night. 
Round  the  old  tree. 


THE  GANE-BOTTOM'D  CHAIR 


IN  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars, 
And  a  ragged  old  jacket  perfumed  with  cigars, 
Away  from  the  world  and  its  toils  and  its  cares, 
I've  a  snug  little  kingdom  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 

To  mount  to  this  realm  is  a  toil,  to  be  sure. 

But  the  fire  there  is  bright  and  the  air  rather  pure  ; 

And  the  view  I  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day 

Is  grand  through  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way. 

This  snug  little  chamber  is  cramm'd  in  all  nooks 

With  worthless  old  nicknacks  and  silly  old  books, 

And  foolish  old  odds  and  foolish  old  ends, 

Orack'd  bargains  from  brokers,  cheap  keepsakes  from  friends. 

Old  armour,  prints,  pictures,  pipes,  china  (all  crack'd). 

Old  rickety  tables,  and  (ihairs  broken-backed  ; 

A  twopenny  treasury,  wondrous  to  see ; 

What  matter  ?  'tis  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

No  better  divan  need  the  Sultan  require. 
Than  the  creaking  old  sofa  that  basks  by  the  fire  ; 
And  'tis  wonderful,  surely,  what  music  you  get 
From  the  rickety,  ramshackle,  wheezy  spinet. 

That  praying-rug  came  from  a  Turcoman's  camp ; 
By  Tiber  once  twinkled  that  brazen  old  lamp ; 
A  Mameluke  fierce  yonder  dagger  has  drawn  : 
'Tis  a  murderous  knife  to  toast  muflBns  upon. 

Long  long  through  the  hours,  and  the  night,  and  the  chimes, 
Here  we  talk  of  old  books,  and  old  friends,  and  old  times ; 
As  we  sit  in  a  fog  made  of  rich  Latakie 
This  chamber  is  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 


THE    CANE-BOTTOM'D    CHAIR  53 

But  of  all  the  cheap  treasures  that  garnish  my  nest, 
There's  one  that  I  love  and  I  cherish  the  best : 
For  the  finest  of  couches  that's  padded  with  hair 
I  never  would  change  thee,  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

'Tis  a  bandy-legg'd,  high-shoulder'd,  worm-eaten  seat, 
With  a  creaking  old  back,  and  twisted  old  feet ; 
But  since  the  fair  morning  when  Fanny  sat  there, 
I  bless  thee  and  love  thee,  old  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

If  chairs  have  but  feeling,  in  holding  such  charms, 

A  thrill  must  have  pass'd  through  your  wither'd  old  arms ! 

I  look'd,  and  I  long'd,  and  I  wish'd  in  despair ; 

I  wish'd  myself  turn'd  to  a  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place. 

She'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck,  and  a  smile  on  her  face  ! 

A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair. 

And  she  sat  there,  and  bloom'd  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

And  so  I  have  valued  my  chair  ever  since, 

Like  the  shrine  of  a  saint,  or  the  throne  of  a  prince ; 

Saint  Fanny,  my  patroness  sweet  I  declare. 

The  queen  of  my  heart  and  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

When  the  candles  burn  low,  and  the  company's  gone. 
In  the  silence  of  night  as  I  sit  here  alone — 
I  sit  here  alone,  but  we  yet  are  a  pair — 
My  Fanny  I  see  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

She  comes  from  the  past  and  revisits  my  room ; 
She  looks  as  she  then  did,  all  beauty  and  bloom ; 
So  smiling  and  tender,  so  fresh  and  so  fair. 
And  yonder  she  sits  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 


"AH,  BLEAK  AND  BARREN   WAS 
THE  MOOR" 


AH  !  bleak  and  barren  was  the  moor, 
j^       Ah  !  loud  and  piercing  was  the  storm, 
The  cottage  roof  was  sheltered  sure, 
The  cottage  hearth  was  bright  and  warm. 
An  orphan-boy  the  lattice  pass'd, 

And,  as  he  marked  its  cheerful  glow, 
Felt  doubly  keen  the  midnight  blast. 
And  doubly  cold  the  fallen  snow. 

They  marked  him  as  he  onward  press'd. 

With  fainting  heart  and  weary  limb ; 
Kind  voices  bade  him  turn  and  rest. 

And  gentle  faces  welcomed  him. 
The  dawn  is  up — the  guest  is  gone. 

The  cottage  hearth  is  blazing  still : 
Heaven  pity  all  poor  wanderers  lone  ! 

Hark  to  the  wind  upon  the  hiU  ! 


THE  ROSE   UPON  MY  BALCONY 


THE  rose  upon  my  balcony  the  morning  air  perfuming, 
Was  leafless  all  the  winter  time  and  pining  for  the  spring ; 
You  ask  me  why  her  breath  is  sweet,  and  why  her  cheek  is 
blooming : 
It  is  because  the  sun  is  out  and  birds  begin  to  sing. 

The  nightingale,  whose  melody  is  through  the  greenwood  ringing, 
Was  silent  when  the  boughs  were  bare  and  winds  were  blowing 

keen : 
And  if.  Mamma,  you  ask  of  me  the  reason  of  his  singing. 
It  is  because  the  sun  is  out  and  all  the  leaves  are  green. 

Thus  each  performs  his  part,  Mamma  :  the  birds  have  found  their 

voices. 
The  blowing  rose  a  flush,  Mamma,  her  bonny  cheek  to  dye  ; 
And  there's  sunshine  in  my  heart.  Mamma,  which  wakens  and 

rejoices, 
And  so  I  sing  and  blush.  Mamma,  and  that's  the  reason  why. 


ABD-EL-KADER  AT  TOULON; 

OR,    THE    CAGED   HAWK 

NO  more,  thou  lithe  and  long-winged  hawk,  of  desert  life  for 
thee; 
No  more  across  the  sultry  sands  shalt  thou  go  swoopmg 
free: 
Blunt  idle  talons,  idle  beak,  with  spurning  of  thy  chain, 
Shatter  against  thy  cage  the  wing  thou  ne'er  mayst  spread  again. 

Long,  sitting  by  their  watchflres,  shall  the  Kabyles  tell  the  tale 

Of  thy  dash  from  Ben  Halifa  on  the  fat  Metidja  vale ; 

How   thou    swept'st    the   desert    over,    bearing    down    the    wild 

El  Riff, 
From  eastern  Beni  Salah  to  western  Ouad  Shelif ; 

How  thy  white  burnous  went  streaming,  like  the  storm-rack  o'er 

the  sea. 
When  thou  rodest  in  the  vanward  of  the  Moorish  chivalry ; 
How  thy  razzia  was  a  whirlwind,  thy  onset  a  simoom. 
How  thy  sword-sweep  was  the  lightning,  dealing  death  from  out 

the  gloom ! 

Nor  less  quick  to  slay  in  battle  than  in  peace  to  spare  and  save, 
Of  brave  men  wisest  counsellor,  of  wise  counsellors  most  brave ; 
How  the  eye  that  flashed  destruction  could  beam  gentleness  and 

love; 
How  lion  in  thee  mated  lamb,  how  eagle  mated  dove ! 

Availed  not  or  steel  or  shot  'gainst  that  charmed  life  secure, 
Till  cunning  France,  in  last  resource,  tossed  up  the  golden  lure ; 
And  the  carrion   buzzards   round   him  stooped,  faithless,   to   the 

cast. 
And  the  wild  hawk  of  the  desert  is  caught  and  caged  at  last. 


ABD-EL-KADER    AT    TOULON  57 

Weep,  maidens  of  Zerifah,  above  the  laden  loom  ! 
Scar,  chieftains  of  Al  Elmah,  your  cheeks  in  grief  and  gloom  ! 
Sons  of  the  Beni  Snazam,  throw  down  the  useless  lance. 
And  stoop  your  necks  and  bare  your  backs  to  yoke  and  scourge  of 
France ! 

'Twas  not  in  fight  they  bore  him  down  :  he  never  cried  aman  ; 
He  never  sank  his  sword  before  the  Prince  of  Feanghistan  ; 
But  with  traitors  all  around  him,  his  star  upon  the  wane. 
He  heard  the  voice  of  Allah,  and  he  would  not  strive  in  vain. 

They  gave  him  what  he  asked  them  :  from  king  to  king  he  spake. 
As  one  that  plighted  word  and  seal  not  knoweth  how  to  break : 
"  Let  me  pass  from  out  my  deserts,  be't  mine  own  choice  where 

to  go; 
I  brook  no  fettered  life  to  live,  a  captive  and  a  show." 

And  they  promised,  and  he  trusted  them,  and  proud  and  calm  he 

came. 
Upon  his  black  mare  riding,  girt  with  his  sword  of  fame. 
Good  steed,  good  sword,  he  rendered  both  unto  the  Frankish  throng ; 
He  knew  them  false  and  fickle — but  a  Prince's  word  is  strong. 

How  have  they  kept  their  promise  1     Turned  they  the  vessel's  prow 
Unto  Acre,  Alexandria,  as  they  have  sworn  e'en  now  1 
Not  so  :  from  Oran  northwards  the  white  sails  gleam  and  glance, 
And  the  wild  hawk  of  the  desert  is  borne  away  to  France  ! 

Where  Toulon's  white-walled  lazaret  looks  southward  o'er  the  wave. 

Sits  he  that  trusted  in  the  word  a  son  of  Louis  gave. 

O  noble  faith  of  noble  heart !     And  was  the  warning  vain, 

The  text  writ  by  the  Boukbon  in  the  blurred  black  book  of  Spain  ? 

They  have  need  of  thee  to  gaze  on,  they  have  need  of  thee  to  grace 
The  triumph  of  the  Prince,  to  gild  the  pinchbeck  of  their  race. 
Words  are  but  wind  ;  conditions  must  be  construed  by  Guizot  ; 
Dash  out  thy  heart,  thou  desert  hawk,  ere  thou  art  made  a  show  ! 


AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE 

A  LTHOUGH  I  enter  not, 
Z-\     Yet  round  about  the  spot 
•*     *■        Ofttimes  I  hover ; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 
Expectant  of  her. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming  : 
They've  hush'd  the  Minster  bell : 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell : 

She's  coming,  she's  coming ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid,  and  stepping  fast. 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast : 
She  comes — she's  here — she's  past — 

May  Heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel,  undisturbed,  fair  Saint ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly ; 
I  will  not  enter  there. 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place. 

Lingering  a  minute 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY 


THE  play  is  done ;  the  curtain  drops, 
Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell : 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 
And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task ; 

And,  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 
A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends, 

Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends. 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time.* 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts. 

That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play ; 
Good  night !  with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway  ! 

Gfood  night ! — I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page. 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men ; 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I'd  say,  we  suffer  and  we  strive. 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys ; 

With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five. 
As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 

These  verses  were  printed  at  the  end  of  a  Christmas  book  (1848-9),  "  Dr. 
Birch  and  his  Young  Friends. " 


60  BALLADS 

And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 

Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 
May  never  wholly  pass  away. 


And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift ; 
The  prize  "be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitUessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  J 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ?  * 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  will'd  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all. 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow. 

That's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit : 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state  ? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  1 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel. 

Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance. 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed ; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance. 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen  !  whatever  fate  be  sent. 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

*  C.  B.  ob.  29th  November  1848,  aet.  i2. 


THE    END    OP    THE    PLAY  6l 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part. 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young  ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  ray  humble  lays) ; 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days  : 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 

My  seng,  save  this,  is  little  worth  ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside. 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Ohristmastide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth. 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  BOUILLABAISSE 


A  STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 
For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs  its  name  is — - 
The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields. 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid. 

But  still  in  comfortable  ease ; 

The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended. 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is — 

A  sort  of  soup  or  broth,  or  brew, 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo  : 
Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  safi'ron. 

Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace  : 
All  these  you  eat  at  Teer^'s  tavern 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savoury  stew  'tis ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks. 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting. 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before  ; 
The  smiling  red-cheeked  ^caillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Teeee  still  alive  and  able  % 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace  : 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table. 

And  hope  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    BOUILLABAISSE  63 

We  enter — nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"  How's  Monsieur  TEERi:,  waiter,  pray  1 " 
The  waiter  stares,  and  shrugs  his  shoulder— 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner, 

So  honest  Tekeb's  run  his  race.'' 
"  What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner  1 " 

"  Say,  do  you  still  cook  BoniUabaisse  1 " 

"  Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,"  's  the  waiter's  answer ; 

"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  d^sire-t-il  ? " 
"Tell  me  a  good  one."— "That  I  can.  Sir: 

The  Chambertin  with  yeUow  seal." 
"  So  Teeee's  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustom'd  corner-place  ; 
"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking. 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  here  is. 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook ; 
Ah  !  vanished  many  a  busy  year  is 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  cari  luoghi, 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face. 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days  here  met  to  dine  1 
Come,  waiter  !  quick,  a  flagon  crusty — 

I'U  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wipe. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace ; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage ; 

There's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage ; 

There's  poor  old  Feed  in  the  Gazette  ; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing  : 

Good  Lord  !  the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  claret  flowing. 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 


64  BALLADS 

Ah  me  !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone, 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place — but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear  dear  face  looked  fondly  up. 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me 

— There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes : 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  BouUlabaisse  1 


MAY-DAY  ODE 


BUT  yesterday  a  naked  sod 
The  dandies  sneered  from  Eotten  Row, 
And  cantered  o'er  it  to  and  fro  : 
And  see  'tis  done  ! 
As  though  'twere  by  a  wizard's  rod 
A  blazing  arch  of  lucid  glass 
Leaps  like  a  fountain  from  the  grass 
To  meet  the  sun  ! 

A  quiet  green  but  few  days  since, 
With  cattle  browsing  in  the  shade  : 
And  here  are  lines  of  bright  arcade 
In  order  raised  ! 
A  palace  as  for  fairy  prince, 
A  rare  pavilion,  such  as  man 
Saw  never  since  mankind  began. 

And  built  and  glazed  ! 

A  peaceful  place  it  was  but  nov/, 
And  lo  !  within  its  shining  streets 
A  multitude  of  nations  meets ; 

A  countless  throng 
I  see  beneath  the  crystal  bow, 

And  Gaul  and  German,  Euss  and  Turk, 
Each  with  his  native  handiwork 

And  busy  tongue. 

I  felt  a  thrill  of  love  and  awe 
.  To  mark  the  different  garb  of  each. 
The  changing  tongue,  the  various  speech 
Together  blent : 
A  thrill,  methinks,  like  His  who  saw 
"  All  people  dwelling  upon  earth 
Praising  our  God  with  solemn  mirth 

And  one  consent." 
13  E 


66  BALLADS 

High  Sovereign,  in  your  Royal  state, 
Captains,  and  chiefs,  and  councillors, 
Before  the  lofty  palace  doors 

Are  open  set, — 
Hush  !  ere  you  pass  the  shining  gate ; 
Hush  !  ere  the  heaving  curtain  draws. 
And  let  the  Royal  pageant  pause 
A  moment  yet. 

People  and  prince  a  silence  keep  ! 
Bow  coronet  and  kingly  crown. 
Helmet  and  plume,  how  lowly  down. 

The  while  the  priest, 
Before  the  splendid  portal  step 

(While  still  the  wondrous  banquet  stays). 
From  Heaven  supreme  a  blessing  prays 
Upon  the  feast. 

Then  onwards  let  the  triumph  march ; 
Then  let  the  loud  artillery  roll. 
And  trumpets  ring,  and  joy-bells  toll, 
And  pass  the  gate. 
Pass  underneath  the  shining  arch, 

'Neath  which  the  leafy  elms  are  green ; 
Ascend  unto  your  throne,  0  Queen  ! 

And  take  your  state. 

Behold  her  in  her  Royal  place ; 
A  gentle  lady ;  and  the  hand 
That  sways  the  sceptre  of  this  land. 

How  frail  and  weak  ! 
Soft  is  the  voice,  and  fair  the  face  : 

She  breathes  amen  to  prayer  and  hymn ; 
No  wonder  that  her  eyes  are  dim. 

And  pale  her  cheek. 

This  moment  round  her  empire's  shores 
The  winds  of  Austral  winter  sweep, 
And  thousands  lie  in  midnight  sleep 
At  rest  to-day. 
Oh  !  awful  is  that  crown  of  yours. 
Queen  of  innumerable  realms 
Sitting  beneath  the  budding  elms 

Of  English  May ! 


MAY-DAY    ODE  67 

A  wondrous  sceptre  'tis  to  bear  : 
Strange  mystery  of  God  which  set 
Upon  her  hrovf  yon  coronet, — 

The  foremost  crown 
Of  all  the  world,  on  one  so  fair ! 
That  chose  her  to  it  from  her  birth, 
And  bade  the  sons  of  all  the  earth 

To  her  bow  down. 

The  representatives  of  man 
Here  from  the  far  Antipodes, 
And  from  the  subject  Indian  seas, 

In  congress  meet ; 
From  Afric  and  from  Hindustan, 
From  Western  continent  and  isle, 
The  envoys  of  her  empire  pile 

Gifts  at  her  feet ; 

Our  brethren  cross  the  Atlantic  tides. 
Loading  the  gallant  decks  which  once 
Roared  a  defiance  to  our  guns, 

With  peaceful  store ; 
Symbol  of  peace,  their  vessel  rides  !  * 
O'er  English  waves  float  Star  and  Stripe, 
And  firm  their  friendly  anchors  gripe 
The  father  shore ! 

From  Rhine  and  Danube,  Rhone  and  Seine, 
As  rivers  from  their  sources  gush, 
The  swelling  floods  of  nations  rush. 

And  seaward  pour : 
From  coast  to  coast  in  friendly  chain. 

With  countless  ships  we  bridge  the  straits, 
And  angry  ocean  separates 

Europe  no  more. 

From  Mississippi  and  from  Nile — 
From  Baltic,  Ganges,  Bosphorus, 
In  England's  ark  assembled  thus 

Are  friend  and  guest. 
Look  down  the  mighty  sunlit  aisle, 
And  see  the  sumptuous  banquet  set, 
The  brotherhood  of  nations  met 

Around  the  feast ! 

*  The  U.S.  frigate  St.  Lawrence. 


68  BALLADS 


May  1851. 


Along  the  dazzling  colonnade, 

Par  as  the  straining  eye  can  gaze, 
Gleam  cross  and  fountain,  bell  and  vase, 
In  vistas  bright ; 
And  statues  fair  of  nymph  and  maid, 
And  steeds  and  pards  and  Amazons, 
Writhing  and  grappUng  in  the  bronze, 
In  endless  fight. 

To  deck  the  glorious  roof  and  dome. 
To  make  the  Queen  a  canopy. 
The  peaceful  hosts  of  industry 

Their  standards  bear. 
Yon  are  the  works  of  Brahmin  loom  ; 
On  such  a  web  of  Persian  thread 
The  desert  Arab  bows  his  head 

And  cries  his  prayer. 

Look  yonder  where  the  engines  toil : 
These  England's  arms  of  conquest  are. 
The  trophies  of  her  bloodless  war  : 

Brave  weapons  these. 
Victorious  over  wave  and  soil. 

With  these  she  sails,  she  weaves,  she  tills, 
Pierces  the  everlasting  hills 

And  spans  the  seas. 

The  engine  roars  upon  its  race. 
The  shuttle  whirrs  along  the  woof, 
The  people  hum  from  floor  to  roof. 

With  Babel  tongue. 
The  fountain  in  the  basin  plays, 
The  chanting  organ  echoes  clear, 
An  awful  chorus  'tis  to  hear, 

A  wondrous  song ! 

Swell,  organ,  swell  your  trumpet  blast, 
March,  Queen  and  Royal  pageant,  march 
By  splendid  aisle  and  springing  arch 
Of  this  fair  Hall : 
And  see  !  above  the  fabric  vast, 

God's  boundless  heaven  is  bending  blue, 
God's  peaceful  sunlight's  beaming  through, 
And  shines  o'er  aU 


THE  PEN  AND  THE  ALBUM 


"  T  AM  Miss  Catherine's  book,"  the  Album  speaks ; 
I      "  I've  lain  among  your  tomes  these  many  weeks ; 
•*■      I'm  tired  of  their  old  coats  and  yellow  cheeks. 

"  Quick,  Pen  !  and  write  a  line  with  a  good  grace  : 
Come  !  draw  me  ofif  a  funny  little  face ; 
And,  prithee,  send  me  back  to  Chesham  Place." 


PEN. 

"  I  am  my  master's  faithful  old  Gold  Pen  ; 
I've  served  him  three  long  years,  and  drawn  since  then 
Thousands  of  funny  women  and  droll  men. 

"  0  Album  !  could  I  tell  you  all  his  ways 
And  thoughts,  since  I  am  his,  these  thousand  days, 
Lord,  how  your  pretty  pages  I'd  amaze  !  " 


ALBUM. 

"  His  ways  1  his  thoughts  1     Just  whisper  me  a  few ; 
Tell  me  a  curious  anecdote  or  two. 
And  write  'em  quickly  off,  good  Mordan,  do  !  " 


PEN. 

"  Since  he  my  faithful  service  did  engage 
To  follow  him  through  his  queer  pilgrimage, 
I've  drawn  and  written  many  a  line  and  page. 

"  Caricatures  I  scribbled  have,  and  rhymes. 
And  dinner-cards,  and  picture  pantomimes. 
And  merry  little  children's  books  at  times. 


70  BALLADS 

"  I've  writ  the  foolish  fancy  of  his  brain  ; 
The  aimless  jest  that,  striking,  hath  caused  pain ; 
The  idle  word  that  he'd  wish  back  again. 


"  I've  help'd  him  to  pen  many  a  line  for  bread ; 
To  joke,  with  sorrow  aching  in  his  head  ; 
And  make  your  laughter  when  his  own  heart  bled. 

"  I've  spoke  with  men  of  all  degree  and  sort — 
Peers  of  the  land,  and  ladies  of  the  Court ; 
Oh,  but  I've  chronicled  a  deal  of  sport ! 

"  Feasts  that  were  ate  a  thousand  days  ago, 
Biddings  to  wine  that  long  hath  ceased  to  flow, 
Gay  meetings  with  good  fellows  long  laid  low  ; 

"  Summons  to  bridal,  banquet,  burial,  ball, 
Tradesmen's  polite  reminders  of  his  small 
Account  due  Christmas  last — I've  answer'd  all. 

"  Poor  Diddler's  tenth  petition  for  a  half- 
Guinea  ;  Miss  Bunyan's  for  an  autograph ; 
So  I  refuse,  accept,  lament,  or  laugh, 

"  Condole,  congratulate,  invite,  praise,  scoff, 
Day  after  day  still  dipping  in  my  trough, 
And  scribbling  pages  after  pages  off. 

"  Day  after  day  the  labour's  to  be  done. 
And  sure  as  come  the  postman  and  the  sun, 
The  indefatigable  ink  must  run. 

"  Go  back,  my  pretty  little  gilded  tome. 
To  a  fair  mistress  and  a  pleasant  home, 
Where  soft  hearts  greet  us  whensoe'er  we  come ! 

"  Dear  friendly  eyes,  with  constant  kindness  lit. 
However  rude  my  verse,  or  poor  my  wit, 
Or  sad  or  gay  my  mood,  you  welcome  it. 

"  Kind  lady  !  till  my  last  of  lines  is  penn'd. 
My  master's  love,  grief,  laughter,  at  an  end. 
Whene'er  I  write  your  name,  may  I  write  fkend  ! 


THE    PEN    AND    THE    ALBUM  71 

"  Not  all  are  so  that  were  so  in  past  years ; 
Voices,  familiar  once,  no  more  he  hears ; 
Names,  often  writ,  are  blotted  out  in  tears. 

"  So  be  it : — joys  will  end  and  tears  will  dry 

Album  !  my  master  bids  me  wish  good-bye, 
He'll  send  you  to  your  mistress  presently. 

"  And  thus  with  thankful  heart  he  closes  you  : 
Blessing  the  happy  hour  when  a  friend  he  knew 
So  gentle,  and  so  generous,  and  so  true. 

"  Nor  pass  the  words  as  idle  phrases  by ; 
Stranger  !  I  never  writ  a  flattery. 
Nor  sign'd  the  page  that  register'd  a  lie." 


LUCY'S  BIRTHDAY 


SEVENTEEN  rose-buds  in  a  ring, 
Thick  with  sister  flowers  beset, 
In  a  fragrant  coronet, 
Lucy's  servants  this  day  bring. 
Be  it  the  birthday  wreath  she  wears 
Fresh  and  fair,  and  symbolling 
The  young  number  of  her  years, 
The  sweet  blushes  of  lier  spring. 

Types  of  youth  and  love  and  hope  ! 
Friendly  hearts  your  mistress  greet, 
Be  you  ever  fair  and  sweet. 
And  grow  lovelier  as  you  ope  ! 
Gentle  nurseling,  fenced  about 
With  fond  care,  and  guarded  so, 
Scarce  you've  heard  of  storms  without, 
Frosts  that  bite,  or  winds  that  blow  ! 

Kindly  has  your  life  begun, 
And  we  pray  that  Heaven  may  send 
To  our  floweret  a  warm  sun, 
A  calm  summer,  a  sweet  end. 
And  where'er  shall  be  her  home, 
May  she  decorate  the  place ; 
Still  expanding  into  bloom, 
And  developing  in  grace. 


THE   YANKEE   VOLUNTEERS 

"A  surgeon  of  the  United  States  army  says,  that  on  inquiring  of 
the  Captain  of  his  company,  he  found  that  nine-tenths  of  the  men  had  en- 
listed on  account  of  some  female  difficulty." — Morning  Paper. 

YE  Yankee  volunteers ! 
It  makes  my  bosom  bleed 
When  I  your  story  read, 
Though  oft  'tis  told  one. 
So — in  both  hemispheres 
The  women  are  untrue, 
And  cruel  in  the  New, 
As  in  the  Old  one  ! 

What — in  this  company 

Of  sixty  sons  of  Mars, 

Who  march  'neath  Stripes  and  Stars, 

With  fife  and  horn. 
Nine-tenths  of  aU  we  see 
Along  the  warlike  line 
Had  but  one  cause  to  join 

This  Hope  Forlorn  ? 

Deserters  from  the  realm 
Where  tyrant  Venus  reigns, 
You  slipp'd  her  wicked  chains, 

Fled  and  outran  her. 
And  now,  with  sword  and  helm, 
Together  banded  are 
Beneath  the  Stripe  and  Star- 

Embroider'd  banner ! 

And  is  it  so  with  all 

The  warriors  ranged  in  line. 

With  lace  bedizen'd  fine 

And  swords  gold-hilted  ? 


74  BALLADS 

Yon  lusty  corporal, 
Yon  colour-man  who  gripes 
The  flag  of  Stars  and  Stripes — 
Has  each  been  jilted  ? 


Come,  each  man  of  this  line. 
The  privates  strong  and  tall, 
"  The  pioneers  and  all," 

The  fifer  nimble — 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
Captain  with  epaulets. 
And  Blacky  there,  who  beats 

The  clanging  cymbal. — 


0  cymbal-beating  black. 
Tell  us,  as  thou  canst  feel. 
Was  it  some  Lucy  Neal 

Who  caused  thy  ruin  1 
0  nimble  fifing  Jack, 
And  drummer  making  din 
So  deftly  on  the  skin. 

With  thy  rat-tat-tooing — 


Confess,  ye  volunteers. 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
And  Captain  of  the  line, 

As  bold  as  Eoman — 
Confess,  ye  grenadiers. 
However  strong  and  tall, 
The  Conqueror  of  you  all 

Is  Woman,  Woman ! 


No  corselet  is  so  proof 

But  through  it  from  her  bow 

The  shafts  that  she  can  throw 

Will  pierce  and  rankle. 
No  champion  e'er  so  tough 
But  's  in  the  struggle  thrown, 
And  tripp'd  and  trodden  down 

By  her  slim  ankle. 


THE    YANKEE    VOLUNTEERS  75 

Thus  always  it  was  ruled  : 
And  when  a  woman  smiled, 
The  strong  man  was  a  child, 

The  sage  a  noodle. 
Alcides  was  befool'd, 
And  silly  Samson  shorn, 
Long  long  ere  you  were  born, 

Poor  Yankee  Doodle ! 


PISOATOR  AND   PISCATRIX 

UNES   WRITTEN    TO    AN    ALBUM    PRINT 

AS  on  this  pictured  page  I  look, 
This  pretty  tale  of  line  and  hook 
^   As  though  it  were  a  novel-book 
Amuses  and  engages : 
I  know  them  both,  the  boy  and  girl ; 
She  is  the  daughter  of  the  Earl, 
The  lad  (that  has  his  hair  in  curl) 

My  Lord  the  County's  page  is. 

A  pleasant  place  for  such  a  pair ! 
The  fields  lie  basking  in  the  glare ; 
No  breath  of  wind  the  heavy  air 

Of  lazy  summer  quickens. 
Hard  by  you  see  the  castle  tall ; 
The  village  nestles  round  the  wall, 
As  round  about  the  hen  its  small 

Young  progeny  of  chickens. 

It  is  too  hot  to  pace  the  keep ; 
To  climb  the  turret  is  too  steep ; 
My  Lord  the  Earl  is  dozing  deep. 

His  noonday  dinner  over : 
The  postern-warder  is  asleep 
(Perhaps  they've  bribed  him  not  to  peep) : 
And  so  from  out  the  gate  they  creep, 

And  cross  the  fields  of  clover. 

Their  lines  into  the  brook  they  launch ; 
He  lays  his  cloak  upon  a  branch, 
To  guarantee  his  Lady  Blanche 
's  delicate  complexion : 


PISCATOK    AND    PISOATEIX  77 

He  takes  his  rapier  from  his  haunch, 
That  beardless  doughty  champion  staunch ; 
He'd  drill  it  through  the  rival's  paunch 
That  question'd  his  affection  ! 

0  heedless  pair  of  sportsmen  slack  ! 
You  never  mark,  though  trout  or  jack. 
Or  little  foolish  stickleback, 

Your  baited  snares  may  capture. 
What  care  has  she  for  Une  and  hook  ? 
She  turns  her  back  upon  the  brook, 
Upon  her  lover's  eyes  to  look 

In  sentimental  rapture. 

0  loving  pair !  as  thus  I  gaze 
Upon  the  girl  who  smiles  always. 
The  little  hand  that  ever  plays 

Upon  the  lover's  shoulder ; 
In  looking  at  your  pretty  shapes, 
A  sort  of  envious  wish  escapes 
(Such  as  the  Fox  had  for  the  Grapes) 

The  Poet  your  beholder. 

To  be  brave,  handsome,  twenty-two ; 
With  nothing  else  on  earth  to  do, 
But  all  day  long  to  bill  and  coo  : 

It  were  a  pleasant  calling. 
And  had  I  such  a  partner  sweet ; 
A  tender  heart  for  mine  to  beat, 
A  gentle  hand  my  clasp  to  meet ; — 
I'd  let  the  world  flow  at  my  feet. 

And  never  heed  its  brawling. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER 


WEETHER  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter ; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her  1 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter, 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 

And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 
And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 

Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out. 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter. 
Like  a  well-conducted  person. 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


THE  LAST  OF  MAY 

IN    REPLY    TO    AN    INVITATION    DATED   ON    THE    IST. 

BY  fate's  benevolent  award, 
.        Should  I  survive  the  day, 
I'U  drink  a  bumper  with  my  lord 
Upon  the  last  of  May. 

That  I  may  reach  that  happy  time 

The  kindly  gods  I  pray, 
For  are  not  ducks  and  peas  in  prime 

Upon  the  last  of  May  ? 

At  thirty  boards,  'twixt  now  and  then, 

My  knife  and  fork  shall  play ; 
But  better  wine  and  better  men 

I  shall  not  meet  in  May. 

And  though,  good  friend,  with  whom  I  dine, 

Your  honest  head  is  grey, 
And,  like  this  grizzled  head  of  mine, 

Has  seen  its  last  of  May ; 

Yet,  with  a  heart  that's  ever  kind, 

A  gentle  spirit  gay, 
You've  spring  perennial  in  your  mind, 

And  round  you  make  a  May  ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  SOPHIA  OF  KIOFF 


AN    EPIC    POEM,    IN    TWENTY   BOOKS 


The  Poet  de- 
scribes the  city 
and  spelling  of 
Kiow,  Kioff,  or 
Kiova. 


A  THOUSAND  years  ago,  or  more, 
A  city  filled  with  burghers  stout, 
And  girt  with  ramparts  round  about, 
Stood  on  the  rocky  Dnieper  shore. 
In  armour  bright,  by  day  and  night. 
The  sentries  they  paced  to  and  fro. 
Well  guarded  and  walled  was  this  town,  and  called 

By  different  names,  I'd  have  you  to  know ; 
For  if  you  looks  in  the  g'ography  books. 
In  those  dictionaries  the  name  it  varies, 
And  they  write  it  off  Kieff  or  Kioff, 

Kiova  or  Kiow. 


Its  buildings, 
public  works, 
and  ordinances, 
religious  and 
civil. 


II. 

Thus  guarded  without  by  wall  and  redoubt, 

Kiova  within  was  a  place  of  renown. 
With  more  advantages  than  in  those  dark  ages 

Were  commonly  known  to  belong  to  a  town. 
There  were  places  and  squares,  and  each  year  four  fairs, 
And  regular  aldermen  and  regular  lord  mayors  ; 
And  streets,  and  alleys,  and  a  bishop's  palace ; 
And  a  church  with  clocks  for  the  orthodox — 
With  clocks  and  with  spires,  as  religion  desires ; 
And  beadles  to  whip  the  bad  little  boys 
Over  their  poor  little  corduroys. 
In  service-time,  when  they  didn't  make  a  noise ; 
And  a  chapter  and  dean,  and  a  cathedral-green 
With  ancient  trees,  underneath  whose  shades 
Wandered  nice  young  nursery-maids. 
Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  ding-ding-a  ring-ding. 
The  bells  they  made  a  merry  merry  ring 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC 

From  the  tall  tall  steeple ;  and  all  the  people 
(Except  the  Jews)  came  and  filled  the  pews — 

Poles,  Russians,  and  Germans, 

To  hear  the  sermons 
Which  Hyacinth  preached  to  those  Germans  and  Poles 

For  the  safety  of  their  souls. 


III. 

A  worthy  priest  he  was  and  a  stout — 
You've  seldom  looked  on  such  a  one ; 

For,  though  he  fasted  thrice  in  a  week. 

Yet  nevertheless  his  skin  was  sleek ; 

His  waist  it  spanned  two  yards  about. 
And  he  weighed  a  score  of  stone. 


81 


The  poet  shows 
how  a  certain 
priest  dwelt  at 
Kio«E,  a  godly 
clergyman,  and 
one  that 
preached  rare 
good  sermons. 


How  this  priest 
was  short  and 
Jat  of  body. 


IV. 

A  worthy  priest  for  fasting  and  prayer 

And  mortification  most  deserving. 

And  as  for  preaching  beyond  compare  : 

He'd  exert  his  powers  for  three  or  four  hours 

With  greater  pith  than  Sydney  Smith 

Or  the  Reverend  Edward  Irving. 


And  like  unto 
the  author  of 
"Plymley's 
Letters." 


He  was  the  Prior  of  Saint  Sophia 

(A  Cockney  rhyme,  but  no  better  I  know) — 

Of  Saint  Sophia,  that  Church  in  Kiow, 

Built  by  missionaries  I  can't  tell  when ; 
Who  by  their  discussions  converted  the  Russians, 

And  made  them  Christian  men. 


Of  what  convent 
he  was  prior, 
and  when  the 
convent  was 
built. 


Sainted  Sophia  (so  the  legend  vows) 
With  special  favour  did  regard  this  house ; 

And  to  uphold  her  converts'  new  devotion 
Her  statue  (needing  but  her  legs  for  her  ship) 
Walks  of  itself  across  the  German  Ocean ; 
And  of  a  sudden  perches 
In  this  the  best  of  churches, 
Whither  all  Kiovites  come  and  pay  it  grateful  worship. 


Of  Saint  Sophia 
of  Kioif ;  and 
how  her  statue 
miraculously 
travelled 
thither. 


82 


BALLADS 


And  how  Kioff 
should  have 
been  a  happy 
city ;  but  that 


Thus  with  her  patron-saints  and  pious  preachers 

Recorded  here  in  catalogue  precise, 
A  goodly  city,  worthy  magistrates, 
You  would  have  thought  in  all  the  Russian  states 
The  citizens  the  happiest  of  all  creatures, — 

The  town  itself  a  perfect  Paradise.  . 


Certain  wiclced 
CoBsacks  did 
besiege  it, 


Murdering  the 
citizens, 


Until  they 
a^eed  to  pay  a 
tribute  yearly. 


How  they  paid 
the  tribute,  and: 
then  suddenly 
refused  it. 


VIII. 

No,  alas  !  this  well-built  city 

Was  in  a  perpetual  fidget ; 
For  the  Tartars,  without  pity, 

Did  remorselessly  besiege  it. 

Tartars  fierce,  with  swords  and  sabres, 
Huns  and  Turks,  and  such  as  these. 

Envied  much  their  peaceful  neighbours 
By  the  blue  Borysthenes. 

Down  they  came,  these  ruthless  Russians, 
From  their  steppes,  and  woods,  and  fens, 

For  to  levy  contributions 
On  the  peaceful  citizens. 

Winter,  Summer,  Spring,  and  Autumn, 
Down  they  came  to  peaceful  Kiofi^, 

Killed  the  burghers  when  they  caught  'em, 
If  their  lives  they  would  not  buy  off. 

Till  the  city,  quite  confounded 

By  the  ravages  they  made. 
Humbly  with  their  chief  compounded. 

And  a  yearly  tribute  paid. 

Which  (because  their  courage  lax  was) 
They  discharged  while  they  were  able  : 

Tolerated  thus  the  tax  was, 
TiU  it  grew  intolerable. 


To  the  wonder 
of  the  Cossack 
envoy. 


And  the  Calmuc  envoy  sent, 
As  before  to  take  their  dues  all. 

Got,  to  his  astonishment, 
A  unanimous  refusal ! 


THE    GKEAT    COSSACK    EPIC 

"  Men  of  Kioff !  "  thus  courageous 

Did  the  stout  Lord  Mayor  harangue  them, 

"Wherefore  pay  these  sneaking  wages 
To  the  hectoring  Russians  t  hang  them  ! 


83 


Of  a  mighty 
gallant  speech 


"  Hark  !     I  hear  the  awful  cry  of 
Our  forefathers  in  their  graves, ; 

"  '  Fight,  ye  citizens  of  Kioff  ! 
Kioff  was  not  made  for  slaves.' 


That  the  Lord 
Mayor  made, 


'  All  too  long  have  ye  betrayed  her ; 

Rouse,  ye  men  and  aldermen, 
Send  the  insolent  invader — 

Send  him  starving  back  again." 


Exhorting  the 
burghers  to  pay 
no  longer. 


He  spoke  and  he  sat  down ;  the  people  of  the  town. 
Who  were  fired  with  a  brave  emulation. 

Now  rose  with  one  accord,  and  voted  thanks  unto  the  Lord 
Mayor  for  his  oration  : 


Of  their  thanks 
and  heroic 
resolves. 


The  envoy  they  dismissed,  never  placing  in  his  fist 

So  much  as  a  single  shilling ; 
And  all  with  courage  fired,  as  his  Lordship  he  desired. 

At  once  set  about  their  drilling. 


Tliey  dismiss  the 
envoy,  and  set 
about  drilling. 


Then  every  city  ward  established  a  guard. 

Diurnal  and  nocturnal : 
MUitia  volunteers,  light  dragoons,  and  bombardiers, 

With  an  alderman  for  colonel. 


Of  the  City 
guard  :  viz. 
militia, 
dragoons,  and 
bombardiers, 
and  their  com- 
manders. 


There  was  muster  and  roll-calls,  and  repairing  city  walls. 

And  filling  up  of  fosses  : 
And  the  captains  and  the  majors,  so  gallant  and  courageous,  of  the  majors 

A -riding  about  on  their  bosses. 


and  captains ; 


To  be  guarded  at  all  hours  they  built  themselves  watch-towers,  The  fortiflca- 
With  every  tower  a  man  on ;  ^'tmery* 

And  surely  and  secure,  each  from  out  his  embrasure, 
Looked  down  the  iron  cannon  ! 


84 


BALLADS 


A  battle-song  was  writ  for  the  theatre,  where  it 
Was  sung  with  vast  energy 
Of  the  conduct    And  rapturous  applause  ;  and  besides,  the  public  cause 
the  de1^°."*"*  ^^  supported  by  the  clergy. 

The  pretty  ladies'-maids  were  pinning  of  cockades, 

And  tying  on  of  sashes  ; 
And  dropping  gentle  tears,  while  their  lovers  bluster'd  fierce 

About  gunshot  and  gashes ; 

Of  the  ladies,      The  ladies  took  the  hint,  and  all  day  were  scraping  lint. 
As  became  their  softer  genders  ; 
And  got  bandages  and  beds  for  the  limbs  and  for  the  heads 
Of  the  city's  brave  defenders. 

The  men,  both  young  and  old,  felt  resolute  and  bold, 
And  panted  hot  for  glory ; 
And,  Hnaiiy,  of   Even  the  tailors  'gan  to  brag,  and  embroidered  on  their  flag, 

*"'  **'"'"'•  "  AUT  WINCEBB  AUT  MOKI." 


Of  the  Cossack 
chief, — his 
stratagem  ; 


X. 

Seeing  the  city's  resolute  condition, 

The  Cossack  chief,  too  cunning  to  despise  it. 
Said  to  himself,  "Not  having  ammunition 
Wherewith  to  batter  the  place  in  proper  form, 
Some  of  these  nights  I'll  carry  it  by  storm, 

And  sudden  escalade  it  or  surprise  it. 


And  the  bur- 
ghers' sillie 
victorie. 


"  Let's  see,  however,  if  the  cits  stand  flrmish.'' 

He  rode  up  to  the  city  gates ;  for  answers, 
Out  rushed  an  eager  troop  of  the  town  Slite, 
And  straightway  did  begin  a  gallant  skirmish  : 
The  Cossack  hereupon  did  sound  retreat, 
Leaving  the  victory  with  the  city  Jancers. 


What  prisoners 
they  took, 


They  took  two  prisoners  and  as  many  horses, 
And  the  whole  town  grew  quickly  so  elate 
With  this  small  victory  of  their  virgin  forces. 
That  they  did  deem  their  privates  and  commanders 
So  many  Csesars,  Pompeys,  Alexanders, 
Napoleons,  or  Fredericks  the  Great. 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC 


85 


And  puffing  with  inordinate  conceit 

They  utterly  despised  these  Cossack  thieves ; 
And  thought  the  ruffians  easier  to  beat 
Than  porters  carpets  think,  or  ushers  boys. 
Meanwhile,  a  sly  spectator  of  their  joys, 

The  Cossack  captain  giggled  in  his  sleeves. 


And  how  con- 
ceited they  were 


"  Whene'er  you  meet  yon  stupid  city  hogs  " 

(He  bade  his  troops  precise  this  order  keep), 
"  Don't  stand  a  moment — run  away,  you  dogs  !  " 
'Twas  done ;  and  when  they  met  the  town  battalions, 
The  Cossacks,  as  if  frightened  at  their  vaJiance, 
Turned  tail,  and  bolted  like  so  many  sheep. 

They  fled,  obedient  to  their  captain's  order  : 

And  now  this  bloodless  siege  a  month  had  lasted. 

When,  viewing  the  country  round,  the  city  warder 

(Who,  like  a  faithful  weathercock,  did  perch 

Upon  the  steeple  of  Saint  Sophy's  church). 

Sudden  his  trumpet  took,  and  a  mighty  blast  he  blasted. 

His  voice  it  might  be  heard  through  all  the  streets 
(He  was  a  warder  wondrous  strong  in  lung), 

"  Victory,  victory  !  the  foe  retreats  !  " 

"  The  foe  retreats  ! "  each  cries  to  each  he  meets ; 

"  The  foe  retreats  !  "  each  in  his  turn  repeats. 

Gfods  !  how  the  guns  did  roar,  and  how  the  joy-bells  rung  ! 


Of  the  Cossack 
chief, — his 
orders  ; 


And  how  he 
feigned  a 
retreat. 


The  warder  pro- 
clayms  the  Cos- 
sacks' retreat, 
and  the  citie 
greatly  rejoyces. 


Arming  in  haste  his  gallant  city  lancers, 

The  Mayor,  to  learn  if  true  the  news  might  be, 

A  league  or  two  out  issued  with  his  prancers. 

The  Cossacks  (something  had  given  their  courage  a  damper) 

Hastened  their  flight,  and  'gan  like  mad  to  scamper ; 
Blessed  be  all  the  saints,  Kiova  town  was  free  ! 


XI. 

Now,  pufied  with  pride,  the  Mayor  grew  vain, 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the 

slain. 
'Tis  true  he  might  amuse  himself  thus. 
And  not  be  very  murderous ; 


86  BALLADS 

For  as  of  those  who  to  death  were  done 
The  number  was  exactly  none, 
His  Lordship,  in  his  soul's  elation, 
Did  take  a  bloodless  recreation — 
The  manner  of    Going  home  again,  he  did  ordain 
re:foydiS,         ^  '^^^  Splendid  cold  collation 

For  the  magistrates  and  the  corporation ; 
Likewise  a  grand  illumination 
For  the  amusement  of  the  nation. 
,  That  night  the  theatres  were  free. 

The  conduits  they  ran  Malvoisie ; 
Each  house  that  night  did  beam  with  light 
And  sound  with  mirth  and  jollity  : 
And  its  impiety.  But  shame,  0  shame  !  not  a  soul  in  the  town. 
Now  the  city  was  safe  and  the  Cossacks  flown, 
Ever  thought  of  the  bountiful  saint  by  whose  care 

The  town  had  been  rid  of  these  terrible  Turks — 
Said  ever  a  prayer  to  that  patroness  fair 
For  these  her  wondrous  works  ! 
How  the  priest.  Lord  Hyacinth  waited,  the  meekest  of  priors — 
waWe" at'  He  waited  at  church  with  the  rest  of  his  friars  ; 

church,  and        He  went  there  at  noon  and  he  waited  till  ten, 
thither.  ^™       Expecting  in  vain  the  Lord  Mayor  and  his  men. 
He  waited  and  waited  from  mid-day  to  dark ; 
But  in  vain — you  might  search  through  the  whole  of  the 

church. 
Not  a  layman,  alas  !  to  the  city's  disgrace. 
From  mid-day  to  dark  showed  his  nose  in  the  place. 

The  pew-woman,  organist,  beadle,  and  clerk, 
Kept  away,  from  their  work,  and  were  dancing  like  mad 
Away  in  the  streets  with  the  other  mad  people, 
Not  thinking  to  pray,  but  to  guzzle  and  tipple 
Wherever  the  drink  might  be  had. 


XII. 

How  he  went     Amidst  this  din  and  revelry  throughout  the  city  roaring, 

forth  to  bid  m.        •]  -i      i.i  ji-   i    •     i  ■ 

them  to  prayer.  ^  "^  Silver  moon  rose  silently,  and  high  in  heaven  soaring ; 
Prior  Hyacinth  was  fervently  upon  his  knees  adoring : 
"  Towards  my  precious  patroness  this  conduct  sure  unfair  is  ; 
I  cannot  think,  I  must  confess,  what  keeps  the  dignitaries 
And  our  good  Mayor  away,  unless  some  business  them  con- 
traries." 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC  87 

He  puts  his  long  white  mantle  on,   and  forth  the  Prior 

sallies — 
(His  pious  thoughts  were  bent  upon  good  deeds  and  not  on 

malice) : 
Heavens !   how  the  banquet  lights  they  shone  about  the 

Mayor's  palace ! 
About  the  hall  the  scullions  ran  with  meats  both  fresh  and  How  the  grooms 

Tiottpd  •  and  lacqueys 

putieUj  jeered  him. 

The   pages   came  with   cup   and   can,   all  for   the   guests 

allotted ; 
Ah,  how  they  jeered  that  good  fat  man  as  up  the  stairs  he 

trotted ! 


He   entered   in   the   ante-rooms   where    sat    the   Mayor's 

court  in ; 
He  found  a  pack  of  drunken  grooms  a-dicing  and  a-sporting ; 
The   horrid  wine   and   'bacco   fumes,   they  set   the   Prior 

a-snorting  ! 
The  Prior  thought  he'd  speak  about  their  sins  before  he 

went  hence. 
And  lustily  began  to  shout  of  sin  and  of  repentance ; 
The  rogues,  they  kicked  the  Prior  out  before  he'd  done  a 

sentence ! 


And  having  got  no  portion  small  of  buffeting  and  tussling. 
At  last  he  reached  the  banquet-hall,  where  sat  the  Mayor 

a-guzzling. 
And  by  his  side  his  lady  tall  dressed  out  in  white  sprig 

muslin. 
Around   the   table   in   a   ring    the   guests   were   drinking  And  the  mayor, 

!,„„_„  .  mayoress,  and 

"^"''  ■'  '  aldermen,  being 

They  drank  the  Church,  and  drank  the  King,  and  the  Army  tipsie,  refused 
and  the  Navy;  to  go  to  church. 

In  fact  they'd  toasted  everything.     The  Prior  said,  "  God 
save  ye !  " 


The  Mayor  cried,  "Bring  a  silver  cup — there's  one  upon 

the  buffet ; 
And,  Prior,  have  the  venison  up — it's  capital  rdehauff^. 
And  so.  Sir  Priest,  you've  come  to  sup?     And  pray  you, 

how's  Saint  Sophy  ? " 


88  BALLADS 

The  Prior's  face  quite  red  was  grown  with  horror  and  with 

anger ; 
He  flung  the  proffered  goblet  down — it  made  a  hideous 

clangour ; 
And   'gan   a^preaching   with   a   frown  —  he   was   a  fierce 

haranguer. 

He  tried  the  Mayor  and  aldermen — they  all  set  up  a-jeering : 
He   tried    the   common-councilmen  —  they   too    began    a- 

sneering : 
He  turned  towards  the  May'ress  then,  and  hoped  to  get  a 

hearing. 
He  knelt  and  seized  her  dinner-dress,  made  of  the  muslin 

snowy, 
"  To  church,  to  church,  my  sweet  mistress  !  "  lie  cried  :  "  the 

way  I'U  show  ye." 
Alas,  the  Lady  Mayoress  fell  back  as  drunk  as  Chloe  ! 


XIII. 

How  the  Prior        Out  from  this  dissolute  and  drunken  Court 
w  n    ac  a  one,  Went  the  good  Prior,  his  eyes  with  weeping  dim  : 

He  tried  the  people  of  a  meaner  sort — 
They  too,  alas,  were  bent  upon  their  sport, 
And  not  a  single  soul  would  follow  him  ! 
But  all  were  swigging  schnapps  and  guzzling  beer. 


He  found  the  cits,  their  daughters,  sons,  and  spouses, 
Spending  the  live-long  night  in  fierce  carouses  : 

Alas,  unthinking  of  the  danger  near  ! 
One  or  two  sentinels  the  ramparts  guarded. 

The  rest  were  sharing  in  the  general  feast : 
"  God  wot,  our  tipsy  town  is  poorly  warded ; 

Sweet  Saint  Sophia  help  us  !  "  cried  the  priest. 

Alone  he  entered  the  cathedral  gate. 

Careful  he  locked  the  mighty  oaken  door ; 

Within  his  company  of  monks  did  wait, 
A  dozen  poor  old  pious  men — no  more. 
Oh,  but  it  grieved  the  gentle  Prior  sore. 

To  think  of  those  lost  souls,  given  up  to  drink  and  fate ! 


brethren. 


THE    GEEAT    COSSACK    EPIC  89 

The  mighty  outer  gate  well  barred  and  fast,  And  shut  him- 

The  poor  old  friars  stirred  their  poor  old  bones,  sophia^B  chapel 

And  pattering  swiftly  on  the  damp  cold  stones,  J'''!\,*'" 

They  through  the  solitary  chancel  passed. 

The  chancel  walls  looked  black  and  dim  and  vast. 
And  rendered,  ghost-Uke,  melancholy  tones. 

Onward  the  fathers  sped,  till  coming  nigh  a 

Small  iron  gate,  the  which  they  entered  quick  at, 
They  locked  and  double-locked  the  inner  wicket 

And  stood  within  the  chapel  of  Sophia. 

Vain  were  it  to  describe  this  sainted  place, 
Vain  to  describe  that  celebrated  trophy, 
The  venerable  statue  of  Saint  Sophy, 

Which  formed  its  chiefest  ornament  and  grace. 

Here  the  good  Prior,  his  personal  griefs  and  sorrows 

In  his  extreme  devotion  quickly  merging. 
At  once  began  to  pray  with  voice  sonorous ; 
The  other  friars  joined  in  pious  chorus, 

And  passed  the  night  in  singing,  praying,  scourging, 

In  honour  of  Sophia,  that  sweet  virgin. 


XIV. 

Leaving  thus  the  pious  priest  in  The  episode 

Humble  penitence  and  prayer,  ^Unka.*"'* 

And  the  greedy  cits  a^feasting. 
Let  us  to  the  walls  repair. 

Walking  by  the  sentry-boxes. 

Underneath  the  silver  inoon, 
Lo  !  the  sentry  boldly  cocks  his — 

Boldly  cocks  his  musketoon. 

Sneezofif  was  his  designation. 

Fair-haired  boy,  for  ever  pitied ; 
For  to  take  his  cruel  station. 

He  but  now  Katinka  quitted. 


Poor  in  purse  were  both,  but  rich  in 
Tender  love's  delicious  plenties ; 

She  a  damsel  of  the  kitchen. 
He  a  haberdasher's  'prentice. 


90  BALLADS 


'Tinka,  maiden  tender-hearted, 
Was  dissolved  in  tearful  fits, 

On  that  fatal  night  she  parted 

From  her  darling  fair-haired  Fritz. 


Warm  her  soldier  lad  she  wrapt  in 

Comforter  and  muffettee ; 
Called  him  "  general "  and  "  captain," 

Though  a  simple  private  he. 

"  On  your  bosom  wear  this  plaster, 
'Twill  defend  you  from  the  cold  ; 

In  your  pipe  smoke  this  canaster — 
Smuggled  'tis,  my  love,  and  old. 

"  All  the  night,  my  love,  I'll  miss  you." 
Thus  she  spoke  ;  and  from  the  door 

Fair-haired  Sneezoff  made  his  issue. 
To  return,  alas,  no  more. 


He  it  is  who  calmly  walks  his 
Walk  beneath  the  silver  moon ; 

He  it  is  who  boldly  cocks  his 
Detonating  musketoon. 


He  the  bland  canaster  puffing. 
As  upon  his  round  he  paces, 

Sudden  sees  a  ragamuffin 

Clambering  swiftly  up  the  glacis. 


"  Who  goes  there  f "  exclaims  the  sentry ; 

"  When  the  sun  has  once  gone  down 
No  one  ever  makes  an  entry 

Into  this  here  fortified  town  ! " 


How  the  sentne  Shouted  thus  the  watchful  Sneezoff: 

Sneezoff  was  -d    ,  t    ■, 

surprised  and  J5ut,  ere  any  one  replied, 

*'*y"-  Wretched  youth  !  he  fired  his  piece  off, 

Started,  staggered,  groaned,  and  died ! 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC 


91 


Ah,  full  well  might  the  sentinel  cry,  "  Who  goes  there  1 " 

But  echo  was  frightened  too  much  to  declare. 

Who  goes  there  1  who  goes  there  "i     Can  any  one  swear 

To  the  number  of  sands  sur  les  lords  de  la  mer, 

Or  the  whiskers  of  D'Orsay  count  down  to  a  hair  t 

As  well  might  you  tell  of  the  sands  the  amount, 

Or  number  each  hair  in  each  curl  of  the  Count, 

As  ever  proclaim  the  number  and  name 

Of  the  hundreds  and  thousands  that  up  the  wall  came  ! 

Down,    down    the    knaves    poured   with    fire    and    with 

sword  : 
There  were  thieves  from  the  Danube  and  rogues  from  the 

Don ; 
There  were  Turks  and  Wallacks,  and  shouting  Cossacks ; 
Of  all  nations  and  regions,  and  tongues  and  religions — 
Jew,  Christian,  idolater,  Frank,  Mussulman  : 
Ah,  a  horrible  sight  was  Kioff  that  night ! 
The  gates  were  all  taken — no  chance  e'en  of  flight ; 
And  with  torch  and  with  axe  the  bloody  Cossacks 
Went  hither  and  thither  a-hunting  in  packs  : 
They  slashed  and  they  slew  both  Christian  and  Jew — 
Women  and  children,  they  slaughtered  them  too. 
Some,  saving  their  throats,  plunged  into  the  moats. 
Or  the  river — but  oh,  they  had  burned  all  the  boats ! 


How  the  CoB- 
Backs  rushed  in 
suddenly  and 
took  the  citie. 


Of  the  Cossack 
troops, 


And  of  their 
manner  of 
burning,  mur- 
deringj  and 
ravishing. 


But  here  let  us  pause — for  I  can't  pursue  further 
This  scene  of  rack,  ravishment,  ruin,  and  murther. 
Too  well  did  the  cunning  old  Cossack  succeed  ! 
His  plan  of  attack  was  successful  indeed  ! 
The  night  was  his  own — the  town  it  was  gone  ; 
'Twas  a  heap  still  a-burning  of  timber  and  stone. 
One  building  alone  had  escaped  from  the  fires. 
Saint  Sophy's  fair  church,  with  its  steeples,  and  spires. 

Calm,  stately,  and  white. 

It  stood  in  the  light ; 
And  as  if  'twould  defy  all  the  conqueror's  power, — 

As  if  nought  had  occurred. 

Might  clearly  be  heard 
The  chimes  ringing  soberly  every  half-hour  ! 


How  they 
burned  the 
whole  citie 
down,  save  the 
church. 


Whereof  the 
bells  began  to 
ring. 


BALLADS 


How  the  Cossack 
chief  bade  them 
hum  the  church 
too. 


How  they 
stormed  it ; 
and  of  Hyacinth, 
his  anger 
thereat, 


XVI. 

The  city  was  defunct — silence  succeeded 

Unto  its  last  fierce  agonising  yells ; 
And  then  it  was  the  conqueror  first  heeded 

The  sound  of  these  calm  bells. 
Furious  towards  his  aides-de-camp  he  turns, 

And  (speaking  as  if  Byron's  works  he  knew) 
"  Villains  !  "  he  fiercely  cries,  "  the  city  burns. 

Why  not  the  temple  too? 
Burn  me  yon  church,  and  murder  aU  within  ! " 

The  Cossacks  thundered  at  the  outer  door ; 
And  Father  Hyacinth,  who  heard  the  din, 
(And  thought  himself  and  brethren  in  distress. 
Deserted  by  their  lady  patroness) 

Did  to  her  statue  turn,  and  thus  his  woes  outpour. 


His  prayer  to  the 
Saint  Sophia. . 


"  And  is  it  thus,  0  falsest  of  the  saints. 

Thou  hearest  oiu-  complaints  ? 
Tell  me,  did  ever  my  attachment  falter 

To  serve  thy  altar  1 
Was  not  thy  name,  ere  ever  I  did  sleep, 

The  last  upon  my  lip  1 
Was  not  thy  name  the  very  first  that  broke 

From  me  when  I  awoke  1 
Have  I  not  tried  with  fasting,  flogging,  penance. 

And  mortified  count&ance 
For  to  find  favour,  Sophy,  in  thy  sight  1 

And  lo  !  this  night, 
Forgetful  of  my  prayers  and  thine  own  promise, 

Thou  turnest  from  us ; 
Lettest  the  heathen  enter  in  our  city. 

And,  without  pity. 
Murder  our  burghers,  seize  upon  their  spouses, 

Bum  down  their  houses  ! 
Is  such  a  breach  of  faith  to  be  endured  ? 

See  what  a  lurid 
Light  from  the  insolent  invader's  torches 

Shines  on  your  porches  ! 
E'en  now,  with  thundering  battering-ram  and  hammer 

And  hideous  clamour, 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC  93 

With  axemen,  swordsmen,  pikemen,  billmen,  bowmen, 

The  conquering  foemen, 
O  Sophy  !  beat  your  gate  about  your  ears, 

Alas !  and  here's 
A  humble  company  of  pious  men, 

Like  muttons  in  a  pen, 
Whose  souls  shall  quickly  from  their  bodies  be  thrusted. 

Because  in  you  they  trusted. 
Do  you  not  know  the  Oalmuc  chief's  desires — 

Kill  all  the  peiaes  ! 
And  you,  of  all  the  saints  most  false  and  fickle, 

Leave  us  in  this  abominable  pickle." 


"  Rash  HyACINTHUS  !  "  The  statue  sud- 

(Here,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  her  backers,  '*™"*  ^^^"^^ 

Saint  Sophy,  opening  wide  her  wooden  jaws, 

Like  to  a  pair  of  German  walnut-crackers. 
Began),  "  I  did  not  think  you  had  been  thus, — 

0  monk  of  little  faith  !     Is  it  because 
A  rascal  scum  of  filthy  Cossack  heathen 
Besiege  our  town,  that  you  distrust  in  me,  then '! 
Think'st  thou  that  I,  who  in  a  former  day 

Did  walk  across  the  sea  of  Marmora 
(Not  mentioning,  for  shortness,  other  seas), — 
That  I,  who  skimmed  the  broad  Borysthenes, 
Without  so  much  as  wetting  of  my  toes, 
Am  frightened  at  a  set  of  men  like  those  ? 

1  have  a  mind  to  leave  you  to  your  fate : 
Such  cowardice  as  this  my  scorn  inspires." 


Saint  Sophy  was  here  But  is  inter- 

Cut  short  in  her  words, —  toe^?ng'in''of 

For  at  this  very  moment  in  tumbled  the  gate,  *^^  Cossacks. 

And  with  a  wild  cheer. 
And  a  clashing  of  swords. 

Swift  through  the  church  porches, 

With  a  waving  of  torches. 

And  a  shriek  and  a  yell 

Like  the  devils  of  hell. 

With  pike  and  with  axe 

In  rushed  the  Cossacks, — 
In  rushed  the  Cossacks,  crying,  "  Muedee  the  peiaes  ! " 


(}4 

Of  Hyacinth,  his 

courageous 
address ; 


BALLADS 

Ah  !  what  a  thrill  felt  Hyacinth, 

When  he  heard  that  villanous  shout  Calmuc ! 
Now,  thought  he,  my  trial  beginneth ; 

Saints,  0  give  me  courage  and  pluck  ! 
"  Courage,  boys,  'tis  useless  to  funk  ! " 

Thus  unto  the  friars  he  began : 
"  Never  let  it  be  said  that  a  monk 

Is  not  likewise  a  gentleman. 
Though  the  patron  saint  of  the  church, 

Spite  of  all  that  we've  done  and  we've  pray'd, 
Leaves  us  wickedly  here  in  the  lurch, 

Hang  it,  gentlemen,  who's  afraid  ? " 


And  preparation 
for  dying. 


As  thus  the  gallant  Hyacinthus  spoke, 

He,  with  an  air  as  easy  and  as  free  as 
If  the  quick- coming  murder  were  a  joke. 
Folded  his  robes  around  his  sides,  and  took 
Place  under  sainted  Sophy's  legs  of  oak. 
Like  Osesar  at  the  statue  of  Pompeius. 
The  monks  no  leisure  had  about  to  look 
(Each  being  absorbed  in  his  particular  case), 
Else  had  they  seen  with  what  celestial  grace 
A  wooden  smile  stole  o'er  the  saint's  mahogany  face. 


Saint  Sophia, 
her  speech. 


"  Well  done,  well  done,  Hyacinthus,  my  son  !  " 

Thus  spoke  the  sainted  statue, 
"  Though  you  doubted  me  in  the  hour  of  need, 
And  spoke  of  me  very  rude  indeed, 
You  deserve  good  luck  for  showing  such  pluck, 

And  I  won't  be  angry  at  you." 


She  gets  on  the 
Prior's  shoulder 
straddlebaclc, 


And  bids  him 
run. 


The  monks  bystanding,  one  and  all. 
Of  this  wondrous  scene  beholders. 
To  this  kind  promise  listened  content, 
And  couldn't  contain  their  astonishment. 
When  Saint  Sophia  moved  and  went 
Down  from  her  wooden  pedestal, 

And  twisted  her  legs,  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs. 
Round  Hyacinthus's  shoulders  ! 

"  Ho  !  forwards,"  cries  Sophy,  "  there's  no  time  for  waiting, 
The  Cossacks  are  breaking  the  very  last  gate  in  : 
See,  the  glare  of  their  torches  shines  red  through  the  grating; 
We've  still  the  back  door,  and  two  minutes  or  more.     " 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC  95 

Now,  boys,  now  or  never,  we  must  make  for  the  river, 

For  we  only  are  safe  on  the  opposite  shore. 
Eun  swiftly  to-day,  lads,  if  ever  you  ran, — 
Put  out  your  best  leg,  Hyacinthus,  my  man ; 
And  I'll  lay  five  to  two  that  you  carry  us  through, 

Only  scamper  as  fast  as  you  can." 


XTIII. 

Away  went  the  priest  through  the  little  back  door,  He'runneth 

And  light  on  his  shoulders  the  image  he  bore  : 

The  honest  old  priest  was  not  punished  the  least, 
Though  the  image  was  eight  feet,  and  he  measured  four. 
Away  went  the  Prior,  and  the  monks  at  his  tail 
Went  snorting,  and  puffing,  and  panting  full  sail ; 

And  just  as  the  last  at  the  back  door  had  passed, 
In  furious  hunt  behold  at  the  front 
The  Tartars  so  fierce,  with  their  terrible  cheers ; 
With  axes,  and  halberts,  and  muskets,  and  spears. 
With  torches  a-flaming  the  chapel  now  came  in. 
They  tore  up  the  mass-book,  they  stamped  on  the  psalter, 
They  pulled  the  gold  crucifix  down  from  the  altar ; 
The  vestments  they  burned  -with  their  blasphemous  fires. 
And  many  cried,  "  Curse  on  them  !  where  are  the  friars  1 " 
When  loaded  with  plunder,  yet  seeking  for  more. 
One  chanced  to  fling  open  the  little  back  door. 
Spied  out  the  friars'  white  robes  and  long  shadows 
In  the  moon,  scampering  over  the  meadows. 
And  stopped  the  Cossacks  in  the  midst  of  their  arsons. 
By  crying  out  lustily,  "  Theee  go  the  parsons  !  " 
With  a  whoop  and  a  yell,  and  a  scream  and  a  shout,  And  the  Tartars 

At  once  the  whole  murderous  body  turned  out ;  *'**'' ''™' 

And  swift  as  the  hawk  pounces  down  on  the  pigeon. 
Pursued  the  poor  short-winded  men  of  religion. 

When  the  sound  of  that  cheering   came   to   the   monks'  How  the  friars 

1         .  sweated, 

heanng, 
O  Heaven  !  how  the  poor  fellows  panted  and  blew  ! 
At  fighting  not  cunning,  unaccustomed  to  running. 

When  the  Tartars  came  up,  what  the  deuce  should  they 
dol 
"  They'll  make  us  all  martyrs,  those  bloodthirsty  Tartars  !  " 
Quoth  fat  Father  Peter  to  fat  Father  Hugh. 


96  BALLADS 

The  shouts  they  came  clearer,  the  foe  they  drew  nearer ; 

Oh,  how  the  bolts  whistled,  and  how  the  lights  shone  ! 
"  I  cannot  get  further,  this  running  is  murther ; 

Come  carry  me,  some  one  ! "  cried  big  Father  John. 
And  even  the  statue  grew  frightened  :  "  Od  rat  you  ! " 

It  cried,  "  Mr.  Prior,  I  wish  you'd  get  on  !  " 
On  tugged  the  good  friar,  but  nigher  and  nigher 
Appeared  the  fierce  Russians,  with  sword  and  with  fire. 
On  tugged  the  good  prior  at  Saint  Sophy's  desire, — 
A  scramble  through  bramble,  through  mud,  and  through 

mire. 
The  swift  arrows'  whizziness  causing  a  dizziness. 
Nigh  done  his  business,  fit  to  expire, 
Father  Hyacinth    tugged,    and    the   monks    they    tugged 

after  : 
The  foemen  pursued  with  a  horrible  laughter. 
And  the  pur-      And  hurl'd  their  long  spears  round  the  poor  brethren's  ears 

arrowsfnto  ^°  *''"^!  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^V  ^^  ^^^  '^°^^  °f  ^^'^^  priest, 

their  tayis.         Though  never  a  wound  was  given,  there  were  found 
A  dozen  arrows  at  least. 


How,  at  the  last  Now  the  chase  seemed  at  its  worst, 

sasp,  Prior  and  monks  were  fit  to  burst ; 

Scarce  you  knew  the  which  was  first, 

Or  pursuers  or  pursued  ; 
When  the  statue,  by  Heaven's  grace, 
Suddenly  did  change  the  face 
Of  this  interesting  race. 

As  a  saint,  sure,  only  could. 


For  as  the  jockey  who  at  Epsom  rides, 

When  that  his  steed  is  spent  and  punished  sore, 

Diggeth  his  heels  into  the  courser's  sides, 

And  thereby  makes  him  run  one  or  two  furlongs  more ; 
Even  thus,  betwixt  the  eighth  rib  and  the  ninth. 

The  saint  rebuked  the  Prior,  that  weary  creeper ; 
Fresh  strength  into  his  limbs  her  kicks  imparted, 
One  bound  he  made,  as  gay  as  when  he  started. 
The  friars  won,       Yes,  with  his  brethren  clinging  at  his  cloak, 

BowsSfs'"'"      '^^^  ^*^*"^  o'l  ^i^  shoulders— fit  to  choke— 
fluvius.  One  most  tremendous  bound  made  Hyacinth, 

And  soused  friars,  statue,  and  all,  slapdash  into  the  Dnieper ! 


THE    GKEAT    COSSACK    EPIC 


97 


XIX. 

And  when  the  Russians,  in  a  fiery  rank, 

Panting  and  fierce,  drew  up  along  the  shore ; 
(For  here  the  vain  pursuing  they  forbore, 

Nor  cared  they  to  surpass  the  river's  bank) ; 

Then,  looking  from  the  rocks  and  rushes  dank, 
A  sight  they  witnessed  never  seen  before, 

And  which,  with  its  accompaniments  glorious. 

Is  writ  i'  the  golden  book,  or  liber  aureus. 


And  how  the 
KusBiauB  saw 


Plump  in  the  Dnieper  flounced  the  friar  and  friends, - 
They  dangling  round  his  neck,  he  fit  to  choke. 
When  suddenly  his  most  miraculous  cloak 
Over  the  billowy  waves  itself  extends, 
Down  from  his  shoulders  quietly  descends 

The  venerable  Sophy's  statue  of  oak  ; 
Which,  sitting  down  upon  the  cloak  so  ample, 
Bids  all  the  brethren  follow  its  example  ! 


The  statue  get 
off  Hyacinth  his 
back,  and  sit 
down  with  the 
friars  on 
Hyacinth  his 
cloak. 


Each  at  her  bidding  sat,  and  sat  at  ease  ; 

The  statue  'gan  a  gracious  conversation, 

And  (waving  to  the  foe  a  salutation) 
Sail'd  with  her  wondering  happy  prot^g^s 
Gaily  adown  the  wide  Borysthenes, 

Until  they  came  unto  some  friendly  nation. 
And  when  the  heathen  had  at  length  grown  shy  of 
■  Their  conquest,  she  one  day  came  back  again  to  Kioff. 


How  in  this 
manner  of  boat 
they  sayled 
away. 


XX. 

Think  not,  0  Reader,  that  we'ee  laughing  at  you  ;     Finis,  or  the 

You  MAY  GO  to  KiOPF  NOW  AND  SEE  THE  STATUE  !  *'"'• 


POCAHONTAS 


WEARIED  arm  and  broken  sword 
Wage  in  vain  the  desperate  fight : 
Eound  Mm  press  a  countless  horde, 
He  is  but  a  single  knight. 
Hark  !  a  cry  of  triumph  shrill 
Through  the  wilderness  resounds, 
As,  with  twenty  bleeding  wounds, 
Sinks  the  warrior,  fighting  still. 

Now  they  heap  the  fatal  pyre, 

And  the  torch  of  death  they  light ; 

Ah  !  'tis  hard  to  die  of  fire  ! 

Who  will  shield  the  captive  knight? 

Round  the  stake  with  fiendish  cry 
Wheel  and  dance  the  savage  crowd. 
Cold  the  victim's  mien,  and  proud, 

And  his  breast  is  bared  to  die. 

Who  will  shield  the  fearless  heart  1 

Who  avert  the  murderous  blade  1 
From  the  throng,  with  sudden  start, 

See  there  springs  an  Indian  maid. 
Quick  she  stands  before  the  knight : 

"  Loose  the  chain,  unbind  the  ring ; 

I  am  daughter  of  the  King, 
And  I  claim  the  Indian  right !  " 

Dauntlessly  aside  she  flings 

Lifted  axe  and  thirsty  knife ; 
Fondly  to  his  heart  she  clings, 

And  her  bosom  guards  his  life  ! 
In  the  woods  of  Powhattan, 

Still  'tis  told  by  Indian  fires, 

How  a  daughter  of  their  sires 
Saved  the  captive  Englishman. 


FROM  POCAHONTAS 


RETURNING  from  the  cruel  fight 
How  pale  and  faint  appears  my  knight ! 
He  sees  me  anxious  at  his  side ; 
"  Why  seek,  my  love,  your  wounds  to  hide  ? 
Or  deem  your  English  girl  afraid 
To  emulate  the  Indian  maid  1 " 

Be  mine  my  husband's  grief  to  cheer, 
In  peril  to  be  ever  near ; 
Whate'er  of  ill  or  woe  betide. 
To  bear  it  clinging  at  his  side ; 
The  poisoned  stroke  of  fate  to  ward, 
His  bosom  with  my  own  to  guard  : 
Ah  !  could  it  spare  a  pang  to  his. 
It  could  not  know  a  purer  bliss  ! 
'Twould  gladden  as  it  felt  the  smart. 
And  thank  the  hand  that  flung  the  dart ! 


VANITAS  VANITATUM 


HOW  spake  of  old  the  Royal  Seer  1 
(His  text  is  one  I  love  to  treat  on.) 
This  life  of  ours,  he  said,  is  sheer 
Mataiotes  Mataioteton. 

0  Student  of  this  gilded  Book, 

Declare,  while  musing  on  its  pages, 
If  truer  words  were  ever  spoke 

By  ancient  or  by  modern  sages  ? 

The  various  authors'  names  but  note,* 

French,  Spanish,  English,  Russians,  Germans . 

And  in  the  volume  polyglot. 

Sure  you  may  read  a  hundred  sermons  ! 

What  histories  of  life  are  here. 

More  wild  than  all  romancers'  stories ; 

What  wondrous  transformations  queer, 
What  homilies  on  human  glories  ! 

What  theme  for  sorrow  or  for  scorn  ! 

What  chronicle  of  Fate's  surprises — 
Of  adverse  fortune  nobly  borne, 

Of  chances,  changes,  ruins,  rises  ! 

Of  thrones  upset,  and  sceptres  broke. 
How  strange  a  record  here  is  written  ! 

Of  honours,  dealt  as  if  in  joke ; 
Of  brave  desert  unkindly  smitten. 

*  Between  a  page  by  Jules  Janin,  and  a  poem  by  the  Turkish  Ambassador, 

in  Madame  de  R 's  album,  containing  the  autographs  of  kings,  princes, 

poets,  marshals,  musicians,  diplomatists,  statesmen,  artists,  and  men  of  letters 
of  all  nations. 


VANITAS    VANITATUM  101 

How  low  men  were,  and  how  they  rise  ! 

How  high  they  were,  and  how  they  tumble  ! 
O  vanity  of  vanities  ! 

0  laughable,  pathetic  jumble  ! 


Here  between  honest  Janin's  joke 
And  his  Turk  Excellency's  firman, 

I  write  my  name  upon  the  book ; 

I  write  my  name — and  end  my  sermon. 


0  Vanity  of  vanities  ! 

How  wayward  the  decrees  of  Fate  are ; 
How  very  weak  the  very  wise. 

How  very  small  the  very  great  are  ! 

What  mean  these  stale  moralities. 

Sir  Preacher,  from  your  desk  you  mumble  1 
Why  rail  against  the  great  and  wise, 

And  tire  us  with  your  ceaseless  grumble  1 

Pray  choose  us  out  another  text, 
0  man  morose  and  narrow-minded  ! 

Come  turn  the  page — I  read  the  next, 
And  then  the  next,  and  still  I  find  it. 

Read  here  how  Wealth  aside  was  thrust, 

And  Folly  set  in  place  exalted  ; 
How  Princes  footed  in  the  dust, 

While  lacqueys  in  the  saddle  vaulted. 

Though  thrice  a  thousand  years  are  past 
Since  David's  son,  tlie  sad  and  splendid, 

The  weary  King  Ecclesiast, 

Upon  his  awful  tablets  penned  it, — 

Methinks  the  text  is  never  stale. 

And  life  is  every  day  renewing 
Fresh  comments  on  the  old  old  tale 

Of  Folly,  Fortune,  Glory,  Ruui. 


102  BALLADS 

Hark  to  the  Preacher,  preaching  still 
He  lifts  his  voice  and  cries  his  sermon, 

Here  at  St.  Peter's  on  Oornhill, 

As  yonder  on  the  Mount  of  Hermon  : 

For  you  and  me  to  heart  to  take 
(0  dear  beloved  brother  readers) 

To-day  as  when  the  good  King  spake 
Beneath  the  solemn  Syrian  cedars. 


LITTLE  BILLEE* 

Air — "  II  y  avait  un  petit  navire." 

THERE  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 
But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  gorging  Jack  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee. 
Now  when  they  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 
They'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"  I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"  We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"  With  one  another  we  shouldn't  agree  ! 
There's  little  Bill,  he's  young  and  tender, 
We're  old  and  tough,  so  let's  eat  he. 

"  Oh  !  Billy,  we're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 
When  Bill  received  this  information 
He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

"  First  let  me  say  my  catechism, 
Which  my  poor  mammy  taught  to  me." 
'  Make  haste,  make  haste,"  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

*  As  different  versions  of  this  popukir  song  have  been  set  to  music  and 
sung,  no  apology  is  needed  for  the  insertion  in  these  pages  of  what  is  con- 
sidered to  be  the  correct  version. 


104  BALLADS 

So  Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top  gallant  mast, 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 
He  scarce  had  come  to  the  twelfth  commandment 
When  up  he  jumps.     "  There's  land  I  see  : 

"  Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 
And  North  and  South  Amerikee : 
There's  the  British  flag  a-riding  at  anchor, 
With  Admiral  Napier,  K.C.B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee ; 
But  as  for  little  Bill  he  made  him 
The  Captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 


MRS.   KATHERINE'S  LANTERN 

WRITTEN    IN   A   lady's   ALBUM 

COMING  from  a  gloomy  court, 
Place  of  Israelite  resort, 
This  old  lamp  I've  brought  with  me. 
Madam,  on  its  panes  you'll  see 
The  initials  K  and  E." 

"  An  old  lantern  brought  to  me'? 
Ugly,  dingy,  battered,  black  ! " 
(Here  a  lady  I  suppose 
Turning  up  a  pretty  nose) — 
"  Pray,  sir,  take  the  old  thing  back. 
I've  no  taste  for  bric-a-brac." 

"  Please  to  mark  the  letters  twain  " — 
(I'm  supposed  to  speak  again) — 
"Graven  on  the  lantern  pane. 
Can  you  tell  me  who  was  she, 
Mistress  of  the  flowery  wreath, 
And  the  anagram  beneath — 
The  mysterious  K  E 1. 

Full  a  hundred  years  are  gone 
Since  the  little  beacon  shone 
From  a  Venice  balcony  : 
There,  on  summer  nights,  it  hung, 
And  her  lovers  came  and  sung 
To  their  beautiful  K  E. 

"  Hush  !  in  the  canal  below 
Don't  you  hear  the  splash  of  oars 
Undenie^th  the  lantern's  glow. 


loe  BALLADS 

And  a  thrilling  voice  begins 
To  the  sound  of  mandolins  ? — 
Begins  singing  of  amore 
And  delire  and  dolore — 
0  the  ravishing  tenore  ! 

"  Lady,  do  you  know  the  tune  ? 
Ah,  we  all  of  us  have  hummed  it ! 
I've  an  old  guitar  has  thrummed  it. 
Under  many  a  changing  moon. 
Shall  I  try  iti     i)o  ee  MI  ..  . 
What  is  this  ]     Ma  foi,  the  fact  is, 
That  my  hand  is  out  of  practice. 
And  my  poor  old  fiddle  cracked  is, 

"  And  a  man — I  let  the  truth  out, — 
Who's  had  almost  every  tooth  out. 
Cannot  sing  as  once  he  sung, 
When  he  was  young  as  you  are  young, 
When  he  was  young  and  lutes  were  strung. 
And  love-lamps  in  the  casement  hung." 


CATHERINE  HAYES 


Part  I. 

IN  the  reign  of  King  George  and  Queen  Amie, 
In  Swift's  and  in  Marlborough's  days, 
There  lived  an  unfortunate  man, 
A  man  by  the  name  of  John  Hayes. 

A  decent  respectable  life, 

And  rather  deserving  of  praise, 
Lived  John,  but  his  curse  was  his  wife 

— His  horrible  wife  Mrs.  Hayes. 

A  heart  more  atrociously  foul 

Never  beat  under  any  one's  stays : 

As  eager  for  blood  as  a  ghoul 

Was  Catherine  the  wife  of  John  Hayes. 

By  marriage  and  John  she  was  bored 

(He'd  many  ridiculous  traits)  ; 
And  she  hated  her  husband  and  lord, 

This  infamous,  false  Mrs.  Hayes. 

When  madness  and  fury  begin. 

The  senses  they  utterly  craze  ; 
She  called  two  accomplices  in. 

And  the  three  of  'em  killed  Mr.  Hayes. 

And  when  they'd  completed  the  act, 

The  old  Bailey  Chronicle  says. 
In  several  pieces  they  hacked 

The  body  of  poor  Mr.  Hayes. 

The  body  and  limbs  of  the  dead 

They  buried  in  various  ways. 
And  into  the  Thames  flung  his  head. 

And  there  seemed  an  end  of  John  Hayes. 


108  BALLADS 

The  head  was  brought  back  by  the  tide, 
And  what  was  a  bargeman's  amaze 

One  day,  in  the  mud,  when  he  spied 
The  horrible  head  of  John  Hayes  ! 

In  the  front  of  St.  Margaret's  church 

(Where  the  Westminster  Scholars  act  plays) 

They  stuck  the  pale  head  on  a  perch. 

None  knew  'twas  the  head  of  John  Hayes. 

Long  time  at  the  object  surprised. 

Did  all  the  metropolis  gaze. 
Till  some  one  at  last  recognised 

The  face  of  the  late  Mr.  Hayes. 

And  when  people  knew  it  was  he 

They  went  to  his  widow  straightways, 

For  who  could  the  murderess  be. 
They  said,  but  the  vile  Mrs.  Hayes  1 

As  sooner  or  later  'tis  plain 
For  wickedness  every  one  pays. 

They  hanged  the  accomplices  twain, 
And  burned  the  foul  murderess  Hayes. 

And  a  writer  who  scribbles  in  prose. 

And  sometimes  poetical  lays, 
The  terrible  tale  did  compose 

Of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Hayes. 


Part  II. 

Where  Shannon's  broad  wathers  pour  down 
And  rush  to  the  Imerald  seas, 

A  lady  in  Limerick  Town 

Was  bred,  and  her  name  it  was  Hayes. 

Her  voice  was  so  sweet  and  so  loud, 
So  favoured  her  faytures  to  playse. 

No  wonder  that  Oireland  was  proud 
Of  her  beautiful  singer.  Miss  Hayes. 


CATHERINE    HAYES  109 

At  Neeples  and  Doblin  the  fair 

(In  towns  with  whose  beautiful  bays 
I'd  loike  to  see  England  compare) 

Bright  laurils  were  awarded  Miss  Hayes. 


When  she'd  dthrive  in  the  Phaynix  for  air, 
They'd  take  out  the  horse  from  her  chaise, 

For  we  honour  the  gentle  and  fair, 
And  gentle  and  fair  was  Miss  Hayes. 

When  she  gracefully  stepped  on  the  steage 
Our  thayatre  boomed  with  huzzays  : 

And  each  man  was  glad  to  obleege, 
And  longed  for  a  look  of  Miss  Hayes. 

A  Saxon  who  thinks  that  he  dthraws 
Our  porthralts  as  loike  as  two  pays, 

Insulted  one  day  without  cause. 
Our  innocent  singer,  Miss  Hayes. 

And  though  he  meant  somebody  else 
(At  layst  so  the  raycreant  says. 

Declaring  that  history  tells 

Of  another,  a  wicked  Miss  Hayes), 

Yet  Ireland,  the  free  and  the  brave. 
Says,  what's  that  to  do  with  the  case  ? 

How  dare  he,  the  cowardly  slave, 
To  mintion"  the  name  of  a  Hayes  1 

In  vain  let  him  say  he  forgot. 

What  base  hypocritical  pleas  ! 
The  miscreant  ought  to  be  shot : 

How  dare  he  forget  our  Miss  Hayes ! 

The  Freeman  in  language  refined, 

The  Post  whom  no  prayer  can  appayse. 

Lashed  fiercely  the  wretch  who  maligned 
The  innocent  name  of  a  Hayes. 


no  BALLADS 

And  Grattan  upraises  the  moight 
Of  his  terrible  arrum,  and  flays 

The  sides  of  the  shuddering  wight 
That  ventured  to  speak  of  a  Hayes. 

Accursed  let  his  memory  be, 

Who  dares  to  say  aught  in  dispraise 

Of  Oireland,  the  land  of  the  free, 

And  of  beauty  and  janius  and  Hayes. 


LOYE-SONGS   MADE   EASY 


LOVE-SONGS   MADE   EASY 


N 


SERENADE 


OW  the  toils  of  day  are  over, 
And  the  sun  hath  sunk  to  rest, 
Seeking,  like  a  fiery  lover, 
The  bosom  of  the  blushing  West — 


The  faithful  night  keeps  watch  and  ward. 
Raising  the  moon  her  silver  shield. 

And  summoning  the  stars  to  guard 
The  slumbers  of  my  fair  Mathilde  ! 

The  faithful  night !     Now  all  things  lie 
Hid  by  her  mantle  dark  and  dim, 

In  pious  hope  I  hither  hie. 

And  humbly  chant  mine  evening  hymn. 

Thou  art  my  prayer,  my  saint,  my  shrine  ! 

(For  never  holy  pilgrim  kneel'd 
Or  wept  at  feet  more  pure  than  thine). 

My  virgin  love,  my  sweet  Mathilde ! 


THE  MINARET  BELLS 


TINK-A-TINK,  tink-a-tink, 
By  the  light  of  the  star, 
On  the  blue  river's  brink, 
I  heard  a  guitar. 

I  heard  a  guitar 

On  the  blue  waters  clear, 
And  knew  by  its  mjisic 

That  Selim  was  near  ! 

Tink-a-tink,  tink-a-tink, 
How  the  soft  music  swells, 

And  I  hear  the  soft  clink 
Of  the  minaret  beUs  ! 


GOME  TO   THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 


COME  to  the  greenwood  tree, 
Come  where  the  dark  woods  be, 
Dearest,  O  come  with  me  ! 
Let  us  rove — 0  my  love — 0  my  love  ! 

Come — 'tis  the  moonlight  hour : 
Dew  is  on  leaf  and  flower  : 
Come  to  the  linden  bower, — 
Let  us  rove — O  my  love — 0  my  love  ! 

Dark  is  the  wood,  and  wide ; 
Dangers,  they  say,  betide ; 
But,  at  my  Albert's  side, 
Nought  I  fear,  0  my  love — 0  my  love  ! 

Welcome  the  greenwood  tree. 
Welcome  the  forest  free, 
Dearest,  with  thee,  with  thee, 
Nought  I  fear,  0  my  love — 0  my  love  ! 


TO  MARY 


I  SEEM,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd, 
The  lightest  of  all ; 
My  laughter  rings  cheery  and  loud 
In  banquet  and  ball. 
My  lip  hath  its  smiles  and  its  sneers. 

For  all  men  to  see ; 
But  my  soul,  and  my  truth,  and  my  tears, 
Are  for  thee,  are  for  thee  ! 

Around  me  they  flatter  and  fawn — 

The  young  and  the  old, 
The  fairest  are  ready  to  pawn 

Their  hearts  for  my  gold. 
They  sue  me — I  laugh  as  I  spurn 

The  slaves  at  my  knee ; 
But  in  faith  and  in  fondness  I  turn 

Unto  thee,  unto  thee  ! 


WHAT  MAKES  MY  HEART  TO   THRILL 
AND   GLOW? 

THE   MAYFAIE   LOVE-SONG 

WINTER  and  summer,  night  and  morn, 
I  languish  at  this  table  dark ; 
My  office  window  has  a  corn- 
er looks  into  St.  James's  Park. 
I  hear  the  foot-guards'  bugle  horn, 

Their  tramp  upon  parade  I  mark ; 
I  am  a  gentleman  forlorn, 
I  am  a  Foreign-Office  Clerk. 

My  toils,  my  pleasures,  every  one, 

I  find  are  stale,  and  dull,  and  slow ; 
And  yesterdaj',  when  work  was  done, 

I  felt  myself  so  sad  and  low, 
I  could  have  seized  a  sentry's  gun 

My  wearied  brains  out  out  to  blow. 
What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run  ? 

What  makes  my  heart  to  beat  and  glow  ? 

My  notes  of  hand  are  burnt,  perhaps  1 

Some  one  has  paid  my  tailor's  bill  ? 
No  :  every  morn  the  tailor  raps  ; 

My  I  0  U's  are  extant  still. 
I  still  am  prey  of  debt  and  dun ; 

My  elder  brother's  stout  and  well. 
What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run  1 

What  makes  my  heart  to  glow  and  swell  ? 

I  know  my  chief's  distrust  and  hate ; 

He  says  I'm  lazy,  and  I  shirk. 
Ah  !  had  I  genius  like  the  late 

Right  Honourable  Edmund  Burke  ! 


118  LOVE-SONGS    MADE    EASY 

My  chance  of  all  promotion's  gone, 
I  know  it  is, — he  hates  me  so. 

What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run, 
And  all  my  heart  to  swell  and  glow  ? 


Why,  why  is  all  so  bright  and  gay  1 

There  is  no  change,  there  is  no  cause ; 
My  office-time  I  found  to-day 

Disgusting  as  it  ever  was. 
At  three,  I  went  and  tried  the  Clubs, 

And  yawned  and  saunter'd  to  and  fro ; 
And  now  my  heart  jumps  up  and  throbs, 

And  all  my  soul  is  in  a  glow. 


At  half-past  four  I  had  the  cab ; 
I  drove  as  hard  as  I  could  go. 

The  London  sky  was  dirty  drab. 
And  dirty  brown  the  London  snow. 

And  as  I  rattled  in  a  cant- 
er down  by  dear  old  Bolton  Row, 

A  something  made  my  heart  to  pant. 
And  caused  my  cheek  to  flush  and  glow. 


What  could  it  be  that  made  me  find 

Old  Jawkins  pleasant  at  the  Club  ? 
Why  was  it  that  I  laughed  and  grinned 

At  whist,  although  I  lost  the  rub  ? 
What  was  it  made  me  drink  like  mad 

Thirteen  small  glasses  of  Cura9ao  ? 
That  made  my  inmost  heart  so  glad. 

And  every  fibre  thrill  and  glow  1 


She's  home  again  !  she's  home,  she's  home  ! 

Away  all  cares  and  griefs  and  pain ; 
I  knew  she  would — she's  back  from  Rome ; 

She's  home  again  !  she's  home  again  ! 
"The  family's  gone  abroad,"  they  said, 

September  last — they  told  me  so ; 
Since  then  ray  lonely  heart  is  dead, 

My  blood,  I  think's  forgot  to  flow. 


WHAT    MAKES    MY    HEART    TO    GLOW?      119 

She's  home  again  !  away  all  care  ! 

O  fairest  form  the  world  can  show  ! 
0  beaming  eyes  !  0  golden  hair ! 

0  tender  voice,  that  breathes  so  low  ! 
0  gentlest,  softest,  purest  heart ! 

O  joy,  0  hope  ! — "  My  tiger,  ho  !  " 
Fitz-Clarence  said ;  we  saw  him  start — 

He  galloped  down  to  Bolton  Row. 


THE  GHAZUL,   OR   ORIENTAL  LOVE-SONG 


THE   ROCKS 

I  WAS  a  timid  little  antelope ; 
My  home  was  in  the  rocks,  the  lonely  rocks. 

I  saw  the  hunters  scouring  on  the  plain  ; 
I  lived  among  the  rocks,  the  lonely  rocks. 

I  was  a-thirsty  in  the  summer-heat ; 

I  ventured  to  the  tents  beneath  the  rocks. 

Zuleikah  brought  me  water  from  the  well ; 
Since  then  I  have  been  faithless  to  the  rocks. 

I  saw  her  face  reflected  in  the  well ; 

Her  camels  since  have  marched  into  the  rocks. 

I  look  to  see  her  image  in  the  well : 
I  only  see  my  eyes,  my  own  sad  eyes. 
My  mother  is  alone  among  the  rocks. 


THE  MERRY  BARD 

ZULEIKAH  !    The  young  Agas  in  the  bazaar  are  slim-waisted 
and  wear  yellow  slippers.     I  am  old  and  hideous.    One  of 
my  eyes  is  out,  and  the  hairs  of  my  beard  are  mostly  grey. 
Praise  be  to  Allah  !     I  am  a  merry  bard. 

There  is  a  bird  upon  the  terrace  of  the  Emir's  chief  wife. 
Praise  be  to  Allah !  He  has  emeralds  on  his  neck,  and  a  ruby  tail. 
I  am  a  merry  bard.     He  deafens  me  with  his  diabolical  screaming. 

There  is  a  little  brown  bird  in  the  basket-maker's  cage.  Praise 
be  to  Allah  !  He  ravishes  my  soul  in  the  moonlight.  I  am  a 
merry  bard. 

The  peacock  is  an  Aga,  but  the  little  bird  is  a  Bulbul. 

I  am  a  little  brown  Bulbul.  Come  and  listen  in  the  moonlight. 
Praise  be  to  Allah  !     I  am  a  merry  bard. 


THE   CAIQUE 

YONDER  to  the  kiosk,  beside  the  creek, 
Paddle  the  swift  caique. 
Thou  brawny  oarsman  with  the  sunburnt  cheek. 
Quick  !  for  it  soothes  my  heart  to  hear  the  Bulbul  speak. 

Ferry  me  quickly  to  the  Asian  shores. 

Swift  bending  to  your  oars. 

Beneath  the  melancholy  sycamores, 

Hark !  what  a  ravishing  note  the  love-lorn  Bulbul  pours ! 

Behold,  the  boughs  seem  quivering  with  delight, 

The  stars  themselves  more  bright. 

As  mid  the  waving  branches  out  of  sight 

The  Lover  of  the  Rose  sits  singing  through  the  night. 

Under  the  boughs  I  sat  and  listened  still, 
I  could  not  have  my  fill. 
"How  comes,"  I  said,  "such  music  to  his  bill? 
Tell  me  for  whom  he  sings  so  beautiful  a  trill." 

"  Once  I  was  dumb,"  then  did  the  Bird  disclose, 
"But  looked  upon  the  Rose; 
And  in  the  garden  where  the  loved  one  grows, 
I  straightway  did  begin  sweet  music  to  compose." 

"  0  bird  of  song,  there's  one  in  this  caique 

The  Rose  would  also  seek. 

So  he  might  learn  like  you  to  love  and  speak." 

Then  answered  me  the  bird  of  dusky  beak, 

"  The  Rose,  the  Rose  of  Love  blushes  on  Leilah's  cheek." 


M7  NORA 

BENEATH  the  gold  acacia  buds 
My  gentle  Nora  sits  and  broods, 
Far,  far  away  in  Boston  woods, 
My  gentle  Nora ! 

I  see  the  tear-drop  in  her  e'e. 
Her  bosom's  heaving  tenderly ; 
I  know — I  know  she  thinks  of  me, 

My  darling  Nora ! 

And  where  am  I  ?     My  love,  whilst  thou 
Sitt'st  sad  beneath  the  acacia  bough. 
Where  pearl's  on  neck,  and  wreath  on  brow, 
I  stand,  my  Nora  ! 

Mid  carcanet  and  coronet. 

Where  joy-lamps  shine  and  flowers  are  set — 

Where  England's  chivalry  are  met, 

Behold  me,  Nora ! 

In  this  strange  scene  of  revelry. 
Amidst  this  gorgeous  chivalry, 
A  form  I  saw  was  like  to  thee, 

My  love,  my  Nora  ! 

She  paused  amidst  her  converse  glad  ; 
The  lady  saw  that  I  was  sad, 
She  pitied  the  poor  lonely  lad, — 

Dost  love  her,  Nora  t 

In  sooth,  she  is  a  lovely  dame, 
A  lip  of  red,  and  eye  of  flame. 
And  clustering  golden  locks,  the  same 

As  thine,  dear  Nora  ! 


124  LOVE-SONGS    MADE    EASY 

Her  glance  is  softer  than  the  dawn's, 
Her  foot  is  lighter  than  the  fawn's, 
Her  breast  is  whiter  than  the  swan's. 

Or  thine,  my  Nora  ! 

Oh,  gentle  breast  to  pity  me  ! 
Oh,  lovely  Ladye  Emily  ! 
Till  death— till  death  I'll  think  of  thee— 
Of  thee  and  Nora  ! 


FIVE   GERMAN   DITTIES 


TO  A    VERY  OLD   WOMAN 

LA   MOTTE    FOUQTJE 
"Und  Du  gingst  einst,  die  Myrt'  im  Haare." 

AND  thou  wert  once  a  maiden  fair, 
A  blushing  virgin  warm  and  young : 
^    With  myrtles  wreathed  in  golden  hair, 
And  glossy  brow  that  knew  no  care — 
Upon  a  bridegroom's  arm  you  hung. 

The  golden  locks  are  silvered  now, 

The  blushing  cheek  is  pale  and  wan ; 

The  spring  may  bloom,  the  autumn  glow, 

All's  one — in  chimney  comer  thou 
Sitt'st  shivering  on.- 

A  moment — and  thou  sink'st  to  rest ! 
To  wake  perhaps  an  angel  blest 

In  the  bright  presence  of  thy  Lord. 
Oh,  weary  is  life's  path  to  all ! 
Hard  is  the  strife,  and  light  the  fall. 

But  wondrous  the  reward  ! 


A    CREDO 


FOR  the  sole  edification 
Of  this  decent  congregation, 
Goodly  people,  by  your  grant 
I  will  sing  a  holy  chant — 

I  will  sing  a  holy  chant. 
If  the  ditty  sound  but  oddly, 
'Twas  a  father,  wise  and  godly. 

Sang  it  so  long  ago — 
Then  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang  : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  !  " 


II. 

He,  by  custom  patriarchal, 
LovBd  to  see  the  beaker  sparkle  ; 
And  he  thought  the  wine  improved, 
Tasted  by  the  lips  he  loved — 

By  the  kindly  lips  he  loved. 
Friends,  I  wish  this  custom  pious 
Duly  were  observed  by  us, 

To  combine  love,  song,  wine. 
And  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  sonr 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  !  " 


THE  CHAPLET 

FROM   UHLAND 
"  Es  pfluekte  Bliimlein  mannigfalt." 

A  LITTLE  girl  through  field  and  wood 
Went  plucking  flowerets  here  and  there, 
When  suddenly  beside  her  stood 
A  lady  wondrous  fair. 

The  lovely  lady  smiled,  and  laid 
A  wreath  upon  the  maiden's  brow : 

"  Wear  it ;  'twill  blossom  soon,"  she  said, 
"  Although  'tis  leafless  now." 

The  little  maiden  older  grew 

And  wandered  forth  of  moonlight  eves, 
And  sighed  and  loved  as  maids  will  do ; 

When,  lo  !  her  wreath  bore  leaves. 

Then  was  our  maid  a  wife,  and  hung 
Upon  a  joyful  bridegroom's  bosom  ; 

When  from  the  garland's  leaves  there  sprung 
Fair  store  of  blossom. 

And  presently  a  baby  fair 

Upon  her  gentle  breast  she  reared  ; 

When  midst  the  wreath  that  bound  her  hair 
Rich  golden  fruit  appeared. 

But  when  her  love  lay  cold  in  death, 
Sunk  in  the  black  and  silent  tomb, 

All  sere  and  withered  was  the  wreath 
That  wont  so  bright  to  bloom. 

Yet  still  the  withered  wreath  she  wore ; 

She  wore  it  at  her  dying  hour ; 
When,  lo  !  the  wondrous  garland  bore 

Both  leaf,  and  fruit,  and  flower  ! 


THE  KING   ON  THE  TOWER 

PROM    UHLAND 
"  Da  liegen  sie  alle,  die  grauen  Hohen." 

THE  cold  grey  hills  they  bind  me  around, 
The  darksome  valleys  lie  sleepiiig  helow, 
But  the  winds,  as  they  pass  o'er  all  this  ground, 
Bring  me  never  a  sound  of  woe. 

Oh  !  for  all  I  have  suffered  and  striven, 
Care  has  embfttered  my  cup  and  my  feast ; 

But  liere  is  the  night  and  the  dark  blue  heaven, 
And  my  soul  shall  be  at  rest. 

0  golden  legends  writ  in  the  skies  ! 

I  turn  towards  you  with  longing  soul. 
And  list  tt/  t"M  awful  HSrrnonies 

Of  the  Spheres  as  on  they  roll. 

My  hair  is  grey  and  my  sight  uigh  gone ; 

My  sword  it  rusteth  upon  the  wall ; 
Right  have  I  spoken,  and  right  have  I  done ; 

When  shall  I  rest  me  once  for  all  1 

0  blessed  rest !  0  royal  night ! 

Wherefore  seemeth  the  time  so  long 
Till  I  see  yon  stars  in  their  fullest  light, 

And  list  to  their  loudest  song  ? 


TO  A    VERY  OLD    WOMAN 

LA   MOTTE    FOUQTJE 
"Und  Du  gingst  einst,  die  Myrt'  im  Haare." 

AND  thou  wert  once  a  maiden  fair, 
A  blushing  virgin  warm  and  young  : 
^    With  myrtles  wreathed  in  golden  hair, 
And  glossy  brow  that  knew  no  care — 
Upon  a  bridegroom's  arm  you  hung. 

The  golden  locks  are  silvered  now, 

The  blushing  cheek  is  pale  and  wan ; 

The  spring  may  bloom,  the  autumn  glow. 

All's  one — in  chimney  comer  thou 
Sitt'st  shivering  on.- 

A  moment — and  thou  sink'st  to  rest ! 
To  wake  perhaps  an  angel  blest 

In  the  bright  presence  of  thy  Lord. 
Oh,  weary  is  life's  path  to  all ! 
Hard  is  the  strife,  and  light  the  fall. 

But  wondrous  the  reward  ! 


A   CREDO 


FOR  the  sole  edification 
Of  this  decent  congregation, 
Goodly  people,  by  your  grant 
I  will  sing  a  holy  chant — 

I  will  sing  a  holy  chant. 
If  the  ditty  sound  but  oddly, 
'Twas  a  father,  wise  and  godly, 

Sang  it  so  long  ago — 
Then  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  ! " 


11. 

He,  by  custom  patriarchal, 
LovBd  to  see  the  beaker  sparkle ; 
And  he  thought  the  wine  improved. 
Tasted  by  the  lips  he  loved — 

By  the  kindly  hps  he  loved. 
Friends,  I  wish  this  custom  pious 
Duly  were  observed  by  us. 

To  combine  love,  song,  wine. 
And  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang  : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  son,':', 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  !  " 


132  PIVE    GERMAN    DITTIES 


III. 


Who  refuses  this  our  Credo, 
And  who  will  not  sing  as  we  do, 
Were  he  holy  as  John  Knox, 
I'd  pronounce  him  heterodox  ! 

I'd  pronounce  him  heterodox. 
And  from  out  this  congregation, 
With  a  solemn  commination, 

Banish  quick  the  heretic. 
Who  will  not  sing  as  Luther  sang. 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  ! " 


FOUR   IMITATIONS   OF 
BEHANGER 


FOIJE  IMITATIONS   OF 
BERANGER 

LE  ROI  B'YVETOT 


IL  ^tait  un  roi  d'Yvetot, 
Peu  connu  dans  I'histoire, 
Se  levant  tard,  se  couchant  tot, 
Dormant  fort  bien  sans  gloire, 
Et  couronn^  par  Jeanneton 
D'un  simple  bonnet  de  coton. 
Dit-on. 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 
Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'^tait  Ik! 
La,  la. 

II  fesait  ses  quatre  repas 

Dans  son  palais  de  chaume, 
Et  sur  un  ane,  pas  k  pas, 

Parcourait  son  royaume. 
Joyeux,  simple,  et  croyant  le  bien, 
Pour  toute  garde  il  n'avait  rien 
Qu'un  chien. 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  &c 

II  n'avait  de  golit  on&eux 

Qu'une  soif  un  peu  viva  ; 
Mais,  en  rendant  son  peuple  heureux, 

II  faut  bien  qu'un  roi  vive ; 
Lui-mgme  h,  table,  et  sans  supp6t, 
Sur  chaque  muid  levait  un  pot 
D'impot. 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  &c. 


136         FOUR    IMITATIONS    OF    STRANGER 

Aux  filles  (le  bonnes  inaisons 

Comme  il  avait  su  plaire, 

Ses  sujets  avaient  cent  raisons 

De  le  nommer  leur  pfere  : 

D'ailleurs  il  ne  levait  de  ban 

Que  pour  tirer  quatre  fois  I'an 

Au  blanc. 

Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  &c. 

II  n'agrandit  point  ses  ^tats, 

Fut  un  voisin  commode, 
Et,  module  des  potentats, 

Prit  le  plaisir  pour  code. 
Ce  n'est  que  lorsqu'il  expira, 
Que  le  peuple  qui  I'enterra 
Pleura. 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  &c. 

On  conserve  encor  le  portrait 
De  ce  digne  et  bon  prince ; 
O'est  I'enseigne  d'un  cabaret 
Fameux  dans  la  province. 
Les  jours  de  f§te,  bien  souvent, 
La  foule  s'^crie  en  buvant 
Devant : 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  &c. 


THE  KING  OF  YVETOT 


THERE  was  a  king  of  Yvetot, 
Of  whom  renown  hath  little  said, 
Who  let  all  thoughts  of  glory  go, 
And  dawdled  half  his  days  abed  ; 
And  every  night,  as  night  came  round. 
By  Jenny  with  a  nightcap  crowned, 
Slept  very  sound : 
Sing  ho,  ho,  ho !  and  he,  he,  he ! 
That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

And  every  day  it  came  to  pass. 

That  four  lusty  meals  made  he ; 
And,  step  by  step,  upon  an  ass, 

Rode  abroad,  his  realms  to  see ; 
And  wherever  he  did  stir. 
What  think  you  was  his  escort,  sir  ? 
Why,  an  old  cur. 
Sing  ho,  ho,  ho !  &c. 

If  e'er  he  went  into  excess, 

'Twas  from  a  somewhat  lively  thirst ; 
But  he  who  would  his  subjects  bless, 

Odd's  fish  ! — must  wet  his  whistle  first ; 
And  so  from  every  cask  they  got. 
Our  king  did  to  himself  allot 
At  least  a  pot. 
Sing  ho,  ho!  &c. 

To  all  the  ladies  of  the  land, 

A  courteous  king,  and  kind,  was  he — 
The  reason  why,  you'll  understand. 
They  named  him  Pater  Patriae. 
Each  year  he  called  his  fighting  men. 
And  marched  a  league  from  home,  and  then 
Marched  back  again. 
Sing  ho,  ho!  &c. 


138         FOUR    IMITATIONS    OF    Bl^RANGER 

Neither  by  force  nor  false  pretence, 

He  sought  to  make  his  kingdom  great, 
And  made  (0  princes,  leam  from  hence) — 

"  Live  and  let  live,"  his  rule  of  state. 
'Twas  only  when  he  came  to  die. 
That  his  people  who  stood  by. 

Were  known  to  cry. 
Sing  ho,  ho  !  &c. 

The  portrait  of  this  best  of  kings 

Is  extant  still,  upon  a  sign 
That  on  a  village  tavern  swings. 

Famed  in  the  country  for  good  wine. 
The  people  in  their  Sunday  trim. 
Filling  their  glasses  to  the  brim, 
Look  up  to  him, 
Singing  ha,  ha,  ha !  and  he,  he,  he 
That's  the  sort  of  king  for  me. 


THE  KING   OF  BRENTFORD 

ANOTHER   VEESION 

THERE  was  a  king  in  Brentford, — of  whom  no  legends  tell, 
But  who,  without  his  glory, — could  eat  and  sleep  right  well. 
His  Polly's  cotton  nightcap, — it  was  his  crown  of  state. 
He  slept  of  evenings  early, — and  rose  of  mornings  late. 

All  in  a  fine  mud  palace, — each  day  he  took  four  meals. 
And  for  a  guard  of  honour — a  dog  ran  at  his  heels ; 
Sometimes,  to  view  his  kingdoms, — rode  forth  this  monarch  good. 
And  then  a  prancing  jackass — he  royally  bestrode. 

There  were  no  costly  habits — ^with  which  this  king  was  curst, 
Except  (and  where's  the  harm  on't  X) — a  somewhat  lively  thirst  ; 
But  people  must  pay  taxes, — and  kings  must  have  their  sport. 
So  out  of  every  gallon — His  Grace  he  took  a  quart. 

He  pleased  the  ladies  round  him, — with  manners  soft  and  bland ; 
With  reason  good,  they  named  him — the  father  of  his  land. 
Each  year  his  mighty  armies — marched  forth  in  gallant  show ; 
Their  enemies  were  targets, — their  bullets  they  were  tow. 

He  vexed  no  quiet  neighbour, — no  useless  conquest  made, 
But  by  the  laws  of  pleasure — his  peaceful  realm  he  swayed. 
And  in  the  years  he  reigned, — through  all  this  country  wide. 
There  was  no  cause  for  weeping, — save  when  the  good  man  died. 

The  faithful  men  of  Brentford — do  still  their  king  deplore. 
His  portrait  yet  is  swinging — beside  an  alehouse  door. 
And  topers,  tender-hearted, — regard  his  honest  phiz, 
And  envy  times  departed, — that  knew  a  reign  like  his. 


LE  GRENIER 


JE  viens  re  voir  I'asile  oil  ma  jeunesae 
De  la  misfere  a  subi  les  lemons. 
J'avais  vingt  ans,  une  foUe  maltresse, 
De  francs  amis  et  Tamour  des  chansons. 
Bravant  le  monde  et  les  sots  et  les  sages, 
Sans  avenir,  riche  de  mon  printemps, 
Leste  et  joyeux  je  montais  six  Stages. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  "k  vingt  ans  ! 

C'est  un  grenier,  point  ne  veux  qu'on  I'ignore. 
Lk  fut  mon  lit,  bien  cli^tif  et  bien  dur ; 
Lk  fut  ma  table  ;  et  je  retrouve  encore 
Trois  pieds  d'un  vers  charbonnds  sur  le  mur. 
Apparaissez,  plaisirs  de  mon  bel  Sge, 
Que  d'un  coup  d'aile  a  fustigds  le  temps  : 
Vingt  fois  pour  vous  j'ai  mis  ma  montre  en  gage. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  k  vingt  ans  ! 

Lisette  ici  doit  surtout  apparaitre, 
Vive,  jolie,  avec  un  frais  chapeau ; 
D^jk  sa  main  k  I'^troite  fengtre 
Suspend  son  schal,  en  guise  de  rideau. 
Sa  robe  aussi  va  parer  ma  couchette ; 
Respecte,  Amour,  ses  plis  longs  et  flottans. 
J'ai  su  depuis  qui  payait  sa  toilette. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  k  vingt  ans  ! 

A  table  un  jour,  jour  de  grande  richesse, 
De  mes  amis  les  voix  brillaient  en  choeur, 
Quand  jusqu'ici  monte  un  cri  d'alWgresse  : 
A  Marengo  Bonaparte  est  vainqueur. 
Le  canon  gronde  ;  un  autre  chant  commence ; 
Nous  c^Wbrons  tant  de  faits  dclatans. 
Les  rois  jamais  n'envahiront  la  France. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  k  vingt  ans  ! 


LE    GRENIER  ]41 

Quittons  ce  toit  oil  ma  raison  s'enivre. 
Oh  !  qu'ils  sont  loin  ces  jours  si  regrettfe  ! 
J'^changerais  ce  qu'U.  me  reste  k  vivre 
Contra  un  des  mois  qu'ici  Dieu  m'a  compt^, 
Pour  rgver  gloire,  amour,  plaisir,  folie, 
Pour  d^penser  sa  vie  en  pen  d'instans, 
D'un  long  espoir  pour  la  voir  embellie. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  k  vingt  ans  ! 


THE  GARRET 


WITH  pensive  eyes  the  little  room  I  view, 
Where,  in  my  youth,  I  weathered  it  so  long, 
With  a  wild  mistress,  a  staunch  friend  or  two. 
And  a  light  heart  still  breaking  into  song : 
Making  a  mock  of  life  and  all  its  cares. 

Rich  in  the  glory  of  my  rising  sun. 
Lightly  I  vaulted  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 
In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

Yes  ;  'tis  a  garret — let  him  know't  who  wiU — 

There  was  ray  bed — full  hard  it  was  and  small ; 
My  table  there — and  I  decipher  still 

Half  a  lame  couplet  charcoaled  on  the  wall. 
Ye  joys,  that  Time  hath  swept  with  him  away, 

Oome  to  mine  eyes,  ye  dreams  of  love  and  ifun ; 
For  you  I  pawned  my  watch  how  many  a  day, 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

And  see  my  little  Jessy,  first  of  all ; 

She  comes  with  pouting  lips  and  sparkling  eyes  : 
Behold,  how  roguishly  she  pins  her  shawl 

Across  the  narrow  casement,  curtain-wise  ; 
Now  by  the  bed  her  petticoat  glides  down. 

And  when  did  woman  look  the  worse  in  none  ? 
I  have  heard  since  who  paid  for  many  a  gown, 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

One  jolly  evening,  when  my  friends  and  I 

Made  happy  music  with  our  songs  and  cheers, 
A  shout  of  triumph  mounted  up  thus  high. 

And  distant  cannon  opened  on  our  ears  : 
We  rise, — we  join  in  the  triumphant  strain, — 

Napoleon  conquers — Austerlitz  is  won — 
Tyrants  shall  never  tread  us  down  again, 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 


THE    GARRET  143 

Let  us  begone — the  place  is  sad  and  strange — 

How  far,  far  off,  these  happy  times  appear ; 
All  that  I  have  to  live  I'd  gladly  change 

For  one  such  month  as  I  have  wasted  here — 
To  draw  long  dreams  of  beauty,  love,  and  power, 

From  founts  of  hope  that  never  will  outrun. 
And  drink  all  life's  quintessence  in  an  hour. 

Give  me  the  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 


B0QER-B0NTEMP8 


A  UX  gens  atrabilaires 
/-*    Pour  exemple  donnd, 
■*     *■  En  un  temps  de  misferes 
Roger-Bontemps  est  nd. 
Vivre  obscur  k  sa  guise, 
Narguer  les  mdoontens ; 
Eh,  gai !  c'est  la  devise 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Du  chapeau  de  son  pfere 
Coiffd  dans  les  grands  jours ; 
De  roses  ou  de  lierre 
Le  rajeunir  toujours  ; 
Mettre  un  manteau  de  bure, 
Vieil  ami  de  vingt  ans  ; 
Eh,  gai !  c'est  la  parure 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Possdder  dans  sa  hutte 
Une  table,  un  vieux  lit, 
Des  cartes,  une  illite, 
Un  broc  que  Dieu  remplit ; 
Un  portrait  de  maltresse, 
Un  coffre  et  rien  dedans  ; 
Eh,  gai !  c'est  la  richesse 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Aux  enfans  de  la  ville 
Montrer  de  petits  jeux  ; 
Etre  feseur  habile 
De  contes  graveleux ; 
Ne  parler  que  de  danse 
Et  d'almanachs  chantans : 
Eh,  gai !  c'est  la  science 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 


EOGER-BONTEMPS  145 

Faute  de  vins  d'^te, 
Sabler  ceux  du  canton  : 
PrdKrer  Marguerite 
Aux  dames  du  grand  ton  : 
De  joie  et  de  tendresse 
Eemplir  tous  ses  instans : 
Eh,  gai !  c'est  la  sagesse 
Du  gros  Koger-Bontenips. 

Dire  au  ciel :  Je  me  fie, 
Mon  pfere,  k  ta  bont^ ; 
De  ma  philosophie 
Pardonne  la  galt^ : 
Que  ma  saison  demifere 
Soit  encore  un  printemps ; 
Eh,  gai !  c'est  la  prifere 
Du  gros  Eoger-Bontemps. 

Vous  pauvreB,  pleins  d'envie, 
Vous  riches,  d&ireux, 
Vous,  dont  le  char  d^vie 
Aprfes  un  cours  heureux  : 
Vous,  qui  perdrez  peut-etre 
Des  titres  Platans, 
Eh,  gai !  prenez  jwur  maitre 
Le  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 


JOLLY  JACK 


WHEN  fierce  political  debate 
Throughout  the  isle  was  storming, 
And  Kads  attacked  the  throne  and  state, 
And  Tories  the  reforming, 
To  calm  the  furious  rage  of  each, 
And  right  the  land  demented. 
Heaven  send  us  Jolly  Jack,  to  teach 
The  way  to  be  contented. 

Jack's  bed  was  straw,  'twas  warm  and  soft, 

His  chair,  a  three-legged  stool ; 
His  broken  jug  was  emptied  oft, 

Yet,  somehow,  always  full. 
His  mistress'  portrait  decked  the  wall, 

His  mirror  had  a  crack ; 
Yet,  gay  and  glad,  though  this  was  all 

His  wealth,  Hved  Jolly  Jack. 

To  give  advice  to  avarice, 

Teach  pride  its  mean  condition. 
And  preach  good  sense  to  dull  pretence, 

Was  honest  Jack's  high  mission. 
Our  simple  statesman  found  his  rule 

Of  moral  in  the  flagon, 
And  held  his  philosophic  school 

Beneath  the  "  George  and  Dragon." 

When  village  Solons  cursed  the  Lords, 

And  called  the  malt-tax  sinful, 
Jack  heeded  not  their  angry  words. 

But  smiled  and  drank  his  skinful. 
And  when  men  wasted  health  and  life 

In  search  of  rank  and  riches. 
Jack  marked  aloof  the  paltry  strife, 

And  wore  his  threadbare  breeches. 


JOLLY    JACK  147 

"  I  enter  not  the  church,"  he  said, 

"  But  I'll  not  seek  to  rob  it ; " 
So  worthy  Jack  Joe  Miller  read, 

While  others  studied  Cobbett. 
His  talk  it  was  of  feast  and  fun ; 

His  guide  the  Almanack  ; 
From  youth  to  age  thus  gaily  run 

The  life  of  Jolly  Jack. 

And  when  Jack  prayed,  as  oft  he  would, 

He  humbly  thanked  his  Maker  ; 
"  I  am,"  said  he,  "  0  Father  good  ! 

Nor  Catholic  nor  Quaker  : 
Give  each  his  creed,  let  each  proclaim 

His  catalogue  of  curses ; 
I  trust  in  Thee,  and  not  in  them, 

In  Thee  and  in  Thy  mercies  ! 

"  Forgive  me  if,  midst  all  Thy  works, 

No  hint  I  see  of  damning ; 
And  think  there's  faith  among  the  Turks, 

And  hope  for  e'en  the  Brahmin. 
Harmless  my  mind  is,  and  my  mirth. 

And  kindly  is  my  laugliter ; 
I  cannot  see  the  smiling  earth. 

And  think  there's  hell  hereafter." 

Jack  died  ;  he  left  no  legacy. 

Save  that  his  story  teaches  : — 
Content  to  peevish  poverty ; 

Humility  to  riches. 
Ye  scornful  great,  ye  envious  small. 

Come  follow  in  his  track ; 
We  all  were  happier,  if  we  all 

Would  copy  Jolly  Jack. 


IMITATION   OF   HOEACE 


IMITATION   OF   HOEACE 


TO  HIS  SERVING  BOY 


PERSICOS  odi, 
Puer,  apparatus; 
Displicent  nexae 
Philyra  coronse : 
Mitte  sectari, 
Rosa  quo  locorum 
Sera  moretur. 


Simplici  myrto 
Nihil  allabores, 
Sedulus,  euro  : 
Neque  te  ministrum 
Dedecet  myrtus, 
Neque  me  sub  arctS, 
Vite  bibentem. 


AB  MINISTRAM 


DEAR  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is,- 
I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss  : 
Your  siUy  entries  and  made  dishes 
Were  never  intended  for  us. 
No  footman  in  lace  and  in  ruffles 

Need  dangle  behind  my  arm-chair ; 
And  never  mind  seeking  for  truffles, 
Although  they  be  ever  so  rare. 

But  a  plain  leg  of  mutton,  my  Liicy, 

I  prithee  get  ready  at  three  : 
Have  it  smoking,  and  tender,  and  juicy, 

And  what  better  meat  can  there  be  ? 
And  when  it  has  feasted  the  master, 

'Twill  amply  suffice  for  the  maid ; 
Meanwhile  I  will  smoke  my  canaster, 

And  tipple  my  ale  in  the  shade. 


OLD    FRIENDS    WITH 
NEW   FACES 


OLD   FRIENDS   WITH 

NEW  FACES 

FRIAR'S  SON'G 


SOME  love  the  matin-chimes,  which  tell 
The  hour  of  prayer  to  sinner  : 
But  better  far's  the  mid-day  bell. 
Which  speaks  the  hour  of  dinner ; 
For  when  I  see  a  smoking  fish. 
Or  capon  drown'd  in  gravy, 
Or  noble  haunch  on  silver  dish. 
Full  glad  I  sing  ray  aye. 

My  pulpit  is  an  alehouse  bench, 

Whereon  I  sit  so  jolly ; 
A  smiling  rosy  country  wench 

My  saint  and  patron  holy. 
I  kiss  her  cheek  so  red  and  sleek, 

I  press  her  ringlets  wavy, 
And  in  her  willing  ear  I  speak 

A  most  religious  ave. 

And  if  I'm  blind,  yet  Heaven  is  kind, 

And  holy  saints  forgiving ; 
For  sure  he  leads  a  right  good  life 

Who  thus  admires  good  living. 
Above,  they  say,  our  flesh  is  air. 

Our  blood  celestial  ichor  : 
Oh,  grant !  mid  all  the  changes  there. 

They  may  not  change  our  liquor  ! 


KING  CANUTE 


KING  CANUTE  was  weary-hearted ;  he  had  reigned  for  years 
a  score, 
Battling,    struggling,    pushing,   fighting,    killing  much   and 
robbing  more ; 
And  he  thought  upon  his  actions,  walking  by  the  wild  sea-shore. 

'Twixt  the  Chancellor  and  Bishop  walked  the  King  with  steps 

sedate. 
Chamberlains  and  grooms  came  after,  silversticks  and  goldsticks 

great, 
Chaplains,  aides-de-camp,  and  pages, — all  tlie  officers  of  state. 

Sliding  after  like  a  shadow,  pausing  when  he  chose  to  pause, 

If  a  frown  his  face  contracted,  straight  the  courtiers  dropped  their 

jaws; 
If  to  laugh  the  King  was  minded,  out  they  burst  in  loud  hee-haws. 

But  that  day  a  something  vexed  him,  that  was  clear  to  old  and 

young : 
Thrice  his  Grace  had  yawned  at  table,  when  his  favourite  gleemen 

sung, 
Once  the  Queen  would  have  consoled  him,  but  he  bade  her  hold  her 

tongue. 

"  Something  ails  my  gracious  master,''  cried  the  Keeper  of  the  Seal. 
"  Sure,  my  Lord,  it  is  the  lampreys  served  to  dinner,  or  the  veal  1 " 
"Psha!"  exclaimed  the  angry  monarch.     "Keeper,  'tis  not  that 
I  feel. 

"  'Tis  the  heart,  and  not  the  dinner,  fool,  that  doth  my  rest  impair ; 
Can  a  king  be  great  as  I  am,  prithee,  and  yet  know  no  care  ? 
Oh,  I'm  sick,  and  tired,  and  weary." — Some  one  cried,  "  The  King's 
arm-chair ! " 


KING    CANUTE  157 

Then  towards  the  lacqueys  turning,  quick  my  Lord  the  Keeper 

nodded, 
Straight  the  King's  great  chair  was  brought  him  by  two  footmen 

able-bodied ; 
Languidly  he  sank  into  it :  it  was  comfortably  wadded. 

"  Leading  on  my  fierce  companions,"  cried  he,  "  over  storm  and 

brine, 
I  have  fought  and  I  have  conquered !     Where  was  glory  like  to 

mine  ? " 
Loudly  all  the  courtiers  echoed  :  "  Where  is  glory  like  to  thine  1 " 

"  What  avail  me  all  my  kingdoms  ■?     Weary  am  I  now  and  old ; 
Those  fair  sons  I  have  begotten  long  to  see  me  dead  and  cold  ; 
Would  I  were,  and  quiet  buried  underneath  the  silent  mould  ! 

"  Oh,  remorse,  the  writhing  serpent !  at  my  bosom  tears  and  bites  ; 
Horrid  horrid  things  I  look  on,  though  I  put  out  all  tlie  lights ; 
Ghosts  of  ghastly  recollections  troop  about  my  bed  at  nights. 

"  Cities  burning,  convents  blazing,  red  with  sacrilegious  fires ; 
Mothers  weeping,  virgins  screaming  vainly  for  their  slaughtered 

sires." — 
"  Such  a  tender  conscience,"  cries  the  Bishop,  "  every  one  admires. 

"  But  for  such   unpleasant   bygones  cease,  my  gracious  lord,   to 

search, 
They're  forgotten  and  forgiven  by  our  Holy  Mother  Church ; 
Never,  never  does  she  leave  her  benefactors  in  the  lurch. 

"Look!    the  land  is  crowned  with  minsters,  which  your  Grace's 

bounty  raised ; 
Abbeys  filled  with  holy  men,  where  you  and  Heaven  are  daily 

praised  : 
You,  my  Lord,  to  think  of  dying  ?  on  my  conscience  I'm  amazed  !  " 

"  Nay,  I  feel,"  replied  King  Canute,  "  that  my  end  is  drawing  near." 
"Don't  say  so,"  exclaimed  the  courtiers  (striving  each  to  squeeze 

a  tear). 
"  Sure  your  Grace  is  strong  and  lusty,  and  may  live  this  fifty  year.'' 

"  Live  these  fifty  years ! "  the  Bishop  roared,  with  actions  made 

to  suit. 
"Are  you  mad,  my  good  Lord  Keeper,  thus  to  speak  of  King  Canute? 
Men  have  lived  a  thousand  years,  and  sure  His  Majesty  will  do't. 


158         OLD    FKIENDS    WITH    NEW    FACES 

"  Adam,  Enoch,  Lamech,  Cainaii,  Mahaleel,  Methuselah, 

Lived  nine  hundred  years  apiece,  and  mayn't  the  King  as  well 

as  they  r' 
"Fervently,"  exclaimed  the  Keeper,  "fervently  I  trust  he  may.'' 

"He  to  die  % "  resumed  the  Bishop.     "  He  a  mortal  like  to  vs  ? 
Death  was  not  for  him  intended,  though  communis  om,nibus  : 
Keeper,  you  are  irreligious  for  to  talk  and  cavil  thus. 

"  With  his  wondrous  skill  in  healing  ne'er  a  doctor  can  compete, 
Loathsome  lepers,  if  he  touch  them,  start  up  clean  upon  their  feet ; 
Surely  he  could  raise  the  dead  up,  did  his  Highness  think  it  meet. 

"  Did  not  once  the  Jewish  captain  stay  the  sun  upon  the  hill, 
And,  the  while  he  slew  the  foemen,  bid  the  silver  moon  stand  still  1 
So,  no  doubt,  could  gracious  Canute,  if  it  were  his  sacred  will." 

"  Might  I  stay  the  sun  above  us,  good  Sir  Bishop  1 "  Canute  cried ; 
"  Could  I  bid  the  silver  moon  to  pause  upon  her  heavenly  ride? 
If  the  moon  obeys  my  orders,  sure  I  can  command  the  tide. 

"  Will  the  advancing  waves  obey  me.  Bishop,  if  I  make  the  sign  t " 
Said  the  Bishop,  bowing  lowly,  "Land  and  sea,  my  Lord,  are  thine.'' 
Canute  turned  towards  the  ocean — "  Back  !  "  he  said,  "  thou  foaming 
brine. 

"  From  the  sacred  shore  I  stand  on,  I  command  thee  to  retreat ; 
Venture  not,  thou  stormy  rebel,  to  approach  thy  master's  seat : 
Ocean,  be  thou  still !     I  bid  thee  come  not  nearer  to  my  feet !  " 

But  the  sullen  ocean  answered  with  a  louder  deeper  roar, 

And  the  rapid  waves  drew  nearer,  falling  sounding  on  the  shore ; 

Back  the  Keeper  and  the  Bishop,  back  the  King  and  courtiers  bore. 

And  he  sternly  bade  them  never  more  to  kneel  to  human  clay, 
But  alone  to  praise  and  worship  That  which  earth  and  seas  obey ; 
And  his  golden  crown  of  empire  never  wore  he  from  that  day. 
King  Canute  is  dead  and  gone  :  Parasites  exist  alway. 


THE    WILLOW-TREE 


KNOW  ye  the  willow-tree 
Whose  grey  leaves  quiver, 
Whispering  gloomily 
To  yon  pale  river? 
Lady,  at  eventide 

Wander  not  near  it : 
They  say  its  branches  hide 
A  sad,  lost  spirit ! 

Once  to  the  willow-tree 

A  maid  came  fearful ; 
Pale  seemed  her  cheek  to  be, 

Her  blue  eye  tearful. 
Soon  as  she  saw  the  tree. 

Her  step  moved  fleeter ; 
No  one  was  there — ah  me  ! 

No  one  to  meet  her  ! 

Quick  beat  her  heart  to  hear 

The  far  bells'  chime 
ToU  from  the  chapel-tower 

The  trysting  time  : 
But  the  red  sun  went  down 

In  golden  flame. 
And  though  she  looked  round, 

Yet  no  one  came  ! 

Presently  came  the  night. 

Sadly  to  greet  her, — 
Moon  in  her  silver  light, 

Stars  in  their  glitter ; 
Then  sank  the  moon  away 

Under  the  billow, 
Still  wept  the  maid  alone — 

There  by  the  willow  ! 


160         OLD    FRIENDS    WITH    NEW    FACES 

Through  the  long  darkness, 

By  the  stream  rolling, 
Hour  after  hour  went  on 

Tolling  and  tolling. 
Long  was  the  darkness, 

Lonely  and  stilly ; 
Shrill  came  the  night-wind, 

Piercing  and  chilly. 

Shrill  blew  the  morning  breeze, 

Biting  and  cold. 
Bleak  peers  the  grey  dawn 

Over  the  wold. 
Bleak  over  moor  and  stream 

Looks  the  grey  dawn. 
Grey,  with  dishevelled  hair, 
Still  stands  the  willow  there — 

The  maid  is  gone  ! 

Domiine,  Domine  I 
Sing  we  a  litany. 
Sing  for  poor  maiden-hearts  broken  and  weary  ; 
Domine,  Domine  ! 
Sing  we  a  litany. 
Wail  we  and  weep  we  a  wild  Miserere  1 


13 


THE   WILLOW-TREE 

ANOTHER   VERSION 


LONG  by  the  wDlow-trees 
Vainly  they  sought  her, 
-'   Wild  rang  the  mother's  screams 
O'er  the  grey  water : 
"  Where  is  my  lovely  one  1 
Where  is  my  daughter? 


II. 

"  Eouse  thee,  Sir  Constable — ■ 
Eouse  thee  and  look  ; 

Fisherman,  bring  your  net. 
Boatman,  your  hook. 

Beat  in  the  Uly-beds, 
Dive  in  the  brook  ! " 


Vainly  the  constable 
Shouted  and  called  her ; 

Vainly  the  fisherman 
Beat  the  green  alder ; 

Vainly  he  flung  the  net. 
Never  it  hauled  her  ! 


IV. 

Mother  beside  the  fire 
Sat,  her  nightcap  in ; 


162         OLD    FRIENDS    WITH    NEW    FACES 

Father,  in  easy  chair, 

Gloomily  napping, 
When  at  the  window-sill 

Came  a  light  tapping  ! 


V. 

And  a  pale  countenance 

Looked  through  the  casement, 
Loud  beat  the  mother's  heart, 

Sick  with  amazement, 
And  at  the  vision  which 

Came  to  surprise  her. 
Shrieked  in  an  agony — 

"  Lor  !  it's  Elizar  !  " 


VI. 

Yes,  'twas  Elizabeth — 

Yes,  'twas  their  girl ; 
Pale  was  her  cheek,  and  her 

Hair  out  of  curl. 
"  Mother  !  "  the  loving  one. 

Blushing,  exclaimed, 
"  Let  not  your  innocent 

Lizzy  be  blamed. 

VII. 

"Yesterday,  going  to  Aunt 

Jones's  to  tea, 
Mother,  dear  mother,  I 

Forgot  the  door-hey  ! 
And  as  the  night  was  cold, 

And  the  way  steep, 
Mrs.  Jones  kept  me  to 

Breakfast  and  sleep." 


VIII. 

Whether  her  Pa  and  Ma 
Fully  believed  her. 

That  we  shall  never  know. 
Stern  they  received  her ; 


THE    WILLOW-TREE  l63 

And  for  the  work  of  that 

Cruel,  though  short,  night, 
Sent  her  to  bed  without 

Tea  for  a  fortnight. 


IX. 
MORAL 

Hey  diddle  diddlety. 

Gat  and  the  Fiddlety, 
Maidens  of  England,  take  caution  by  she  t 

Let  love  and  suicide 

Never  tempt  you  aside, 
And  always  remember  to  take  the  door-key. 


WHEN  MOONLIKE  ORE  THE 
HAZURE  SEAS 


WHEN  moonlike  ore  the  hazure  seas 
In  soft  efifulgeiice  swells, 
When  silver  jews  and  balmy  br^ze 
Bend  down  the  Lily's  bells ; 
When  calm  and  deap,  the  rosy  sleap 

Has  lapt  your  soal  in  dreems, 
R  Hangeline  !  E  lady  mine  ! 
Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  ? 

I  mark  thee  in  the  Marble  All, 

Where  England's  loveliest  shine — 
I  say  the  fairest  of  them  hall 

Is  Lady  Hangeline. 
My  soul,  in  desolate  eclipse. 

With  recollection  teems — 
And  then  I  hask,  with  weeping  lips. 

Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  ? 

Away  !  I  may  not  teE  thee  hall 

This  soughring  heart  endures — 
There  is  a  lonely  sperrit-call 

That  Sorrow  never  cures ; 
There  is  a  little,  little  Star, 

That  still  above  me  beams  ; 
It  is  the  Star  of  Hope — but  ar ! 

Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  i 


ATRA   CUBA 


BEFOKE  I  lost  my  five  poor  wits, 
I  mind  me  of  a  Komish  clerk, 
Who  sang  how  Care,  the  phantom  dark, 
Beside  the  belted  horseman  sits. 
Methought  I  saw  the  grisly  sprite 
Jump  up  but  now  behind  my  Knight, 

And  though  he  gallop  as  he  may, 
I  mark  that  cursM  monster  black 
Still  sits  behind  his  honour's  back, 
Tight  squeezing  of  his  heart  alway. 
Like  two  black  Templars  sit  they  there 
Beside  one  crupper.  Knight  and  Care. 

No  knight  am  I  with  pennoned  spear 
To  prance  upon  a  bold  destrere  : 
I  will  not  have  black  Care  prevail 
Upon  my  long-eared  charger's  tail ; 
For  lo,  I  am  a  witless  fool. 
And  laugh  at  Grief  and  ride  a  mule. 


COMMANDERS  OF  THE  FAITHFUL 


THE  Pope  he  is  a  happy  man, 
His  Palace  is  the  Vatican, 
And  there  he  sits  and  drains  his  can  : 
The  Pope  he  is  a  happy  man. 
I  often  say  when  I'm  at  home, 
I'd  like  to  be  the  Pope  of  Rome. 

And  then  there's  Sultan  Saladin, 
That  Turkish  Soldan  full  of  sin ; 
He  has  a  hundred  wives  at  least, 
By  which  his  pleasure  is  increased  : 
I've  often  wished,  I  hope  no  sin, 
That  I  were  Sultan  Saladin. 

But  no,  the  Pope  no  wife  may  choose, 
And  so  I  would  not  wear  his  shoes ; 
No  wine  may  drink  the  proud  Paynim, 
And  so  I'd  rather  not  be  him  : 
My  wife,  my  wine,  I  love,  I  hope, 
And  would  be  neither  Turk  nor  Pope, 


u 


REQUIESGAT 


NDER  the  stone  you  behold, 
Buried,  and  coflBned,  and  cold, 
Lieth  Sir  Wilfrid  the  Bold. 


Always  he  marched  in  advance, 
Warring  in  Flanders  and  France, 
Doughty  with  sword  and  with  lance. 

Famous  in  Saracen  fight. 

Rode  in  his  youth  the  good  knight, 

Scattering  Paynims  in  flight. 

Brian,  the  Templar  untrue, 
Fairly  in  tourney  he  slew, 
Saw  Hierusalem  too. 

Now  he  is  buried  and  gone, 
Lying  beneath  the  grey  stone  : 
Where  shall  you  find  such  a  one  ? 

Long  time  his  widow  deplored. 
Weeping  the  fate  of  her  lord, 
Sadly  cut  off  by  the  sword. 

When  she  was  eased  of  her  pain, 
Came  the  good  Lord  Athelstane, 
When  her  Ladyship  married  again. 


DEAR  JACK 


DEAR  Jack,  this  white  mug  that  with  Guinness  I  fill, 
And  drink  to  the  health  of  Sweet  Nan  of  the  Hill, 
Was  once  Tommy  Tosspot's,  as  jovial  a  sot 
As  e'er  drew  a  spigot,  or  drain'd  a  full  pot — 
In  drinking  all  round  'twas  his  joy  to  surpass. 
And  with  all  merry  tipplers  he  swigg'd  off  his  glass. 

One  morning  in  summer,  while  seated  so  snug. 

In  the  porch  of  his  garden,  discussing  his  jug. 

Stern  Death,  on  a  sudden,  to  Tom  did  appear, 

And  said,  "  Honest  Thomas,  come  take  your  last  bier." 

We  kneaded  his  clay  in  the  shape  of  this  can, 

From  vhich  let  ns  drink  to  the  health  of  my  Nan. 


WHEN  THE  GLOOM  IS  ON  THE  GLEN 


WHEN  the  moonlight's  on  the  mountain 
And  the  gloom  is  on  the  glen, 
At  the  cross  beside  the  fountain 
There  is  one  will  meet  thee  then. 
At  tlie  cross  beside  the  fountain, 

Yes,  the  cross  beside  the  fountain. 
There  is  one  will  meet  thee  then ! 

I  have  braved,  since  first  we  met,  love, 

Many  a  danger  in  my  course  ; 
But  I  never  can  forget,  love. 

That  dear  fountain,  that  old  cross, 
Wliere,  her  mantle  shrouded  o'er  her — 

For  the  winds  were  chilly  then — 
First  I  met  my  Leonora, 

When  the  gloom  was  on  the  glen. 

Many  a  clime  I've  ranged  since  then,  love, 

Many  a  land  I've  wandered  o'er ; 
But  a  valley  like  that  glen,  love, 

Half  80  dear  I  never  sor  ! 
Ne'er  saw  maiden  fairer,  coyer. 

Than  wert  thou,  my  true  love,  when 
In  the  gloaming  first  I  saw  yer. 

In  the  gloaming  of  the  glen ! 


THE  RED  FLAG 


WHERE  the  quivering  lightning  flings 
His  arrows  from  out  the  clouds, 
And  the  howling  tempest  sings 
And  whistles  among  the  shrouds, 
'Tis  pleasant,  'tis  pleasant  to  ride 

Along  the  foaming  brine — 
Wilt  be  the  Rover's  bride? 
Wilt  follow  him,  lady  mine? 

Hurrah  ! 
For  the  bonny  bonny  brine. 

Amidst  the  storm  and  rack. 

You  shall  see  our  galley  pass, 
As  a  serpent,  lithe  and  black, 

Glides  through  the  waving  grass. 
As  the  vulture,  swift  and  dark, 

Down  on  the  ring-dove  flies. 
You  shall  see  the  Rover's  bark 

Swoop  down  upon  his  prize. 
Hurrah  ! 

For  the  bonny  bonny  prize 

Over  her  sides  we  dash. 

We  gallop  across  her  deck — 
Ha  !  there's  a  ghastly  gash 

On  the  merchant-captain's  neck — 
Well  shot,  well  shot,  old  Ned  ! 

Well  struck,  well  struck,  black  James  ! 
Our  arms  are  red,  and  our  foes  are  dead. 

And  we  leave  a  ship  in  flames ! 
Hurrah  ! 

For  the  bonny  bonny  flames  ! 


THE  KNIGHTLY  GUERDON* 


UNTRUE  to  my  Ulric  I  never  could  be, 
I  vow  by  the  saints  and  the  blessed  Marie, 
Since  the  desolate  hour  when  we  stood  by  the 
shore, 
And  your  dark  galley  waited  to  carry  you  o'er : 
My  faith  then  I  plighted,  my  love  I  confess'd. 
As   I   gave   you   the    Battle-Axe    marked   with   your 
crest ! 


When  the  bold  barons  met  in  my  father's  old  hall, 
Was  not  Edith  the  flower  of  the  banquet  and  ball  ? 
In  the  festival  hour,  on  the  lips  of  your  bride. 
Was  there  ever  a  smile  save  with  Thee  at  my  side  ? 
Alone  in  my  turret  I  loved  to  sit  best, 
To  blazon  your  Banneb  and  broider  your  crest. 

♦  "WAPPING   OLD   STAIRS 

"Your  Molly  has  never  been  false,  she  declares, 
Since  the  last  time  we  parted  at  Wapping  Old  Stairs  ; 
When  I  said  that  I  would  continue  the  same, 
And  gave  you  the  'bacco-box  marked  with  my  name. 
When  I  passed  a  whole  fortnight  between  decks  with  you, 
Did  I  e'er  give  a  kiss,  Tom,  to  one  of  your  crew  ? 
To  be  useful  and  kind  to  my  Thomas  I  stay'd, 
For  his  trousers  I  washed,  and  hia  grog  too  I  made. 

Though  you  promised  last  Sunday  to  walk  in  the  Mall 
With  Susan  from  Deptford  and  likewise  with  Sail, 
In  silence  I  stood  your  unkindness  to  hear. 
And  only  upbraided  my  Tom  with  a  tear. 
Why  should  Sail,  or  should  Susan,  than  me  be  more  prized  ? 
For  the  heart  that  is  true,  Tom,  should  ne'er  be  despised, 
Then  be  constant  and  kind,  nor  your  Molly  forsake ; 
Still  your  trousers  I'll  wash,  and  your  grog  too  I'll  make." 


172         OLD    FRIENDS    WITH    NEW    FACES 

The  knights  were  assembled,  the  toumey  was  gay  ! 
Sir  Ulric  rode  first  in  the  warrior-mSl^e. 
In  the  dire  battle-hour,  when  the  toumey  was  done, 
And  you  gave  to  another  the  wreath  you  had  won  ! 
Though  I  never  reproached  thee,  cold  cold  was  my  breast. 
As  I  thought  of  that  Battle- Axe,  ah  !  and  that  crest ! 

But  away  with  remembrance,  no  more  will  I  pine 
That  others  usurped  for  a  time  what  was  mine  ! 
There's  a  Festival  Hour  for  my  Ulric  and  me : 
Once  more,  as  of  old,  shall  he  bend  at  my  knee ; 
Once  more  by  the  side  of  the  knight  I  love  best 
Shall  I  blazon  his  Banner  and  broider  his  crest. 


THE  ALMAGK'S  ADIEU 


YOUR  Fauny  -was  never  false-hearted, 
And  this  she  protests  and  she  vows, 
From  the  triste  moment  when  we  parted 
On  the  staircase  of  Devonshire  House  ! 
I  blushed  when  you  asked  me  to  marry, 

I  vowed  I  would  never  forget ; 
And  at  parting  I  gave  my  dear  Harry 
A  beautiful  vinegarette ! 

We  spent  en  province  all  December, 

And  I  ne'er  condescended  to  look 
At  Sir  Charles,  or  the  rich  county  member, 

Or  even  at  that  darling  old  Duke. 
You  were  busy  with  dogs  and  with  horses ; 

Alone  in  my  chamber  I  sat, 
And  made  you  the  nicest  of  purses. 

And  the  smartest  black  satin  cravat ! 

At  night  with  that  vUe  Lady  Frances 

(Jefaisais  moi  tapisserie) 
You  danced  every  one  of  the  dances. 

And  never  once  thought  of  poor  me  ! 
Mon  pauvre  petit  coeur  I  what  a  shiver 

I  felt  as  she  danced  the  last  set ; 
And  you  gave,  0  mon  Dieu  I  to  revive  her 

My  beautiful  vinegarette ! 

Return,  love  !  away  with  coquetting ; 

This  flirting  disgraces  a  man  ! 
And  ah  !  all  the  while  you're  forgetting 

The  heart  of  your  poor  little  Fan  ! 
Reviens  I  break  away  from  those  Circes, 

Reviens,  for  a  nice  little  chat ; 
And  I've  made  you  the  sweetest  of  purses, 

And  a  lovely  black  satin  cravat ! 


LYEA   HIBEUNICA 

THE   POEMS   OF   THE   MOLONY   OF   KILBALLYMOLONY 


LYEA  HIBERNICA 

THE  POEMS  OF  THE  MOLONY  OF  KILBALLYMOLONY 
THE  ROSE  OF  FLORA 

SENT    BY   A   YOUNG   GENTLEMAN   OF   QUALITY    TO   JIISS 
BR-DY,    OF    CASTLE   BEADY 

ON  Brady's  tower  there  grows  a  flower, 
It  is  the  loveliest  flower  that  blows, — 
At  Castle  Brady  there  lives  a  lady, 
(And  how  I  love  her  no  one  knows) ; 
Her  name  is  Nora,  and  the  goddess  Flora 
Presents  her  with  this  blooming  rose. 

"  O  Lady  Nora,"  says  the  goddess  Flora, 
"  I've  many  a  rich  and  bright  parterre  ; 

In  Brady's  towers  there's  seven  more  flowers, 
But  you're  the  fairest  lady  there : 

Not  aR  the  county,  nor  Ireland's  bounty. 
Can  projuice  a  treasure  that's  half  so  fair !  " 

What  cheek  is  redder  ?  sure  roses  fed  her ! 

Her  hair  is  maregolds,  and  her  eye  of  blew 
Beneath  her  eyelid,  is  like  the  vi'let. 

That  darkly  glistens  with  gentle  jew  ! 
The  lily's  nature  is  not  surely  whiter 

Than  Nora's  neck  is, — and  her  arrums  too. 

"  Come,  gentle  Nora,"  says  the  goddess  Flora 
"  My  dearest  creature,  take  my  advice  : 

There  is  a  poet,  full  well  you  know  it, 

Who  spends  his  lifetime  in  heavy  sighs, — • 

Young  Redmond  Barry,  'tis  him  you'll  marry. 
If  rhyme  and  raisin  you'd  choose  likewise." 


THE  PIMLICO   PAVILION 


YE  pathrons  of  janius,  Minerva  and  Vanius, 
Who  sit  on  Parnassus,  that  mountain  of  snow, 
Descind  from  your  station  and  make  observation 
Of  the  Prince's  pavilion  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

This  garden,  by  jakurs,  is  forty  poor  acres 

(The  garner  he  tould  me,  and  sure  ought  to  know) 

And  yet  greatly  bigger,  in  size  and  in  figure, 
Than  the  Phanix  itself,  seems  the  Park  Pimlico. 

0  'tis  there  that  the  spoort  is,  when  the  Queen  and  the  Court  is 

Walking  magnanimous  all  of  a  row. 
Forgetful  what  state  is  among  the  pataties 

And  the  pine-apple  gardens  of  sweet  Pimlico. 

There  in  blossoms  odorous  the  birds  sing  a  chorus 
Of  "  God  save  the  Queen  "  as  they  hop  to  and  fro ; 

And  you  sit  on  the  binches  and  hark  to  the  finches, 
Singing  melodious  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

There  shuiting  their  phanthasies,  they  pluck  polyanthuses 
That  round  in  the  gardens  resplindently  grow, 

Wid  roses  and  jessimins,  and  other  sweet  specimins. 
Would  charm  bould  Linnayus  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

You  see  when  you  inthcr,  and  stand  in  the  cinther. 
Where  the  roses,  and  necturns,  and  collyflowers  blow, 

A  hill  so  tremindous,  it  tops  the  top-windows 
Of  the  elegant  houses  of  famed  Pimlico. 

And  when  you've  ascinded  that  precipice  splindid 

You  see  on  its  summit  a  wondtherful  show — 
A  lovely  Swish  building,  all  painting  and  gilding, 

The  famous  Pavihon  of  sweet  Pimlico. 


THE    PIMLICO    PAVILION  179 

Prince  Albert  of  Flandthers,  that  Prince  of  Commandthers 
(On  whom  my  best  blessings  hereby  I  bestow), 

With  goold  and  vermilion  has  decked  that  Pavilion, 
Where  the  Queen  may  take  tay  in  her  sweet  Pimlico. 

There's  lines  from  John  Milton  the  chamber  all  gilt  on, 
And  pictures  beneath  them  that's  shaped  liked  a  bow ; 

I  was  greatly  astounded  to  think  that  that  Roundhead 
Should  find  an  admission  to  famed  Pimlico. 


0  lovely's  each  fresco,  and  most  picturesque  0 ; 
And  while  round  the  chamber  astonished  I  go, 

1  think  Dan  Maclise's  it  baits  all  the  pieces 

Surrounding  the  cottage  of  famed  Pimlico. 

Eastlake  has  the  chimney  (a  good  one  to  limn  he), 
And  a  vargin  he  paints  with  a  sarpent  below ; 

While  bulls,  pigs,  and  panthers,  and  other  enchanthers. 
Are  painted  by  Landseer  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

And  nature  smiles  opposite,  Stanfield  he  copies  it ; 

O'er  Claude  or  Poussang  sure  'tis  he  that  may  crow  : 
But  Sir  Ross's  best  faiture  is  small  miniature — 

He  shouldn't  paint  frescoes  in  famed  Pimlico. 

There's  Leslie  and  Uwins  has  rather  small  doings ; 

There's  Dyce,  as  brave  masther  as  England  can  show ; 
And  the  flowers  and  the  sthrawberries,  sure  he  no  dauber  is. 

That  painted  the  panels  of  famed  Pimlico. 


In  the  pictures  from  Walther  Scott,  never  a  fault  there's  got, 
Sure  the  marble's  as  natural  as  thrue  Scaglio ; 

And  the  Chamber  Pompayen  is  sweet  to  take  tay  in. 
And  ait  butther'd  muffins  in  sweet  Pimlico. 


There's  landscapes  by  Gruner,  both  solar  and  lunar, 
Them  two  little  Doyles,  too,  deserve  a  bravo ; 

Wid  de  piece  by  young  Townsend,  (for  janius  abounds  in't ;) 
And  that's  why  he's  shuited  to  paint  Pimlico. 


180  LYRA    HIBERNICA 

That  picture  of  Severn's  is  worthy  of  rever'nce, 
But  some  I  won't  mintion  is  rather  so  so ; 

For  sweet  philosdphy,  or  crumpets  and  coffee, 
O  Where's  a  Pavilion  like  sweet  Pimlico  "i 


0  to  praise  this  Pavilion  would  puzzle  Quintilian, 
Daymosthenes,  Brougham,  or  young  Cicero ; 

So,  heavenly  Goddess,  d'ye  pardon  my  modesty, 
And  silence,  my  lyre  !  about  sweet  Pimlico. 


LARRY  0' TOOLE 


YOU'VE  all  heard  of  Larry  O'Toole, 
Of  the  beautiful  town  of  Drumgoole ; 
He  had  but  one  eye, 
To  ogle  ye  by — 
Oh,  murther,  but  that  was  a  jew'l ! 

A  fool 
He  made  of  de  girls,  dis  O'Toole. 

'Twas  he  was  the  boy  didn't  fail, 

That  tuck  down  pataties  and  mail ; 
He  never  would  shrink 
From  any  sthrong  dthrink, 

Was  it  whisky  or  Drogheda  ale ; 
I'm  bail 

This  Larry  would  swallow  a  pail. 

Oh,  many  a  night  at  the  bowl, 
With  Larry  I've  sot  cheek  by  jowl ; 

He's  gone  to  his  rest. 

Where  there's  dthrink  of  the  best, 
And  so  let  us  give  his  old  sowl 

A  howl, 
For  'twas  he  made  the  noggin  to  rowl. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK 


r 


'  E  Genii  of  the  nation, 

Who  look  with  veneration, 
And  Ireland's  desolation  onsaysingly  deplore ; 
Ye  sons  of  General  Jackson, 
Who  thraraple  on  the  Saxon, 
Attend  to  the  thransaction  upon  Shannon  shore. 

When  William,  Duke  of  Schumbug, 

A  tyrant  and  a  humbug, 
With  cannon  and  with  thunder  on  our  city  bore, 

Our  fortitude  and  valliance 

Insthructed  his  battalions 
To  rispict  the  galliant  Irish  upon  Shannon  shore. 

Since  that  capitulation. 

No  city  in  this  nation 
So  grand  a  reputation  could  boast  before. 

As  Limerick  prodigious. 

That  stands  with  quays  and  bridges, 
And  the  ships  up  to  the  windies  of  the  Shannon  shore. 

A  chief  of  ancient  line, 

'Tis  William  Smith  O'Brine, 
Reprisints  this  darling  Limerick,  this  ten  years  or  more : 

0  the  Saxons  can't  endure 

To  see  him  on  the  flure. 
And  thrimble  at  the  Cicero  from  Shannon  shore  ! 

This  valiant  son  of  Mars 

Had  been  to  visit  Par's, 
That  land  of  Revolution,  that  grows  the  tricolor ; 

And  to  welcome  his  returrn 

From  pilgrimages  furren, 
We  invited  him  to  tay  on  the  Shannon  shore  ! 


THE    BATTLE    OF    LIMERICK  183 

Then  we  summoned  to  our  board 

Young  Meagher  of  the  Sword  ; 
'Tis  he  will  sheathe  that  battle-axe  in  Saxon  gore : 

And  Mitchil  of  Belfast 

We  bade  to  our  repast, 
To  dthrink  a  dish  of  coffee  on  the  Shannon  shore. 


Convaniently  to  hould 

These  patriots  so  bould, 
We  tuck  the  opportunity  of  Tim  Doolan's  store ; 

And  with  omamints  and  banners 

(As  becomes  gintale  good  manners) 
We  made  the  loveliest  tay-room  upon  Shannon  shore. 

'Twould  binifit  your  sowls, 

To  see  the  butthered  rowls. 
The  sugar-tongs  and  sangwidges  and  craim  galyore, 

And  the  muffins  and  the  crumpets, 

And  the  band  of  harps  and  thrumpets, 
To  celebrate  the  sworry  upon  Shannon  shore. 

Sure  the  Imperor  of  Bohay 
Would  be  proud  to  dthrink  the  tay 

That  Misthress  Biddy  Rooney  for  O'Brine  did  pour ; 
And,  since  the  days  of  Strongbow, 
There  never  was  such  Congo — 

Mitchil  dthrank  six  quarts  of  it — by  Shannon  shore. 

But  Clamdon  and  Corry 

Connellan  beheld  this  sworry 
With  rage  and  imulation  in  their  black  hearts'  core  ; 

And  they  hired  a  gang  of  ruffins 

To  interrupt  the  muffins 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  Congo  on  the  Shannon  shore. 

When  full  of  tay  and  cake, 

O'Brine  began  to  spake  ; 
But  juice  a  one  could  hear  him,  for  a  sudden  roar 

Of  a  ragamuffin  rout 

Began  to  yell  and  shout, 
And  frighten  the  projiriety  of  Shannon  shore. 


184,  LYRA    HIBERNICA 

As  Smith  O'Brine  harangued, 
They  batthered  and  they  banged  : 

Tim  Doolan's  doors  and  windies  down  they  tore ; 
They  smashed  the  lovely  windies 
(Hung  with  musKn  from  the  Indies), 

Purshuing  of  their  shindies  upon  Shannon  shore. 


With  throwing  of  brickbats. 

Drowned  puppies  and  dead  rats, 
These  ruffin  democrats  themselves  did  lower ; 

Tin  kettles,  rotten  eggs. 

Cabbage-stalks,  and  wooden  legs. 
They  flung  among  the  patriots  of  Shannon  shore. 

0  the  girls  began  to  scrame 

And  upset  the  milk  and  crame ; 
And  the  honourable  gintlemin,  they  cursed  and  swore  : 

And  Mitchil  of  Belfast, 

'Twas  he  that  looked  aghast. 
When  they  roasted  him  in  eflSgy  by  Shannon  shore. 

O  the  lovely  tay  was  spilt 

On  that  day  of  Ireland's  guilt ; 
Says  Jack  Mitchil,  "  I  am  kilt !    Boys,  where's  the  back  door  ? 

'Tis  a  national  disgrace  : 

Let  me  go  and  veil  me  face  ;  " 
And  he  boulted  with  quick  pace  from  the  Shannon  shore. 

"  Cut  down  the  bloody  horde  ! " 

Says  Meagher  of  the  Sword, 
"  This  conduct  would  disgrace  any  blackamore ; " 

But  the  best  use  Tommy  made 

Of  his  famous  battle  blade 
Was  to  cut  his  own  stick  from  the  Shannon  shore. 


Immortal  Smith  O'Brine 

Was  raging  like  a  line  ; 
'Twould  have  done  your  sowl  good  to  have  heard  him  roar  ; 

In  his  glory  he  arose. 

And  he  rusli'd  upon  his  foes. 
But, they  hit  him  on  the  nose  by  the  Shannon  shore. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    LIMERICK  185 

Then  the  Futt  and  the  Dthragoons 

In  squadthrons  and  platoons, 
With  their  music  playing  chunes,  down  upon  us  bore ; 

And  they  bate  the  rattatoo, 

But  the  Peelers  came  in  view, 
And  ended  the  shaloo  on  the  Shannon  shore. 


MR.  MOLONTS  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BALL 

GIVEN    TO    THE   NEPAULESE   AMBASSADOR   BY    THE    PENINSULAR 
AND   ORIENTAL    COMPANY 

OWILL  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news, 
Bedad  I  cannot  pass  it  o'er : 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  Ball 
To  the  Naypaulase  Ambassador. 
Begor  !  this  ffite  all  balls  does  bate 

At  which  I've  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 
Of  th'  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse. 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 
"  We'll  show  the  blacks,"  says  they,  "  Almack's, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis's." 
With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 

They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 
And  decked  the  walls,  and  stairs,  and  halls, 

With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 

And  Jullien's  band  it  tuck  its  stand 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 
And  soft  bassoons  played  heavenly  chunes, 

And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 
And  when  the  Coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

I'd  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  nate  buffet  before  them  set. 

Where  lashins  of  good  dthrink  there  was. 

At  ten  before  the  ballroom  door, 

His  moighty  ExceU^noy  was. 
He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd, 

So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 


ME.  MOLONY'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BALL  187 

His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute, 

Into  the  doorway  followed  him  ; 
And  0  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys, 

As  they  hurrood  and  hollowed  him  ! 

The  noble  Chair  *  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dthrums  to  thump ;  and  he 
Did  thus  evince,  to  that  Black  Prince, 

The  welcome  of  his  Company. 
O  fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls. 

And  bright  the  oys  you  saw  there  was, 
And  fixed  each  oye,  j'e  there  could  spoi. 

On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther,  was  ! 

This  Gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate. 

With  all  the  other  giuerals 
(Bedad  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals) ; 
And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 

Eecloinin  on  his  cushion  was. 
All  round  about  his  royal  chair 

The  squeezin  and  the  pushin  was. 

O  Pat,  such  girls,  such  Jukes,  and  Earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee  ! 
Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 

Amidst  the  hoigh  gentilitee  ! 
There  was  Lord  De  L'Huys,  and  the  Portygeese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there. 
And  I  reckonised,  with  much  surprise, 

Oiu:  messmate.  Bob  O'Grady,  there ; 

There  was  Baroness  Brunow,  that  looked  like  Juno, 

And  Baroness  Rehausen  there. 
And  Countess  RouIUer,  that  looked  peculiar 

AVell,  in  her  robes  of  gauze  in  there. 
There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first, 

When  only  Mr.  Pips  he  was). 
And  Mick  O'Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 

That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

*  James  Mathesou,  Esquire,  to  whom,  and  the  Board  of  Directors  of  the 
Peninsular  and  Oriental  Company,  I,  Timotheus  Molony,  late  stoker  on  board 
the  Iberia,  the  Lady  Mary  Wood,  the  Tagus,  and  the  Oriental  steamships, 
humbly  dedicate  this  production  of  my  grateful  muse. 


188  LYRA    HIBEKNICA 

There  was  Lord  Fingall,  and  his  ladies  all, 

And  Lords  Eileen  and  Duiferin, 
And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife ; 

I  wondther  how  he  could  stuff  her  in.. 
There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past. 

And  seemed  to  ask  how  should  I  go  there  ? 
And  the  Widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A.  Hay, 

And  the  Marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  Jukes,  and  Earls,  and  diamonds,  and  pearls, 

And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there ; 
And  some  beside  (the  rogues  !)  I  spied. 

Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 
0,  there's  one  I  know,  bedad,  would  show 

As  beautiful  as  any  there, 
And  I'd  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow. 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there  ! 


THE  LAST  IRISH  GRIEVANCE 


On  reading  of  the  general  indignation  occasioned  in  Ireland  by  the 
appointment  of  a  Scotch  Professor  to  one  of  Hek  Majesty's  Godless 
Colleges,  Master  Molloy  Molony,  brother  of  Thaddeus  Molony, 
Esq.,  of  the  Temple,  a  youth  only  fifteen  years  of  age,  dashed  off 
the  following  spirited  lines  : — 

AS  I  think  of  the  insult  that's  done  to  this  nation, 
/-\         Red  tears  of  rivinge  from  me  faytures  I  wash, 
-*     *■   And  uphold  in  this  pome,  to  the  world's  daytistation, 
The  sleeves  that  appointed  Peofessoe  MacCosh. 

I  look  round  me  counthree,  renowned  by  exparience, 
And  see  midst  her  childthren,  the  witty,  the  wise, — 

Whole  hayps  of  logicians,  potes,  schoUars,  grammarians, 
All  ayger  for  pleeces,  all  panting  to  rise ; 

I  gaze  round  the  world  in  its  utmost  diminsion ; 

Laed  Jahn  and  his  minions  in  Council  I  ask. 
Was  there  ever  a  Government-pleece  (with  a  pinsion) 

But  children  of  Erin  were  fit  for  that  task  ? 

What,  Erin  beloved,  is  thy  fetal  condition  ? 

What  shame  in  aych  boosom  must  rankle  and  burrun. 
To  think  that  our  countree  has  ne'er  a  logician 

In  the  hour  of  her  deenger  will  surrev  her  turrun  ! 

On  the  logic  of  Saxons  there's  little  reliance. 

And,  rather  from  Saxon  than  gather  its  rules, 
I'd  stamp  under  feet  the  base  book  of  his  science, 

And  spit  on  his  chair  as  he  taught  in  the  schools  ! 

0  false  SiE  John  Kane  !  is  it  thus  that  you  praych  me  1 

I  think  all  your  Queen's  Universitees  Bosh ; 
And  if  you've  no  neetive  Professor  to  taych  me, 

I  scawurn  to  be  learned  by  the  Saxon  MacCosh. 


190  LYEA    HIBERNICA 

There's  Wiseman  and  Chume,  and  his  Grace  the  Lord  Primate, 
That  sinds  round  the  box,  and  the  world  will  subscribe ; 

'Tis  they'll  build  a  College  that's  fit  for  our  climate. 
And  taych  me  the  saycrets  I  burn  to  imboibe ! 

'Tia  there  as  a  Student  of  Science  I'll  enther, 

Fair  Fountain  of  Knowledge,  of  Joy,  and  Contint ! 

Saint  Pathrick's  sweet  Statue  shall  stand  in  the  centher, 
And  wink  his  dear  oi  every  day  during  Lint. 

And  good  Doctor  Newman,  that  praycher  unwary, 

'Tis  he  shall  preside  the  Academee  School, 
And  quit  the  gay  robe  of  St.  Philip  of  Neri, 

To  wield  the  soft  rod  of  St.  Lawrence  O'Toole  ! 


THE  CRYSTAL   PALACE 


WITH  ganial  foire 
Thransfuse  me  loyre, 
Ye  sacred  nympths  of  Pindus, 
The  whoile  I  sing 
That  wondthrous  thing, 
The  Palace  made  o'  windows  ! 

Say,  Paxton,  truth. 

Thou  wondthrous  youth. 
What  sthroke  of  art  celistial, 

What  power  was  lint 

You  to  invint 
This  combineetion  cristial. 

0  would  before 

That  Thomas  Moore, 
Likewoise  the  late  Lord  Boyron, 

Thim  aigles  sthrong 

Of  godlike  song. 
Cast  oi  on  that  cast  oiron ! 

And  saw  thim  walls, 

And  glittering  halls, 
Thim  rising  slendther  columns, 

Which  I,  poor  pote, 

Could  not  denote, 
No,  not  in  twinty  vollums. 

My  Muse's  words 

Is  like  the  bird's 
That  roosts  beneath  the  panes  there ; 

Her  wings  she  spoils 

'Gainst  them  bright  toiles. 
And  cracks  her  silly  brains  there. 


192  lyua  hibeenica 

This  Palace  tall, 
This  Cristial  Hall, 

Which  Imperors  might  covet, 
Stands  in  High  Park, 
Like  Noah's  Ark, 

A  rainbow  bint  above  it. 


The  towers  and  fanes. 

In  other  scaynes. 
The  fame  of  this  will  undo. 

Saint  Paul's  big  doom. 

Saint  Payther's  Room, 
And  Dublin's  proud  Rotundo. 

'Tis  here  that  roams. 

As  well  becomes 
Her  dignitee  and  stations, 

Victoria  Great, 

And  lioulds  in  state 
The  Congress  of  the  Nations. 

Her  subjects  pours 

From  distant  shores. 
Her  Injians  and  Canajians  ; 

And  also  we. 

Her  kingdoms  three, 
Attind  with  our  allagiance. 

Here  come  likewise 

Her  bould  allies, 
Both  Asian  and  Europian ; 

Prom  East  and  West 

They  send  their  best 
To  fill  her  Coornucopean. 

I  seen  (thank  Grace  !) 

This  wondthrous  place 
(His  Noble  Honour  Misther 

H.  Cole  it  was 

That  gave  the  pass. 
And  let  me  see  what  is  there). 


THE    CRYSTAL    PALACE  193 

With  conscious  proide 

I  stud  insoide 
And  look'd  the  World's  Great  Fair  in, 

Until  me  sight 

Was  dazzled  quite, 
And  couldn't  see  for  staring. 


There's  holy  saints 

And  window  paints. 
By  Maydiayval  Pugin ; 

Alhamborough  Jones 

Did  paint  the  tones 
Of  yellow  and  gambouge  in. 

There's  fountains  there 

And  crosses  fair ; 
There's  water-gods  with  urrns  : 

There's  organs  three, 

To  play,  d'ye  see  1 
"  God  save  the  Queen,"  by  turrns. 

There's  statues  bright 

Of  marble  white, 
Of  silver,  and  of  copper ; 

And  some  in  zinc, 

And  some,  I  think, 
That  isn't  over  proper. 

There's  staym  ingynes, 

That  stands  in  lines. 
Enormous  and  amazing. 

That  squeal  and  snort 

Like  whales  in  sport. 
Or  elephants  a-grazing. 

There's  carts  and  gigs. 

And  pins  for  pigs. 
There's  dibblers  and  there's  harrows, 

And  ploughs  like  toys 

For  little  boys. 
And  iligant  wheelbarrows. 
13 


194  LYEA    HIBERNICA 

For  thim  genteels 
Who  ride  on  wheels, 

There's  plenty  to  indulge  'em  : 
There's  droskys  snug 
From  Paytersbug, 

And  vayhycles  from  Bulgium. 


There's  cabs  on  stands 

And  shandthrydanns ; 
There's  waggons  from  New  York  liere ; 

There's  Lapland  sleighs 

Have  cross'd  the  seas, 
And  jaunting  cyars  from  Cork  here. 

Amazed  I  pass 

From  glass  to  glass, 
Deloighted  I  survey  'em  ; 

Fresh  wondthers  grows 

Before  me  nose 
In  this  sublime  Musayum  ! 

Look,  here's  a  fan 

From  far  Japan, 
A  sabre  from  Damasco  : 

There's  shawls  ye  get 

From  far  Thibet, 
And  cotton  prints  from  Glasgow. 

There's  German  flutes, 

Marocky  boots, 
And  Naples  macaronies ; 

Bohaymia 

Has  sent  Bohay ; 
Polonia  her  polonies. 

There's  granite  flints 

That's  quite  imminse. 
There's  sacks  of  coals  and  fuels. 

There's  swords  and  guns, 

And  soap  in  tuns, 
And  gingerbread  and  jewels. 


THE    CRYSTAL    PALACE  195 

There's  taypots  there, 

And  cannons  rare ; 
There's  coffins  fill'd  with  roses ; 

There's  canvas  tints, 

Teeth  insthrumints. 
And  shuits  of  clothes  by  Moses. 

There's  lashins  more 

Of  things  in  store, 
But  thim  I  don't  reraimber ; 

Nor  could  disclose 

Did  I  compose 
From  May  time  to  Novimber  ! 

Ah,  Judy  thru  ! 

With  eyes  so  blue. 
That  you  were  here  to  view  it ! 

And  could  I  screw 

But  tu  pound  tu, 
'Tis  I  would  thrait  you  to  it ! 

So  let  us  raise 

Victoria's  praise, 
And  Albert's  proud  condition, 

That  takes  his  ayse 

As  he  surveys 
This  Cristial  Exhibition. 
1851. 


MOLONTS  LAMENT 


OTIM,  did  you  hear  of  thim  Saxons, 
And  read  what  the  peepers  report  1 
They're  goan  to  recal  the  Liftinant, 
And  shut  up  the  Castle  and  Coort ! 
Our  desolate  counthry  of  Oireland 

They're  bint,  the  blagyards,  to  desthroy, 
And  now  having  murdthered  our  counthry, 
They're  goin  to  kill  the  Viceroy, 

Dear  boy ; 
'Twas  he  was  our  proide  and  our  joy  ! 


And  will  we  no  longer  behould  him, 

Surrounding  his  carriage  in  throngs, 
As  he  waves  his  cocked-hat  from  the  windies, 

And  smiles  to  his  bould  aid-de-congs  1 
I  liked  for  to  see  the  young  haroes. 

All  shoining  with  sthripes  and  with  stars, 
A  horsing  about  in  the  Phaynix, 

And  winking  the  girls  in  the  cyars, 
Like  Mars, 

A  smokin'  their  poipes  and  cigyars. 


Dear  Mitchell  exoiled  to  Bermudies, 

Your  beautiful  cUids  you'll  ope, 
And  there'll  be  an  abondance  of  croyin' 

From  O'Brine  at  the  Keep  of  Good  Hope, 
When  they  read  of  this  news  in  the  peepers, 

Acrass  the  Atlantical  wave. 
That  the  last  of  the  Oirish  Liftinints 

Of  the  oisland  of  Seents  has  tuck  lave. 
God  save 

The  Queen — she  should  betther  behave. 


MOLONY'S    LAMENT  197 

And  what's  to  become  of  poor  Dame  Sthreet, 

And  who'll  ait  the  puflfe  and  the  tarts, 
Whin  the  Ooort  of  iraparial  splindor 

From  Doblin's  sad  city  departs  1 
And  who'll  have  the  fiddlers  and  pipers, 

When  the  deuce  of  a  Coort  there  remains  ? 
And  where'U  be  the  bucks  and  the  ladies, 

To  hire  the  Coort-shuits  and  the  thrains  1 
In  sthrains, 

It's  thus  that  ould  Erin  complains  ! 

There's  Counsellor  Flanagan's  leedy, 

'Twas  she  in  the  Ooort  didn't  fail, 
And  she  wanted  a  plinty  of  popplin, 

For  her  dthress,  and  her  flounce,  and  her  tail ; 
She  bought  it  of  Misthress  O'Grady, 

Eight  shillings  a  yard  tabinet, 
But  now  that  the  Ooort  is  concluded, 

The  diwle  a  yard  will  she  get ; 
I  bet, 

Bedad,  that  she  wears  the  old  set. 

There's  Surgeon  O'Toole  and  Miss  Leary, 

They'd  daylings  at  Madam  O'Riggs' ; 
Each  year  at  the  dthrawing-room  sayson. 

They  mounted  the  neatest  of  wigs. 
When  Spring,  with  its  buds  and  its  dasies, 

Oomes  out  in  her  beauty  and  bloom, 
Thim  tu'll  never  think  of  new  jasies, 

Becase  there  is  no  dthrawing-room, 
For  whom 

They'd  choose  the  expense  to  ashumc. 

There's  Alderman  Toad  and  his  lady, 

'Twas  they  gave  the  Olart  and  the  Poort, 
And  the  poine-apples,  turbots,  and  lobsters, 

To  feast  the  Lord  Liftinint's  Coort. 
But  now  that  the  quality's  goin, 

I  warnt  that  the  aiting  will  stop. 
And  you'll  get  at  the  Alderman's  teeble 

The  devil  a  bite  or  a  dthrop, 
Or  chop ; 

And  the  butcher  may  shut  up  his  shop. 


198  LYRA    HIBERNICA 

Yes,  the  grooms  and  the  ushers  are  goin, 

And  his  Lordship,  the  dear  honest  man, 
And  the  Duchess,  his  eemiable  leedy. 

And  Oorry,  the  bould  Connellan, 
And  little  Lord  Hyde  and  the  chUdthren, 

And  the  Chewter  and  Governess  tu ; 
And  the  servants  are  packing  their  boxes,— 

Oh,  murther,  but  what  shall  I  due 
Without  you  ? 

O  Meery,  with  ois  of  the  blue  ! 


BALLADS   OF   POLICEMAN   X 


THE 

BALLADS    OF   POLICEMAN   X 

JACOB    HOMNIUM'S   HOSS 

A    NEW    PALLICE    COUET    CHAUNT 

ONE  sees  in  Viteall  Yard, 
Vere  pleacemen  do  resort, 
A  wenerable  hiiistitute, 
'Tis  caUed  the  Pallis  Court. 
A  gent  as  got  his  i  on  it, 

I  think  'twill  make  some  sport. 

The  natiir  of  this  Court 

My  hindignation  riles : 
A  few  fat  legal  spiders 

Here  set  &  spin  their  viles ; 
To  rob  the  town  theyr  privlege  is, 

In  a  hayrea  of  twelve  miles. 

The  Judge  of  this  year  Court 

Is  a  mellitary  beak, 
He  knows  no  more  of  Lor 

Than  praps  he  does  of  Greek, 
And  prowides  Jiisself  a  deputy 

Because  he  cannot  speak. 

Four  counsel  in  this  Court — 

Misnamed  of  Justice — sits ; 
These  lawyers  owes  their  places  to 

Their  money,  not  their  wits ; 
And  there's  six  attornies  under  them, 

As  here  their  living  gits. 


202  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

These  lawyers,  six  and  four, 

Was  a  livin  at  their  ease, 
A  sendin  of  their  ■writs  abowt, 

And  droring  in  the  fees, 
When  there  erose  a  cirkimstance 

As  is  like  to  make  a  breeze. 


It  now  is  some  monce  since 
A  gent  both  good  and  trew 

Possest  an  ansum  oss  vith  vich 
He  didn  know  what  to  do  ; 

Peraps  he  did  not  like  the  oss, 
Peraps  he  was  a  scru. 


This  gentleman  his  oss 
At  Tattersall's  did  lodge  ; 

There  came  a  wulgar  oss-dealer. 
This  gentleman's  name  did  fodge, 

And  took  the  oss  from  Tattersall's : 
Wasn  that  a  artful  dodge  ? 


One  day  this  gentleman's  groom 

This  villain  did  spy  out, 
A  mounted  on  this  oss 

A  lidin  him  about ; 
"  Get  out  of  that  there  oss,  you  rogue,' 

Speaks  up  the  groom  so  stout. 


The  thief  was  cruel  whex'd 
To  find  himself  so  pinn'd  : 

The  oss  began  to  whinny. 

The  honest  groom  he  grinn'd ; 

And  the  raskle  thief  got  off  the  oss 
And  cut  avay  like  vind. 


And  phansy  with  what  joy 
The  master  did  regard 

His  dearly  bluvd  lost  oss  again 
Trot  in  the  stable  j'ard  ! 


JACOB    HOMNIUM'S    HOSS  203 

Who  was  this  master  good 

Of  whomb  I  makes  these  rhymes  1 
His  name  is  Jacob  Homnium,  Exquire ; 

And  if  FA  committed  crimes, 
Good  Lord  !  I  wouldn't  ave  that  manu 

Attack  me  in  the  Times  I 


Now  shortly  after  the  groomb 
His  master's  oss  did  take  up, 

There  came  a  livery-man 
This  gentleman  to  wake  up  ; 

And  he  handed  in  a  little  bill, 
Which  h  angered  Mr.  Jacob. 


For  two  pound  seventeen 

This  livery-man  eplied. 
For  the  keep  of  Mr.  Jacob's  oss. 

Which  the  thief  had  took  to  ride. 
"  Do  you  see  anythink  green  in  me  ? " 

Mr.  Jacob  Homnium  cried.  • 


"  Because  a  raskle  chews 

My  oss  away  to  robb. 
And  goes  tick  at  your  Mews 

For  seven-and-fifty  bobb. 
Shall  /  be  call'd  to  pay  1 — It  is 

A  iniquitious  Jobb." 

Thus  Mr.  Jacob  cut 

The  conwasation  short ; 
The  livery-man  went  ome, 

Detummingd  to  ave  sport, 
And  summingsd  Jacob  Homnium,  Exquire, 

Into  the  Pallis  Court. 

Pore  Jacob  went  to  Court, 

A  Counsel  for  to  fix. 
And  choose  a  barrister  out  of  the  four. 

An  attorney  of  the  six  : 
And  there  he  sor  these  men  of  Lor, 

And  watch'd  'em  at  their  tricks. 


204  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

The  dreadful  day  of  trile 

In  the  Pallis  Court  did  come ; 

The  lawyers  said  their  say, 
The  Judge  look'd  wery  glum, 

And  then  the  British  Jury  cast 
Pore  Jacob  Hom-ni-um. 


0  a  weary  day  was  that 

For  Jacob  to  go  through  ; 
The  debt  was  two  seventeen 

(Which  he  no  mor  owed  than  you), 
And  then  there  was  the  plaintives  costs, 

Eleven  pound  six  and  two. 

And  then  there  was  his  own. 
Which  the  lawyers  they  did  fix 

At  the  wery  moderit  figgar 
Of  ten  pound  one  and  six. 

Now  Evins  bless  the  Pallis  Court, 
And  all  its  bold  ver-dicks  ! 


I  cannot  settingly  tell 

If  Jacob  swaw  and  cust. 
At  aving  for  to  pay  this  sumb ; 

But  I  should  think  he  must. 
And  av  drawn  a  cheque  for  £24  4s.  8d. 

With  most  igstreme  disgust. 

0  Pallis  Court,  you  move 

My  pitty  most  profound. 
A  most  emusing  sport 

You  thought  it,  I'll  be  bound, 
To  saddle  hup  a  three-pound  debt 

With  two-and-twenty  pound. 

Good  sport  it  is  to  you 

To  grind  the  honest  pore, 
To  pay  their  just  or  unjust  debts 

With  eight  liundred  per  cent,  for  Lor  ; 
Make  haste  and  get  your  costes  in, 

Thev  will  not  last  much  mor ! 


JACOB    HOMNIUM'S    HOSS  205 

Come  down  from  that  tribewn, 

Thou  shameless  and  Unjust ; 
Thou  Swindle,  picking  pockets  in 

The  name  of  Truth  august : 
Come  down,  thou  hoary  Blasphemy, 

For  die  thou  shalt  and  must. 

And  go  it,  Jacob  Homnium, 

And  ply  your  iron  pen. 
And  rise  up.  Sir  John  Jervis, 

And  shut  me  up  that  den  : 
That  sty  for  fattening  lawyere  in 

On  the  bones  of  honest  men. 

Pleaceman  X. 


THE  THREE  CHRISTMAS   WAITS 


MY  name  is  Pleaceman  X  ; 
Last  night  I  was  in  bed, 
A  (Ireaui  did  me  perplex, 

Which  came  into  my  Edd. 
I  dreamed  I  sor  three  Waits 

A  playing  of  their  tune, 
At  Pimlico  Palace  gates, 

All  underneath  the  moon. 
One  puffed  a  hold  French  horn, 

And  one  a  hold  Banjo, 
And  one  chap  seedy  and  torn 

A  Hirish  pipe  did  blow. 
They  sadly  piped  and  played, 

Dexcribing  of  their  fates  ; 
And  this  was  what  they  said, 

Those  three  pore  Christmas  Waits  :- 

"When  this  black  year  began. 

This  Eighteen-forty-eight, 
I  was  a  great  great  man, 

And  king  both  vise  and  great, 
•  And  Munseer  Guizot  by  me  did  show 

As  Minister  of  State. 

"  But  Febuwerry  came, 

And  brought  a  rabble  rout, 

And  me  and  my  good  dame 
And  children  did  turn  out. 

And  us,  in  spite  of  all  our  right, 
Sent  to  the  right  about. 

"  I  left  my  native  ground, 
I  left  my  kin  and  kith, 


THE    THREE    CHRISTMAS    WAITS  207 

I  left  my  Royal  crownd, 

Vich  I  couldn't  travel  vith, 
And  without  a  pound  came  to  English  ground 

In  the  name  of  Mr.  Smith. 


"  Like  any  anchorite 

I've  lived  since  I  came  here, 
I've  kep  myself  quite  quite, 

I've  drank  the  small  small  beer. 
And  the  vater,  you  see,  disagrees  vith  me 

And  aU  my  famly  dear. 


"  0  Tweeleries  so  dear, 

0  darling  Pally  Royl, 
Vas  it  to  finish  here 

That  I  did  trouble  and  toyl  ? 
That  all  my  plans  should  break  in  my  ands, 

And  should  on  me  recoil  ? 


'  My  state  I  fenced  about 

Vith  baynicks  and  vith  guns ; 

My  gals  I  portioned  hout. 
Rich  vives  I  got  my  sons ; 

0  varn't  it  crule  to  lose  my  rule. 
My  money  and  lands  at  once  ? 


"  And  so,  vith  arp  and  woice, 

Both  troubled  and  shagreened, 
I  bid  you  to  rejoice, 

0  glorious  England's  Queend  ! 
And  never  have  to  veep,  like  pore  Louis-Phileep, 

Because  you  out  are  cleaned. 


"  0  Prins,  so  brave  and  stout, 
I  stand  before  your  gate ; 
Pray  send  a  trifle  hout 

To  me,  your  pore  old  Vait ; 
For  nothink  could  be  vuss  than  it's  been  along  vith  us 
In  this  year  Forty-eight." 


208  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

"  Ven  this  bad  year  began," 
The  nex  man  said,  saysee, 
"  I  vas  a  Journeyman, 

A  taylor  black  and  free, 
And  my  wife  went  out  and  chaired  about. 
And  my  name's  the  bold  Cuffee. 


"  The  Queen  and  Halbert  both 

I  swore  I  would  confound, 
I  took  a  hawfle  hoath 

To  drag  them  to  the  ground ; 
And  sevral  more  with  me  they  swore 

Aginst  the  British  Crownd. 

"  Aginst  her  Pleaceman  all 

We  said  we'd  try  our  strenth  ; 

Her  scarlick  soldiers  tall 

We  vow'd  we'd  lay  full  lenth  : 

And  out  we  came,  in  Freedom's  name. 
Last  Aypril  was  the  tenth. 

"  Three  'undred  thousand  snobs 

Came  out  to  stop  the  vay, 
Vith  sticks  vith  iron  knobs. 

Or  else  we'd  gained  the  daj'. 
The  harmy  quite  kept  out  of  sight. 

And  so  ve  vent  avay. 

"  Next  day  the  Pleacemen  came — 
Kewenge  it  was  their  plann — 
And  from  my  good  old  dame 

They  took  her  tailor-mann  : 
And  the  hard  hard  beak  did  me  bespeak 
To  Newgit  in  the  Wann. 

"  In  that  etrocious  Cort 
The  Jewry  did  agree  ; 
The  Judge  did  me  transport, 

To  go  beyond  the  sea  : 
And  so  for  life,  from  his  dear  wife 
They  took  poor  old  Cuffee. 


THE    THREE    CHRISTMAS    WAITS  209 

"  0  Halbert,  Appy  Prince  ! 

With  children  round  your  knees, 
Ingraving  ansum  Prints, 

And  taking  hoflf  your  hease  ; 
0  think  of  me,  the  old  Ouffee, 

Beyond  the  solt  solt  seas  ! 


"  Although  I'm  hold  and  black. 
My  hanguish  is  most  great ; 
Great  Prince,  0  call  me  back, 

And  I  vill  be  your  Vait ! 
And  never  no  more  vill  break  the  Lor, 
As  I  did  in  'Forty-eight." 

The  taller  thus  did  close 

(A  pore  old  blackymore  rogue), 

Wlien  a  dismal  gent  uprose, 
And  spoke  with  Hirish  brogue  : 

"  I'm  Smith  O'Brine,  of  Royal  Line, 
Descended  from  Rory  Ogue. 

"  When  great  O'Connle  died. 

That  man  whom  all  did  trust. 

That  man  whom  Henglish  pride 
Beheld  with  such  disgust. 

Then  Erin  free  iixed  eyes  on  me. 
And  swoar  I  should  be  fust. 

"  '  The  glorious  Hirish  Crown,' 
Says  she,  '  it  shall  be  thine  : 
Long  time,  it's  wery  well  known. 

You  kep  it  in  your  line  ; 
That  diadem  of  hemerald  gem 
Is  yours,  my  Smith  O'Brine. 

"  '  Too  long  the  Saxon  churl 
Our  land  encumbered  hath  ; 

Arise,  my  Prince,  my  Earl, 

And  brush  them  from  thy  path  : 

Rise,  mighty  Smith,  and  sveep  'em  vith 
The  besom  of  your  wrath.' 


210  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

"  Then  in  my  might  I  rose, 

My  country  I  surveyed, 
I  saw  it  filled  with  foes, 

I  viewed  them  undismayed  ; 
'  Ha,  ha  ! '  says  I,  '  the  harvest's  high, 

I'll  reap  it  with  my  blade.' 

"  My  warriors  I  enrolled. 

They  rallied  round  their  lord ; 

And  cheafs  in  council  old 
I  summoned  to  the  board — 

Wise  Doheny  and  Duflfy  bold. 
And  Meagher  of  the  Sword. 

"  I  stood  on  Slievenamaun, 

They  came  with  pikes  and  bills ; 

They  gathered  in  the  dawn, 
Like  mist  upon  the  hills, 

And  rushed  adown  the  mountain  side 
Like  twenty  thousand  rills. 

"  Their  fortress  we  assail ; 

Hurroo  !  my  boys,  hurroo  ! 
The  bloody  Saxons  quad 

To  hear  the  wild  shaloo  : 
Strike,  and  prevail,  proud  Innesfail, 

O'Brine  aboo,  aboo  ! 

"  Our  people  they  defied  ; 

They  shot  at  'em  like  savages, 
Their  bloody  guns  they  plied 

With  sanguinary  ravages  : 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide 

That  day  among  the  cabbages  ! 

"And  so  no  more  I'll  say. 
But  ask  your  Mussy  great, 

And  humbly  sing  and  pray, 
Your  Majesty's  poor  Wait : 

Your  Smith  O'Brine  in  'Forty-nine 
Will  blush  for  'Forty-eight." 


THE  BALLAD   OF  ELIZA   DAVIS 


GALLIANT  gents  and  lovely  ladies. 
List  a  tail  vich  late  befel, 
Vich  I  heard  it,  bein  on  duty, 
At  the  Pleace  Hoffice,  Clerkenwell. 

Praps  you  know  the  Fondling  Chapel, 
Vere  the  little  children  sings  : 

(Lor  !  I  likes  to  hear  on  Sundies 
Them  there  pooty  little  things  !) 

In  this  street  there  lived  a  housemaid. 
If  you  particklarly  ask  me  where — 

Vy,  it  vas  at  four-and-tventy 

Guilford  Street,  by  Brunsvick  Square. 

Vich  her  name  was  Eliza  Davis, 
And  she  went  to  fetch  the  beer : 

In  the  street  she  met  a  party 
As  was  quite  surprized  to  see  her. 

Vich  he  vas  a  British  Sailor, 
For  to  judge  him  by  his  look : 

Tarry  jacket,  canvass  trowsies, 
Ha-la  Mr.  T.  P.  Cooke. 

Presently  this  Mann  accostes 
Of  this  hinnocent  young  gal — 

"  Pray,"  saysee,  "  excuse  my  freedom, 
You're  so  like  my  Sister  Sal ! 

"  You're  so  like  my  Sister  Sally, 
Both  in  valk  and  face  and  size, 

Miss,  that — dang  my  old  lee  scuppers, 
It  brings  tears  into  my  heyes  ! 


212  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

"  I'm  a  mate  on  board  a  wessel, 
I'm  a  sailor  bold  and  true  ; 

Shiver  up  my  poor  old  timbers, 
Let  me  be  a  mate  for  you ! 

"  What's  your  name,  my  beauty,  tell  me ;" 
And  she  faintly  hansers,  "  Lore, 

Sir,  my  name's  Eliza  Davis, 
And  I  live  at  tventy-four." 

Hofttimes  came  this  British  seaman. 

This  deluded  gal  to  meet ; 
And  at  tventy-four  was  welcome, 

Tventy-four  in  Guilford  Street. 

And  Eliza  told  her  Master 

(Kinder  they  than  Missuses. are), 

How  in  marridgfe  he  had  ast  her, 
Like  a  galliant  Brittish  Tar. 

And  he  brought  his  landlady  vith  him 
(Vich  vas  all  his  hartful  plan). 

And  she  told  how  Charley  Thompson 
Reely  vas  a  good  young  man ; 

And  how  she  herself  had  lived  in 
Many  years  of  union  sweet 

Vith  a  gent  she  met  promiskous, 
Valkin  in  the  public  street. 

And  Eliza  listened  to  them. 

And  she  thought  that  soon  their  bands 

Vould  be  published  at  the  Fondlin, 
Hand  the  clergyman  jine  their  ands. 

And  he  ast  about  the  lodgers 

(Vich  her  master  let  some  rooms), 

Likevise  vere  they  kep  their  things,  and 
Vere  her  master  kep  his  spoons. 

Hand  this  vicked  Charley  Thompson 
Came  on  Sundy  veek  to  see  her  ; 

And  he  sent  Eliza  Davis 
Hout  to  fetch  a  pint  of  beer. 


THE   BALLAD    OP    ELIZA   DAVIS  213 

Hand  while  pore  Eliza  vent  to 

Fetch  the  beer,  devoid  of  sin, 
This  etrocious  Charley  Thompson 

Let  his  wile  accomplish  hin. 

To  the  lodgers,  their  apartments, 

This  abandingd  female  goes. 
Prigs  their  shirts  and  umberellas ;  , 

Prigs  their  boots,  and  hats,  and  clothes. 

Vile  the  scoundrle  Charley  Thompson, 

Lest  his  wictim  should  escape, 
Hocust  her  with  rum  and  vater, 

Like  a  fiend  in  burning  shape. 

But  a  hi  was  fixt  upon  'em 

Vich  these  raskles  little  sore  ; 
Namely,  Mr.  Hide,  the  landlord 

Of  the  house  at  tventy-four. 

He  vas  valking  in  his  garden. 

Just  afore  he  vent  to  sup ; 
And  on  looking  up  he  sor  the 

Lodgers'  vinders  lighted  hup. 

Hup  the  stairs  the  landlord  tumbled ; 

"Something's  going  wrong,"  he  said; 
And  he  caught  the  vicked  voman 

Underneath  the  lodgers'  bed. 

And  he  called  a  brother  Pleaseman, 

Vich  vas  passing  on  his  beat. 
Like  a  true  and  galliant  feller, 

Hup  and  down  in  Guilford  Street. 

And  that  Pleaseman  able-bodied 

Took  this  voman  to  the  cell  ; 
To  the  cell  vere  she  was  quodded, 

In  the  Close  of  Clerkenwell. 

And  though  vicked  Charley  Thompson 

Boulted  like  a  miscrant  base, 
Presently  another  Pleaseman 

Took  him  to  the  self-same  place. 


214:         THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

And  this  precious  pair  of  raskles 
Tuesday  last  came  up  for  doom ; 

By  the  beak  they  was  committed, 
Vich  his  name  was  Mr.  Combe. 

Has  for  poor  Eliza  Davis, 
Simple  gurl  of  tventy-four. 

She,  I  ope,  viU  never  listen 
In  the  streets  to  sailors  moar. 

But  if  she  must  ave  a  sweet-art 
(Vich  most  every  gurl  expex), 

Let  her  take  a  jolly  pleaseman  ; 
Vich  his  name  peraps  is — X. 


THE    LAMENTABLE    BALLAD    OF    IHE 
FOUNDLING   OF  SHOREDITGH 

COME  all  ye  Christian  people,  and  listen  to  my  tail, 
It  is  all  about  a  doctor  was  travelling  by  the  rail, 
By  the  Heastern  Counties   Railway  (vich   the   shares   1 
don't  desire). 
From  Ixworth  town  in  Suffolk,  vich  his  name  did  not  transpire. 

A  travelling  from  Bury  this  Doctor  was  employed 
With  a  gentleman,  a  friend  of  his,  vich  his  name  was  Captain  Loyd, 
And  on  reaching  Marks  Tey  Station,  that  is  next  beyond  Colchest- 
er, a  lady  entered  in  to  them  most  elegantly  dressed. 

She  entered  into  the  Carriage  all  with  a  tottering  step, 
And  a  pooty  little  Bayby  upon  her  bussum  slep ; 
The  gentlemen  received  her  with  kindness  and  siwillaty. 
Pitying  this  lady  for  her  illness  and  debillaty. 

She  had  a  fust-class  ticket,  this  lovely  lady  said ; 
Because  it  was  so  lonesome  she  took  a  secknd  instead. 
Better  to  travel  by  secknd  class,  than  sit  alone  in  the  fust, 
And  the  pooty  little  Baby  upon  her  breast  she  nust. 

A  seein  of  her  cryin,  and  shiverin  and  pail, 

To  her  spoke  this  surging,  the  Ero  of  my  tail ; 

Saysee  "  You  look  unwell,  ma'am  ;  I'll  elp  you  if  I  can, 

And  you  may  tell  your  case  to  me,  for  I'm  a  meddicle  man.'' 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  the  lady  said,  "  I  only  look  so  pale, 
Because  I  ain't  accustom'd  to  travelling  on  the  Bale  ; 
I  shall  be  better  presnly,  when  I've  ad  some  rest :  " 
And  that  pooty  little  Baby  she  squeeged  it  to  her  breast. 


216  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

So  ill  conwersation  the  journey  they  beguiled, 

Capting  Loyd  and  the  meddicle  man,  and  the  lady  and  the  child, 

Till  the  warious  stations  along  the  line  was  passed, 

For  even  the  Heastern  Counties'  trains  must  come  in  at  last. 

When  at  Shoreditch  tumminus  at  lenth  stopped  the  train, 
This  kind  meddicle  gentleman  proposed  his  aid  again. 
"Thank  you,  sir,"  the  lady  said,  "for  your  kyindness  dear; 
My  carridge  and  my  osses  is  probibbly  come  here. 

"  Will  you  old  this  baby,  please,  vilst  I  step  and  see  1 " 
The  Doctor  was  a  famly  man  :  "  That  I  will,"  says  he. 
Then  the  little  child  she  kist,  kist  it  very  gently, 
Vich  was  sucking  his  little  fist,  sleeping  innocently. 

With  a  sigh  from  her  art,  as  though  she  would  have  bust  it, 
Then  she  gave  the  Doctor  the  child — wery  kind  he  nust  it : 
Hup  then  the  lady  jumped  hoff  the  bench  she  sat  from. 
Tumbled  down  the  carridge  steps  and  ran  along  the  platform. 

Vile  hall  the  other  passengers  vent  upon  their  vays. 
The  Capting  and  the  Doctor  sat  there  in  a  maze ; 
Some  vent  in  a  Homminibus,  some  vent  in  a  Cabby, 
The  Capting  and  the  Doctor  vaited  vith  the  babby. 

There  they  sat  looking  queer,  for  an  hour  or  more, 
But  their  feller  passinger  neather  on  'em  sore  : 
Never,  never  back  again  did  that  lady  come 
To  that  pooty  sleeping  Hinfnt  a  suckin  of  his  Thum  ! 

What  could  this  pore  Doctor  do,  bein  treated  thus. 

When  the  darling  Baby  woke,  cryin  for  its  nuss  ? 

Off  he  drove  to  a  female  friend,  vich  she  was  both  kind  and  mild. 

And  igsplained  to  her  the  circumstance  of  this  year  little  child. 

That  kind  lady  took  the  child  instantly  in  her  lap, 
And  made  it  very  comfortable  by  giving  it  some  pap ; 
And  when  she  took  its  close  off,  what  d'you  think  she  found  1 
A  couple  of  ten  pun  notes  sewn  up,  in  its  little  gownd  ! 

Also  ill  its  little  close,  was  a  note  which  did  conwey, 
That  this  little  baby's  parents  lived  in  a  handsome  way 
And  for  its  Headucation  they  reglarly  would  pay. 
And  sirtingly  like  gentlefolks  would  claim  the  child  one  day. 
If  the  Christian  people  who'd  charge  of  it  would  say, 
Per  adwertisement  in  the  Times,  where  the  baby  lay. 


THE    FOUNDLING    OF    SHOREDITCH        217 

Pity  of  this  bayby  many  people  took, 

It  had  such  pooty  ways  and  such  a  pooty  look ; 

And  there  came  a  lady  forrard  (I  wish  that  I  could  see 

Any  kind  lady  as  would  do  as  much  for  me ; 

And  I  wish  with  all  my  art,  some  night  in  my  night  gownd, 
I  could  find  a  note  stitched  for  ten  or  twenty  pound) — 
There  came  a  lady  forrard,  that  most  honorable  did  say. 
She'd  adopt  this  little  baby,  which  her  parents  cast  away. 

While  the  Doctor  pondered  on  this  hoffer  fair. 
Comes  a  letter  from  Devonshire,  from  a  party  there, 
Hordering  the  Doctor,  at  its  Mar's  desire. 
To  send  the  little  Infant  back  to  Devonshire. 

Lost  in  apoplexity,  this  pore  meddicle  man. 

Like  a  sensable  gentleman,  to  the  Justice  ran ; 

Which  his  name  was  Mr.  Hammill,  a  honorable  beak. 

That  takes  his  seat  in  Worship  Street  four  times  a  week.      , 

"  0  Justice  !  "  says  the  Doctor,  "  instrugt  me  what  to  do. 
I've  come  up  from  the  country,  to  throw  myself  on  you ; 
My  patients  have  no  doctor  to  tend  them  in  their  ills 
(There  they  are  in  Suffolk  without  their  draffts  and  pills  1). 

"  I've  come  up  from  the  country,  to  know  how  I'll  dispose 
Of  this  pore  little  baby,  and  the  twenty  pun  note,  and  the  close, 
And  I  want  to  go  back  to  Suffolk,  dear  Justice,  if  you  please, 
And  my  patients  wants   their   Doctor,  and   their   Doctor   wants 
his  feez. 

Up  spoke  Mr.  Hammill,  sittin  at  his  desk, 

"  This  year  application  does  me  much  perplesk  ; 

What  I  do  adwise  you,  is  to  leave  this  babby 

In  the  Parish  where  it  was  left  by  its  mother  shabby." 

The  Doctor  from  his  Worship  sadly  did  depart — 
He  might  have  left  the  baby,  but  he  hadn't  got  the  heart 
To  go  for  to  leave  that  Hinnocent,  has  the  laws  allows. 
To  the  tender  mussies  of  the  Union  House. 

Mother,  who  left  this  little  one  on  a  stranger's  knee. 
Think  how  cruel  you  have  been,  and  how  good  was  he  ! 
Think,  if  you've  been  guilty,  innocent  was  she ; 
And  do  not  take  unkindly  this  little  word  of  me : 
Heaven  be  merciful  to  us  all,  sinners  as  we  be  ! 


LINES   ON  A   LATE  HOSFICIOUS  EWENT* 

BY    A   GENTLEMAN    OP   THE    FOOT-GTTAEDS    (bLUe). 

1    PACED  upon  my  beat 
"With  steady  step  and  slow, 
All  huppandownd  of  Ranelagh  Street ; 
Ran'lagh  St.  Pimlico. 

While  marching  huppandownd 

Upon  that  fair  May  morn, 
Beold  the  booming  cannings  sound, 

A  royal  child  is  born  ! 

The  Ministers  of  State 

Then  presnly  I  sor, 
They  gallops  to  the  Pallis  gate, 

In  carridges  and  for. 

With  anxious  looks  intent, 

Before  the  gate  they  stop, 
There  comes  the  good  Lord  President, 

And  there  the  Archbishopp. 

Lord  John  he  next  elights  ; 

And  who  comes  here  in  haste  ? 
'Tis  the  ero  of  one  underd  fights, 

The  caudle  for  to  taste. 

Then  Mrs.  Lily,  the  nuss. 

Towards  them  steps  with  joy ; 
Says  the  brave  old  Duke,  "  Come  tell  to  us, 

Is  it  a  gal  or  a  boy  1 " 

*  The  birth  of  Prince  Arthur. 


LINES    ON    A    LATE    HOSPIOIOUS    EWENT     219 

Says  Mrs.  L.  to  the  Duke, 

"  Your  Grace,  it  is  a  Prince.'' 
And  at  that  nuss's  bold  rebuke 

He  did  both  laugh  and  wince. 

He  vews  with  pleasant  look 

This  pooty  flower  of  May, 
Then  says  the  wenerable  Duke, 

"  Egad,  it's  my  buthday." 

By  memory  backards  borne, 

Peraps  his  thoughts  did  stray 
To  that  old  place  where  he  was  born 

Upon  the  first  of  May. 

Perhaps  he  did  recal 

The  ancient  towers  of  Trim ; 
And  County  Meath  and  Dangan  Hall 

They  did  rewisit  him. 

I  phansy  of  him  so 

His  good  old  thoughts  employin' ; 
Fourscore  years  and  one  ago 

Beside  the  flowin'  Boyne. 

His  father  praps  he  sees. 

Most  musicle  of  Lords, 
A  playing  maddrigles  and  glees 

Upon  the  Arpsicords. 

Jest  phansy  this  old  Ero 

Upon  his  mother's  knee  ! 
Did  ever  lady  in  this  land 

Ave  greater  sons  than  she? 

And  I  shoudn  be  surprize 

WhUe  this  was  in  his  mind, 
If  a  drop  there  twinkled  in  his  eyes 

Of  unfamiliar  brind. 


To  Hapsly  Ouse  next  day 
Drives  up  a  Broosh  and  for, 

A  gracious  prince  sits  in  that  Shay 
(I  mention  him  with  Hor  !). 


220  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

They  ring  upon  the  bell, 

The  Porter  shows  his  Ed, 
(He  fought  at  Vaterloo  as  veil, 

And  vears  a  Veskit  red). 

To  see  that  carriage  come, 
The  people  round  it  press  : 

"  And  is  the  galliant  Duke  at  ome  t " 
"  Your  Royal  Ighness,  yes." 

He  stepps  from  out  the  Broosh 

And  in  the  gate  is  gone ; 
And  X,  although  the  people  push. 

Says  wery  kind,  "  Move  hon." 

The  Royal  Prince  unto 
The  galliant  Duke  did  say, 

"  Dear  Duke,  my  little  son  and  you 
Was  born  the  self-same  day. 

"  The  Lady  of  the  land. 

My  wife  and  Sovring  dear. 
It  is  by  her  horgust  command 
I  wait  upon  you  here. 

"  That  lady  is  as  well 
As  can  expected  be  ; 
And  to  your  Grace  she  bid  me  tell 
This  gracious  message  free. 

"  That  offspring  of  our  race, 
Whom  yesterday  you  see. 
To  show  our  honour  for  your  Grace, 
Prince  Arthur  he  shall  be. 

"  That  name  it  rhymes  to  fame ; 
All  Europe  knows  the  sound : 
And  I  couldn't  find  a  better  name 
If  you'd  give  me  twenty  pound. 

"  King  Arthur  had  his  knights 
That  girt  his  table  round. 
But  you  have  won  a  hundred  fights, 
Will  match  'em,  I'll  be  bound, 


LINES    ON    A    LATE    HOSPIOIOUS    EWENT     221 

"  You  fought  with  Bonypart, 
And  likewise  Tippoo  Saib ; 
I  name  you  then  with  all  my  heart 
The  Godsire  of  this  babe." 

That  Prince  his  leave  was  took, 

His  hinterview  was  done. 
So  let  us  give  the  good  old  Duke 

Good  luck  of  his  god-son, 

And  wish  him  years  of  joy 

In  this  our  time  of  Schism, 
And  hppe  he'll  hear  the  Eoyal  boy 

His  little  catechism. 

And  my  pooty  little  Prince 

That's  come  our  arts  to  cheer, 
Let  me  my  loyal  powers  ewince 

A  welcomin  of  you  ere. 

And  the  Poit-Laureat's  crownd, 

I  think,  in  some  respex, 
Egstremely  shootable  might  be  found 

For  honest  Pleaseman  X. 


THE   WOFLE  NEW  BALLAD  OF  JANE  BONEY 
AND  MABY  BBOWN 


AN  igstrawnary  tail  I  vill  tell  you  this  veek — 
I  stood  in  the  Court  of  A'Beckett  the  Beak, 
^  Vera  Mrs.  Jane  Eoney,  a  vidow,  I  see, 
Who  charged  Mary  Brown  with  a  robbin  of  she. 

This  Mary  was  pore  and  in  misery  once. 

And  she  came  to  Mrs.  Roney  it's  more  than  twelve  monce. 

Sheadn't  got  no  bed,  nor  no  dinner  nor  no  tea. 

And  kind  Mrs.  Roney  gave  Mary  all  three. 

Mrs.  Roney  kep  Mary  for  ever  so  many  veeks 
(Her  conduct  disgusted  the  best  of  all  Beax), 
She  kep  her  for  nothink,  as  kind  as  could  be. 
Never  thinkin  that  this  Mary  was  a  traitor  to  she. 

"Mrs.  Roney,  0  Mrs.  Roney,  I  feel  very  ill; 
Will  you  just  step  to  the  Doctor's  for  to  fetch  me  a  pill  ? " 
"  That  I  will,  my  pore  Mary,"  Mrs.  Roney  says  she ; 
And  she  goes  off  to  the  Doctor's  as  quickly  as  may  be. 

No  sooner  on  this  message  Mrs.  Roney  was  sped, 
Than  hup  gits  vicked  Mary,  and  jumps  out  a  bed  ; 
She  hopens  all  the  trunks  without  never  a  key — 
She  bustes  all  the  boxes,  and  vith  them  makes  free. 

Mrs.  Roney's  best  linning,  gownds,  petticoats,  and  close. 
Her  children's  little  coats  and  things,  her  boots,  and  her  hose. 
She  packed  them,  and  she  stole  'em,  and  avay  vith  them  did  flee. 
Mrs.  Roney's  situation — you  may  think  vat  it  vould  be ! 

Of  Mary,  ungrateful,  who  had  served  her  this  vay, 
Mrs.  Roney  heard  nothink  for  a  long  year  and  a  day. 
Till  last  Thursday,  in  Lambeth,  ven  whom  should  she  see 
But  this  Mary,  as  had  acted  so  ungrateful  to  she  ? 


JANE    KONEY    AND    MARY    BROWN  223 

She  was  leaning  on  the  helbo  of  a  worthy  young  man, 
They  were  going  to  be  married,  and  were  walkin  hand  in  hand ; 
And  the  Church  bells  was  a  ringin  for  Mary  and  he, 
And  the  parson  was  ready,  and  a  waitin  for  his  fee. 

When  up  comes  Mrs.  Roney,  and  faces  Mary  Brown, 
Who  trembles,  and  castes  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
She  calls  a  jolly  pleaseman,  it  happens  to  be  me ; 
"  I  charge  this  young  woman,  Mr.  Pleaseman,"  says  she. 

"  Mrs.  Roney,  o,  Mrs.  Roney,  o,  do  let  me  go, 

I  acted  most  ungrateful  I  own,  and  I  know. 

But  the  marriage  bell  is  a  ringin,  and  the  ring  you  may  see, 

And  this  young  man  is  a  waitin,"  says  Mary  says  she. 

"  I  don't  care  three  fardens  for  the  parson  and  dark. 
And  the  bell  may  keep  ringin  from  noon  day  to  dark. 
Mary  Brown,  Mary  Brown,  you  must  come  along  with  me ; 
And  I  think  this  young  man  is  lucky  to  be  free." 

So,  in  spite  of  the  tears  which  bejew'd  Mary's  cheek, 
I  took  that  young  gurl  to  A'Beckett  the  Beak ; 
That  exlent  Justice  demanded  her  plea — 
But  never  a  suUable  said  Mary  said  she. 

On  account  of  her  conduck  so  base  and  so  vile, 
That  wicked  young  gurl  is  committed  for  trile, 
And  if  she's  transpawted  beyond  the  salt  sea, 
It's  a  proper  reward  for  such  willians  as  she. 

Now  you  young  gurls  of  Southwark  for  Mary  who  veep, 
From  pickin  and  stealin  your  ands  you  must  keep, 
Or  it  may  be  my  dooty,  as  it  was  Thursday  veek, 
To  puU  you  all  hup  to  A'Beckett  the  Beak. 


DAMAGES,   TWO  HUNDRED   POUNDS 


SPECIAL  Jurymen  of  England !  who  admire  your  country's  laws, 
And  proclaim  a  British  Jury  worthy  of  the  realm's  applause ; 
Gaily  compliment  each  other  at  the  issue  of  a  cause 
Which  was  tried  at  Guildford  'sizes  this  day  week  as  ever  was. 

Unto  that  august  tribunal  comes  a  gentleman  in  grief 
(Special  was  the  British  Jury,  and  the  Judge,  the  Baron  Chief), 
Comes  a  British  man  and  husband — asking  of  the  law  relief, 
For  his  wife  was  stolen  from  him — he'd  have  vengeance  on  the 
thief. 

Yes,  his  wife,  the  blessed  treasure  with  the  which  his  life  was  crowned. 
Wickedly  was  ravished  from  him  by  a  hypocrite  profound. 
And  he  comes  before  twelve  Britons,  men  for  sense  and  truth  re- 
nowned, 
To  award  him  for  his  damage  twenty  hundred  sterling  pound. 

He  by  counsel  and  attorney  there  at  Guildford  does  appear, 
Asking  damage  of  the  villain  who  seduced  his  lady  dear : 
But  I  can't  help  asking,  though  the  lady's  guilt  was  all  too  clear, 
And  though  guilty  the  defendant,  wasn't  the  plaintiff  rather  queer  1 

First  the  lady's  mother  spoke,  and  said  she'd  seen  her  daughter  cry 
But  a  fortnight  after  marriage  :  early  times  for  piping  eye. 
Six  months  after,  things  were  worse,  and  the  piping  eye  was  black. 
And  this  gallant  British  husband  caned  his  wife  upon  the  back. 

Three  months  after  they  were  married,  husband  pushed  her  to  the 

door. 
Told  her  to  be  off  and  leave  him,  for  he  wanted  her  no  more. 
As  she  would  not  go,  why  he  went :  thrice  he  left  his  lady  dear ; 
Left  her,  too,   without  a  penny,  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 

year. 


DAMAGES,    TWO    HUNDRED    POUNDS       225 

Mrs.  Frances  Duncan  knew  the  parties  very  well  indeed, 

She  had  seen  him  pull  his  lady's  nose  and  make  her  lip  to  Dleed ; 

If  he  chanced  to  sit  at  home  not  a  single  word  he  said  : 

Once  she  saw  him  throw  the  cover  of  a  dish  at  his  lady's  head. 

Sarah  Green,  another  witness,  clear  did  to  the  jury  note 
How  she  saw  this  honest  fellow  seize  his  lady  by  the  throat. 
How  he  cursed  her  and  abused  her,  beating  her  into  a  fit, 
Till  the  pitying  next-door  neighbours  crossed  the  wall  and  wit- 
nessed it. 

Next  door  to  this  injured  Briton  Mr.  Owers  a  butcher  dwelt ; 
Mrs.  Owers's  foolish  heart  towards  this  erring  dame  did  melt 
(Not  that  she  had  erred  as  yet,  crime  was  not  developed  in  her) ; 
But  being  left  without  a  penny,  Mrs.  Owers  supplied  her  dinner — 
God  be  merciful  to  Mrs.  Owers,  who  was  merciful  to  this  sinner  ! 

Caroline  Naylor  was  their  servant,  said  they  led  a  wretched  hfe. 

Saw  this  most  distinguished  Briton  fling  a  teacup  at  his  wife ; 

He  went  out  to  balls  and  pleasures,  and  never  once,  in  ten  months' 

space. 
Sat  with  his  wife  or  spoke  her  kindly.     This  was  the  defendant's 

case. 

Pollock,  C.B.,    charged   the  Jury ;   said   the   woman's   guilt   was 

clear : 
That  was  not  the  point,  however,  which  the  Jury  came  to  hear ; 
But  the  damage  to  determine  which,  as  it  should  true  appear. 
This  most  tender-hearted  husband,  who  so  used  his  lady  dear — 

Beat  her,  kicked  her,  caned  her,  cursed  her,  left  her  starving,  year 

by  year. 
Flung  her  from  him,  parted  from  her,  wrung  her  neck,  and  boxed 

her  ear — 
What  the  reasonable  damage  this  afilicted  man  could  claim 
By  the  loss  of  the  affections  of  this  guilty  graceless  dame  1 

Then  the  honest  British  Twelve,  to  each  other  turning  round. 
Laid  their  clever  heads  together  with  a  wisdom  most  profound  : 
And  towards  his  Lordship  looking,  spoke  the  foreman  wise  and 

sound  ; — 
"  My  Lord,  we  find  for  this  here  plaintiff,  damages  two  hundred 

pound." 

13  J- 


226  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

So,  God  bless  the  Special  Jury  !  pride  and  joy  of  English  ground, 
And  the  happy  land  of  England,  where  true  justice  does  abound  ! 
British  jurymen  and  husbands,  let  us  hail  this  verdict  proper : 
If  a  British  wife  offends  you,  Britons,  you've  a  right  to  whop  her. 

Though  you  promised  to  protect   her,   though   you  promised   to 

defend  her. 
You  are  welcome  to  neglect  her  :  to  the  devil  you  may  send  her : 
You   may    strike   her,    curse,    abuse    her;    so    declares    our    law 

renowned ; 
And  if  after  this  you  lose  her, — why,  you're  paid  two  hundred 

pound. 


A    WOEFUL  NEW  BALLAD 

OF  THE 

PROTESTANT  CONSPIRACY  TO  TAKE  THE  POPE'S  LIFE 

BY   A   GENTLEMAN    WHO    HAS    BEEN    ON   THE   SPOT 

COME  all  ye  Christian  people,  unto  my  tale  give  ear ; 
'Tis  about  a  base  consperracy,  as  quickly  shall  appear ; 
'Twill  make  youf  hair  to  bristle  up,  and  your  eyes  to  start 
and  glow, 
When  of  this  dread  consperracy  you  honest  folks  shall  know. 

The  news  of  this  consperracy  and  vUlianous  attempt, 

I  read  it  in  a  newspaper,  from  Italy  it  was  sent : 

It  was  sent  from  lovely  Italy,  where  the  olives  they  do  grow. 

And  our  Holy  Father  lives,  yes,  yes,  while  his  name  it  is  No  no. 

And  'tis  there  our  English  noblemen  goes  that  is  Puseyites  no  longer. 
Because  they  finds  the  ancient  faith  both  better  is  and  stronger. 
And  'tis  there  I  knelt  beside  my  Lord  when  he  kiss'd  the  Pope 

his  toe, 
And  hung  his  neck  with  chains  at  Saint  Peter's  Vinculo. 

And  'tis  there  the  splendid  churches  is,  and  the  fountains  playing 

grand. 
And  the  palace  of  Prince  Toblonia,  likewise  the  Vatican ; 
And  there's  the  stairs  where  the  bagpipe-men  and  the  piffararys 

blow. 
And  it's  there  I  drove  my  Lady  and  Lord  in  the  Park  of  Pincio. 

And  'tis  there  our  splendid  churches  is  in  all  their  pride  and  glory. 
Saint  Peter's  famous  Basilisk  and  Saint  Mary's  Maggiory ; 
And  them  benighted  Prodestants,  on  Sunday  they  must  go 
Outside  the  town  to  the  preaching-shop  by  the  gate  of  Popolo. 


228  THE    BALLADS    OP    POLICEMAN    X 

Now  in  this  town  of  famous  Eoom,  as  I  dessay  you  liave  heard, 

There  is  scarcely  any  gentleman  as  hasn't  got  a  beard. 

And  ever  since  the  world  began  it  was  ordained  so, 

That  there  should  always  barbers  be  wheresumever  beards  do  grow. 

And  as  it  always  has  been  so  since  the  world  it  did  begin, 
The  Pope,  our  Holy  Potentate,  has  a  beard  upon  his  chin ; 
And  every  morning  regular  when  cocks  begin  to  crow. 
There  comes  a  certing  pai-ty  to  wait  on  Pope  Pio. 

There  comes  a  certing  gintleman  with  razier,  soap,  and  lather, 
A  shaving  most  respectfully  the  Pope,  our  Holy  Father. 
And  now  the  dread  consperracy  I'll  quickly  to  you  show, 
Which  them  sanguinary  Prodestants  did  form  against  Nono. 

Them  sanguinary  Prodestants,  which  I  abore  and  hate, 
Assembled  in  the  preaching-shop  by  the  Flaminian  gate ; 
And  they  took  counsel  with  their  selves  to  deal  a  deadly  blow 
Against  our  gentle  Father,  the  Holy  Pope  Pig. 

Exhibiting  a  wickedness  which  I  never  heerd  or  read  of; 

What  do  you  think  them  Prodestants  wished?  to  cut  the  good 

Pope's  head  off! 
And  to  the  kind  Pope's  Air-dresser  the  Prodestant  Clark  did  go. 
And  proposed  him  to  decapitate  the  innocent  Pio. 

"  What  hever  can  be  easier,"  said  this  Clerk — this  Man  of  Sin, 
"  When  you  are  called  to  hoperate  on  His  Holiness's  chin. 
Than  just  to  give  the  razier  a  little  slip — just  sol — 
And  there's  an  end,  dear  barber,  of  innocent  Pio  !  " 

This  wicked  conversation  it  chanced  was  overerd 

By  an  Italian  lady  ;  she  heard  it  every  word  : 

Which  by  birth  she  was  a  Marchioness,  in  service  forced  to  go 

With  the  parson  of  the  preaching-shop  at  the  gate  of  Popolo. 

When  the  lady  heard  the  news,  as  duty  did  obleege. 
As  fast  as  her  legs  could  carry  her  she  ran  to  the  Poleege. 
"  0  Polegia,"  says  she  (for  they  pronounts  it  so), 
"  They're  going  for  to  massyker  our  Holy  Pope  Pio. 

"  The  ebomminable  Englishmen,  the  Parsing  and  his  Clark, 
His  Holiness's  Air-dresser  devised  it  in  the  dark  ! 
And  I  would  recommend  you  in  prison  for  to  throw 
These  viUians  would  esassinate  the  Holy  Pope  Pig  ! 


A   WOEFUL    NEW    BALLAD  229 

"  And  for  saving  of  His  Holiness  and  his  trebble  crownd 
I  humbly  hope  your  Worships  will  give  me  a  few  pound ; 
Because  I  was  a  Marchioness  many  years  ago, 
Before  I  came  to  service  at  the  gate  of  Popolo." 

That  saekreligious  Air-dresser,  the  Parson  and  his  man, 
Wouldn't,  though  ask'd  continyally,  own  their  wicked  plan — 
And  so  the  kind  Authoraties  let  those  villians  go 
That  was  plotting  of  the  murder  of  the  good  Pio  Nono. 

Now  isn't  this  safishnt  proof,  ye  gentlemen  at  home. 
How  wicked  is  them  Prodestants,  and  how  good  our  Pope  at  Rome  ; 
So  let  us  drink  confusion  to  Lord  John  and  Loed  Minto, 
And  a  health  unto  His  Eminence,  and  good  Pio  Nono. 


THE  ORGAN-BOTS  APPEAL 

"  Westminster  Police  Court.  — Policeman  X  brought  a  paper  of  doggerel 
verses  to  the  Magistrate,  which  had  been  thnist  into  his  hands,  X  said,  by  an 
Italian  boy,  who  ran  away  immediately  afterwards, 

' '  The  Magistrate,  after  perusing  the  lines,  looked  hard  at  X,  and  said  he 
did  not  think  they  were  written  by  an  Italian. 

"X,  blushing,  said  he  thought  the  paper  read  in  court  last  week,  and 
which  frightened  so  the  old  gentleman  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  was  also  not 
of  Italian  origin." 

OSIGNOR  BRODEKIP,  you  are  a  wickid  ole  man, 
You  wexis  us  little  horgin-boys  whenever  you  can : 
How  dare  you  talk  of  Justice,  and  go  for  to  seek 
To  pussicute  us  horgin-boys,  you  senguinary  Beek? 


Though  you  set  in  Vestminster  surrounded  by  your  crushers, 
Harrogint  and  habsolute  like  the  Hortaerat  of  hall  the  Rushers, 
Yet  there  is  a  better  vurld  I'd  have  you  for  to  know, 
Likewise  a  place  vere  the  henimies  of  horgin-boys  will  go. 


0  you  vickid  Heeod  without  any  pity  ! 

London  vithout  horgin-boys  vood  be  a  dismal  city. 

Sweet  Saint  Cicilt  who  first  taught  horgin-pipes  to  blow 

Soften  the  heart  of  this  Magistrit  that  haggerywates  us  so  ! 


Good  Italian  gentlemen,  fatherly  and  kind. 
Brings  us  over  to  London  here  our  horgins  for  to  grind ; 
Sends  us  out  vith  little  vite  mice  and  guinea-pigs  also 
A  poppin  of  the  Veasel  and  a  Jumpin  of  Jim  Ceow. 


And  as  us  young  horgin-boys  is  grateful  in  our  turn 
We  gives  to  these  kind  gentlemen  hall  the  money  we  earn. 
Because  that  they  vood  vop  us  as  wery  wel  we  know 
Unless  we  brought  our  burnings  back  to  them  as  loves  us  so. 


THE    ORGAN-BOY'S    APPEAL  231 

0  Me.  Beodeeip  !  wery  much  I'm  surprise, 

Ven  you  take  your  valks  abroad  where  can  be  your  eyes  1 

If  a  Beak  had  a  heart  then  you'd  compryend 

Us  pore  little  horgin-boys  was  the  poor  man's  friend. 

Don't  you  see  the  shildren  in  the  droring-rooms 
Clapping  of  their  little  ands  when  they  year  our  toons  1 
On  their  mothers'  bussums  don't  you  see  the  babbies  crow 
And  down  to  us  dear  horgin-boys  lots  of  apence  throw  ? 

Don't  you  see  the  ousemaids  (pooty  Follies  and  Maries), 

Ven  ve  bring  our  urdigurdis,  smiling  from  the  hairies  ? 

Then  they  come  out  vith  a  slice  o'  cole  puddn  or  a  bit  o'  bacon  or  so 

And  give  it  us  young  horgin-boys  for  lunch  afore  we  go. 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  Hirish  children  sport 

When  our  velcome  music-box  brings  sunshine  in  the  Court? 

To  these  little  paupers  who  can  never  pay 

Surely  aU  good  horgin-boys,  for  God's  love,  will  play. 

Has  for  those  proud  gentlemen,  like  a  serting  B — k 
(Vich  I  von't  be  pussonal  and  therefore  vil  not  speak). 
That  flings  their  parler-vinders  hup  ven  ve  begin  to  play 
And  cusses  us  and  swears  at  us  in  such  a  wiolent  way, 

Instedd  of  their  abewsing  and  calling  hout  Poleece, 
Let  em  send  out  John  to  us  vith  sixpence  or  a  shillin  apiece. 
Then  like  good  young  horgin-boys  avay  from  there  we'll  go, 
Blessing  sweet  Saint  Cicily  that  taught  our  pipes  to  blow. 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  LADY 


T 


HERE'S  in  the  Vest  a  city  pleasant 

To  vich  King  Bladud  gev  his  name, 
And  in  that  city  there's  a  Crescent 
Vera  dwelt  a  noble  knight  of  fame. 


Although  that  galliant  knight  is  oldish, 
Although  Sir  John  as  grey  grey  air, 

Hage  has  not  made  his  busum  coldish, 
His  Art  still  beats  tewodds  the  Fair  ! 

'Twas  two  years  sins,  this  knight  so  splendid, 
Peraps  fateagued  with  Bath's  routines. 

To  Paris  towne  his  phootsteps  bended 
In  sutch  of  gayer  folks  and  seans. 

His  and  was  free,  his  means  was  easy, 

A  nobler,  finer  gent  than  he 
Ne'er  drove  about  the  Shons-Eleesy, 

Or  paced  the  Eoo  de  Rivolee. 

A  brougham  and  pair  Sir  John  prowided, 
In  which  abroad  he  loved  to  ride ; 

But  ar  !  he  most  of  all  enjyed  it, 

When  some  one  helse  was  sittin'  inside  ! 

That  "  some  one  helse  "  a  lovely  dame  was, 
Dear  ladies,  you  will  heasy  tell — 

Countess  Grabrowski  her  sweet  name  was, 
A  noble  title,  ard  to  spell. 

This  faymus  Countess  ad  a  daughter 

Of  lovely  form  and  tender  art ; 
A  nobleman  in  marridge  sought  her. 

By  name  the  Baron  of  Saint  Bart. 


THE    KNIGHT    AND    THE    LADY  233 

Their  pashn  touched  the  noble  Sir  John, 

It  was  so  pewer  and  profound  ; 
Lady  Grabrowski  he  did  urge  on 

With  Hyraing's  wreeth  their  loves  to  crownd. 

"  0,  come  to  Bath,  to  Lansdowne  Crescent," 
Says  kind  Sir  John,  "  and  live  with  me  ; 
The  living  there's  uncommon  pleasant — 
I'm  sure  you'll  find  the  hair  agree. 

"  O,  come  to  Bath,  my  fair  Grabrowski, 
And  bring  your  charming  girl,"  sezee ; 
"  The  Barring  here  shall  have  the  ouse-key, 
Vith  breakfast,  dinner,  lunch,  and  tea. 

"  And  when  they've  passed  an  appy  winter, 
Their  opes  and  loves  no  more  we'll  bar ; 
The  marridge-vow  they'll  enter  inter. 
And  I  at  church  will  be  their  Par." 

To  Bath  they  went  to  Lansdowne  Orescent, 

Where  good  Sir  John  he  did  provide 
No  end  of  teas  and  balls  incessant. 

And  bosses  both  to  drive  and  ride. 

He  was  so  Ospitably  busy, 

When  Miss  was  late,  he'd  make  so  bold 
Upstairs  to  call  out,  "  Missy,  Missy, 

Come  down,  the  coffy's  getting  cold  ! " 

But  0  !  'tis  sadd  to  think  such  bounties 
Should  meet  with  such  return  as  this ; 

0  Barring  of  Saint  Bart,  0  Countess 
Grabrowski,  and  0  cruel  Miss  ! 

He  married  you  at  Bath's  fair  Habby, 

Saint  Bart  he  treated  like  a  son — 
And  wasn't  it  uncommon  shabby 

To  do  what  you  have  went  and  done  ! 

My  trembling  And  amost  refewses 

To  write  the  charge  which  Sir  John  swore, 

Of  which  the  Countess  he  ecuses. 
Her  daughter  and  her  son-in-lore. 


234  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

My  Mews  quite  blushes  as  she  sings  of 
Tlie  fatle  charge  which  uow  I  quote  : 

He  says  Miss  took  his  two  best  rings  off, 
And  pawned  'em  for  a  tenpun  note. 

"  Is  this  the  child  of  honest  parince, 
To  make  away  with  folks'  best  things  ? 

Is  this,  pray,  like  the  wives  of  Bamns, 
To  go  and  prig  a  gentleman's  rings  1 " 

Thus  thought  Sir  John,  by  anger  wrought  on, 
And  to  rewenge  his  injured  cause. 

He  brought  them  hup  to  Mr.  Broughton, 
Last  Vensday  veek  as  ever  waws. 

If  guiltless,  how  she  have  been  slandered  ! 

If  guilty,  wengeance  will  not  fail : 
Meanwhile  the  lady  is  remanded 

And  gev  three  hundred  pouns  in  bail. 


T 


THE  SPECULATORS 


HE  night  /was  stormy  and  dark,  The  town  was  shut  up  in 
sleep  ;  Only  those  were  abroad  who  were  out  on  a  lark, 
Or  those  who'd  no  beds  to  keep. 


I  pass'd  through  the  lonely  street,  The  wind  did  sing  and 
blow ;    I  could  hear  the  policeman's  feet    Clapping  to  and  fro. 

There  stood  a  potato-man  In  the  midst  of  all  the  wet ;  He 
stood  with  his  'tato  can     In  the  lonely  Haymarket. 

Two  gents  of  dismal  mien.  And  dank  and  greasy  rags,  Came 
out  of  a  shop  for  gin.     Swaggering  over  the  flags  : 

Swaggering  over  the  stones,  These  shabby  bucks  did  walk ; 
And  I  went  and  followed  those  seedy  ones,  And  listened  to  their 
talk. 

Was  I  sober  or  awake  ?  Could  I  believe  my  ears  1  Those 
dismal  beggars  spake     Of  nothing  but  railroad  shares. 

I  wondered  more  and  more  :  Says  one — "  Good  friend  of  mine, 
How  many  shares  have  you  wrote  for.  In  the  Diddlesex  Junction 
line?" 

"  I  wrote  for  twenty,"  says  Jim,  "  But  they  wouldn't  ^ve  me 
one ;  "  His  comrade  straight  rebuked  him  For  the  folly  he  had 
done : 

"0  Jim,  you  are  unawares  Of  the  ways  of  this  bad  town; 
/always  write  for  five  hundred  shares,  And  then  they  put  me 
down." 

"  And  yet  you  got  no  shares,"  Says  Jim,  "  for  all  your  boast ; " 
"  I  would  have  wrote,"  says  Jack,  "  but  where  Was  the  penny  to 
pay  the  post  1 " 


236  THE    BALLADS    OF    POLICEMAN    X 

"  I  lost,  for  I  couldn't  pay  That  first  instalment  up ;  But 
here's  taters  smoking  hot — I  say,     Let's  stop,  my  boy,  and  sup." 

And  at  this  simple  feast  The  while  they  did  regale,  I  drew 
each  ragged  capitalist     Down  on  my  left  thumb-nail. 

Their  talk  did  me  perplex,  All  night  I  tumbled  and  tost.  And 
thought  of  railroad  specs,     And  how  money  was  won  and  lost. 

"  Bless  railroads  everywhere,''  I  said,  "  and  the  world's 
advance  ;  Bless  every  railroad  share  In  Italy,  Ireland,  France  ; 
For  never  a  beggar  need  now  despair,  And  every  rogue  has  a 
chance." 


CRITICAL   REVIEWS 


CRITICAL   REVIEWS 

CARLYLE'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION* 
[1837] 


SINCE  the  appearance  of  this  work,  within  the  last  two 
months,  it  has  raised  among  the  critics  and  the  reading  public 
a  strange  storm  of  applause  and  discontent.  To  hear  one 
party  you  would  fancy  the  author  was  but  a  dull  madman,  indulg- 
ing in  wild  vagaries  of  language  and  dispensing  with  common  sense 
and  reason,  while,  according  to  another,  his  opinions  are  little  short 
of  inspiration,  and  his  eloquence  unbounded  as  his  genius.  We 
confess,  that  in  reading  the  first  few  pages,  we  were  not  a  little 
inclined  to  adopt  the  foimer  opinion,  and  yet,  after  perusing  the 
whole  of  this  extraordinary  work,  we  can  allow,  almost  to  their 
fullest  extent,  the  high  qualities  with  which  Mr.  Carlyle's  idolaters 
endow  him. 

But  never  did  a  book  sin  so  grievously  from  outward  appear- 
ance, or  a  man's  style  so  mar  his  subject  and  dim  his  genius.  It 
is  stiff,  short,  and  rugged,  it  abounds  with  Germanisms  and  Latin- 
isms,  strange  epithets,  and  choking  double  words,  astonishing  to  the 
admirers  of  simple  Addisonian  English,  to  those  who  love  history 
as  it  gracefully  runs  in  Hume,  or  struts  pon)pously  in  Gibbon — no 
such  style  is  Mr.  Carlyle's.  A  man,  at  the  first  onset,  must  take 
breath  at  the  end  of  a  sentence,  or,  worse  still,  go  to  sleep  in  the 
midst  of  it.  But  these  hardships  become  lighter  as  the  traveller 
grows  accustomed  to  the  road,  and  he  speedily  learns  to  admire  and 
sympathise ;  just  as  he  would  admire  a  Gothic  cathedral  in  spite  of 
the  quaint  carvings  and  hideous  images  on  door  and  buttress. 

There  are,  however,  a  happy  few  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  critics  and 
readers  to  whom  these  very  obscurities  and  mysticisms  of  style  are 

*  "  The  French  Revolution  :  A  History."     In  three  volumes,      By  Thomag 
Carlyle.    London ;  James  Fraser,  1837. 


240  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

welcome  and  almost  intelligible ;  the  initiated  in  metaphysics,  the 
sages  who  have  passed  the  veil  of  Kantian  philosophy,  and  dis- 
covered that  the  "  critique  of  pure  reason  "  is  really  that  which  it 
purports  to  be,  and  not  the  critique  of  pure  nonsense,  as  it  seems 
to  worldly  men  :  to  these  the  present  book  has  charms  unknown 
to  us,  who  can  merely  receive  it  as  a  history  of  a  stirring  time,  and 
a  skilful  record  of  men's  worldly  thoughts  and  doings.  Even  through 
these  dim  spectacles  a  man  may  read  and  profit  much  from  Mr. 
Carlyle's  volumes. 

He  is  not  a  party  historian  like  Scott,  who  could  not,  in  his 
benevolent  respect  for  rank  and  royalty,  see  duly  the  faults  of 
either :  he  is  as  impartial  as  Thiers,  but  with  a  far  loftier  and 
nobler  impartiality. 

No  man  can  have  read  the  admirable  history  of  the  French 
ex-Minister  who  has  not  been  struck  with  this  equal  justice  which 
he  bestows  on  all  the  parties  or  heroes  of  his  book.  He  has  com- 
pletely mastered  the  active  part  of  the  history :  he  has  no  more 
partiality  for  court  than  for  regicide — scarcely  a  movement  of 
intriguing  king  or  ^republican  which  is  unknown  to  him  or  un- 
described.  He  sees  with  equal  eyes  Madame  Roland  or  Marie 
Antoinette — bullying  Brunswick  on  the  frontier,  or  Marat  at  his 
butcher's  work  or  in  his  cellar — he  metes  to  each  of  them  justice, 
and  no  more,  finding  good  even  in  butcher  Marat  or  bullying 
Brunswick,  and  recording  what  he  finds.  What  a  pity  that  one 
gains  such  a  complete  contempt  for  the  author  of  all  this  cleverness  ! 
Only  a  rogue  could  be  so  impartial,  for  Thiers  but  views  this  awful 
series  of  circumstances  in  their  very  meanest  and  basest  light,  like  a 
petty,  clever  statesman  as  he  is,  watching  with  wonderful  accuracy 
all  the  moves  of  the  great  game,  but  looking  for  no  more,  never 
drawing  a  single  moral  from  it,  or  seeking  to  tell  aught  beyond  it. 

Mr.  Carlyle,  as  we  have  said,  is  as  impartial  as  the  illustrious 
Academician  and  Minister ;  but  witli  what  different  eyes  he  looks 
upon  the  men  and  the  doings  of  this  strange  time  !  To  the  one  the 
whole  story  is  but  a  hustling  for  places — a  list  of  battles  and 
intrigues — of  kings  and  governments  rising  and  falling ;  to  the 
other,  the  little  actors  of  this  great  drama  are  striving  but  towards 
a  great  end  and  moral.  It  is  better  to  view  it  loftily  from  afar, 
like  onr  mystic  poetic  Mr.  Carlyle,  than  too  nearly  with  sharp- 
sighted  and  prosaic  Thiers.  Thiers  is  the  valet  de  chambre  of  this 
history,  he  is  too  familiar  with  its  dishabille  and  oft'-scourings :  it 
can  never  be  a  hero  to  him. 

It  is  difiScult  to  convey  to  the  reader  a  fair  notion  of  Mr. 
Carlyle's  powers  or  his  philosophy,  for  the  reader  has  not  grown 
familiar  with  the  strange  style  of  this  book,  and  may  laugh  perhaps 


CARLYLE'S    FRENCH    REVOLUTION         241 

at  the  grotesqueness  of  his  teacher :  in  this  some  honest  critics  of 
the  present  day  have  preceded  him,  who  have  formed  their  awful 
judgments  after  scanning  half-a-dozen  lines,  and  damned  poor  Mr. 
Carlyle's  because  they  chanced  to  be  lazy.  Here,  at  hazard,  how- 
ever, we  faU  upon  the  story  of  the  Bastille  capture ;  the  people 
are  thundering  at  the  gates,  but  Delaunay  will  receive  no  terms, 
raises  his  drawbridge  and  gives  fire.  Now,  cries  Mr.  Carlyle  with 
an  uncouth  Orson-like  shout : — 

"  Bursts  forth  Insurrection,  at  sight  of  its  own  blood,  into 
endless  explosion  of  musketry,  distraction,  execration ; — and  over- 
head, from  the  Fortress,  let  one  great  gun  go  booming,  to  show 
what  we  covZd  do.     The  Bastille  is  besieged  ! 

"  On,  then,  all  Frenchmen  that  have  hearts  in  their  bodies  ! 
Roar  with  all  your  throats,  of  cartilage  and  metal,  ye  Sons  of 
Liberty ;  stir  spasmodically  whatsoever  of  utmost  faculty  is  in 
you,  soul,  body,  or  spirit ;  for  it  is  the  hour !  Smite,  thou  Louis 
Toumay,  cartwright  of  the  Marais,  old-soldier  of  the  Regiment 
Dauphin^ ;  smite  at  that  Outer  Drawbridge-chain,  though  the  iiery 
hail  whistles  round  thee !  Never,  over  nave  or  felloe,  did  thy  axe 
strike  such  a  stroke.  Down  with  it,  man ;  down  with  it  to  Orcus  : 
let  the  whole  accursed  Edifice  sink  thither,  and  Tyranny  be 
swallowed  up  for  ever !  Mounted,  some  say,  on  the  roof  of  the 
guard-room,  Louis  Toumay  smites,  brave  Aubin  Bonnemfere  (also 
an  old  soldier)  seconding  him  :  the  chain  yields,  breaks ;  the  huge 
Drawbridge  slams  down,  thundering.  Glorious :  and  yet,  alas,  it 
is  still  but  the  outworks.  The  eight  grim  Towers,  with  their  In- 
valides,  musketry,  their  paving  stones  and  cannon-mouths,  still  soar 
aloft  intact; — Ditch  yawning  impassable,  stone-faced;  the  inner 
Drawbridge  with  its  back  towards  us  :  the  Bastille  is  still  to  take ! " 

Did  "  Savage  Rosa  "  ever  "  dash  "  a  more  spirited  battle  sketch  1 
The  two  principal  figures  of  the  pieces,  placed  in  skilful  relief,  the 
raging  multitude  and  sombre  fortress  admirably  laid  down !  In 
the  midst  of  this  writhing  and  wrestling,  "  the  line  too  labours  (Mr. 
Carlyle's  line  labours  perhaps  too  often),  and  the  words  move  slow." 
The  whole  story  of  the  fall  of  the  fortress  and  its  defenders  is  told 
in  a  style  similarly  picturesque  and  real. 

"The  poor  Invalides  have  sunk  under  their  battlements,  or 
rise  only  with  reversed  muskets :  they  have  made  a  white  flag  of 
napkins ;  go  beating  the  chamade,  or  seeming  to  beat,  for  one  can 
hear  nothing.  The  very  Swiss  at  the  Portcullis  look  weary  of 
firing:  disheartened  in  the  fire-deluge;  a  porthole  at  the  draw- 
bridge is  opened,  as  by  one  that  would  speak.  See  Huissier 
Maiflard,  the  shifty  man  !  On  his  plank,  swinging  over  the  abyss 
of  that  stone-Ditch ;  plank  resting  on  parapet,  balanced  by  weight 
13  Q 


242  OKITICAL    EEVIEWS 

of  Patriots, — he  hovers  perilous :  such  a  Dove*  towards  such  an 
Ark  !  Deftly,  thou  shifty  Usher :  one  man  already  fell ;  and  lies 
smashed,  far  down  there  against  the  masonry !  Usher  Maillard 
falls  not :  deftly,  unerring  he  walks,  with  outspread  palm.  The 
Swiss  holds  a  paper  through  his  porthole;  the  shifty  Usher  snatches 
it,  and  returns.  Terms  of  surrender  :  Pardon,  immunity  to  all ! 
Are  they  accepted?  ' Foi  d'officier,  on  the  word  of  an  officer,' 
answers  half-pay  Hulin, — or  half-pay  Elie,  for  men  do  not  agree 
on  it,  '  they  are.'  Sinks  the  drawbridge, — Usher  Maillard  bolting 
it  when  down ;  rushes  in  the  living  deluge  :  the  Bastille  is  fallen  ! 
Victoire  !     La  Bastille  est  prise  !  " 

This  is  prose  run  mad — no  doubt  of  it — according  to  our  notions 
of  the  sober  gait  and  avocations  of  homely  prose ;  but  is  there  not 
method  in  it,  and  could  sober  prose  have  described  the  incident  in 
briefer  words,  more  emphatically,  or  more  sensibly?  And  this 
passage,  which  succeeds  the  picture  of  storm  and  slaughter,  opens 
(grotesque  though  it  be),  not  in  prose,  but  in  noble  poetry ;  the 
author  describes  the  rest  of  France  during  the  acting  of  this  Paris 
tragedy — and  by  this  peaceful  image  admirably  heightens  the  gloom 
and  storm  of  his  first  description  : — 

"  0  evening  sun  of  July,  how,  at  this  hour,  thy  beams  fall  slant 
on  reapers  amid  peaceful  woody  fields ;  on  old  women  spinning  in 
cottages ;  on  ships  far  out  in  the  silent  main ;  on  Balls  at  the 
Orangerie  of  Versailles,  where  high-rouged  Dames  are  even  now 
dancing  with  double-jacketted  Hussar-Officers,  and  also  on  this  roar- 
ing Hell-porch  of  a  H6tel-de-Ville  !  One  forest  of  distracted  steel- 
bristles,  in  front  of  an  Electoral  Committee ;  points  itself,  in  horrid 
radii,  against  this  and  the  other  accused  breast.  It  was  the  Titans 
warring  with  Olympus ;  and  they,  scarcely  crediting  it,  have 
conquered."  The  reader  will  smile  at  the  double-jackets  and  rouge, 
which  never  would  be  allowed  entrance  into  a  polite  modern  epic, 
but,  familiar  though  they  be,  they  complete  the  picture,  and  give 
it  reaUty,  that  gloomy  rough  Eembrandt-kind  of  reality  which  is 
Mr.  Oarlyle's  style  of  historic  painting. 

In  this  same  style  Mr.  Oarlyle  dashes  ofi'  the  portraits  of  his 
various  characters  as  they  rise  in  the  course  of  the  history.  Take, 
for  instance,  tliis  grotesque  portrait  of  vapouring  Tonneau  Mirabeau, 
his  life  and  death  ;  it  follows  a  solemn,  aJmost  awful  picture  of  the 
demise  of  his  great  brother  : — 

"  Here,  then,  the  wild  Gabriel  Honor^  drops  from  the  tissue  of 
our  History ;  not  without  a  tragic  farewell.  He  is  gone :  the 
flower  of  the  wild  Eiquetti  kindred ;  which  seems  as  if  in  him  it 
had  done  its  best,  and  then  expired,  or  sunk  down  to  the  undis- 
tinguished level.     Crabbed  old  Marquis  Mirabeau,  the  Friend  of 


OARLYLE'S    FRENCH    REVOLUTION         243 

Men,  sleeps  sound.  Barrel  Mirabeau  gone  across  the  Rhine ;  his 
Regiment  of  Emigrants  will  drive  nigh  desperate.  '  Barrel  Mira- 
beau,' says  a  biographer  of  his,  '  went  indignantly  across  the  Rhine, 
and  drilled  Emigrant  Regiments.  But  as  he  sat  one  morning  in 
his  tent,  sour  of  stomach  doubtless  and  of  heart,  meditating  in 
Tartarean  humour  on  the  turn  things  took,  a  certain  Captain  or 
Subaltern  demanded  admittance  on  business.  Such  Captain  is 
refused ;  he  again  demands,  with  refusal ;  and  then  again,  till 
Colonel  Viscount  Barrel-Mirabeau,  blazing  up  into  a  mere  brandy 
barrel,  clutches  his  sword  and  tumbles  out  on  this  canaille  of  an 
intruder, — alas,  on  the  canaille  of  an  intruder's  sword's  point,  who 
iad  drawn  with  swift  dexterity ;  and  dies,  and  the  Newspapers 
name  it  apoplexy  and  alarming  accident.     So  die  the  Mirabeaus." 

Mr.  Carlyle  gives  this  passage  to  "a  biographer,"  but  he  himself 
must  be  the  author  of  this  History  of  a  Tub;  the  grim  humour 
and  style  belong  only  to  him.  In  a  graver  strain  he  speaks  of 
Gabriel : — 

"New  Mirabeaus  one  hears  not  of:  the  wild  kindred,  as  we 
said,  is  gone  out  with  this  its  greatest.  As  families  and  kindreds 
sometimes  do ;  producing,  after  long  ages'  of  unnoted  notability, 
some  living  quintessence  of  all  they  had,  to  flame  forth  as  a  man 
world-noted  ;  after  whom  they  rest,  as  if  exhausted ;  the  sceptre 
passing  to  others.  The  chosen  Last  of  the  Mirabeaus  is  gone  ;  the 
chosen  man  of  France  is  gone.  It  was  he  who  shook  old  France 
from  its  basis ;  and,  as  if  with  his  single  hand,  has  held  it  toppling 
there,  still  unfaUen.  What  things  depended  on  that  one  man  ! 
He  is  as  a  ship  suddenly  shivered  on  sunk  rocks :  much  swims  on 
the  waste  waters,  far  from  help." 

Here  is  a  picture  of  the  heroine  of  the  Revolution  : — "  Radiant 
with  enthusiasm  are  those  dark  eyes,  is  that  strong  Minerva-face, 
looking  dignity  and  earnest  joy ;  joyfulkst  slie  where  all  are  joyful. 
Reader,  mark  that  queen-like  burgher-woman  :  beautiful,  Amazonian- 
graceful  to  the  eye ;  more  so  to  the  mind.  Unconscious  of  her 
worth  (as  all  worth  is),  of  her  greatness,  of  her  crystal  clearness ; 
genuine,  the  creature  of  Sincerity  and  Nature  in  an  age  of  Artifici- 
ality, Pollution,  and  Cant ;  there,  in  her  still  completeness,  in  her 
still  invincibility,  she,  if  thou  knew  it,  is  the  noblest  of  all  living 
Frenchwomen, — and  will  be  seen,  one  day." 

The  reader,  we  think,  will  not  fail  to  observe  the  real  beauty 
which  lurks  among  all  these  odd  words  and  twisted  sentences, 
living,  as  it  were,  in  spite  of  the  weeds  ;  but  we  repeat,  that  no 
mere  extracts  can  do  justice  to  the  book;  it  requires  time  and 
study.  A  first  acquaintance  with  it  is  very  unprepossessing ;  only 
familiarity  knows  its  great  merits,  and  values  it  accordingly. 


244  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

We  would  gladly  extract  a  complete  chapter  or  episode  from 
the  work — the  flight  to  Varennes,  for  instance,  the  liuge  coach  ■ 
bearing  away  the  sleepy,  dawdling,  milk-sop  royalty  of  France ; 
fiery  BouilM  spreading  abroad  his  scouts  and  Hussars,  "  his  electric 
thunder-chain  of  military  outposts,"  as  Mr.  Carlyle  calls  them  with 
one  of  his  great  similes.  Paris  in  tremendous  commotion,  the 
country  up  and  armed,  to  prevent  the  King's  egress,  the  chance  of 
escape  glimmering  bright  until  the  last  moment,  and  only  extin- 
guished by  bewildered  Louis  himself,  too  pious  and  too  out-of- 
breath,  too  hungry  and  sleepy,  to  make  one  charge  at  the  head  of 
those  gallant  dragoons — one  single  blow  to  win  crown  and  kingdom 
and  liberty  again !  We  never  read  this  hundred-times  told  tale 
with  such  a  breathless  interest  as  Mr.  Carlyle  has  managed  to  instil 
into  it.  The  whole  of  the  sad  story  is  equally  touching  and  vivid, 
from  the  mean  ignominious  return  down  to  the  fatal  10th  of  August, 
when  the  sections  beleaguered  the  King's  palace,  and  King  Louis, 
with  arms,  artillery,  and  2000  true  and  gallant  men,  flung  open  the 
Tuileries  gates  and  said  "  Marchons  !  marchons  !  "  whither  ?  Not 
with  vive  le  Eoi,  and  roaring  guns,  and  bright  bayonets,  sheer 
through  the  rabble  who  barred  the  gate,  swift  through  the  broad 
Champs  Elysfes,  and  the  near  barrier, — not  to  conquer  or  fall  like 
a  King  and  gentleman,  but  to  the  reporters'  box  in  the  National 
Assembly,  to  be  cooped  and  fattened  until  killing  time ;  to  die 
trussed  and  tranquil  like  a  fat  capon.  What  a  son  for  St.  Louis  ! 
What  a  husband  for  brave  Antoinette  ! 

Let  us,  however,  follow  Mr.  Carlyle  to  the  last  volume,  and 
passing  over  the  time,  when,  in  Danton's  awful  image,  "coalized 
Kings  made  war  upon  France,  and  France,  as  a  gage  of  battle, 
flung  the  head  of  a  King  at  their  feet,"  quote  two  of  the  last  scenes 
of  that  awful  tragedy,  the  deaths  of  bold  Danton  and  "  sea-green " 
Robespierre,  as  Carlyle  delights  to  call  him. 

"  On  the  night  of  the  30th  of  March,  Juryman  Piris  came 
rushing  in ;  haste  looking  through  his  eyes  :  a  clerk  of  the  Salut 
Committee  had  told  him  Danton's  warrant  was  made  out,  he  is  to 
be  arrested  this  very  night !  Entreaties  there  are  and  trepidation, 
of  poor  Wife,  of  PSris  and  Friends  :  Danton  sat  silent  for  a  while ; 
then  answered,  '  lis  n'oseraient,  They  dare  not ; '  and  would  take  no 
measures.     Murmuring  '  They  dare  not,'  he  goes  to  sleep  as  usual. 

"And  yet,  on  the  morrow  morning,  strange  rumour  spreads 
over  Paris  city :  Danton,  Camille,  Ph^lippeaux,  Lacroix,  have 
been  arrested  over  night !  It  is  verily  so :  the  corridors  of  the 
Luxembourg  were  all  crowded.  Prisoners  crowding  forth  to  see 
this  giant  of  the  Revolution  enter  among  them.  '  Messieurs,'  said 
Danton  politely,  '  I  hoped  soon  to  hj^ve  got  you  all  out  of  this : 


CAELYLE'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION    245 

but  here  I  am  myself;  and  one  sees  not  where  it  will  end.' — 
Rumour  may  spread  over  Paris  :  the  Convention  clusters  itself  into 
groups ;  wide-eyed,  whispering,  '  Danton  arrested  ! '  Who  then  is 
safe?  Legendre,  mounting  the  Tribune,  utters,  at  his  own  peril,  a 
feeble  word  for  him ;  moving  that  he  be  heard  at  that  bar  before 
indictment ;  but  Robespierre  frowns  him  down :  '  Did  you  hear 
Chabot,  or  Bazire  ?  Would  you  have  two  weights  and  measures  ? ' 
Legendre  cowers  low ;  Danton,  like  the  others,  must  take  his  doom. 

"  Danton's  Prison-thoughts  were  curious  to  liave ;  but  are  not 
given  in  any  quantity :  indeed,  few  such  remarkable  men  have 
been  left  so  obscure  to  us  as  this  Titan  of  the  Revolution.  He 
was  heard  to  ejaculate :  '  This  time  twelvemonth,  I  was  moving 
the  creation  of  that  same  Revolutionary  Tribunal.  I  crave  pardon 
for  it  of  God  and  man.  They  are  all  Brothers  Cain  :  Briscot 
would  have  had  me  guillotined  as  Robespierre  now  will.  I  leave 
the  whole  business  in  a  frightful  welter  {gdchis  epouvantahle)  :  not 
one  of  them  understands  anything  of  government.  Robespierre 
will  follow  me ;  I  drag  down  Robespierre.  Oh,  it  were  better  to 
be  a  poor  fisherman  than  to  meddle  with  governing  of  men.' — 
Camille's  young  beautiful  Wife,  who  had  made  him  rich  not  in 
money  alone,  hovers  round  the  Luxembourg,  like  a  disembodied 
spirit,  day  and  niglit.  Camille's  stolen  letters  to  her  still  exist ; 
stained  with  the  mark  of  his  tears.  'I  carry  my  head  like  a 
Saint-Sacrament  ? '  So  Saint  Just  was  heard  to  mutter  ;  '  Perhaps 
he  will  carry  his  like  a  Saint-Dennis.' 

"Unhappy  Danton,  thou  still  unhappier  light  Camille,  once 
hght  Procureur  de  la  Lanterne,  ye  also  have  arrived,  then,  at  the 
Bourne  of  Creation,  where,  like  Ulysses  Polytlas  at  the  limit  and 
utmost  Gades  of  his  voyage,  gazing  into  that  dim  Waste  beyond 
Creation,  a  man  does  see  the  Shade  of  his  Mother,  pale,  ineffectual ; 
— and  days  when  his  Mother  nursed  and  wrapped  him  are  all 
too  sternly  contrasted  with  this  day  !  Danton,  Camille,  H^rault, 
Westermann,  and  the  others,  very  strangely  massed  up  with  Bazires, 
Swindler  Chabots,  Fabre  d'Eglantines,  Banker  Freys,  a  most 
motley  Batch,  'FournSe'  as  such  things  will  be  called,  stand 
ranked  at  the  bar  of  Tinville.  It  is  the  2nd  of  April,  1794. 
Danton  has  had  but  three  days  to  lie  in  prison;  for  the  time 
presses. 

"  '  What  is  j'our  name  ?  place  of  abode  ? '  and  the  like,  Fouquier 
asks ;  according  to  formality.  '  My  name  is  Danton,'  answers  he  ; 
'a  name  tolerably  known  in  the  Revolution:  my  abode  will  soon 
be  Annihilation  {dans  le  Neant) ;  but  I  shall  live  in  the  Pantheon 
of  History.'  A  man  will  endeavour  to  say  something  forcible,  be 
it  by  nature  or  not !     H^rault  mentions  epigrammatically  that  he 


246  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

'sat  in  this  Hall,  and  was  detested  of  Parlementeers.'  Camille 
makes  answer,  '  My  age  is  that  of  the  bon  Sansculotte  J^sus ;  an 
age  fatal  to  Revolutionists.'  0  Camille,  Camille !  And  yet  in 
that  Divine  Transaction,  let  us  say,  there  did  lie,  among  other 
things,  the  fatallest  Reproof  ever  uttered  here  below  to  Worldly- 
Right-honourableness  ;  '  the  highest  Fact,'  so  devout  Novalis  calls 
it,  '  in  the  Rights  of  Man.'  Camilla's  real  age,  it  would  seem,  is 
thirty-four.     Danton  is  one  year  older. 

"  Some  five  months  ago,  the  Trial  of  the  Twenty-two  Girondins 
was  the  greatest  that  Fouquier  had  then  done.  But  here  is  a  still 
greater  to  do ;  a  thing  which  tasks  the  whole  faculty  of  Fouquier ; 
which  makes  the  very  heart  of  him  waver.  For  it  is  the  voice  of 
Danton  that  reverberates  now  from  these  domes ;  in  passionate 
words,  piercing  with  their  wild  sincerity,  winged  with  wrath. 
Your  best  "Witnesses  he  shivers  into  ruin  at  one  stroke.  He 
demands  that  the  Committee-men  themselves  come  as  Witnesses, 
as  Accusers ;  he  '  will  cover  them  with  ignominy.'  He  raises  his 
huge  stature,  he  shakes  his  huge  black  head,  fire  flashes  from  the 
eyes  of  him, — piercing  to  all  Republican  hearts  :  so  that  the  very 
Galleries,  though  we  fiUeil  them  by  ticket,  murmur  sympathy ;  and 
are  like  to  burst  down,  and  raise  the  People,  and  deliver  him ! 
He  complains  loudly  that  he  is  classed  with  Chabots,  with  swindling 
Stockjobbers  ;  that  his  Indictment  is  a  list  of  platitudes  and  horrors. 
'  Danton  hidden  on  the  Tenth  of  August  1 '  reverberates  he,  with 
the  roar  of  a  lion  in  the  toils  :  '  Where  are  the  men  that  had  to 
press  Danton  to  show  himself,  that  day  1  Where  are  these  high- 
gifted  souls  of  whom  he  borrowed  energy  1  Let  them  appear,  these 
Accusers  of  mine  :  I  have  all  the  clearness  of  my  self-possession 
when  I  demand  them.  I  will  unmask  the  three  shallow  scoundrels,' 
les  trois  plats  coquins,  Saint-Just,  Couthon,  Lebas,  '  who  fawn  on 
Robespierre,  and  lead  him  towards  his  destruction.  Let  them 
produce  themselves  here ;  I  will  plunge  them  into  Nothingness, 
out  of  which  they  ought  never  to  have  risen.'  The  agitated  Presi- 
dent agitates  his  bell ;  enjoins  calmness,  in  a  vehement  manner : 
'What  is  it  to  thee  how  I  defend  myself?'  cries  the  other;  'the 
right  of  dooming  me  is  thine  always.  The  voice  of  a  man  speaking 
for  his  honour  and  his  life  may  well  drown  the  jingling  of  thy 
bell ! '  Thus  Danton,  higher  and  higher ;  till  the  lion  voice  of  him 
'  dies  away  in  his  throat : '  speech  will  not  utter  what  is  in  that 
man.  The  Galleries  murmur  ominously;  the  first  day's  Session 
is  over." 

"Danton  carried  a  high  look  in  the  Death-cart.  Not  so 
Camille  :  it  is  but  one  week,  and  all  is  so  topsy-turvied ;  angel 


CARLYLE'S    FRENCH    REVOLUTION         247 

Wife  left  weeping;  love,  riches,  Revolutionary  fame,  left  all  at 
the  Prison-gate ;  carnivorous  Rabble  now  howling  round.  Pal- 
pable, and  yet  incredible ;  like  a  madman's  dream !  Oamille 
struggles  and  writhes ;  his  shoulders  shuffle  the  loose  coat  off 
them,  which  hangs  knotted,  the  hands  tied :  '  Calm,  my  friend,' 
said  Danton,  '  heed  not  that  vile  canaille  (laissez  la  cette  vile 
canaille).'  At  the  foot  of  the  Scaffold,  Danton  was  heard  to 
ejaculate,  '  0  my  Wife,  my  well-beloved,  I  shall  never  see  thee 
more  then  ! ' — but,  interrupting  himself :  '  Danton,  no  weakness  ! ' 
He  said  to  H^rault-Sechelles  stepping  forward  to  embrace  him  : 
'  Our  heads  will  meet  there,'  in  the  Headsman's  sack.  His  last 
words  were  to  Samson  the  Headsman  himself,  '  Thou  wilt  show 
my  head,  to  the  people ;  it  is  worth  showing.' 

"  So  passes,  like  a  gigantic  mass  of  valour,  ostentation,  fury, 
affection,  and  wild  revolutionary  manhood,  this  Danton,  to  his 
unknown  home.  He  was  of  Areis-sur-Aube ;  born  of  'good 
farmer-people '  there.  He  had  many  sins ;  but  one  worst  sin 
he  had  not,  that  of  Cant.  No  hollow  Formalist,  deceplrive  and 
self-deceptive,  ghastly  to  the  natural  sense,  was  this ;  but  a  very 
Man  :  with  all  his  dross  he  was  a  Man ;  fiery-real,  from  the  great 
fire-bosom  of  Nature  herself.  He  saved  France  from  Brunswick ; 
he  walked  straight  his  own  wild  road,  whither  it  led  him.  He 
may  live  for  some  generations  in  the  memory  of  men." 

This  noble  passage  requires  no  comment,  nor  does  that  in  which 
the  poor  wretched  Robespierre  shrieks  his  last  shriek,  and  dies  his 
pitiful  and  cowardly  death.  Tallien  has  drawn  his  theatrical  dagger, 
and  made  his  speech,  trembling  Robespierre  has  fled  to  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  and  Henriot,  of  the  National  Guard,  clatters  through  the 
city,  summoning  the  sections  to  the  aid  of  the  people's  friend. 

"  About  three  in  the  morning,  the  dissident  Armed-forces  have 
rut.  Henriot's  Armed  Force  stood  ranked  in  the  Place  de  Grfeve ; 
and  now  Barras's,  which  he  has  recruited,  arrives  there ;  and  they 
front  each  other,  cannon  bristUng  against  cannon.  Citoyens  !  cries 
the  voice  of  Discretion  loudly  enough.  Before  coming  to  bloodshed, 
to  endless  civil  war,  hear  the  Convention  Decree  read  : — '  Robespierre 
and  all  rebels  Out  of  Law ! '  Out  of  Law  1  There  is  terror  in 
the  sound :  unarmed  Citoyens  disperse  rapidly  home ;  Municipal 
Cannoneers  range  themselves  on  the  Convention  side,  with  shouting. 
At  which  shout,  Henriot  descends  from  his  upper  room,  far  gone  in 
drink  as  some  say ;  finds  his  Place  de  Grfeve  empty ;  the  cannons' 
mouth  turned  towards  him;  and,  on  the  whole, — that  it  is  now 
the  catastrophe ! 

"  Stumbling  in  again,  the  wretched  drunk-sobered  Henriot  an- 
nounces :  '  All  is  lost ! '     '  Miserable!  it  is  thou  that  hast  lost  it,' 


248  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

cry  they ;  and  fling  him,  or  else  he  flings  himself,  out  of  window  : 
far  enough  down  ;  into  mason  work  and  horror  of  cesspool ;  not  into 
death  but  worse.  Augustin  Robespierre  follows  him  ;  with  the 
like  fate.  Saint-Just  called  on  Lebas  to  kill  him  ;  who  would  not. 
Couthon  crept  under  a  table ;  attempting  to  kill  himself;  not  doing 
it. — On  entering  that  Sanhedrim  of  Insurrection,  we  find  all  as 
good  as  extinct !  undone,  ready  for  seizure.  Robespierre  was  sitting 
on  a  chair,  with  pistol-shot  blown  through,  not  his  head,  but  his 
under  jaw ;  the  suicidal  hand  had  failed.  With  prompt  zeal,  not 
without  trouble,  we  gather  these  wrecked  Conspirators  ;  fish  up  even 
Henriot  and  Augustin,  bleeding  and  foul ;  pack  them  all,  rudely 
enough,  into  carts ;  and  shall,  before  sunrise,  have  them  safe  under 
lock  and  key.     Amid  shoutings  and  embracings. 

"  Robespierre  lay  in  an  ante-room  of  the  Convention  Hall,  while 
his  Prison-escort  was  getting  ready  ;  the  mangled  jaw  bound  up 
rudely  with  bloody  linen :  a  spectacle  to  men.  He  lies  stretched 
on  a  table,  a  deal-box  his  pillow ;  the  sheath  of  the  pistol  is  still 
clenchei  convulsively  in  his  hand.  Men  bully  him,  insult  him  : 
his  eyes  still  indicate  intelligence ;  he  speaks  no  word.  '  He  had 
on  the  sky-blue  coat  he  had  got  made  for  the  Feast  of  the  Eire 
Supreme' — 0  reader,  can  thy  hard  heart  hold  out  against  that? 
His  trousers  were  nankeen ;  the  stockings  had  fallen  down  over  the 
ankles.     He  spake  no  word  more  in  this  world." 


"  The  Death-tumbrils,  with  their  motley  Batch  of  Outlaws, 
some  Twenty-three  or  so,  from  Maximilien  to  Mayor  Fleuriot  and 
Simon  the  Cordwainer,  roll  on.  All  eyes  are  on  Robespierre's 
Tumbril,  where  he,  his  jaw  bound  in  dirty  linen,  with  his  half-dead 
Brother,  and  half-dead  Henriot,  lie  shattered,  their  '  seventeen  hours ' 
of  agony  about  to  end.  The  Gendarmes  point  their  swords  at  him, 
to  show  the  people  which  is  he.  A  woman  springs  on  the  Tumbril ; 
clutching  the  side  of  it  with  one  hand ;  waving  the  other  Sibyl- 
like ;  and  exclaims,  '  The  death  of  thee  gladdens  my  very  heart, 
m'enivre  de  joie  ;  '  Robespierre  opened  his  eyes ;  '  Scel&at,  go  down 
to  Hell,  with  the  curses  of  all  wives  and  mothers  ! ' — At  the  foot  of 
the  Scafibld,  they  stretched  him  on  the  ground  till  his  turn  came. 
Lifted  aloft,  his  eyes  again  opened ;  caught  the  bloody  axe.  Samson 
wrenched  the  coat  oS  him  ;  wrenched  the  dirty  linen  from  his  jaw ; 
the  jaw  fell  powerless,  there  burst  from  him  a  cry ; — hideous  to 
hear  and  see.     Samson,  thou  canst  not  be  too  quick ! 

"  Samson's  work  done,  there  bursts  forth  shout  on  shout  of 
applause.  Shout,  which  prolongs  itself  not  only  over  Paris,  but 
over  France,  but  over  Europe,  and  down  to  this  Generation.     De- 


CAELYLE'S    FKENOH    REVOLUTION         249 

servedly,  and  also  undeservedly.  Oh,  unhappiest  Advocate  of  Arras, 
wert  thou  worse  than  other  Advocates  ?  Stricter  man,  according  to 
his  Formula,  to  his  Credo,  and  his  Cant,  of  probities,  benevolences, 
pleasures-of-virtue,  and  such  like,  lived  not  in  that  age.  A  man 
fitted,  in  some  luckier  settled  age,  to  have  become  one  of  those 
incorruptible  barren  Pattern-Figures,  and  have  had  marble-tablets 
and  funeral-sermons  !  His  poor  landlord,  the  Cabinetmaker  in  the 
Rue  Saint-Honor^,  loved  him  ;  his  Brother  died  for  him.  May  God 
be  merciful  to  him,  and  to  us  !  " 

The  reader  will  see  in  the  above  extracts  most  of  the  faults, 
and  a  few  of  the  merits,  of  this  book.  He  need  not  be  told  that 
it  is  written  in  an  eccentric  prose,  here  and  there  disfigured  by 
grotesque  conceits  and  images;  but,  for  all  this,  it  betrays  most 
extraordinary  powers — learning,  observation,  and  humour.  Above 
all,  it  has  no  cant.  It  teems  with  sound,  hearty  philosophy 
(besides  certain  transcendentalisms  which  we  do  not  pretend  to 
understand),  it  possesses  genius,  if  any  book  ever  did.  It  wanted 
no  more  for  keen  critics  to  cry  fie  upon  it !  Clever  criiics  who 
have  such  an  eye  for  genius,  that  when  Mr.  Bulwer  published  his 
forgotten  book  concerning  Athens,  they  discovered  that  no  historian 
was  like  to  him ;  that  he,  on  his  Athenian  hobby,  had  quite  out. 
trotted  stately  Mr.  Gibbon  ;  and  with  the  same  creditable  unanimity 
they  cried  down  Mr.  Oarlyle's  history,  opening  upon  it  a  hundred 
little  piddling  sluices  of  small  wit,  destined  to  wash  the  book  sheer 
away ;  and  lo !  the  book  remains,  it  is  only  the  poor  wit  which 
lias  run  dry. 

We  need  scarcely  recommend  this  book  and  its  timely  appear- 
ance, now  that  some  of  the  questions  solved  in  it  seem  almost 
likely  to  be  battled  over  again.  The  hottest  Radical  in  England 
may  learn  by  it  that  there  is  something  more  necessary  for  him 
even  than  his  mad  liberty — the  authority,  namely,  by  which  he 
retains  his  head  on  his  shoulders  and  his  money  in  his  pocket, 
which  privileges  that  by-word  "  liberty  "  is  often  unable  to  secure 
for  him.  It  teaches  (by  as  strong  examples  as  ever  taught  any- 
thing) to  rulers  and  to  ruled  aUke  moderation,  and  yet  there  are 
many  who  would  react  the  same  dire  tragedy,  and  repeat  the 
experiment  tried  in  France  so  fatally.  "  No  Peers — no  Bishops — 
no  property  qualification — no  restriction  of  suffrage."  Mr.  Leader 
bellows  it  out  at  Westminster  and  Mr.  Roebuck  croaks  it  at  Bath. 
Pert  quacks  at  public  meetings  joke  about  hereditary  legislators, 
journalists  gibe  at  them,  and  moody  starving  labourers,  who  do  not 
know  how  to  jest,  but  can  hate  lustily,  are  told  to  curse  crowns 
and  coronets  as  the  origin  of  their  woes  and  their  poverty, — and  so 
did   the  clever  French  spouters  and  journalists  gibe   at  royalty, 


250  CEITIOAL    EEVIEWS 

until  royalty  fell  poisoned  under  their  satire ;  and  so  did  the 
screaming  hungry  French  mob  curse  royalty  until  they  overthrew 
it :  and  to  what  end  ?  To  bring  tyranny  and  leave  starvation, 
battering  down  Bastilles  to  erect  guillotines,  and  murdering  kings 
to  set  up  emperors  in  their  stead. 

We  do  not  say  that  in  our  own  country  similar  excesses  are 
to  be  expected  or  feared ;  the  cause  of  complaint  has  never  been 
so  great,  the  wrong  has  never  been  so  crying  on  the  part  of  the 
rulers,  as  to  bring  down  such  fearful  retaliation  from  the  governed. 
Mr.  Eoebuck  is  not  Robespierre,  and  Mr.  Attwood,  with  his 
threatened  legion  of  fiery  Marseillois,  is  at  best  but  a  Brummagem 
Barbaroux.  But  men  alter  with  circumstances  ;  six  months  before 
the  kingly  decheance,  the  bitter  and  bilious  advocate  of  Arras  spake 
with  tears  in  his  eyes  about  good  King  Louis,  and  the  sweets  and 
merits  of  constitutional  monarchy  and  hereditary  representation  : 
and  so  he  spoke,  until  his  own  turn  came,  and  his  own  delectable 
guillotining  system  had  its  hour.  God  forbid  that  we  should 
pursue  the  simile  with  Mr.  Roebuck  so  far  as  this ;  God  forbid, 
too,  that  he  ever  should  have  the  trial. 

True ;  but  we  have  no  right,  it  is  said,  to  compare  the  Re- 
publicanism of  England  with  that  of  France,  no  right  to  suppose 
that  such  crimes  would  be  perpetrated  in  a  country  so  enlightened 
as  ours.  Why  is  there  peace  and  liberty  and  a  republic  in 
America?  No  guillotining,  no  ruthless  Yankee  tribunes  retaliating 
for  bygone  tyranny  by  double  oppression?  Surely  tlie  reason  is 
obvious — because  there  was  no  hunger  in  America ;  because  there 
were  easier  ways  of  livelihood  than  those  offered  by  ambition. 
Banish  Queen,  and  Bishops,  and  Lords,  seize  the  lands,  open  the 
ports,  or  shut  them  (according  to  the  fancy  of  your  trades'  unions 
and  democratic  clubs,  who  have  each  their  freaks  and  hobbies),  and 
are  you  a  whit  richer  in  a  month,  are  your  poor  Spitalfields  men 
vending  their  silks,  or  your  poor  Irishmen  reaping  their  harvests  at 
home  ?  Strong  interest  keeps  Americans  quiet,  not  Government ; 
here  there  is  always  a  party  which  is  interested  in  rebellion. 
People  America  like  England,  and  the  poor  weak  rickety  republic 
is  jostled  to  death  in  the  crowd.  Give  us  this  republic  to-morrow 
and  it  would  share  no  better  fate ;  have  not  all  of  us  the  power, 
and  many  of  us  the  interest,  to  destroy  it  ? 


FASHNABLE  FAX  AND  POLITE  ANNYGOATS 

BY   CHAELES   YELLOWPLUSH,    ESQ. 

No.  — ,  Grosvbnor  Square  ;  lOtfi  October. 
(N.B.     Hairy  Bell.) 

MY  DEAR  Y.— Your  dellixy  in  sending  me  "  My  Book  "  * 
does  you  honour;  for  the  subjick  on  which  it  treats 
cannot,  like  politix,  metafizzix,  or  other  silly  sciences,  be 
criticised  by  the  common  writin  creaturs  who  do  your  and  other 
Magazines  at  so  much  a  yard.  I  am  a  chap  of  a  different  sort. 
I  have  lived  with  some  of  the  first  families  in  Europe,  and  I 
say  it,  without  fear  of  contradistinction,  that,  since  the  death  of 
George  the  IV.,  and  Mr.  Simpson  of  Voxall  Gardens,  there  doesn't, 
praps,  live  a  more  genlmnly  man  than  myself  As  to  figger,  I  beat 
Simpson  all  to  shivers ;  and  know  more  of  the  world  than  the  late 
George.  He  did  things  in  a  handsome  style  enough,  but  he  lived 
always  in  one  set,  and  got  narrow  in  his  notions.  How  could  he 
be  otherwise?  Had  he  my  opportunities,  I  say  he  would  have 
been  a  better  dressed  man,  a  better  dined  man  [poor  angsy  deer, 
as  the  French  say),  and  a  better  furnitured  man.  These  qualities 
an't  got  by  indolence,  but  by  acute  hobservation  and  foring  travel, 
as  I  have  had.  But  a  truce  to  heggotism,  and  let  us  proceed 
with  blsness. 

Skelton's  "  Anatomy  "  (or  Skeleton's,  which,  I  presume,  is  his 
real  name)  is  a  work  which  has  been  long  wanted  in  the  littery 
world.  A  reglar  slap-up,  no-mistake,  out-an'-out  account  of  the 
manners  and  usitches  of  genteel  society,  will  be  appreciated  in 
every  famly  from  Buckly  Square  to  Whitechapel  Market.  Ever 
since  you  sent  me  the  volum,  I  have  read  it  to  the  gals  in  our 
hall,  who  are  quite  delighted  of  it,  and  every  day  grows  genteeler 
and  genteeler.  So  is  Jeames,  coachman ;  so  is  Sam  and  George, 
and  little  Halfred,  the  sugar-loafed  page  :^all  'xcept  old  Huffy, 
the  fat  veezy  porter,  who  sits  all  day  in  his  hall-chair,  and  never 
reads  a  word  of  any  think  but  that  ojus  Hage  newspaper.     "  Huffy," 

*  "  My  Book  ;  or.  The  Anatomy  of  Conduct. "    By  John  Henry  Skelton 
London  :  Simpkin  &  Marshall.     1837. 


252  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

I  often  say  to  him,  "why  continue  to  read  that  blaggerd  print? 
Want  of  decency,  Huffy,  becomes  no  man  in  your  high  situation : 
a  genlman  without  morallity,  is  like  a  liv'ry-coat  without  a 
shoulder-knot."  But  the  old-fashioned  beast  reads  on,  and  don't 
care  for  a  syllable  of  what  I  say.  As  for  the  Sat'rist,  that's 
different :  I  read  it  myself,  reg'lar ;  for  it's  of  uncompromising 
Raddicle  principils,  and  lashes  the  vices  of  the  arristoxy.  But 
again  I  am  diverging  from  Skeleton. 

What  I  like  about  him  so  pertiklerly  is  his  moddisty.  Be 
fore  you  come  to  the  book,  there  is,  fust,  a  Deddication ;  then, 
a  Preface;  and  nex',  a  Prolygomeny.  The  fust  is  about  hisself; 
the  second  about  hisself,  too ;  and,  cuss  me  !  if  the  Prolygoly- 
gominy  an't  about  hisself  again,  and  his  schoolmaster,  the  Rev. 
John  Finlay,  late  of  Streatham  Academy.  I  shall  give  a  few 
extrax  from  them  :  — 

"  Graceful  manners  are  not  intuitive :  so  he,  who,  through 
industry  or  the  smiles  of  fortune,  would  emulate  a  polite  carriage, 
must  be  taught  not  to  outrage  propriety.  Many  topics  herein 
considered  have  been  discussed,  more  or  less  gravely  or  jocosely, 
according  as  the  subject-matter  admitted  the  varying  treatment. 
I  would  that  with  propriety  much  might  be  expunged,  but  that 
I  felt  it  is  aU  required  from  the  nature  of  the  work.  The  public 
is  the  tribunal  to  which  I  appeal :  not  friendship,  but  public 
attestation,  must  affix  the  signet  to  '  My  Book's '  approval  or  con- 
deumation.  Sheridan,  when  manager  of  Drury,  was  known  to  say, 
he  had  Golicited  and  received  the  patronage  of  friends,  but  from 
the  public  only  had  he  found  support.     So  may  it  be  with  me  ! " 

There's  a  sentence  for  you,  Mr.  Yorke  !  *  We  disputed  about 
it,  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  in  the  servants'  hall.  Miss  Simkins, 
my  hady's  feel  de  chamber,  says  it's  complete  ungramatticle,  as  so 
it  is.  "I  would  that,"  &c.,  "but  that,"  and  so  forth:  what  can 
be  the  earthly  meaning  of  it  1  "  Graceful  manners,"  says  Skeleton, 
"  is  not  intuitive."  Nor  more  an't  grammar,  Skelton ;  sooner  than 
make  a  fault  in  which,  I'd  knife  my  fish,  or  malt  after  my  cheese. 

As  for  "  emulating  a  genteel  carriage,"  not  knowing  what  that 
might  mean,  we  at  once  asked  Jim  Coachman ;  but  neither  he  nor 
his  helpers  could  help  us.  Jim  thinks  it  was  a  baroosh  ;  cook  says, 
a  brisky ;  Sam,  the  stable-boy  (who,  from  living  chiefly  among  the 
bosses  and  things,  has  got  a  sad  low  way  of  talking),  said  it  was 
all  dicky,  and  bid  us  drive  on  to  the  nex'  page. 

*  Oliver  Yorke  was  the  well-known  pseudonym  of  the  editor  of  JVaser's 
Magazine. 


FASHNABLE   FAX   AND    POLITE   ANNYGOATS     253 

"  For  years,  when  I  have  observed  anything  in  false  taste,  I 
have  remarked  that,  when  '  My  Book '  makes  its  appearance,  such 
an  anomaly  will  be  discontinued ;  and,  instead  of  an  angry  reply, 
it  has  ever  been,  '  What !  are  you  writing  such  a  work  ? '  till  at 
length,  in  several  societies,  '  My  Book '  has  been  referred  to  whenever 
une  meprise  has  taken  place.  As  thus  :  '  "  My  Book  "  is,  indeed, 
wanted  ; '  or,  '  If  "  My  Book  "  were  here ; '  or,  '  We  shall  never  be 
right  without  "  My  Book  "  ; '  which  led  me  to  take  minutes  of  the 
barbarisms  I  observed.  I  now  give  them  to  the  world,  from  a  con- 
viction that  a  rule  of  conduct  should  be  studied,  and  impressed 
upon  the  mind.  Other  studies  come  occasionally  into  play ;  but 
the  conduct,  the  deportment,  and  the  manner  are  ever  in  view,  and 
should  be  a  primary  consideration,  and  by  no  means  left  to  chance 
(as  at  present),  'whether  it  be  good,  or  whether  it  be  evil.' 

"Most  books  that  have  appeared  on  this  vital  subject  have 
generally  been  of  a  trashy  nature ;  intended,  one  would  imagine — 
if  you  took  the  trouble  to  read  them — as  advertisements  to  this 
trade,  or  for  that  man,  this  draper,  or  that  dentist,  instead  of 
attempting  to  form  the  mind,  and  leaving  the  judgment  to  act. 

"  To  Lord  Chesterfield  other  remarks  apply  :  but  Dr.  Johnson 
has  so  truly  and  so  wittily  characterised,  in  few  words,  that  heart- 
less libertine's  advice  to  his  son,  that,  without  danger  of  corrupting 
the  mind,  you  cannot  place  his  works  in  the  hands  of  youth. 

"It  should  ever  be  kept  in  our  recollection,  that  a  graceful 
carriage — a  noble  bearing,  and  a  generous  disposition  to  sit  with 
ease  and  grace,  must  be  enthroned  '  in  the  mind's  eye '  on  every 
virtuous  sentiment." 

There  it  is,  the  carriage  again  !  But  never  mind  that — to  the 
nex'  sentence  it's  nothink  :  "  to  sit  with  ease  and  grace  must  be 
enthroned  '  in  the  mind's  eye '  on  every  virtuous  sentiment ! " 
Heaven  bless  your  bones,  Mr.  Skeleton  !  where  are  you  driving  us  1 
I  say,  this  sentence  would  puzzle  the  very  Spinx  himself!  How 
can  a  man  sit  in  his  eye  1  If  the  late'  Mr.  Finlay,  of  Streatham 
Academy,  taught  John  Henry  Anatomy  Skeleton  to  do  this,  he's 
a  very  wonderful  pupil,  and  no  mistake !  as  well  as  a  finominy  in 
natural  history,  quite  exceeding  that  of  Miss  Mackavoy.  Sich 
peculiar  opportunities  for  hobservation  must  make  his  remarks 
really  valuable.* 

Well,  he  observes  on  every  think  that  is  at  all  observable,  and 

*  I  canot  refrain  from  quattin,  in  a  note,  the  following  extract,  from 
page  8 : — 

"  To  be  done  with  propriety,  everything  must  be  done  quietly.  When  the 
cards  are  dealt  round  do  not  sort  them  in  all  possible  haste,  and,  having  per- 
formed it  in  a  most  hurried  manner,  clap  your  cards  on  the  table,  looking 


254,  CRITICAL    EEVIEWS 

can  make  a  genl'man  fit  for  genTmanly  society.  His  beayviour 
at  dinner  and  brexfast,  at  bawls  and  swarries,  at  chuoh,  at  vist,  at 
skittles,  at  drivin'  cabs,  at  gettin'  in  an'  out  of  a  carriage,  at  his 
death  and  burill — givin',  on  every  one  of  these  subjicks,  a  plenty 
of  ex'lent  maxums ;  as  we  shall  very  soon  see.  Let's  begin  about 
dinner — it's  always  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  talk  of.  Skeleton  (who 
is  a  slap-up  heppycure)  says  : — • 

"  Earn  the  reputation  of  being  a  good  carver ;  it  is  a  weakness 
to  pretend  superiority  to  an  art  in  such  constant  requisition,  and 
on  which  so  much  enjoyment  depends.  You  must  not  crowd  the 
plate — send  only  a  moderate  quantity,  with  fat  and  gravy;  in 
short,  whatever  you  may  be  carving,  serve  others  as  if  you  were 
helping  yourself:  this  may  be  done  with  rapidity,  if  the  carver 
takes  pleasure  in  his  province,  and  endeavours  to  excel.  It  is  cruel 
and  disgusting  to  send  a  lump  of  meat  to  any  one  :  if  at  the  table 
of  a  friend,  it  is  offensive ;  if  at  your  own,  unpardonable.  No 
refined  appetite  can  survive  it." 

Taken  in  general,  I  say  this  remark  is  admiral.  I  saw  an 
instance,  only  last  wick,  at  our  table.  There  was,  first.  Sir  James 
and  my  Lady,  in  course,  at  the  head  of  their  own  table  ;  then  there 
was  Lord  and  Lady  Smigsmag  right  and  left  of  my  Lady ;  Captain 
Flupp,  of  the  huzzas  (huzza  he  may  be;  but  he  looks,  to  my 
thinkin,  much  more  like  a  bravo) ;  and  the  Bishop  of  Biflfeter,  with 
his  lady ;  Haldermin  Snodgrass,  and  me — that  is,  I  waited. 

Well,  the  haldermin,  who  was  lielpin  the  tuttle,  puts  on 
Biffeter's  plate  a  wad  of  green  fat,  which  might  way  a  pound  and 
three-quarters.  His  Ludship  goes  at  it  very  hearty  ;  but  not  likin 
to  seprate  it,  tries  to  swallow  the  lump  at  one  go.  I  recklect 
Lady  Smigsmag  saying  gaily,  "What,  my  Lord,  are  you  goin  that 
whole  hog  at  once  1 "  The  bishop  looked  at  her,  rowled  his  eyes, 
and  tried  to  spick ;  but  between  the  spickin  and  swallerin,  and  the 
green  fat,  the  consquinsies  were  fatle  !  He  sunk  back  on  his  chair, 
his  spoon  dropt,  his  face  became  of  a  blew  colour,  and  down  he  fell 
as  dead  as  a  nit.  He  recovered,  to  be  sure,  nex  day ;  but  not  till 
after  a  precious  deal  of  bleedin  and  dosin,  which  Dr.  Drencher 
described  for  him. 

proudly  round,  conscious  of  your  own  superiority.  I  speak  to  those  in  good 
society, — not  to  him  who,  making  cards  his  trade,  has  his  motives  for  thus 
hurrying, — that  he  may  remark  the  countenances  of  those  with  whom  he  plays 
— that  he  may  make  observations  in  his  mind's  eye,  from  what  passes  around, 
and  use  those  observations  to  suit  ulterior  ends." 

This,  now,  is  what  I  call  a  reg'lar  parrylel  passidge,  and  renders  quite  clear 
Mr.  Skeltonses  notin  of  the  situation  of  the  mind's  eye. — Chas.  Ylflbh. 


FASHNABLE   FAX   AND   POLITE   ANNYGOATS     255 

This  would  never  have  happened,  had  not  tlie  haldermin  given 
him  such  a  plate-full ;  and  to  Skeleton's  maxim  let  me  add  mine. 

Dinner  was  made  for  eatin,  not  for  talkin :  never  pay  compli- 
ments with  your  mouth  full. 

"  The  person  carving  must  hear  in  mind  that  a  knife  is  a  saw, 
by  which  means  it  wiU  never  slip ;  and  should  it  be  blunt,  or  the 
meat  overdone,  he  will  succeed  neatly  and  expertly,  while  others 
are  unequal  to  the  task.  For  my  part,  I  have  been  accustomed 
to  think  I  could  carve  any  meat,  with  any  knife;  but  lately,  in 
France,  I  have  found  my  mistake — for  the  meat  was  so  overdone, 
and  the  knives  so  blunt,  that  the  little  merit  I  thought  I  possessed 
completely  failed  me.  Such  was  never  the  case  with  any  knife  I 
ever  met  with  in  England. 

"  Pity  that  there  is  not  a  greater  reciprocity  in  the  world ! 
How  much  would  France  be  benefited  by  the  introduction  of  our 
cutlery  and  woollens  ;  and  we  by  much  of  its  produce  ! 

"When  the  finger-glass  is  placed  before  you,  you  must  not 
drink  the  contents,  or  even  rinse  your  mouth,  and  spit  it  back ; 
although  this  has  been  done  by  some  inconsiderate  persons.  Never, 
in  short,  do  that  of  which,  on  reflection,  you  would  be  ashamed ; 
for  instance,  never  help  yourself  to  salt  with  your  knife — a  thing 
which  is  not  unfrequently  done  in  la  belle  France  in  the  '  perfumed 
chambers  of  the  great.'  We  all  have  much  to  unlearn,  ere  we  can 
learn  much  that  we  should.  My  effort  is  '  to  gather  up  the  tares, 
and  bind  them  in  bundles  to  destroy  them,'  and  then  to  'gather 
the  wheat  into  the  barn.' 

"When  the  rose-water  is  carried  round  after  dinner,  dip  into  it 
the  corner  of  your  napkin  lightly ;  touch  the  tips  of  your  fingers, 
and  press  the  napkin  on  your  lips.  Forbear  plunging  into  the 
liquid  as  into  a  bath." 

This,  to  be  sure,  would  be  diifiklt,  as  well  as  ungenlmnly; 
and  I  have  something  to  say  on  this  head,  too. 

About  them  blue  water  bowls  which  are  brought  in  after  dinner, 
and  in  which  the  company  makes  such  a  bubblin  and  spirtin ; 
people  should  be  very  careful  in  usin  them,  and  mind  how  they 
hire  short-sighted  servants.  Lady  Smigsmag  is  a  melancholy 
instance  of  this.  Her  Ladyship  wears  two  rows  of  false  teeth 
(what  the  French  call  a  rattler),  and  is,  every  body  knows,  one  of 
the  most  absint  of  women.  After  dinner  one  day  (at  her  own 
house),  she  whips  out  her  teeth,  and  puts  them  into  the  blue  bowl, 
as  she  always  did,  when  the  squirtin  time  came.  Well,  the 
conversation  grew  hanimated;  and  so  much  was  Lady  Smigsmag 


&56  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

interested,  that  slie  clean  forgot  her  teeth,  and  wen  to  bed  without 
them. 

Nex  morning  was  a  dreadful  disturbance  in  the  house :  sumbady 
had  stolen  my  Lady's  teeth  out  of  her  mouth  !  But  this  is  a  loss 
which  a  lady  don't  like  positively  to  advertise ;  so  the  matter  was 
hushed  up,  and  my  Lady  got  a  new  set  from  Parkison's.  But 
nobody  ever  knew  who  was  the  thief  of  the  teeth. 

A  fortnight  after,  another  dinner  was  given.  Lady  Smigsmag 
only  kep  a  butler  and  one  man,  and  this  was  a  chap  whom  we  used 
to  call,  professionally.  Lazy  Jim.  He  never  did  nothing  but  when 
he  couldn't  help  it ;  he  was  as  lazy  as  a  dormus,  and  as  blind  as  a 
howl.  If  the  plate  was  dirty,  Jim  never  touched  it  until  the  day 
it  was  wanted,  and  the  same  he  did  by  the  glas ;  you  might  go  into 
his  pantry,  and  see  dozens  on  'em  with  the  water  (lie  drenk  up  all 
the  wind)  which  had  been  left  in  'em  since  last  dinner  party.  How 
such  things  could  be  allowed  in  a  house,  I  don't  know ;  it  only 
shewed  that  Smigsmag  was  an  easy  master,  and  that  Higgs,  the 
butler,  didn't  know  his  bisuiss. 

Well,  the  day  kem  for  the  sek'nd  party.  Lazy  Jim's  plate  was 
all  as  dutty  as  pos'bil,  and  his  whole  work  to  do ;  he  cleaned  up 
the  plate,  the  glas,  and  everythink  else,  as  he  thought,  and  set  out 
the  trays  and  things  on  the  sideboard.  "  Law,  Jim,  you  jackass," 
cried  out  the  butler,  at  half-past  seven,  jist  as  the  people  was  a 
comen  down  to  dinner ;   "  you've  forgot  the  washand  basins." 

Jim  spun  down  into  his  room, — for  he'd  forgotten  'em,  sure 
enough ;  there  they  were,  however,  on  his  shelf,  and  full  of  water : 
so  he  brought  'em  up,  and  said  nothink;  but  gev  'em  a  polishin 
wipe  with  the  tail  of  his  coat. 

Down  kem  the  company  to  dinner,  and  set  to  it  like  good  uns. 
The  society  was  reg'lar  distangy  (as  they  say) :  there  was  the  Duke 
of  Haldersgit,  Lord  and  Lady  Barbikin,  Sir  Gregory  Jewin,  and 
Lady  Suky  Smithfield,  asides  a  lot  of  commontators.  The  dinner 
was  removed,  and  the  bubble  and  squeakers  (as  I  call  'em)  put 
down ;  and  all  the  people  began  a  washin  themselves,  like  any- 
think.  "  Whrrrrr ! "  went  Lady  Smigsmag  ;  "  Cloocloocloocloophizz !  " 
says  Lady  Barbikin ;  "  Goggleoggleoggleblrrawaw  !  "  says  Jewin  (a 
very  fat  g'n'l'm'n),  "  Blobblobgob  !  "  began  his  Grace  of  Haldersgit, 
who  has  got  the  widest  mouth  in  all  the  peeridge,  when  all  of  a 
sudden  he  stopped,  down  went  his  washand-basin,  and  he  gev  such 
a  piercing  shriek  !  such  a  bust  of  agony  as  I  never  saw,  excep  when 
the  prince  sees  the  ghost  in  "  Hamlick  "  :  down  went  his  basin,  and 
up  went  his  eyes ;  I  really  thought  he  was  going  to  vomick  ! 

I  rushed  up  to  his  Grace,  squeeging  him  in  the  shoulders,  and 
patting  him  on  the  back.     Everybody  was  in  alarm ;  the  duke  as 


FASHNABLE   FAX   AND    POLITE   ANNYGOATS     257 

pale  as  hashes,  grinding  his  teeth,  frowning,  and  makin  the  most 
frightful  extortions :  the  ladis  were  in  astarrix ;  and  I  observed 
Lazy  Jim  leaning  against  the  sideboard,  and  looking  as  white  as 
chock. 

I  looked  into  his  Grace's  plate,  and,  on  my  honour  as  a  gnlmn, 
among  the  amins  and  reasons,  there  was  two  rows  of  teeth  ! 

"  Law ! — heavens  ! — what ! — your  Grace  ! — is  it  possible  1 "  said 
Lady  Smigsmag,  puttin  her  hand  into  the  duke's  plate.  "Dear 
Duke  of  Aldersgate  !  as  I  live,  they  are  my  lost  teeth  !  " 

Flesh  and  blud  coodn't  stand  this,  and  I  bust  out  lafEn,  till  I 
thought  I  should  split ;  a  footman's  a  man,  and  as  impregnable  as 
hany  other  to  the  ridiklous.  /  bust,  and  every  body  bust  after  me 
— lords  and  ladies,  duke  and  butler,  and  all — every  body  excep 
Lazy  Jim. 

Would  you  blieve  it  ?  He  hadn't  cleaned  out  the  glasses,  and 
the  company  was  a  washin  themselves  in  second-hand  water,  a 
fortnit  old  ! 

I  don't  wish  to  insinuate  that  this  kind  of  thing  is  general ;  only 
people  had  better  take  warnin  by  me  and  Mr.  Skeleton,  and  wash 
theirselves  at  home.  Lazy  Jeames  was  turned  off  the  nex  morning, 
took  to  drinkin  and  evil  habits,  and  is  now,  in  consquints,  a  leftenant- 
general  in  the  Axillary  Legend.  Let's  now  get  on  to  what  Skelton 
calls  his  "  Derelictions  " — here's  some  of  'em,  and  very  funny  one's 
they  are  too.  What  do  you  think  of  Number  1,  by  way  of  a 
dereliction  ? 

"1.  A  knocker  on  the  door  of  a  lone  house  in  the  country. 

"  2.  When  on  horseback,  to  be  followed  by  a  groom  in  a  fine 
livery ;  or,  when  in  your  gig  or  cab,  with  a  '  tiger '  so  adorned 
by  your  side.  George  IV.,  whose  taste  was  never  excelled,  if 
ever  equalled,  always,  excepting  on  state  occasions,  exhibited  his 
retinue  in  plain  liveries — a  grey  frock  being  the  usual  dress  of  his 
grooms. 

"  4.  To  elbow  people  as  you  walk  is  rude.  For  such  uncouth 
beings,  perhaps,  a  good  thrashing  would  be  tlie  best  monitor ;  only 
there  might  be  disagreeables  attending  the  correction,  in  the  shape 
of  legal  functionaries. 

"  9.  When  riding  with  a  companion,  be  not  two  or  three  horse- 
lengths  before  or  behind. 

"  10.  When  walking  with  one  friend,  and  you  encounter  another, 
although  you  may  stop  and  speak,  never  introduce  the  strangers, 
unless  each  expresses  a  wish  to  that  effect. 

"  13.  Be  careful  to  check  vulgarities  in  children;  for  instance  : 
'  Tom,  did  you  get  wet  ? ' — '  No ;  Bob  did,  but  I  cut  away.'  You 
13  R 


258  RCITICAL    EEVIEWS 

should  also  affectionately  rebuke  an  unbecoming  tone  and  manner 
in  children. 

"18.  To  pass  a  glass,  or  any  drinking  vessel,  by  the  brim,  or 
to  offer  a  lady  a  bumper,  are  things  equally  in  bad  taste. 

"  19.  To  look  from  the  window  to  ascertain  who  has  knocked, 
whilst  the  servant  goes  to  the  door,  must  not  be  done. 

"26.  Humming,  drumming,  or  whistling,  we  must  avoid,  as 
disrespectful  to  our  company. 

"  27.  Never  whisper  in  company,  nor  make  confidants  of  mere 
acquaintance. 

"  28.  Vulgar  abbreviations,  such  as  gent  for  gentleman,  or  buss 
for- omnibus,  &c.,  must  be  shunned. 

"  29.  Make  no  noise  in  eating :  as,  when  you  masticate  with 
the  lips  uuclosed,  the  action  of  the  jaw  is  heard.  It  is  equally  bad 
in  drinking.  Gulping  loudly  is  abomiuable — it  is  but  habit — unre- 
strained, no  more ;  but  enough  to  disgust. 

"  30.  To  do  anything  that  might  be  obnoxious  to  censure,  or 
even  bear  animadversion  from  eccentricity,  you  must  take  care  not 
to  commit. 

"31.  Be  especially  cautious  not  to  drink  while  your  plate  is 
sent  to  be  replenished. 

"  32.  A  bright  light  in  a  dirty  lamp  *  is  not  to  be  endured. 

"  33.  The  statue  of  the  Achilles  in  Hyde  Park  is  in  bad  taste. 
To  erect  a  statue  in  honour  of  a  hero  in  a  defensive  attitude,  when 
his  good  sword  has  carved  his  renown — Ha,  ha,  ha !  " 

Ha,  ha,  ha !  isn't  that  reg'lar  ridiklous  1  Not  the  statute  I 
mean,  but  the  dereliction,  as  Skillyton  calls  it.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
indeed !  Defensive  hattitude !  He  may  call  that  nasty  naked 
figger  defensive — I  say  it's  Ao/fensive,  and  no  mistake.  But  read 
the  whole  bunch  of  remarx,  Mr.  Yoeee  ;  a'nt  they  rich  ? — a'nt 
they  what  you  may  call  a  perfect   gallixy  of  derelictions  1 

Take,  for  instance,  twenty -nine  and  thutty-one — gulpins,  raasti- 
gatin,  and  the  hactiou  of  the  jaw  !  Why,  sich  things  a'nt  done,  not 
by  the  knife-boy,  and  the  skillery-made,  who  dine  in  the  back  kitchin 
after  we've  done  !  And  nex  appeal  to  thutty-one.  Why  shouldn't 
a  man  drink,  when  his  plate's  taken  away?  Is  it  unnatran  is  it 
ungen'm'n'ly  ]  is  it  unbecomin  1  If  he'd  said  that  a  chap  shouldn't 
drink  when  his  glass  is  taken  away,  that  would  be  a  reason,  and  a 
good  one.  Now  let's  read  "  hayteen."  Pass  a  glass  by  the  brim  ! 
Put  your  thum  and  fingers,  I  spose.     The  very  notin  makes  me  all 

*  "If  in  the  hall,  or  in  your  cab,  this,  if  seen  a  second  time,  admits  no 
excuse :  turn  away  the  man, " 


FASHNABLE   FAX   AND    POLITE   ANNYGOATS     259 

over  uncomfrble  ;  and,  in  all  my  experience  of  society,  I  never  saw- 
no  not  a  coalheaver  do  such  a  thing.     Nex  comes  : — 

"The  most  barbarous  modern  introduction  is  the  habit  of 
wearing  the  hat  in  the  'salon,'  as  now  practised  even  in  the 
presence  of  the  ladies. 

"  When,  in  making  a  morning  call,  you  give  your  card  at  the 
door,  the  servant  should  be  instructed  to  do  his  duty,  and  not  stand 
looking  at  the  name  on  the  card  while  you  speak  to  him." 

There's  two  rules  for  you  !  Who  does  wear  a  hat  in  the  salong  ? 
Nobody,  as  I  ever  saw.  And  as  for  Number  40,  I  can  only  say, 
on  my  own  part  individiwidiwally,  and  on  the  part  of  the  perfession, 
that  if  ever  Mr.  Skclton  comes  to  a  house  where  I  am  the  gen'l'm'n 
to  open  the  door,  and  instrux  me  about  doing  my  duty,  I'll  instruct 
him  about  the  head,  I  will.  No  man  should  instruct  other 
people's  servants.  No  man  should  bully  or  talk  loud  to  a  gen'l'm'n 
who,  from  his  wery  situation,  is  hincapable  of  defense  or  reply.  I've 
known  this  cistim  to  be  carried  on  by  low  swaggerin  fellars  in 
clubbs  and  privit  houses,  but  never  by  reel  gen'l'm'n.  And  now 
for  the  last  maxum,  or  dereliction  : — 

"  The  custom  of  putting  the  knife  in  the  mouth  is  so  repulsive 
to  our  feelings  as  men,  is  so  entirely  at  variance  with  the  manners 
of  gentlemen,  that  I  deem  it  unnecessary  to  inveigh  against  it  here. 
The  very  appearance  of  the  act  is — 

'  A  monster  of  so  odious  mien. 
That  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen.*  " 

Oh,    heavens !    the    notion   is    overpowerin !  I   once    see   a 

gen'l'm'n  cut  his  head  off  eatin  peez  that  way.  Knife   in   your 

mouth  ! — oh  ! — fawgh  ! — it  makes   me  all  over.  Mrs.   Cook,   do 
have  the  kindniss  to  git  me  a  basin  ! 

In  this  abrupt  way  Mr.  Yellowplush's  article  concludes.  The 
notion  conveyed  in  the  last  paragraph  was  too  disgusting  for  his 
delicate  spirit,  and  caused  him  emotions  that  are  neither  pleasant 
to  experience  nor  to  describe. 

It  may  be  objected  to  his  communication,  that  it  contains  some 
orthographic  eccentricities,  and  that  his  acuteness  surpasses  con- 
siderably his  education.  But  a  gentleman  of  his  rank  and  talent 
was  the  exact  person  fitted  to  criticise  the  volume  which  forms  the 
subject  of  his  remarks.  We  at  once  saw  that  only  Mr.  Yellowplush 
was  fit  for  Mr.  Skelton,  Mr.  Skelton  for  Mr.  Yellowplush.     There 


26o  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

is  a  luxury  of  fashionable  observation,  a  fund  of  apt  illustration,  an 
intimacy  with  the  first  leaders  of  the  ton,  and  a  richness  of  authentic 
anecdote,  which  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  writer  of  any  other 
periodical.  He  who  looketh  from  a  tower  sees  more  of  the  battle 
than  the  knights  and  captains  engaged  in  it ;  and,  in  like  manner, 
he  who  stands  behind  a  fashionable  tabk  knows  more  of  society 
than  the  guests  who  sit  at  the  board.  It  is  from  this  source  that 
our  great  novel-writers  have  drawn  their  experience,  retailing  the 
truths  which  they  learned. 

It  is  not  impossible  that  Mr.  Yellowplush  may  continue  his 
communications,  when  we  shall  be  able  to  present  the  reader  with 
the  only  authentic  picture  of  fashionable  life  which  has  been  given 
to  the  world  in  our  time.  All  the  rest  are  stolen  and  disfigured 
copies  of  that  original  piece,  of  which  we  are  proud  to  be  in 
possession. 

After  our  contributor's  able  critique,  it  is  needless  for  us  to 
extend  our  remarks  upon  Mr.  Skelton's  book.  We  have  to  thank 
that  gentleman  for  some  hours'  extraordinary  amusement ;  and  shall 
be  delighted  at  any  further  productions  of  his  pen.  0.  Y. 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES 

A  LETTEE  FROM  MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMAESH,  ESQUIEB,  TO 
MONSIEUR  ANATOLE  VICTOR  ISIDOR  HYACINTHE  ACHILLE 
HERCULE  DE  BRICABEAC,  PEINTEE  d'hISTOIEE,  EUE  MOUF- 
FETAED,    A    PAEIS 

Lord's  Hotel,  New  Street,  Covent  Garden  : 
Tuesday,  15th  May. 

{PROPOSE  to  be  both  learned  and  pleasant  in  my  remarks 
upon  the  exhibitions  here ;  for  I  know,  my  dear  Bricabrac,  that 
it  is  your  intention  to  translate  this  letter  into  French,  for  the 
benefit  of  some  of  your  countrymen,  who  are  anxious  about  the 
progress  of  the  fine  arts — ii^hen  I  say  some,  I  mean  all,  for,  thanks 
to  your  Government  patronage,  your  magnificent  public  galleries, 
and,  above  all,  your  delicious  sky  and  sunshine,  there  is  not  a 
scavenger  in  your  nation  who  has  not  a  feeling  for  the  beauty  of 
Nature,  which  is,  my  dear  Anatole,  neither  more  nor  less  than  Art. 

You  know  nothing  about  art  in  this  country — almost  as  little 
as  we  know  of  French  art.  One  Gustave  Planche,  who  makes  visits 
to  London,  and  writes  accounts  of  pictures  in  your  reviews,  is, 
believe  me,  an  impostor.  I  do  not  mean  a  private  impostor,  for 
I  know  not  whether  Planche  is  a  real  or  assumed  name,  but  simply  a 
quack  on  matters  of  art.  Depend  on  it,  my  dear  young  friend,  that 
there  is  nobody  like  Titmarsh  :  you  will  learn  more  about  the  arts 
in  England  from  this  letter  than  from  anything  in  or  out  of  print. 

Well,  then,  every  year,  at  the  commencement  of  this  blessed 
month  of  May,  wide  open  the  doors  of  three  picture  galleries,  in 
which  figure  all  the  works  of  genius  which  our  brother  artists  have 
produced  during  the  whole  year.  I  wish  you  could  see  my  historical 
picture  of  "  Heliogabalus  in  the  Ruins  of  Carthage,"  or  the  full- 
length  of  Sir  Samuel  Hicks  and  his  Lady, — sitting  in  a  garden 
light.  Lady  H.  reading  the  "  Book  of  Beauty,"  Sir  Samuel  catching 
a  butterfly  which  is  settling  on  a  flower-pot.  This,  however,  is  all 
egotism.  I  am  not  going  to  speak  of  my  works,  which  are  pretty 
well  known  in  Paris  already,  as  I  flatter  myself,  but  of  other  artists 
■ — some  of  them  men  of  merit — as  well  as  myself. 

Let  us  commence,  then,  with  the  commencement — the  Royal 


262  CEITICAL    KEVIEWS 

Academy.  That  is  held  in  one  wing  of  a  little  building  like  a  gin- 
shop,  which  is  near  Saint  Martin's  Church.  In  the  other  wing  is 
our  National  Gallery.  As  for  the  building,  you  must  not  take 
that  as  a  specimen  of  our  skill  in  the  fine  arts ;  come  down  the 
Seven  Dials,  and  I  will  show  you  many  modern  structures  of  which 
the  architect  deserves  far  higher  credit. 

But,  bad  as  the  place  is — a  pigmy  abortion,  in  lieu  of  a  noble 
monument  to  the  greatest  school  of  painting  in  the  greatest  country 
of  the  modern  world  (you  may  be  angry,  but  I'm  riglit  in  both 
cases) — bad  as  the  outside  is,  the  interior,  it  must  be  confessed,  is 
marvellously  pretty  and  convenient  for  the  reception  and  exhibition 
of  the  pictures  it  will  hold.  Since  the  old  pictures  have  got  their 
new  gallery,  and  their  new  scouring,  one  hardly  knows  them.  0 
Ferdinand,  Ferdinand,  that  is  a  treat,  that  National  Gallery,  and 
no  mistake !  I  shall  write  to  you  fourteen  or  fifteen  long  letters 
about  it  some  day  or  other.  The  apartment  devoted  to  the  Academy 
exhibition  is  equally  commodious :  a  small  room  for  miniatures  and 
aquarelles,  another  for  architectural  drawings,  and  three  saloons  for 
pictures — all  very  small,  but  well  lighted  and  neat ;  no  interminable 
passage,  like  your  five  hundred  yards  at  the  Louvre,  with  a  slippery 
door,  and  tiresome  straggling  cross-lights.  Let  us  buy  a  catalogue, 
and  walk  straight  into  the  gallery,  however : — we  have  been  a  long 
time  talking,  de  omnibus  rebus,  at  the  door. 

Look,  my  dear  Isidor,  at  the  first  names  in  the  catalogue,  and 
thank  your  stars  for  being  in  such  good  company.  Bless  us  and 
save  us,  what  a  power  of  knights  is  here  ! 

Sir  William  Beechey. 

Sir  Martin  Shee. 

Sir  David  Wilkie. 

Sir  Augustus  Callcott. 

Sir  W.  J.  Newton. 

Sir  Geoffrey  Wyattville. 

Sir  Francis  Chantrey. 

Sir  Eichard  Westmacott. 

Sir  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh — 
not  yet,  that  is ;  but  I  shall  be,  in  course,  when  our  little  liege 
lady — Heaven  bless  her ! — has  seen  my  portrait  of  Sir  Sam  and 
Lady  Hicks. 

If  all  these  gentlemen  in  the  list  of  Academicians  and  Associates 
are  to  have  titles  of  some  sort  or  other,  I  should  propose  : — 

1.  Baron  Beiggs.  (At  the  very  least,  he  is  out  and  out  the 
best  portrait-painter  of  the  set.) 

2.  Daniel,  Peince  Maclise.  (His  Koyal  Highness's  pictures 
place  him  very  near  to  the  throne  indeed.) 


STEICTUKES    ON    PICTUEES  263 

3.  Edwin,  Earl  of  Landseer. 

4.  The  Lord  Charles  Landseer. 

5.  The  Duke  of  Etty. 

6.  Archbishop  Eastlake. 

7.  His  Majesty  KING  MULREADY. 

King  Mulready,  I  repeat,  in  double  capitals ;  for,  if  this  man 
has  not  the  crowning  picture  of  the  exhibition,  I  am  no  better  than  a 
Dutchman.  His  picture  represents  the  "  Seven  Ages,"  as  described 
by  a  poet  whom  you  have  heard  of — one  Shakspeare,  a  Warwick- 
shire man  :  and  there  they  are,  all  together ;  the  portly  justice  and 
the  quarrelsome  soldier ;  the  lover  leaning  apart,  and  whispering 
sweet  things  in  his  pretty  mistress's  ear ;  the  baby  hanging  on  her 
gentle  mother's  bosom ;  the  schoolboy,  rosy  and  lazy ;  the  old  man 
crabbed  and  stingy;  and  the  old  old  man  of  all,  sans  teeth,  sans 
eyes,  sans  ears,  sans  everything — but  why  describe  them  1  You 
will  find  the  thing  better  done  in  Shakspeare,  or  possibly  translated 
by  some  of  your  Frenchmen.  I  can't  say  much  about  the  drawing 
of  this  picture,  for  here  and  there  are  some  queer-looking  limbs ; 
but — oh,  Anatole  ! — the  intention  is  godlike.  Not  one  of  those 
figures  but  has  a  grace  and  a  soul  of  his  own ;  no  conventional 
copies  of  the  stony  antique ;  no  distorted  caricatures,  like  those  of 
your  "  classiques,"  David,  Girodet  and  Co.  (the  impostors !) — but  such 
expressions  as  a  great  poet  would  draw,  who  thinks  profoundly  and 
truly,  and  never  forgets  (he  could  not  if  he  would)  grace  and  beauty 
withal.  The  colour  and  manner  of  this  noble  picture  are  neither 
of  the  Venetian  school,  nor  the  Florentine,  nor  the  English,  but  of 
the  Mulready  school.  Ah !  my  dear  Floridor !  I  wish  that  you 
and  I,  ere  we  die,  may  have  erected  such  a  beautiful  monument  to 
hallow  and  perpetuate  our  names.  Our  children — my  boy,  Sebastian 
Piombo  Titmarsh,  will  see  this  picture  in  his  old  age,  hanging  by 
the  side  of  the  Eaffaelles  in  our  National  Gallery.  I  sometimes 
fancy,  in  the  presence  of  such  works  of  genius  as  this,  that  my 
picture  of  Sir  Sam  and  Lady  Hicks  is  but  a  magnificent  error  after 
all,  and  that  it  will  die  away,  and  be  forgotten. 

Near  to  "  All  the  world's  a  stage "  is  a  charming  picture,  by 
Archbishop  Eastlake ;  so  denominated  by  me,  because  the  rank  is 
very  respectable,  and  because  there  is  a  certain  purity  and  religious 
feeling  in  all  Mr.  Eastlake  does,  which  eminently  entitles  him  to 
the  honours  of  the  prelacy.  In  this  picture,  Gaston  de  Foix  (he 
whom  Titian  painted,  his  mistress  buckling  on  his  armour)  is  part- 
ing from  his  mistress.  A  fair  peaceful  garden  is  round  about  them ; 
and  here  his  lady  sits  and  clings  to  him,  as  though  she  would  cling 
for  ever.  But,  look  !  yonder  stands  the  page  and  the  horse  pawing ; 
and,  beyond  the  wall  which  bounds  the  quiet  garden  and  flowers, 


264  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

you  see  the  spears  and  pennons  of  knights,  the  banners  of  King 
Louis  and  De  Foix  "  the  thunderbolt  of  Italy."  Long  shining  rows 
of  steel-clad  men  are  marching  stately  by;  and  with  them  must 
ride  Count  Gaston — to  conquer  and  die  at  Ravenna.  You  can  read 
his  history,  my  dear  friend,  in  Lacretelle,  or  Brant6me;  only, 
perhaps,  not  so  well  expressed  as  it  has  just  been  by  me. 

Yonder  is  Sir  David  Wilkie's  grand  picture,  "  Queen  Victoria 
holding  her  First  Council."  A  marvellous  painting,  in  which  one 
admires  the  exquisite  richness  of  the  colour,  the  breadth  of  light 
and  shadow,  the  graceful  dignity  and  beauty  of  the  principal  figure, 
and  the  extraordinary  skill  with  which  all  the  figures  have  been 
grouped,  so  as  to  produce  a  grand  and  simple  effect.  What  can 
one  say  more  but  admire  the  artist  who  has  made,  out  of  such 
unpoetical  materials  as  a  table  of  red  cloth,  and  fifty  unoccupied 
middle-aged  gentlemen,  a  beautiful  and  interesting  picture?  Sir 
David  has  a  charming  portrait,  too,  of  Mrs.  Maberly,  in  dark 
crimson  velvet,  and  dehcate  white  hat  and  feathers  :  a  marvel  of 
colour,  though  somewhat  askew  in  the  drawing. 

Tlie  Earl  of  Landseer's  best  picture,  to  my  thinking,  is  that 
which  represents  her  Majesty's  favourite  dogs  and  parrot.  He  has, 
in  painting,  an  absolute  mastery  over 

Olbivotai  Te  iraffi. : 

this  is,  he  can  paint  all  manner  of  birds  and  beasts  as  nobody  else 
can.  To  tell  you  a  secret  I  do  not  think  he  understands  how  to 
paint  the  great  beast,  man,  quite  so  well;  or,  at  least,  to  do  what 
is  the  highest  quality  of  an  artist,  to  place  a  soul  under  the  ribs  as 
lie  draws  them.  They  are,  if  you  like,  the  most  dexterous  pictures 
that  ever  were  painted,  but  not  great  pictures.  I  would  much 
rather  look  at  yonder  rough  Leslie  tlian  at  all  the  wonderful 
painting  of  parrots  or  greyhounds,  though  done  to  a  hair  or  a 
feather. 

Leslie  is  the  only  man  in  this  country  who  translates  Shakspeare 
into  form  and  colour.  Old  Shallow  and  Sir  Hugh,  Slender  and  his 
man  Simple,  pretty  Anne  Page  and  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
are  here  joking  with  the  fat  knight ;  who,  with  a  monstrous  gravity 
and  profound  brazen  humour,  is  narrating  some  tale  of  his  feats 
with  the  wild  Prince  and  Poins.  Master  Brooke  is  offering  a 
tankard  to  Master  Slender,  who  will  not  drink,  forsooth. 

This  picture  is  executed  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  and  almost 
rudeness ;  bat  is  channing,  from  its  great  truth  of  effect  and  ex- 
pression. Wilkie's  pictures  (in  his  latter  style)  seem  to  begin  where 
Leslie's  end ;  the  former's  men  and  women  look  as  if  the  bodies  had 


STRIOTUEES    ON    PIOTUEES  265 

been  taken  out  of  them,  and  only  the  surface  left.  Lovely  as  the 
Queen's  figure  is,  for  instance,  it  looks  like  a  spirit,  and  not  a 
woman ;  one  may  almost  see  through  her  into  the  waistcoat  of  Lord 
Lansdowne,  and  so  ou  through  the  rest  of  the  transparent  heroes 
and  statesmen  of  the  company. 

Opposite  the  Queen  is  another  charming  performance  of  Sir 
David — a  bride  dressing,  amidst  a  rout  of  bridesmaids  and  relations. 
Some  are  crying,  some  are  smiling,  some  are  pinning  her  gown ;  a 
back  door  is  open,  and  a  golden  sun  shines  into  a  room  which  con- 
tains a  venerable-looking  bed  and  tester,  probably  that  in  which 
the  dear  girl  is  to — but  parlons  d'autres  choses.  The  colour  of 
this  picture  is  delicious,  and  the  effect  faultless :  Sir  David  does 
everything  for  a  picture  nowadays  but  the  drawing.  Who  knows  ? 
Perhaps  it  is  as  well  left  out. 

Look  yonder,  down  to  the  ground,  and  admire  a  most  beautiful 
fantastic  Ariel. 

*'  On  the  bat's  back  do  I  fly, 
After  sunset  merrily.' 

Merry  Ariel  lies  at  his  ease,  and  whips  with  gorgeous  peacock's 
feather  his  courser,  flapping  lazy  through  the  golden  evening  sky. 
This  exquisite  ■  little  picture  is  the  work  of  Mi-.  Severn,  an  artist 
who  has  educated  his  taste  and  his  hand  in  the  early  Roman  school. 
He  has  not  the  dash  and  dexterity  of  the  latter  which  belong  to 
some  of  our  painters,  but  he  possesses  that  solemn  earnestness  and 
simplicity  of  mind  and  purpose  which  make  a  religion  of  art,  and 
seem  to  be  accorded  only  to  a  few  in  our  profession.  I  have  heard 
a  pious  pupil  of  Mr.  Ingres  (the  head  of  your  academy  at  Rome) 
aver  stoutly  that,  in  matters  of  art,  Titian  was  Antichrist,  and 
Rubens,  Martin  Luther.  They  came  with  their  brilliant  colours, 
and  dashing  worldly  notions,  upsetting  that  beautiful  system  of 
faith  in  which  art  had  lived  hitherto.  Portraits  of  saints  and 
martyrs,  with  pure  eyes  turned  heavenward ;  and  (as  all  true 
sanctity  will)  making  those  pure  who  came  within  their  reach,  now 
gave  way  to  wicked  likenesses  of  men  of  blood,  or  dangerous, 
devilish,  sensual  portraits  of  tempting  women.  Before  Titian,  a 
picture  was  the  labour  of  years.  Why  did  this  reformer  ever 
come  among  us,  and  show  how  it  might  be  done  in  a  day  "i  He 
drove  the  good  angels  away  from  painters'  easels,  and  called  down 
a  host  of  voluptuous  spirits  instead,  who  ever  since  have  held 
the  mastery  there. 

Only  a  few  artists  of  our  country  (none  in  yours,  where  the  so- 
called  Catholic  school  is  a  mere  theatrical  folly),  and  some  among 
the  Germans,  have  kept  to  the  true  faith,  and  eschewed  the  tempta- 


266  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

tions  of  Titian  and  his  like.  Mr.  Eastlake  is  one  of  these.  Who 
does  not  recollect  his  portrait  of  Miss  Bury  ?  Not  a  simple  woman 
—the  lovely  daughter  of  the  authoress  of  "  Love,"  "  Flirtation," 
and  other  remarkable  works — but  a  glorified  saint.  Who  does  not 
remember  his  Saint  Sebastian ;  his  body  bare,  his  eyes  cast  melan- 
choly down ;  his  limbs,  as  yet  untouched  by  the  arrows  of  his  perse- 
cutors, tied  to  the  fatal  tree  1  Those  two  pictures  of  Mr.  Eastlake 
would  merit  to  hang  in  a  gallery  where  there  were  only  Raffaelles 
besides.  Mr.  Severn  is  another  of  the  school.  I  don't  know  what 
hidden  and  indefinable  charm  there  is  in  his  simple  pictures ;  but 
I  never  can  look  at  them  without  a  certain  emotion  of  awe — with- 
out that  thrill  of  the  heart  with  which  one  hears  country  children 
sing  the  Old  Hundredth,  for  instance.  The  singers  are  rude,  per- 
haps, and  the  voices  shrill ;  but  the  melody  is  still  pure  and  god- 
like. Some  such  majestic  and  pious  harmony  is  there  in  these 
pictures  of  Mr.  Severn,  Mr.  Mulready's  mind  has  lately  gained  this 
same  kind  of  inspiration.  I  know  no  one  else  who  possesses  it, 
except,  perhaps,  myself.  Without  flattery,  I  may  say,  that  my 
picture  of  "  Heliogabalus  at  Carthage  "  is  not  in  the  popular  taste, 
and  has  about  it  some  faint  odour  of  celestial  incense. 

Do  not,  my  dear  Anatole,  consider  me  too  great  an  ass  for  per- 
sisting upon  this  point,  and  exemplifying  Mr.  Severn's  picture  of 
the  "  Crusaders  catching  a  First  View  of  Jerusalem  "  as  an  instance. 
Godfrey  and  Tancred,  Raymond  and  Ademar,  Beamond  and  Rinaldo, 
with  Peter  and  the  Christian  host,  behold  at  length  the  day 
dawning. 

**  E  quando  il  sol  gli  aridi  catnpi  fiede 

Con  raggi  assai  ferventi,  e  in  alto  sorge, 

Ecco  apparir  Gerusalem  si  vede, 
Ecco  additar  Gerusalem  si  scorge, 

Ecco  da  mille  voci  unitaniente 
Gerusalemme  salutar  si  sente  !  " 

Well,  Godfrey  and  Tancred,  Peter,  and  the  rest,  look  like  little 
wooden  dolls  ;  and  as  for  the  horses  belonging  to  the  crusading 
cavalry,  I  have  seen  better  in  gingerbread.  But,  what  then  1 
There  is  a  higher  ingredient  in  beauty  than  mere  form  ;  a  skilful 
hand  is  only  the  sec'ond  artistical  quality,  worthless,  my  Anatole, 
without  the  first,  which  is  a  great  heart.  This  picture  is  beautiful, 
in  spite  of  its  defects,  as  many  women  are.  Mrs.  Titmarsh  is 
beautiful,  though  she  weighs  nineteen  stone. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  religious  pictures,  what  shall  I  say  of 
Mr.  Ward's?  Anything  so  mysteriously  liideous  was  never  seen 
before  now  ;  they  are  worse  than  all  the  horrors  in  your  Spanish 
Gallery  at  Paris.     As  Eastlake's  are  of  the  Catholic,  these  may 


STRICTURES    ON    PICTURES  267 

be  called  of  the  Muggletonian,  school  of  art ;  monstrous,  livid,  and 
dreadful,  as  the  dreams  .of  a  man  in  the  scarlet  fever.  I  would 
much  sooner  buy  a  bottled  baby  -with  two  heads  as  a  pleasing 
ornament  for  my  cabinet;  and  should  be  afraid  to  sit  alone  in  a 
room  with  "ignorance,  envy,  and  jealousy  filling  the  throat,  and 
widening  the  mouth  of  calumny  endeavouring  to  bear  down  truth  !  " 

Mr.  Maclise's  picture  of  "  Christmas  "  you  will  find  excellently 
described  in  the  May  number  of  a  periodical  of  much  celebrity 
among  us,  called  Fraser's  Magazine.  Since  the  circulation  of  that 
miscellany  is  almost  as  extensive  in  Paris  as  in  London,  it  is  need- 
less in  this  letter  to  go  over  beaten  ground,  and  speak  at  length  of 
the  plot  of  this  remarkable  picture.  There  are  five  hundred  meiTy 
figures  painted  on  this  canvas,  gobbling,  singing,  kissing,  carousing. 
A  line  of  jolly  serving  men  troop  down  the  hall  stairs,  and  bear 
the  boar's  head  in  procession  up  to  the  dais,  where  sits  the  good  old 
English  gentleman,  and  his  guests  and  family ;  a  set  of  mummers 
and  vassals  are  crowded  round  a  table  gorging  beef  and  wassail ;  a 
bevy  of  blooming  girls  and  young  men  are  huddled  in  a  circle,  and 
play  at  hunt  the  slipper.  Of  course,  there  are  plenty  of  stories 
told  at  the  huge  hall  fire,  and  kissing  under  the  glistening  mistletoe- 
bough.  But  I  wish  you  could  see  the  wonderful  accuracy  with 
which  all  these  figures  are  drawn,  and  the  extraordinary  skill  with 
which  the  artist  has  managed  to  throw  into  a  hundred  different 
fa.ces  a  hundred  different  characters  and  individualities  of  joy. 
Every  one  of  these  little  people  is  smiling,  but  each  has  his  own 
particular  smile.  As  for  the  colouring  of  the  picture,  it  is,  between 
ourselves,  atrocious ;  but  a  man  cannot  have  all  the  merits  at  once. 
Mr.  Maclise  has  for  his  share  humour  such  as  few  painters  ever 
possessed,  and  a  power  of  drawing  such  as  never  was  possessed  by 
any  other ;  no,  not  by  one,  from  Albert  Diirer  downwards.  His 
scene  from  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  is  equally  charming.  Moses's 
shining  grinning  face ;  the  little  man  in  red  who  stands  on  tiptoe, 
and  painfuUy  scrawls  his  copy ;  and  the  youngest  of  the  family 
of  the  Primroses,  who  learns  his  letters  on  his  father's  knee,  are 
perfect  in  design  and  expression.  What  might  not  this  man  do,  if 
lie  would  read  and  meditate  a  little,  and  profit  by  the  works  of 
men  whose  taste  and  education  were  superior  to  his  own. 

Mr.  Charles  Landseer  has  two  tableaux  de  genre,  which  possess 
very  great  merit.  His  characters  are  a  little  too  timid,  perhaps,  as 
Mr.  Maclise's  are  too  bold ;  but  the  figures  are  beautifully  drawn, 
the  colouring  and  effect  excellent,  and  the  accessories  painted  with 
great  faithfdness  and  skill.  "  The  Parting  Benison  "  is,  perhaps, 
the  more  interesting  picture  of  the  two. 

And  now  we  arrive  at  Mr.  Etty,  whose  rich  luscious  pencil  has 


268  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

covered  a  hundred  glowing  canvases,  which  every  painter  must  love. 
I  don't  know  whether  the  Duke  has  this  year  produced  anything 
which  one  might  have  expected  from  a  man  of  his  rank  and  conse- 
quence. He  is,  like  great  men,  lazy,  or  indifferent,  perhaps,  about 
public  approbation  ;  and  also,  like  great  men,  somewhat  too  luxurious 
and  fond  of  pleasure.  For  instance,  here  is  a  picture  of  a  sleepy 
nymph,  most  richly  painted ;  but  tipsy-looking,  coarse,  and  so  naked 
as  to  be  unfit  for  appearance  among  respectable  people  at  an  exhibi- 
tion. You  will  understand  what  I  mean.  There  are  some  figures 
without  a  rag  to  cover  them,  which  look  modest  and  decent  for  all 
that ;  and  others,  which  may  be  clothed  to  the  chin,  and  yet  are 
not  fit  for  modest  eyes  to  gaze  on.  Verbum  sat — this  naughty 
"Somnolency"  ought  to  go  to  sleep  in  her  nightgown. 

But  here  is  a  far  nobler  painting, — the  prodigal  kneeling  down 
lonely  in  the  stormy  evening,  and  praying  to  Heaven  for  pardon.  It 
is  a  grand  and  touching  picture  ;  and  looks  as  large  as  if  the  three- 
foot  canvas  had  been  twenty.  His  wan  wretched  figure  and  clasped 
hands  are  lighted  up  by  the  sunset ;  the  clouds  are  livid  and  heavy ; 
and  the  wind  is  howling  over  the  solitary  common,  and  numbing  the 
chill  limbs  of  the  poor  wanderer.  A  goat  and  a  boar  are  looking  at 
him  with  horrid  obscene  eyes.  They  are  the  demons  of  Lust  and 
Gluttony,  which  have  brought  him  to  this  sad  pass.  And  there 
seems  no  hope,  no  succour,  no  ear  for  the  prayer  of  this  wretched, 
wayworn,  miserable  man  who  kneels  there  alone,  shuddering.  Only 
above,  in  the  gusty  blue  sky,  you  see  a  glistening,  peaceful,  silver 
star,  which  points  to  home  and  hope,  as  clearly  as  if  the  little  star 
were  a  signpost,  and  home  at  the  very  next  turn  of  the  road. 

Away,  then,  0  conscience-stricken  prodigal !  and  you  shall  find 
a  good  father,  who  loves  you ;  and  an  elder  brother,  who  hates  you 
— but  never  mind  that ;  and  a  dear,  kind,  stout  old  mother,  who 
liked  you  twice  as  well  as  the  elder,  for  all  his  goodness  and  psalm- 
singing,  and  has  a  tear  and  a  prayer  for  you  night  and  morning ; 
and  a  pair  of  gentle  sisteris,  maybe  ;  and  a  poor  young  thing  down 
in  the  village,  who  has  never  forgotten  your  walks  in  the  quiet  nut- 
woods, and  the  birds'  nests  you  brought  her,  and  the  big  boy  you 
thrashed,  because  he  broke  the  eggs  :  he  is  squire  now,  the  big  boy, 
and  would  marry  her,  but  she  will  not  have  him — not  she  ! — her 
thoughts  are  with  her  dark-eyed,  bold-browed,  devil-may-care  play- 
mate, who  swore  she  should  be  his  little  wife — and  then  went  to 
college — and  then  came  back  sick  and  changed — and  then  got  into 

debt — and  then But  never  mind,  man  !  down  to  her  at  once. 

She  will  pretend  to  be  cold  at  first,  and  then  shiver  and  turn  red 
and  deadly  pale ;  and  then  she  tumbles  into  your  arms,  with  a  gush 
of  sweet  tears,  and  a  pair  of  rainbows  in  her  soft  eyes,  welcoming 


STRICTURES    ON    PICTURES  269 

the  sunshine  back  to  her  bosom  again  !  To  her,  man  ! — never  fear, 
miss !  Hug  him,  and  kiss  him,  as  though  you  would  draw  the 
heart  from  his  lips. 

When  she  has  done,  the  poor  thing  falls  stone-pale  and  sobbing 
on  young  Prodigal's  shoulder ;  and  he  carries  her,  quite  gently,  to 
that  old  bench  where  he  carved  her  name  fourteen  years  ago,  and 
steals  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  kisses  her  hand,  and  soothes 
her.  Then  comes  but  the  poor  widow,  her  mother,  who  is  pale  and 
tearful  too,  and  tries  to  look  cold  and  unconcerned.  She  kisses  her 
daughter,  and  leads  her  trembling  into  the  house.  "  You  will  come 
to  us  to-morrow,  Tom?"  says  she,  as  she  takes  his  hand  at  vhe 
gate. 

To-morrow  !  To  be  sure  he  will ;  and  this  very  night,  too,  after 
supper  with  the  old  people.  (Young  Squire  Prodigal  never  sups ; 
and  has  found  out  that  he  must  ride  into  town,  to  arrange  about 
a  missionary  meeting  with  the  Reverend  Doctor  Slackjaw.)  To  be 
sure,  Tom  Prodigal  will  go :  the  moon  wUl  be  up,  and  who  knows 
but  Lucy  may  be  looking  at  it  about  twelve  o'clock.  At  one,  back 
trots  the  young  squire,  and  he  sees  two  people  whispering  at  a 
window;  and  he  gives  something  very  like  a  curse,  as  he  digs 
into  the  ribs  of  his  mare,  and  canters,  clattering,  down  the  silent 
road. 

Yes — but,  in  the  meantime,  there  is  the  old  housekeeper,  with 
"  Lord  bless  us ! "  and  "  Heaven  save  us  !  ",  and  "  Who'd  have 
thought  ever  again  to  see  his  dear  face  ?  And  master  .to  forget  it 
aU,  who  swore  so  dreadful  that  he  would  never  see  him  ! — as  for 
missis,  she  always  loved  him."  There,  I  say,  is  the  old  housekeeper, 
logging  the  fire,  airing  the  sheets,  and  flapping  the  feather  beds — ■ 
for  Master  Tom's  room  has  never  been  used  this  many  a  day ;  and 
the  young  ladies  have  got  some  flowers  for  his  chimney-piece,  and 
put  back  his  mother's  portrait,  which  they  have  had  in  their  room 
ever  since  he  went  away  and  forgot  it,  woe  is  me !  And  old  John, 
the  butler,  coachman,  footman,  valet,  factotum,  consults  with  master 
about  supper. 

"  What  can  we  have  1 "  says  master ;  "all  the  shops  are  shut, 
and  there's  nothing  in  the  house." 

John.  "  No,  no  more  there  isn't ;  only  Guernsey's  calf.  Butcher 
kill'd'n  yasterday,  as  your  honour  knowth." 

Master.  "  Come,  John,  a  calf's  enough.  Tell  the  cook  to  senid 
us  up  that." 

And  he  gives  a  hoarse  haw!  haw!  at  his  wit;  and  Mrs. 
Prodigal  smiles  too,  and  says,  "  Ah,  Tom  Prodigal,  you  were  always 
a  merry  fellow  !  " 

Well,  John  Footman  carries  down  the  message  to  cook,  who  is 


270  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

a  country  wench,  and  takes  people  at  their  word ;  and  what  do  you 
think  she  sends  up  ? 

Top  Dish. 
Fillet  of  vealj  and  bacon  on  the  side-table. 

Bottom,  Dish. 
Roast  ribs  of  veal. 

In  the  Middle. 
Calves'-head  soup  (&,  la  tortue). 
Veal  broth. 

Between. 
Boiled  knuckle  of  veal,  and  parsley  sauce. 
Stewed  veal,  with  brown  sauce  and  forced-meat  balls. 

Entremets. 
Veal  olives  {for  sauce,  see  stewed  veal). 
Veal  cutlets  (pan&s,  sauce  piquante). 
Ditto  (en  papillote). 
Scotch  coUops, 

Fricandeau  of  veal  (pique  au  lard  ^  la  chicoree). 
Minced  veal. 
Blanquet  of  veal. 

Second  Course. 
Curry  of  calves'-head. 
Sweetbreads. 
Calves '-foot  jelly. 

See,  my  dear  Anatole,  what  a  world  of  thought  can  be  conjured 
up  out  of  a  few  inches  of  painted  canvas. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  great  and  crowning  picture  of  the 
exhibition,  my  own  historical  piece,  namely,  "  Heliogabalus  in  the 
Euins  of  Carthage."     In  this  grand  and  finished  perform 

*^*  Mr.  Titmarsh's  letter  stops,  unfortunately,  here.  We  found 
it  at  midnight,  the  15th-16th  May,  in  a  gutter  of  Saint  Martin's 
Lane,  whence  a  young  gentleman  had  been  just  removed  by  the 
police.  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  intoxication  could  be  his  only 
cause  for  choosing  such  a  sleeping-place,  at  such  an  hour ;  and  it 
had  probably  commenced  as  he  was  writing  the  above  fragment. 
We  made  inquiries  at  Lord's  Coffee  House,  of  Mr.  Moth  (who, 
from  being  the  active  and  experienced  head-waiter,  is  now  the 
obliging  landlord  of  that  establishment),  and  were  told  that  a  gentle- 
man unknown  had  dined  there  at  three,  and  had  been  ceaselessly 
occupied  in  writing  and  drinking  until  a  quarter  to  twelve,  when  he 
abruptly  left  the  house.     Mr.  Moth  regretted  to  add,   that  the 


STRICTURES    ON    PICTURES  271 

stranger  had  neglected  to  pay  for  thirteen  glasses  of  gin-and-water, 
half-a-pint  of  porter,  a  bottle  of  soda-water,  and  a  plate  of  ham- 
sandwiches,  which  he  had  consumed  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

We  have  paid  Mr.  Moth  (whose  very  moderate  charges,  and  ex- 
cellent stock  of  wines  and  spirits,  cannot  be  too  highly  commended), 
and  shall  gladly  hand  over  to  Mr.  Titmarsh  the  remaining  sum 
which  is  his  due.     Has  he  any  more  of  his  rhapsody  1 — 0.  Y. 


A  SECOND  LECTURE  ON  THE  FINE  ARTS,  BY 
MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMARSH,  ESQUIRE 

THE   EXHIBITIONS 

Jack  Straw's  Castle,  Hampstead. 

MY  DEAR  BRICABRAC,— You,  of  course,  remember  the 
letter  on  the  subject  of  our  exhibitions  which  I  addressed 
to  you  this  time  last  year.  As  you  are  now  lying  at  the 
H6tel  Dieu,  wounded  during  the  late  unsuccessful  emeute  (which  I 
think,  my  dear  friend,  is  the  seventeenth  you  have  been  engaged 
in),  and  as  the  letter  which  I  wrote  last  year  was  received  with 
unbounded  applause  by  the  people  here,  and  caused  a  sale  of  three 
or  four  editions  of  this  Magazine,*  I  cannot  surely,  my  dear  Bricabrac, 
do  better  than  send  you  another  sheet  or  two,  which  may  console 
you  under  yoiu-  present  bereavement,  and  at  the  same  time  amuse 
the  British  public,  who  now  know  their  friend  Titmarsh  as  well  as 
you  in  France  know  that  little  scamp  Thiers. 

Well,  then,  from  "  Jack  Straw's  Castle,"  an  hotel  on  Hamp- 
stead's  breezy  heath,  which  Keats,  Wordsworth,  Leigh  Hunt, 
F.  W.  N.  Bayly,  and  others  of  our  choicest  spirits,  have  often 
patronised,  and  a  heath  of  which  every  pool,  bramble,  furze-bush- 
with-clothes-hanging-on-it-to-dry,  steep,  stock,  stone,  tree,  lodging- 
house,  and  distant  gloomy  background  of  London  city,  or  bright 
green  stretch  of  sunshiny  Hertfordshire  meadows,  has  been  depicted 
by  our  noble  English  landscape-painter.  Constable,  in  his  own  Con- 
stabulary way — at  "  Jack  Straw's  Castle,"  I  say,  where  I  at  this 
present  moment  am  located  (not  that  it  matters  in  the  least,  but 
the  world  is  always  interested  to  know  where  men  of  geniu^  are 
accustomed  to  disport  themselves),  I  cannot  do  better  than  look 
over  the  heap  of  pioture-gallery  catalogues  which  I  brought  with  me 
from  London,  and  communicate  to  you,  my  friend  in  Paris,  my 
remarks  thereon. 

A  man,  with  iive  shillings  to  spare,  may  at  this  present 
moment  half  kill  himself  with  pleasure  in  London  town,  and  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Pall  Mall,  by  going  from  one  picture  gallery 

*  Fraser's  Magazine. 


A    SECOND    LECTUEE    ON    THE    FINE    AKTS     273 

to  another,  and  examining  the  beauties  and  absurdities  which  are  to 
be  found  in  each.  There  is  first  the  National  Gallery  (entrance, 
nothing),  in  one  wing  of  the  little  gin-shop  of  a  building  so  styled 
near  Saint  Martin's  Church ;  in  another  wing  is  the  exhibition  of 
the  Eoyal  Academy  (entrance,  one  shilling;  catalogue,  one  ditto). 
After  having  seen  this,  you  come  to  the  Water-Colour  Exhibition  in 
Pall  Mall  East ;  then  to  the  gallery  in  Suffolk  Street ;  and,  finally, 
to  the  New  Water-Colour  Society  in  Pall  Mall,— a  pretty  room, 
which  formerly  used  to  be  a  gambling-house,  where  many  a  bout 
of  seven's-the-main,  and  iced  champagne,  has  been  had  by  the 
dissipated  in  former  days.  All  these  collections  (all  the  modern 
ones,  that  is)  deserve  to  be  noticed,  and  contain  a  deal  of  good, 
bad,  and  indifferent  wares,  as  is  the  way  with  all  other  institutions 
in  this  wicked  world. 

CorriTnengons  done  avec  le  commencement — with  the  exhibition 
of  the  Royal  Academy,  which  consists,  as  everybody  knows,  of 
thirty-eight  knight  and  esquire  Academicians,  and  nineteen  simple 
and  ungenteel  Associates,  who  have  not  so  much  as  a  shabby  Mister 
,  before  their  names.  I  recollect  last  year  facetiously  ranging  these 
gentlemen  in  rank  according  to  what  I  conceived  to  be  their  merits, 
— King  Mulready,  Prince  Maclisp,  Lord  Landseer,  Archbishop 
Eastlake  (according  to  the  best  of  my  memory,  for  "Jack  Straw," 
strange  to  say,  does  not  take  in  Fraser's  Magazine),  and  so  on. 
At  present,  a  great  number  of  new-comers,  not  Associates  even, 
ought  to  be  elevated  to  these  aristocratic  dignities;  and,  perhaps, 
the  order  ought  to  be  somewhat  changed.  There  are  many  more 
good  pictures  (here  and  elsewhere)  than  there  were  last  year.  A 
great  stride  has  been  taken  in  matters  of  art,  my  dear  friend.  The 
young  painters  are  stepping  forward.  Let  the  old  fogies  look  to  it ; 
let  the  old  Academic  Olympians  beware,  for  there  are  fellows  among 
the  rising  race  who  bid  fair  to  oust  them  from  sovereignty.  They 
have  not  yet  arrived  at  the  throne,  to  be  sure,  but  they  are  near  it. 
The  lads  are  not  so  good  as  the  best  of  the  Academicians;  but 
many  of  the  Academicians  are  infinitely  worse  than  the  lads,  and 
are  old,  stupid,  and  cannot  improve,  as  the  younger  and  more  active 
painters  will. 

If  you  are  particularly  anxious  to  know  what  is  the  best 
picture  in  the  room,  not  the  biggest  (Sir  David  Wilkie's  is  the 
biggest,  and  exactly  contrary  to  the  best),  I  must  request  you  to 
turn  your  attention  to  a  noble  river-piece  by  J.  W.  M.  Turner, 
Esquire,  R.A.,  '"The  Fighting  Timiraire" — as  grand  a  painting 
as  ever  figured  on  the  walls  of  any  Academy,  or  came  from  the 
easel  of  any  painter.  The  old  TimAraire  is  dragged  to  her  last 
home  by  a  little,  spiteful,  diabolical  steamer.     A  mighty  red  sun. 


274  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

amidst  a  host  of  flaring  clouds,  sinlcs  to  rest  on  one  side  of  tUe 
picture,  and  illumines  a  river  that  seems  interminable,  and  a  count- 
less navy  that  fades  away  into  such  a  vronderful  distance  as  never 
was  painted  before.  The  little  demon  of  a  steamer  is  belching  out 
a  volume  (why  do  I  say  a  volume  1  not  a  hundred  volumes  could 
express  it)  of  foul,  lurid,  red-hot,  malignant  smoke,  paddling 
furiously,  and  lashing  up  the  water  round  about  it ;  while  behind 
it  (a  cold  grey  moon  looking  down  on  it),  slow,  sad,  and  majestic, 
follows  the  brave  old  ship,  with  death,  as  it  were,  written  on  her. 
I  think,  my  dear  Brioabrac  (although,  to  be  sure,  your  nation  would 
be  somewhat  offended  by  such  a  collection  of  trophies),  that  we 
ought  not,  in  common  gratitude,  to  sacrifice  entirely  these  noble  old 
champions  of  ours,  but  that  we  should  have  somewhere  a  museum 
of  their  skeletons,  which  our  children  might  visit,  and  think  of 
the  brave  deeds  which  were  done  in  them.  The  bones  of 
the  Affamemnon  and  the  Captain,  the  Vanguard,  the  CuUoden, 
and  the  Victory  ought  to  be  sacred  relics,  for  Englishmen  to 
worship  almost.  Think  of  them  when  alive,  and  braving  the 
battle  and  the  breeze,  they  carried  Nelson  and  his  heroes  vic- 
torious by  the  Cape  of  Saint  Vincent,  in  the  dark  waters  of 
Aboukir,  and  through  the  fatal  conflict  of  Trafalgar.  All  these 
things,  my  dear  Bricabrac,  are,  you  will  say,  absurd,  and  not  to  the 
purpose.  Be  it  so ;  but  Bowbellites  as  we  are,  we  Cockneys  feel 
our  hearts  leap  up  when  we  recall  them  to  memory ;  and  every 
clerk  in  Threadneedle  Street  feels  the  strength  of  a  Nelson,  when 
he  thinks  of  the  mighty  actions  performed  by  him. 

It  is  absurd,  you  will  say  (and  with  a  great  deal  of  reason), 
for  Titmarsh,  or  any  other  Briton,  to  grow  so  politically  enthusiastic 
about  a  four-foot  canvas,  repi'esenting  a  ship,  a  steamer,  a  river,  and 
a  sunset.  But  herein  surely  lies  the  power  of  the  great  artist.  He 
makes  you  see  and  think  of  a  great  deal  more  than  the  objects 
before  you ;  he  knows  how  to  soothe  or  intoxicate,  to  fire  or  to 
depress,  by  a  few  notes,  or  forms,  or  colours,  of  which  we  cannot 
trace  the  effect  to  the  source,  but  only  acknowledge  the  power. 
I  recollect  some  years  ago,  at  the  theatre  at  Weimar,  hearing 
Beethoven's  "  Battle  of  Vittoria,"  in  which,  amidst  a  storm  of 
glorious  music,  the  air  of  "  God  save  the  King "  was  introduced. 
The  very  instant  it  began,  every  Englishman  in  the  house  was 
bolt  upright,  and  so  stood  reverently  until  the  air  was  played  out. 
Why  so  1  From  some  such  thrill  of  excitement  as  makes  us  glow 
and  rejoice  over  Mr.  Turner  and  his  "  Fighting  Timiraire "  ; 
which  I  am  sure,  when  the  art  of  translating  colours  into  music 
or  poetry  shall  be  discovered,  will  be  found  to  be  a  magnificent 
national  ode  or  piece  of  music, 


A    SECOND    LECTUKE    ON    THE    FINE    AKTS     275 

I  must  tell  you,  however,  that  Mr.  Turner's  performances  are 
for  the  most  part  quite  incomprehensible  to  me;  and  that  his 
other  pictures,  which  he  is  pleased  to  call  "  Cicero  at  his  "Villa," 
"  Agrippina  with  the  Ashes  of  Germanicus,"  "  Pluto  carrying  off 
Proserpina,"  or  what  you  will,  are  not  a  whit  more  natural,  or 
less  mad,  than  they  used  to  be  in  former  years,  since  he  has 
forsaken  nature,  or  attempted  (like  your  French  barbers)  to 
embellish  it.  On  n'embellit  pas  la,  nature,  my  dear  Bricabrac ; 
one  may  make  pert  caricatures  of  it,  or  mad  exaggerations  like 
Mr.  Turner  in  his  fancy  pieces.  0  ye  gods  !  why  will  he  not 
stick  to  copying  her  majestical  countenance,  instead  of  daubing  it 
with  some  absurd  antics  and  fard  of  his  own?  Fancy  pea-green 
skies,  crimson-lake  trees,  and  orange  and  purple  grass — fancy 
cataracts,  rainbows,  suns,  moons,  and  thunderbolts — shake  them 
well  up,  with  a  quantity  of  gamboge,  and  you  will  have  an  idea 
of  a  fancy  picture  by  Turner.  It  is  worth  a  shilling  alone  to  go 
and  see  "  Pluto  and  Proserpina."  Such  a  landscape  !  such  figures  ! 
such  a  little  red-hot  coal-scuttle  of  a  chariot !     As  Nat  Lee  sings — 

"  Methought  I  saw  a  hieroglyphic  bat 
Skim  o'er  the  surface  of  a  slipshod  hat ; 
While,  to  increase  the  tumult  of  the  skies, 
A  damned  potato  o'er  the  whirlwind  flies." 

If  you  can  understand  these  lines,  you  can  understand  one  of 
Turner's  landscapes  ;  and  I  recommend  them  to  him,  as  a  pretty 
subject  for  a  piece  for  next  year. 

Etty  has  a  picture  on  the  same  subject  as  Turner's,  "  Pluto 
carrying  off  Proserpina ; "  and  if  one  may  complain  that  in  the 
latter  the  figures  are  not  indicated,  one  cannot  at  least  lay  this 
fault  to  Mr.  Etty's  door.  His  figures  are  drawn,  and  a  deuced 
deal  too  much  drawn.  A  great  large  curtain  of  fig-leaves  should 
be  hung  over  every  one  of  this  artist's  pictures,  and  the  world  should 
pass  on,  content  to  know  that  there  are  some  glorious  colours 
painted  beneath.  His  colour,  indeed,  is  sublime  :  I  doubt  if  Titian 
ever  knew  how  to  paint  flesh  better — but  his  taste !  Not  David 
nor  Girodet  ever  offended  propriety  so — scarcely  ever  Peter  Paul 
himself,  by  whose  side,  as  a  colourist  and  a  magnificent  heroic 
painter,  Mr.  Etty  is  sometimes  worthy  to  stand.  I  wish  he 
would  take  Ariosto  in  hand,  and  give  us  a  series  of  designs  from 
him.  His  hand  would  be  the  very  one  for  those  deep  luscious  land- 
scapes, and  fiery  scenes  of  love  and  battle.  Besides  "  Proserpine," 
Mr.  Etty  has  two  more  pictures,  "  Endymion,"  with  a  dirty, 
affected,  beautiful,  slatternly  Diana,  and  a  portrait  of  the  "Lady 
Mayoress  of  York,"  which  is  a  curiosity  in  its  way.     The  line  of 


276  CEITICAL    KEVIEWS 

her  Ladyship's  eyes  and  mouth  (it  is  a  front  face)  are  made  to 
meet  at  a  point  in  a  marabou  feather  which  she  wears  in  her 
turban,  and  close  to  her  cheekbone ;  while  the  expression  of  the 
whole  countenance  is  so  fierce,  that  you  would  imagine  it  a  Lady 
Macbeth,  and  not  a  lady  mayoress.  The  picture  has,  neverthe- 
less, some  very  fine  painting  about  it — as  which  of  Mr.  Etty's 
pieces  has  not  1 

The  artists  say  there  is  very  fine  painting,  too,  in  Sir  David 
Wilkie's  great  "  Sir  David  Baird  "  ;  for  my  part,  I  think  very  little. 
You  see  a  great  quantity  of  brown  paint ;  in  this  is  a  great  flashing 
of  torches,  feathers,  and  bayonets.  You  see  in  the  foreground, 
huddled  up  in  a  rich  heap  of  corpses  and  drapery,  Tippoo  Sahib ; 
and  swaggering  over  him  on  a  step,  waving  a  sword  for  no  earthly 
purpose,  and  wearing  a  red  jacket  and  buckskins,  the  figure  of  Sir 
David  Baird.  The  picture  is  poor,  feeble,  theatrical :  and  I  would 
just  as  soon  have  Mr.  Hart's  great  canvas  of  "Lady  Jane  Grey" 
(which  is  worth  exactly  twopence-halfpenny)  as  Sir  David's  poor 
picture  of  "  Seringapatam."  Some  of  Sir  David's  portraits  are 
worse  even  than  his  historical  compositions — they  seem  to  be 
painted  with  snuff  and  tallow-grease  :  the  faces  are  merely  indicated, 
and  without  individuality ;  the  forms  only  half-drawn,  and  almost 
always  wrong.  What  has  come  to  the  hand  that  painted  "  The 
Blind  Fiddler"  and  "The  Chelsea  Pensioners"?  Who  would  have 
thought  that  such  a  portrait  as  that  of  "  Master  Robert  Donne," 
or  the  composition  entitled  "  The  Grandfather,"  could  ever  have 
come  from  the  author  of  "  The  Rent  Day  "  and  "  The  Reading  of 
the  Will "  ?  If  it  be  but  a  coutrast  to  this  feeble,  flimsy,  trans- 
parent figure  of  Master  Donne,  the  spectator  cannot  do  better  than 
cast  his  eyes  upwards,  and  look  at  Mr.  Linnell's  excellent  portrait 
of  "  Mr.  Robert  Peel."  It  is  real  substantial  nature,  carefully  and 
honestly  painted,  and  without  any  flashy  tricks  of  art.  It  may 
seem  ungracious  in  "us  youth"  thus  to  fall  foul  of  our  betters; 
but  if  Sir  David  has  taught  us  to  like  good  pictures,  by  painting 
them  formerly,  we  cannot  help  criticising  if  he  paints  bad  ones 
now :  and  bad  they  most  surely  are. 

From  the  censure,  however,  must  be  excepted  the  picture  of 
"  Grace  before  Meat,"  which,  a  little  misty  and  feeble,  perhaps, 
in  drawing  and  substance,  in  colour,  feeling,  composition,  and 
expression  is  exquisite.  The  eye  loves  to  repose  upon  this  picture, 
and  the  heart  to  brood  over  it  afterwards.  When,  as  I  said  before, 
lines  and  colours  come  to  be  translated  into  sounds,  this  picture, 
I  have  no  doubt,  will  turn  out  to  be  a  sweet  and  touching  hymn- 
tune,  with  rude  notes  of  cheerful  voices,  and  peal  of  soft  melodious 
organ,  such  as  one  hears  stealing  over  the  meadows  on  sunshiny 


A   SECOND   LECTtJiiE   ON    THE    PINE   AETS    277 

Sabbath-days,  while  waves  under  cloudless  blue  the  peaceful  golden 
com.  Some  such  feeling  of  exquisite  pleasure  and  content  is  to  be 
had,  too,  from  Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  of  "  Our  Lord  and  the  Little 
Children."  You  never  saw  such  tender  white  faces,  and  solemn 
eyes,  and  sweet  forms  of  mothers  round  their  little  ones  bending 
gracefully.  These  pictures  come  straight  to  the  heart,  and  then 
all  criticism  and  calculation  vanishes  at  once, — for  the  artist  has 
attained  his  great  end,  which  is,  to  strike  far  deeper  than  the  sight ; 
and  we  have  no  business  to  quarrel  about  defects  in  form  and  colour, 
which  are  but  little  parts  of  the  great  painter's  skill. 

Look,  for  instance,  at  another  piece  of  Mr.  Eastlake's,  called, 
somewhat  affectedly,  "La  Svegliarina."  The  defects  of  the  painter, 
which  one  does  not  condescend  to  notice  when  he  is  filled  with  a 
great  idea,  become  visible  instantly  when  he  is  only  occupied  with 
a  small  one  ;  and  you  see  that  the  hand  is  too  scrupulous  and  finikin, 
the  drawing  weak,  the  flesh  chalky,  and  unreal.  The  very  same 
objections  exist  to  the  other  picture,  but  the  subject  and  the  genius 
overcome  them. 

Passing  from  Mr.  Eastlake's  pictures  to  those  of  a  greater 
genius,  though  in  a  different  line, — look  at  Mr.  Leslie's  little  pieces. 
Can  anything  be  more  simple — almost  rude — than  their  manner, 
and  more  complete  in  their  effect  upon  the  spectator?  The  very 
soul  of  comedy  is  in  them  ;  there  is  no  coarseness,  no  exaggeration  ; 
but  they  gladden  the  eye,  and  the  merriment  which  they  excite 
cannot  possibly  be  more  pure,  gentlemanlike,  or  delightful.  Mr. 
Maclise  has  humour,  too,  and  vast  powers  of  expressing  it;  but 
whisky  is  not  more  different  from  rich  burgundy  than  his  fun  from 
Mr.  Leslie's.  To  our  thinking,  Leslie's  little  head  of  "  Sancho  "  is 
worth  the  whole  picture  from  "  Gil  Bias,"  which  hangs  by  it.  In 
point  of  workmanship,  this  is,  perhaps,  the  best  picture  that  Mr. 
Maclise  ever  painted;  the  colour  is  far  better  than  that  usually 
employed  by  him,  and  the  representation  of  objects  carried  to  such 
an  extent  as  we  do  believe  was  never  reached  before.  There  is  a 
poached  egg,  which  one  could  swallow ;  a  trout,  that  beats  all  the 
trout  that  was  ever  seen ;  a  copper  pan,  scoured  so  clean  that  you 
might  see  your  face  in  it ;  a  green  blind,  through  which  the  sun 
comes;  and  a  wall,  with  the  sun  shining  on  it,  that  De  Hooghe 
could  not  surpass.  This  young  man  has  the  greatest  power  of 
hand  that  was  ever  had,  perhaps,  by  any  painter  in  any  time  or 
country.  What  does  he  want?  Polish,  I  think;  thought,  and 
cultivation.  His  great  picture  of  "  King  Eichard  and  Eobin  Hood  " 
is  a  wonder  of  dexterity  of  hand  ;  but  coarse,  I  think,  and  inefficient 
in  humour.  His  models  repeat  themselves  too  continually.  Allen 
k  Dale,  the  harper,  is  the  very  counterpart  of  Gil  Bias  ;  and  Eobin 


280  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

of  next  month,  as  Lord  Melbourne  will  be  to  dine  with  her  on 
that  day. 

But  let  us  return  to  our  muttons.  I  think  there  are  few  more 
of  the  oil  pictures  about  which  it  is  necessary  to  speak ;  and  besides 
them,  there  are  a  host  of  miniatures,  difficult  to  expatiate  upon,  but 
pleasing  to  behold.  There  are  Ohalon's  ogling  beauties,  half-a-dozen 
of  them ;  and  the  skill  with  which  their  silks  and  satins  are  dashed 
in  by  the  painter  is  a  marvel  to  the  beholder.  There  are  Ross's 
heads,  that  to  be  seen  must  be  seen  through  a  microscope.  There 
is  Saunders,  who  runs  the  best  of  the  miniature  men  very  hard ; 
and  Thorburn,  with  Newton,  Robertson,  Rochard,  and  a  host  of 
others  :  and,  finally,  there  is  the  sculpture-room,  containing  many 
pieces  of  clay  and  marble,  and,  to  my  notions,  but  two  good  things, 
a  sleeping  child  (ridiculously  called  the  Lady  Susan  Somebody),  by 
Westmacott ;  and  the  bust  of  Miss  Stuart,  by  Macdonald :  never 
was  anything  on  earth  more  exquisitely  lovely. 

These  things  seen,  take  your  stick  from  the  porter  at  the  hall 
door,  cut  it,  and  go  to  fresh  picture  galleries ;  but  ere  you  go,  just 
by  way  of  contrast,  and  to  soothe  your  mind,  after  the  glare  and 
bustle  of  the  modern  collection,  take  half-an-hour's  repose  in  the 
National  Gallery  ;  where,  before  the  "  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  you 
may  see  what  the  magic  of  colour  is  ;  before  "  Christ  and  Lazarus  " 
what  is  majestic,  solemn,  grace  and  awful  beauty ;  and  before  the 
new  "  Saint  Catherine "  what  is  the  real  divinity  of  art.  Oh, 
Eastlake  and  Turner  !  — Oh,  Maclise  and  Mulready  !  you  are  all 
very  nice  men  ;  but  what  are  you  to  the  men  of  old  ? 

Issuing  then  from  the  National  Gallery — you  may  step  over 
to  Parrance's  by  the  way,  if  you  like,  and  sip  an  ice,  or  bolt  a 
couple  of  dozen  forced-meat  balls  in  a  basin  of  mock-turtle  soup — 
issuing,  I  say,  from  the  National  Gallery,  and  after  refreshing 
yourself  or  not,  as  your  purse  or  appetite  permits,  you  arrive 
speedily  at  the  Water-Oolour  Exhibition,  and  cannot  do  better  than 
enter.  I  know  nothing  more  cheerful  or  sparkling  than  the  first 
coup  d'oeil  of  this  little  gallery.  In  the  first  place,  you  never  can 
enter  it  without  finding  four  or  five  pretty  women,  that's  a  fact ; 
pretty  women  with  pretty  pink  bonnets  peeping  at  pretty  pictures, 
and  with  sweet  whispers  vowing  that  Mrs.  SeyfFarth  is  a  dear 
delicious  painter,  and  that  her  style  is  "so  soft "  ;  and  that  Miss 
Sharpe  paints  every  bit  as  well  as  her  sister ;  and  that  Mr.  Jean 
Paul  Frederick  Richter  draws  the  loveliest  things,  to  be  sure,  that 
ever  were  seen.  Well,  very  likely  the  ladies  are  right,  and  it  would 
be  unpolite  to  argue  the  matter ;  but  I  wish  Mrs.  Seyfiarth's 
gentlemen  and  ladies  were  not  so  dreadfully  handsome,  with  such 


A    SECOND    LECTURE    ON    THE    FINE   ARTS  ,  281 

white  pillars  of  necks,  such  long  eyes  and  lashes,  and  such  dabs  of 
carmine  at  the  mouth  and  nostrils.  I  wish  Miss  Sharpe  would  not 
paint  Scripture  subjects,  and  Mr.  Richter  great  goggle  eyed,  red- 
cheeked,  simpering  wenches,  whose  ogling  has  become  odious  from 
its  repetition.  However,  the  ladies  like  it,  and,  of  course,  must 
have  their  way. 

If  you  want  to  see  real  nature,  now,  real  expression,  real  start- 
ling home  poetry,  look  at  every  one  of  Hunt's  heads.  Hogarth 
never  painted  anything  better  than  these  figures,  taken  singly. 
That  man  rushing  away  frightened  from  the  beer-barrel  is  a  noble 
head  of  terror ;  that  Miss  Jemima  Crow,  whose  whole  body  is  a 
grin,  regards  you  with  an  ogle  that. all  the  race  of  Richters  could 
never  hope  to  imitate.  Look  at  yonder  card-players;  they  have 
a  penny  pack  of  the  devil's  books,  and  one  has  just  laid  down 
the  king  of  ti-umps  !  I  defy  you  to  look  at  him  without  laughing, 
or  to  examine  the  wondrous  puzzled  face  of  his  adversary  without 
longing  to  hug  the  greasy  rogue.  Come  hither,  Mr.  Maclise,  and 
see  what  genuine  comedy  is ;  you  who  can  paint  better  than  all 
the  Hunts  and  Leslies,  and  yet  not  near  so  well.  If  I  were  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire,  I  would  have  a  couple  of  Hunts  in  every 
room  in  all  my  houses ;  if  I  had  the  blue-devils  (and  even  their 
graces  are,  I  suppose,  occasionally  so  troubled),  I  would  but  cast 
my  eyes  upon  these  grand  good-humoured  pictures,  and  defy  care. 
Who  does  not  recollect  "Before  and  After  the  Mutton  Pie,"  the 
two  pictures  of  that  wondrous  boy  %  Where  Mr.  Hunt  finds  his 
models,  I  cannot  tell;  they  are  the  very  fiower  of  the  British 
youth ;  each  of  them  is  as  good  as  "  Sancho  " ;  blessed  is  he  that 
has  his  portfolio  full  of  them. 

There  is  no  need  to  mention  to  you  the  charming  landscapes 
of  Cox,  Copley  Fielding,  De  Wint,  Gastineau,  and  the  rest.  A 
new  painter,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Harding,  is  Mr.  Callow; 
and  better,  I  think,  than  his  master  or  original,  whose  colours  are 
too  gaudy  to  my  taste,  and  effects  too  glaringly  theatrical. 

Mr.  Cattermole  has,  among  others,  two  very  fine  drawings ; 
a  large  one,  the  most  finished  and  the  best  coloured  of  any  which 
have  been  exhibited  by  this  fine  artist;  and  a  smaller  one,  "The 
Portrait,"  which  is  charming.  The  portrait  is  that  of  Jane  Seymour 
or  Anne  Boleyn  ;  and  Henry  VIII.  is  the  person  examining  it,  with 
the  Cardinal  at  his  side,  the  painter  before  him,  and  one  or  two 
attendants.  The  picture  seems  to  me  a  perfect  masterpiece,  very 
simply  coloured  and  composed,  but  delicious  in  effect  and  tone,  and 
telling  the  story  to  a  wonder.  It  is  much  more  gratifying,  I  think, 
to  let  a  painter  tell  his  own  story  in  this  way,  than  to  bind  him 
down  to  a  scene  of  "  Ivanhoe  "  or  "  Uncle  Toby  " ;  or  worse  still, 


282  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

to  an  illustration  of  some  wretched  story  in  some  wretched  fribble 
Annual.  Woe  to  the  painter  who  falls  into  the  hands  of  Mr 
Charles  Heath  (I  speak,  of  course,  not  of  Mr.  Heath  personally, 
but  in  a  Pickwickian  sense — of  Mr.  Heath  the  Annual-monger); 
he  ruins  the  young  artist,  sucks  his  brains  out,  emasculates  his 
genius  so  as  to  make  it  fit  company  for  the  purchasers  of  Annuals. 
Take,  for  instance,  that  unfortunate  young  man,  Mr.  Corbould,  who 
gave  great  promise  two  years  since,  painted  a  pretty  picture  last 
year,  and  now — he  has  been  in  the  hands  of  the  Annual-mongers, 
and  has  left  well-nigh  all  his  vigour  behind  him.  Numerous 
Zuleikas  and  Lalla  Rookhs,  which  are  hanging  about  the  walls  of 
the  Academy  and  the  New  Water-Colour  Gallery,  give  lamentable 
proofs  of  this :  such  handsome  Turks  and  leering  sultanas ;  such 
Moors,  with  straight  noses  and  pretty  curled  beards  !  Away,  Mr. 
Corbould  !  away  while  it  is  yet  time,  out  of  the  hands  of  these 
sickly  heartless  Annual  sirens  !  and  ten  years  hence,  when  you 
have  painted  a  good,  vigorous,  healthy  picture,  bestow  the  tear 
of  gratitude  upon  Titmarsh,  who  tore  you  from  the  lap  of  your 
crimson-silk-and-gilt-edged  Armida. 

Mr.  Cattermole  has  a  couple,  we  will  not  say  of  imitators,  but 
of  friends,  who  admire  his  works  very  much ;  these  are,  Mr.  Nash 
and  Mr.  Lake  Price ;  the  former  paints  furniture  and  old  houses, 
the  latter  old  houses  and  furniture,  and  both  very  pretty.  No 
harm  can  be  said  of  these  miniature  scene-painters  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, Mr.  Price's  "  Gallery  at  Hardwicke ''  is  really  remarkably  dex- 
terous ;  and  the  chairs,  tables,  curtains,  and  pictures  are  nicked  off 
with  extraordinary  neatness  and  sharpness — and  then  1  why  then, 
no  more  is  to  be  said.  Cobalt,  sepia,  and  a  sable  pencil  will  do 
a  deal  of  work,  to  be  sure ;  and  very  pretty  it  is,  too,  when  done : 
and  as  for  finding  fault  with  it,  that  nobody  will  and  can ;  but  an 
artist  wants  something  more  than  sepia,  cobalt,  and  sable  pencils, 
and  the  knowledge  how  to  use  them.  What  do  you  think,  my 
dear  Bricabrac,  of  a  little  genius  1 — that^a  the  picture-painter, 
depend  on  it. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  water-colours,  we  may  as  well  step  into 
the  New  Water-Colour  Exhibition  :  not  so  good  as  the  old,  but 
very  good.  You  will  see  here  a  large  drawing  by  Mr.  Corbould 
of  a  tournament,  which  will  show  at  once  how  clever  that  young 
artist  is,  and  how  weak  and  manihrL  You  will  see  some  charming 
unaffected  Enghsh  landscapes  by  Mr.  Sims ;  and  a  capital  Spanish 
Girl  by  Hicks,  of  which  the  flesh-painting  cannot  be  too  much 
approved.  It  is  done  without  the  heavy  white,  with  which  water- 
colour  artists  are  now  wont  to  belabour  their  pictures ;  and  is, 


A    SECOND    LECTURE    ON    THE    FINE    ARTS     283 

therefore,  frankly  and  clearly  painted,  as  all  .transparent  water- 
colour  drawing  must  be.  The  same  praise  of  clearness,  boldness, 
and  depth  of  tone  must  be  given  to  Mr.  Absolon,  who  uses  no 
white,  and  only  just  so  much  stippling  as  is  necessary ;  his  picture 
has  the  force  of  oil,  and  we  should  be  glad  to  see  his  manner  more 
followed. 

Mr.  Haghe's  "  Town  Hall  of  Courtray "  has  attracted,  and 
deservedly,  a  great  deal  of  notice.  It  is  a  very  fine  and  masterly 
architectural  drawing,  rich  and  sombre  in  effect,  the  figures  intro- 
duced being  very  nearly  as  good  as  the  rest  of  the  picture.  Mr. 
Haghe,  we  suppose,  will  be  called  to  the  upper  house  of  water- 
colour  painters,  who  might  well  be  anxious  to  receive  into  their 
ranks  many  persons  belonging  to  the  new  society.  We  hope,  how- 
ever, the  latter  will  be  faithful  to  themselves ;  there  is  plenty  of 
room  for  two  galleries,  and  the  public  must,  ere  long,  learn  to 
appreciate  the  merits  of  the  new  one.  Having  spoken  a  word  in 
favour  of  Mr.  Johnston's  pleasing  and  quaintly-coloured  South 
American  sketches,  we  have  but  to  bend  our  steps  to  Suffolk  Street, 
and  draw  this  discourse  to  a  close. 

Here  is  a  very  fine  picture,  indeed,  by  Mr.  Hurlstone,  "  Olympia 
attacked  by  Bourbon's  Soldiers  in  Saint  Peter's  and  flying  to  the 
Cross."  Seen  from  the  further  room,  this  picture  is  grand  in  effect 
and  colour,  and  the  rush  of  the  armed  men  towards  the  girl  finely 
and  vigorously  expressed.  The  head  of  Olympia  has  been  called 
too  calm  by  the  critics ;  it  seems  to  me  most  beautiful,  and  the 
action  of  the  figure  springing  forward  and  fiinging  its  arms  round 
the  cross  nobly  conceived  and  executed.  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
fine  Titianic  painting  in  the  soldiers'  figures  (oh,  that  Mr.  Hurlstone 
would  throw  away  his  lampblack !),  and  the  background  of  the 
church  is  fine,  vast,  and  gloomy.  This  is  the  best  historical  picture 
to  be  seen  anywhere  this  year ;  perhaps  the  worst  is  the  one  which 
stands  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  which  strikes  upon  the 
eye  as  if  it  were  an  immense  water-colour  sketch  of  a  feeble  picture 
by  President  West.  Speaking  of  historical  paintings,  I  forgot  to 
mention  a  large  and  fine  picture  by  Mr.  Dyce,  the  "  Separation  of 
Edwy  and  Elgiva ; "  somewhat  crude  and  odd  in  colour,  with  a  good 
deal  of  exaggeration  in  the  countenances  of  the  figures,  but  having 
grandeur  in  it,  and  unmistakable  genius  ;  there  is  a  figure  of  an  old 
woman  seated,  which  would  pass  muster  very  well  in  a  group  of 
Sebastian  Piombo. 

A  capitally  painted  head  by  Mr.  Stone,  called  the  "Sword- 
bearer,"  almost  as  fresh,  bright,  and  vigorous  as  a  Vandyke,  is  the 
portrait,  we  believe,  of  a  brother  artist,  the  clever  actor  Mr.  M'lan. 
The  latter's  picture  of  "  Sir  Tristram  in  the  Cave  "  deserves  especial 


284  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

remark  and  praise ;  and  is  really  as  iine  a  dramatic  composition  as 
one  will  often  see.  The  figures  of  the  knight  and  the  lady  asleep 
in  the  foreground  are  novel,  striking,  and  beautifully  easy.  The 
advance  of  the  old  King,  who  comes  upon  the  lovers ;  the  look  of 
the  hideous  dwarf,  who  finds  them  out ;  and  behind,  the  line  of 
spears  that  are  seen  glancing  over  the  rocks,  and  indicating  the 
march  of  the  unseen  troops,  are  all  very  well  conceived  arid 
arranged.  The  piece  deserves  engraving;  it  is  wild,  poetic,  and 
original.  To  how  many  pictures,  nowadays,  can  one  apply  the  two 
last  terms  1 

There  are  some  more  new  pictures,  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
quantity  of  trash,  that  deserve  notice.  Mr.  D.  Cowper  is  always 
good ;  Mr.  Stewart's  "  Grandfather "  contains  two  excellent  like- 
nesses, and  is  a  pleasing  little  picture.  Mr.  Hurlstone's  "  Italian 
Boy,"  and  "  Girl  with  a  Dog,"  are  excellent ;  and  in  this  pleasant 
mood,  for  fear  of  falling  into  an  angry  fit  on  coming  to  look  further 
into  the  gallery,  it  will  be  as  well  to  conclude.  Wishing  many 
remembrances  to  Mrs.  Bricabrac,  and  better  luck  to  you  in  the  next 
^meute,  I  beg  here  to  bid  you  farewell  and  entreat  you  to  accept 
the  assurances  of  my  distinguished  consideration.  M.  A.  T. 

Au  CiTOYBN  Brutus  NAPOLi:oif  Bricabrac,  Rifugii 
d'Avrily  Bless6  de  Mai,  Condamni  de  Juin,  Decor6 
de  Juillet,  <fcc.  dc.     Jffdtel  Dieu.  d  Paris. 


QEORQE  CRUIK8HANK* 


ACCUSATIONS  of  ingratitude,  and  just  accusations  no  doubt, 
are  made  against  every  inhabitant  of  this  wicked  world,  and 
the  fact  is,  that  a  man  who  is  ceaselessly  engaged  in  its 
trouble  and  turmoil,  borne  hither  and  thither  upon  the  fierce  waves 
of  the  crowd,  bustling,  shifting,  struggling  to  keep  himself  some- 
what above  water — fighting  for  reputation,  or  more  likely  for  bread, 
and  ceaselessly  occupied  to-day  with  plans  for  appeasing  the  eternal 
appetite  of  inevitable  hunger  to-morrow — a  man  in  such  straits  has 
hardly  time  to  think  of  anything  but  himself,  and,  as  in  a  sinking 
ship,  must  make  his  own  rush  for  the  boats,  and  fight,  struggle, 
and  trample  for  safety.  In  the  midst  of  such  a  combat  as  this,  the 
"ingenious  arts,  which  prevent  the  ferocity  of  the  manners,  and 
act  upon  them  as  an  emollient "  (as  the  philosophic  bard  remarks 
in  the  Latin  Grammar)  are  likely  to  be  jostled  to  death,  and  then 
forgotten.  The  world  will  allow  no  such  compromises  between  it 
and  that  which  does  not  belong  to  it — no  two  gods  must  we  serve ; 
but  (as  one  has  seen  in  some  old  portraits)  the  horrible  glazed 
eyes  of  Necessity  are  always  fixed  upon  you ;  fly  away  as  you 
will,  black  Care  sits  behind  you,  and  with  his  ceaseless  gloomy 
croaking  drowns  the  voice  of  all  more  cheerful  companions.  Happy 
he  who^e  fortune  has  placed  him  where  there  is  calm  and  plenty, 
and  who  has  the  wisdom  not  to  give  up  his  quiet  in  quest  of 
visionary  gain. 

Here  is,  no  doubt,  the  reason  why  a  man,  after  the  period  of 
his  boyhood,  or  first  youth,  makes  so  few  friends.  Want  and 
ambition  (new  acquaintances  which  are  introduced  to  him  along 
with  his  beard)  thrust  away  all  other  society  from  him.  Some  old 
friends  remain,  it  is  true,  but  these  are  become  as  a  habit — a  part 
of  your  selfishness ;  and,  for  new  ones,  they  are  selfish  as  you  are. 
Neither  member  of  the  new  partnership  has  the  capital  of  affection 
and  kindly  feeling,  or  can  even  afford  the  time  that  is  requisite  for 
the  establishment  of  the  new  firm.  Damp  and  chill  the  shades  of 
the  prison-house  begin  to  close  round  us,  and  that  "  vision  splendid  " 

*  Eeprinted  from  the  Westminster  Review  for  June  1840  (No.  66). 


286  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

which  has  accompanied  our  steps  in  our  journey  daily  farther  from 
the  east,  fades  away  and  dies  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

And  what  a  common  day  !  what  a  foggy,  dull,  shivering  apology 
for  light  is  this  kind  of  muddy  twilight  through  which  we  are  about 
to  tramp  and  flounder  for  the  rest  of  our  existence,  wandering  farther 
and  farther  from  the  beauty  and  freshness  and  from  the  kindly 
gushing  springs  of  clear  gladness  that  made  aU  around  us  green  in 
our  youth  !  One  wanders  and  gropes  in  a  slough  of  stock-jobbing, 
one  sinks  or  rises  in  a  storm  of  politics,  and  in  either  case  it  is  as 
good  to  fall  as  to  rise — to  mount  a  bubble  on  the  crest  of  the  wave, 
as  to  sink  a  stone  to  the  bottom. 

The  reader  who  has  seen  the  name  aflixed  to  the  head  of  this 
article  scarcely  expected  to  be  entertained  with  a  declamation  upon 
ingratitude,  youth,  and  the  vanity  of  human  pursuits,  which  may 
seem  at  first  sight  to  have  little  to  do  with  the  subject  in  hand. 
But  (although  we  reserve  the  privilege  of  discoursing  upon  whatever 
subject  shall  suit  us,  and  by  no  means  admit  the  public  has  any 
right  to  ask  in  our  sentences  for  any  meaning,  or  any  connection 
whatever)  it  happens  that,  in  this  particular  instance,  there  is  an 
undoubted  connection.  In  Susan's  case,  as  recorded  by  Wardsworth, 
what  connection  had  the  corner  of  Wood  Street  with  a  mountain 
ascending,  a  vision  of  trees,  and  a  nest  by  the  Dove  1  Why  should 
the  song  of  a  thrush  cause  bright  volumes  of  vapour  to  glide  through 
Lothbury,  and  a  river  to  flow  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside  ? 
As  she  stood  at  that  corner  of  Wood  Street,  a  mop  and  a  pail  in 
her  hand  most  likely,  she  heard  the  bird  singing,  and  straightway 
began  pining  and  yearning  for  the  days  of  her  youth,  forgetting  the 
proper  business  of  the  pail  and  mop.  Even  so  we  are  moved  by 
the  sight  of  some  of  Mr.  Cruikshank's  works — the  "  Busen  fuhlt 
sich  jugendlich  erschiittert,"  the  "  schwankende  Gestalten  "  of  youth 
flit  before  one  again, — Cruikshank's  thrush  begins  to  pipe  ancf  carol, 
as  in  the  days  of  boyhood ;  hence  misty  moralities,  reflections,  and 
sad  and  pleasant  remembrances  arise.  He  is  the  friend  of  the 
young  especially.  Have  we  not  read  all  the  story-books  that  his 
wonderful  pencil  has  illustrated  1  Did  we  not  forego  tarts,  in  order 
to  buy  his  "Breaking-up,"  or  his  "Fashionable  Monstrosities"  of 
the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  something?  Have  we  not  before 
us,  at  this  very  moment,  a  print, — one  of  the  admirable  "  Illustra- 
tions of  Phrenology " — which  entire  work  was  purchased  by  a 
joint-stock  company  of  boys,  each  drawing  lots  afterwards  for  the 
separate  prints,  and  taking  his  choice  in  rotation  1  The  writer  of 
this,  too,  had  the  honour  of  drawing  the  first  lot,  and  seized  imme- 
diately upon  "  Philoprogenitiveness  " — a  marvellous  print  (our  copy 
is  not  at  all  improved  by  being  coloured,  which  operation  we  per- 


i- 

? 


GEORGE    CRUIKSHANK  287 

formed  on  it  ourselves) — a  marvellous  print,  indeed, — full  of  in- 
genuity and  fine  jovial  humour.  A  father,  possessor  of  an  enormous 
nose  and  family,  is  surrounded  by  the  latter,  who  are,  some  of 
them,  embracing  the  former.  The  composition  writhes  and  twists 
about  like  the  Kermes  of  Kubens.  No  less  than  seven  little  men 
and  women  in  nightcaps,  in  frocks,  in  bibs,  in  breeches,  are  clamber- 
ing about  the  head,  knees,  and  arms  of  the  man  with  the  nose ; 
their  noses,  too,  are  preternaturally  developed — the  twins  in  the 
cradle  have  noses  of  the  most  considerable  kind.  The  second 
daughter,  who  is  watching  them ;  the  youngest  but  two,  who  sits 
squalling  in  a  certain  wicker  chair  ;  the  eldest  son,  who  is  yawning ; 
the  eldest  daughter,  who  is  preparing  with  tlie  gravy  of  two  mutton 
chops  a  savoury  dish  of  Yorkshire  pudding  for  eighteen  persons ; 
the  youths  who  are  examining  her  operations  (one  a  literary  gentle- 
man, in  a  remarkably  neat  nightcap  and  pinafore,  who  has  just 
had  his  finger  in  the  pudding) ;  the  genius  who  is  at  work  on  the 
slate,  and  the  two  honest  lads  wlio  are  hugging  tlie  good-humoured 
washerwoman,  their  mother — all,  all,  save  this  worthy  woman,  have 
noses  of  the  largest  size.  Not  handsome  certainly  are  they,  and 
yet  everybody  must  be  charmed  with  the  picture.  It  is  full  of 
grotesque  beauty.  The  artist  has  at  the  back  of  his  own  skull, 
we  are  certain,  a  huge  bump  of  philoprogenitiveness.  He  loves 
children  in  his  heart ;  every  one  of  those  he  has  drawn  is  perfectly 
happy,  and  jovial,  and  affectionate,  and  innocent  as  possible.  He 
makes  them  with  large  noses,  but  he  loves  them,  and  you  always 
find  something  kind  in  the  midst  of  his  humour,  and  the  ughness 
redeemed  by  a  sly  touch  of  beauty.  The  smiling  mother  reconciles 
one  with  all  the  hideous  family  :  they  have  all  something  of  the 
mother  in  them — something  kind,  and  generous,  and  tender. 

Knight's,  in  Sweeting's  Alley  ;  Fairburn's,  in  a  court  off  Ludgate 
Hill;  Hone's,  in  Fleet  Street — bright,  enchanted  palaces,  which 
George  Cruikshank  used  to  people  with  grinning,  fantastical  imps, 
and  merry,  harmless  sprites, — where  are  they?  Fairburn's  shop 
knows  him  no  more;  not  only  has  Knight  disappeared  from 
Sweeting's  Alley,  but,  as  we  are  given  to  understand.  Sweeting's 
Alley  has  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  globe.  Slop,  the 
atrocious  Castlereagh,  the  sainted  Caroline  (in  a  tight  pelisse,  with 
feathers  in  her  head),  the  "  Daudy  of  Sixty,"  who  used  to  glance 
at  us  from  Hone's  friendly  windows — where  are  they?  Mr. 
Cruikshank  may  have  drawn  a  thousand  better  things  since  the 
days  when  these  were ;  but  they  are  to  us  a  thousand  times  more 
pleasing  than  anything  else  he  has  done.  How  we  used  to  believe 
in  them !  to  stray  miles  out  of  the  way  on  holidays,  in  order  to 
ponder  for  an  hour  before   that   delightful  window  in  Sweeting's 


288  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Alley!  in  walks  through  Fleet  Street,  to  vanish  abruptly  down 
Fairburn's  passage,  and  there  make  one  at  his  "  charming  gratis  " 
exhibition.  There  used  to  be  a  crowd  round  the  window  in  those 
days,  of  grinning,  good-natured  mechanics,  who  spelt  the  songs,  and 
spoke  them  out  for  the  benefit  of  the  company,  and  who  received 
the  points  of  humour  with  a  general  sympathising  roar.  Where 
are  these  people  now?  You  never  hear  any  laughing  at  HB.;  his 
pictures  are  a  great  deal  too  genteel  for  that — polite  points  of  wit, 
which  strike  one  as  exceedingly  clever  and  pretty,  and  cause  one 
to  smile  in  a  quiet,  gentleman-like  kind  of  way. 

There  must  be  no  smiUng  with  Oruikshank.  A  man  who 
does  not  laugh  outright  is  a  dullard,  and  has  no  heart;  even  the 
old  dandy  of  sixty  must  have  laughed  at  his  own  wondrous 
grotesque  image,  as  they  say  Louis  Philippe  did,  who  saw  all  the 
caricatures  that  were  made  of  himself  And  there  are  some  of 
Cruikshank's  designs  which'  have  the  blessed  faculty  of  creating 
laughter  as  often  as  you  see  them.  As  Diggory  says  in  the  play, 
who  is  bidden  by  his  master  not  to  laugh  while  waiting  at  table — 
"  Don't  tell  the  story  of  Grouse  in  the  Gun-room,  master,  or  I  can't 
help  laughing."  Repeat  that  history  ever  so  often,  and  at  the 
proper  moment,  honest  Diggory  is  sure  to  explode.  Every  man, 
no  doubt,  who  loves  Oruikshank,  has  his  "  Grouse  in  the  Gun- 
room." There  is  a  fellow  in  the  "  Points  of  Humour "  who  is 
offering  to  eat  up  a  certain  little  general,  that  has  made  us  happy 
any  time  these  sixteen  years  :  his  huge  mouth  is  a  perpetual  well 
of  laughter — buckets  full  of  fun  can  be  drawn  from  it.  We  have 
formed  no  such  friendships  as  that  boyish  one  of  the  man  with 
the  mouth.  But  though,  in  our  eyes,  Mr.  Oruikshank  reached 
his  apogee  some  eighteen  years  since,  it  must  not  be  imagined  that 
such  is  really  the  case.  Eighteen  sets  of  children  have  since  then 
learned  to  love  and  admire  him,  and  may  many  more  of  their 
successors  be  brought  up  in  the  same  delightful  faith.  It  is  not 
the  artist  who  fails,  but  the  men  who  grow  cold — the  men,  from 
whom  the  illusions  (why  illusions  1  realities)  of  youth  disappear 
one  by  one ;  who  have  no  leisure  to  be  happy,  no  blessed  holidays, 
but  only  fresh  cares  at  Midsummer  and  Ohristmas,  being  the 
inevitable  seasons  which  bring  us  bills  instead  of  pleasures.  Tom, 
who  comes  bounding  home  from  school,  has  the  doctor's  account  in 
his  trunk,  and  his  father  goes  to  sleep  at  the  pantomime  to  which 
he  takes  him.  Pater  infelix,  you  too  have  laughed  at  clown,  and 
the  magic  wand  of  spangled  harlequin ;  what  delightful  enchant- 
ment did  it  wave  around  you,  in  the  golden  days  "  when  George 
the  Third  was  king  !  "  But  our  clown  lies  in  his  grave ;  and  our 
harlequin,  EUar,  prince  of  how  many  enchanted  islands,  was  he 


GEORGE   CRUIKSHANK  '      289 

not  at  Bow  Street  the  other  day,*  in  his  dirty,  tattered,  faded 
motley — seized  as  a  law-breaker,  for  acting  at  a  penny  theatre, 
after  having  well-nigh  starved  in  the  streets,  where  nobody  would 
listen  to  his  old  guitar !  No  one  gave  a  shilling  to  bless  him  :  not 
one  of  us  who  owe  him  so  much. 

We  know  not  if  Mr.  Cruikshank  will  be  very  well  pleased  at 
finding  his  name  in  such  company  as  that  of  Clown  and  Harlequin ; 
but  he,  like  them,  is  certainly  the  children's  friend.  His  drawings 
abound  in  feeling  for  these  little  ones,  and  hideous  as  in  the  course 
of  his  duty  he  is  from  time  to  time  compelled  to  design  them,  he 
never  sketches  one  without  a  certain  pity  for  it,  and  imparting  to 
the  figure  a  certain  grotesque  grace.  In  happy  schoolboys  he 
revels;  plum-pudding  and  holidays  his  needle  has  engraved  over 
and  over  again  j  there  is  a  design  in  one  of  the  comic  almanacs  of 
some  young  gentlemen  who  are  employed  in  administering  to  a 
schoolfellow  the  correction  of  the  pump,  which  is  as  graceful  and 
elegant  as  a  drawing  of  Stothard.  Dull  books  about  children  George 
Cruikshank  makes  bright  with  illustrations — there  is  one  published 
by  the  ingenious  and  opulent  Mr.  Tegg.  It  is  entitled  "  Mirth  and 
Morality,"  the  mirth  being,  for  the  most  part,  on  the  side  of  the 
designer  —  the  morality,  unexceptionable  certainly,  the  author's 
capital.  Here  are  then,  to  these  moralities,  a  smiling  train  of 
mirths  supplied  by  George  Cruikshank.  See  yonder  little  fellows 
butterfiy-hunting  across  a  common !  Such  a  light,  brisk,  airy, 
gentlemanlike  drawing  was  never  made  upon  such  a  theme.  Who, 
cries  the  author — 

"Who  has  not  chased  the  butterfly, 

And  crushed  its  slender  legs  and  wings, 
And  heaved  a  moralising  sigh : 
Alas !  how  frail  are  human  things  ! ' 

A  very  unexceptionable  morality  truly ;  but  it  would  have  puzzled 
another  than  George  Cruikshank  to  make  mirth  out  of  it  as  he  has 
done.  Away,  surely  not  on  the  wings  of  these  verses,  Cruikshank's 
imagination  begins  to  soar;  and  he  makes  us  three  darling  little 
men  on  a  green  common,  backed  by  old  farm-houses,  somewhere 
about  May.  A  great  mixture  of  blue  and  clouds  in  the  air,  a  strong 
fresh  breeze  stirring,  Tom's  jacket  flapping  in  the  same,  in  order  to 
bring  down  the  insect  queen  or  king  of  spring  that  is  fluttering 
above  him, — he  renders  all  this  with  a  few  strokes  on  a  little  block 
of  wood  not  two  inches  square,  upon  which  one  may  gaze  for  hours, 
so  merry  and  lifelike  a  scene  does  it  present.  What  a  charming 
creative  power  is  this,  what  a  privilege  to  be  a  god,  and  create  little 

*  This  was  written  in  1840. 
13  T 


290  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

worlds  upon  paper,  and  whole  generations  of  smiling,  jovial  men, 
women,  and  children  half  inch  high,  whose  portraits  are  carried 
abroad,  and  have  the  faculty  of  making  us  monsters  of  six  feet 
curious  and  happy  in  our  turn.  Now,  who  would  imagine  that  an 
artist  could  make  anything  of  such  a  subject  as  this  ?  The  writer 
begins  by  stating--^ 

"  I  love  to  go  back  to  the  days  of  my  youth, 
And  to  reckon  my  joys  to  the  letter, 
And  to  count  o'er  the  friends  that  I  have  in  the  world, 
Ay,  and  those  who  are  gone  to  a  }>etter" 

This  brings  him  to  the  consideration  of  his  uncle.  "  Of  all  the  men 
I  have  ever  known,"  says  he,  "  my  uncle  united  the  greatest  degree 
of  cheerfulness  with  the  sobriety  of  manhood.  Though  a  man  when 
I  was  a  boy,  he  was  yet  one  of  the  most  agreeable  companions  I 
ever  possessed.  ...  He  embarked  for  America,  and  nearly  twenty 
years  passed  by  before  he  came  back  again  ;  .  .  .  but  oh,  how 
altered  ! — he  was  in  every  sense  of  the  word  an  old  man,  his  body 
and  mind  were  enfeebled,  and  second  childishness  had  come  upon 
him.  How  often  have  I  bent  over  him,  vainly  endeavouring  to 
recall  to  his  memory  the  scenes  we  had  shared  together :  and  how 
frequently,  with  an  aching  heart,  have  I  gazed  on  his  vacant  and 
lustreless  eye,  while  he  has  amused  himself  in  clapping  his  hands 
and  singing  with  a  quavering  voice  a  verse  of  a  psalm."  Alas ! 
such  are  the  consequences  of  long  residences  in  America,  and  of  old 
age  even  in  uncles  !  Well,  the  point  of  this  morality  is,  that  the 
uncle  one  day  in  the  morning  of  life  vowed  that  he  would  catch  his 
two  nephews  and  tie  them  together,  ay,  and  actually  did  so,  for  all 
the  efforts  the  rogues  made  to  run  away  from  him ;  but  he  was  so 
fatigued  that  he  declared  he  never  would  make  the  attempt  again, 
whereupon  the  nephew  remarks, — "  Often  since  then,  when  engaged 
in  enterprises  beyond  my  strength,  have  I  called  to  mind  the 
determination  of  my  uncle." 

Does  it  not  seem  impossible  to  make  a  picture  out  of  this? 
And  yet  George  Cruikshank  has  produced  a  charming  design,  in 
which  the  uncle  and  nephews  are  so  prettily  portrayed  that  one  is 
reconciled  to  their  existence,  with  all  their  moralities.  Many  more 
of  the  mirths  in  this  little  book  are  excellent,  especially  a  great 
figure  of  a  parson  entering  church  on  horseback, — an  enormous 
parson  truly,  calm,  unconscious,  unwieldy.  As  Zeuxis  had  a  bevy 
of  virgins  in  order  to  make  his  famous  picture — his  express  virgin — 
a  clerical  host  must  have  passed  under  Cruikshank's  eyes  before  he 
sketched  this  little,  enormous  parson  of  parsons. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  children's  books,  how  shall  we  enough 


GEOEGE   CRUIKSHANK  291 

praise  the  delightful  German  nursery-tales,  and  Cruikshank's  illus- 
trations of  them  ?  We  coupled  his  name  with  pantomime  awhile 
since,  and  sure  never  pantomimes  were  more  charming  than  these. 
Of  all  the  artists  that  ever  drew,  from  Michael  Angelo  upwards 
and  downwards,  Cruikshank  was  the  man  to  illustrate  these  tales, 
and  give  them  just  the  proper  admixture  of  the  grotesque,  the 
wonderful,  and  the  graceful.  May  all  Mother  Bunch's  collection 
be  similarly  indebted  to  him ;  may  "  Jack  the  Giant  Killer,"  may 
"  Tom  Thumb,"  may  "  Puss  in  Boots,"  be  one  day  revivified  by  his 
pencil.  Is  not  Whittington  sitting  yet  on  Highgate  Hill,  and  poor 
Cinderella  (in  that  sweetest  of  all  fairy  stories)  still  pining  in  her 
lonely  chimney  nook  ?  A  man  who  has  a  true  affection  for  these 
delightful  companions  of  his  youth  is  bound  to  be  grateful  to  them 
if  lie  can,  and  we  pray  Mr.  Cruikshank  to  remember  them. 

It  is  folly  to  say  that  this  or  that  kind  of  humour  is  too  good 
for  the  public,  that  only  a  chosen  few  can  relish  it.  The  best 
humour  that  we  know  of  has  been  as  eagerly  received  by  the  public 
as  by  the  most  delicate  connoisseur.  There  is  hardly  a  man  in 
England  who  can  read  but  will  laugh  at  Falstafi'  and  the  humour  of 
Joseph  Andrews ;  and  honest  Mr.  Pickwick's  story  can  be  felt  and 
loved  by  any  person  above  the  age  of  six.  Some  may  have  a  keener 
enjoyment  of  it  than  others,  but  all  the  world  can  be  merry  over  it, 
and  is  always  ready  to  welcome  it.  The  best  criterion  of  good 
humour  is  success,  and  what  a  share  of  this  has  Mr.  Cruikshank 
had  !  how  many  millions  of  mortals  has  he  made  happy  !  We 
have  heard  very  profound  persons  talk  philosophically  of  the 
marvellous  and  mysterious  manner  in  which  he  has  suited  himself 
to  the  time — -fait  vibrer  la  fibre  populaire  (as  Napoleon  boasted 
of  himself),  supplied  a  peculiar  want  felt  at  a  peculiar  period,  the 
simple  secret  of  which  is,  as  we  take  it,  that  he,  living  amongst  the 
public,  has  with  them  a  general  wide-hearted  sympathy,  tlmt  he 
laughs  at  what  they  laugh  at,  that  he  has  a  kindly  spirit  of  enjoy- 
ment, with  not  a  morsel  of  mysticism  in  his  composition  ;  that 
he  pities  and  loves  the  poor,  and  jokes  at  the  follies  of  the  great, 
and  that  he  addresses  all  in  a  perfectly  sincere  and  manly  way.  To 
be  greatly  successful  as  a  professional  humourist,  as  in  any  other 
calling,  a  man  must  be  quite  honest,  and  show  that  his  heart  is  in 
his  work.  A  bad  preacher  will  get  admiration  and  a  hearing  with 
this  point  in  his  favour,  where  a  man  of  three  times  his  acquirements 
will  only  find  indifference  and  coldness.  Is  any  man  more  remark- 
able than  our  artist  for  telling  the  truth  after  his  own  manner? 
Hogarth's  honesty  of  purpose  was  as  conspicuous  in  an  earlier  time, 
and  we  fancy  that  Gilray  would  have  been  far  more  successful  and 
more  powerful  but  for  that  unhappy  bribe,  which  turned  the  whole 


292  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

course  of  his  humour  into  an  unnatural  channel.  Cruikshank  would 
not  for  any  bribe  say  what  he  did  not  think,  or  lend  his  aid  to 
sneer  down  anything  meritorious,  or  to  praise  any  thing  or  person 
that  deserved  censure.  When  he  levelled  his  wit  against  the 
Regent,  and  did  his  very  prettiest  for  the  Princess,  he  most  certainly 
believed,  along  with  the  great  body  of  the  people  whom  he  repre- 
sents, that  the  Princess  was  the  most  spotless,  pure-mannered 
darling  of  a  Princess  that  ever  married  a  heartless  debauchee  of  a 
Prince  Royal.  Did  not  millions  believe  with  him,  and  noble  and 
learned  lords  take  their  oaths  to  her  Royal  Highness's  innocence  f 
Cruikshank  would  not  stand  by  and  see  a  woman  ill-used,  and  so 
struck  in  for  her  rescue,  he  and  the  people  belabouring  with  all 
their  might  the  party  who  were  making  the  attack,  and  determining 
from  pure  sympathy  and  indignation,  that  the  woman  must  be 
innocent  because  her  husband  treated  her  so  foully. 

To  be  sure  we  have  never  heard  so  much  from  Mr.  Cruikshank's 
own  lips,  but  any  man  who  will  examine  these  odd  drawings,  which 
first  made  him.  famous,  will  see  what  an  honest,  hearty  hatred  the 
champion  of  woman  has  for  all  who  abuse  her,  and  will  admire 
the  energy  with  which  he  flings  his  wood-blocks  at  all  who  side 
against  her.  Canning,  Castlereagh,  Bexley,  Sidmouth,  he  is  at 
them,  one  and  all ;  and  as  for  the  Prince,  up  to  what  a  whipping- 
post of  ridicule  did  he  tie  that  unfortunate  old  man  !  And  do  not 
let  squeamish  Tories  cry  out  about  disloyalty ;  if  the  crown  does 
wrong,  the  crown  must  be  corrected  by  the  nation,  out  of  respect, 
of  course,  for  the  crown.  In  those  days,  and  by  those  people  who 
so  bitterly  attacked  the  son,  no  word  was  ever  breathed  against  the 
father,  simply  because  he  was  a  good  husband,  and  a  sober,  thrifty, 
pious,  orderly  man. 

This  attack  upon  the  Prince  Regent  we  believe  to  have  been 
Mr.  Cruikshank's  only  effort  as  a  party  politician.  Some  early 
manifestoes  against  Napoleon  we  find,  it  is  true,  done  in  the  regular 
John  Bull  style,  with  the  Gilray  model  for  the  little  upstart 
Oorsican  :  but  as  soon  as  the  Emperor  had  yielded  to  stern  fortune 
our  artist's  heart  relented  (as  Stranger's  did  on  the  other  side 
of  the  water),  and  many  of  our  readers  will  doubtless  recollect  a 
fine  drawing  of  "  Louis  XVIII.  trying  on  Napoleon's  boots,"  which 
did  not  certainly  fit  the  gouty  son  of  Saint  Louis.  Such  satirical 
hits  as  these,  however,  must  not  be  considered  as  political,  or  as 
anything  more  than  the  expression  of  the  artist's  national  British 
idea  of  Frenchmen. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  for  that  great  nation  Mr.  Cruikshank 
entertains  a  considerable  contempt.  Let  the  reader  examine  the 
"  Life  in  Paris,"  or  the  five  hundred  designs  in  which  Frenchmen 


GEORGE    CRUIKSHANK  293 

are  introduced,  and  he  will  find  them  almost  invariably  thin,  with 
ludicrous  spindle-shanks,  pigtails,  outstretched  hands,  shrugging 
shoulders,  and  queer  hair  and  mustachios.  He  has  the  British 
idea  of  a  Frenchman ;  and  if  he  does  not  believe  that  the  inhabi- 
tants of  France  are  for  the  most  part  dancing-masters  and  barbers, 
yet  takes  care  to  depict  such  in  preference,  and  would  not  speak 
too  well  of  them.  It  is  curious  how  these  traditions  endure.  In 
France,  at  the  present  moment,  the  Englishman  on  the  stage  is 
the  caricatured  Englishman  at  the  time  of  the  war,  with  a  shock 
red  head,  a  long  white  coat,  and  invariable  gaiters.  Those  who 
wish  to  study  this  subject  should  peruse  Monsieur  Paul  de  Kock's 
histories  of  "  Lord  Boulingrog "  and  "  Lady  Crockmilove."  On 
the  other  hand,  the  old  Emigre  has  taken  his  station  amongst  us, 
and  we  doubt  if  a  good  British  gallery  would  understand  that  such 
and  such  a  character  was  a  Frenchman  unless  he  appeared  in  the 
ancient  traditional  costume." 

A  curious  book,  called  "Life  in  Paris,"  published  in  1822, 
contains  a  number  of  the  artist's  plates  in  the  aquatint  style  ; 
and  though  we  believe  he  had  never  been  in  that  capital,  the 
designs  have  a  great  deal  of  life  in  them,  and  pass  muster  very 
well.  A  villainous  race  of  shoulder-shrugging  mortals  are  his 
Frenchmen  indeed.  And  the  heroes  of  the  tale,  a  certain  Mr. 
Dick  Wildfire,  Squire  Jenkins,  and  Captain  O'Shuffleton,  are  made 
to  show  the  true  British  superiority  on  every  occasion  when  Britons 
and  French  are  brought  together.  This  book  was  one  among  the 
many  that  the  designer's  genius  has  caused  to  be  popular ;  the 
plates  are  not  carefully  executed,  but,  being  coloured,  have  a 
pleasant,  lively  look.  The  same  style  was  adopted  in  the  once 
femous  book  called  "Tom  and  Jerry,  or  Life  in  London,"  which 
must  have  a  word  of  notice  here,  for,  although  by  no  means  Mr. 
Cruikshank's  best  work,  his  reputation  was  extraordinarily  raised 
by  it.  Tom  and  Jerry  were  as  popular  twenty  years  since  as  Mr. 
Pickwick  and  Sam  Weller  now  are;  and  often  have  we  wished, 
while  reading  the  biographies  of  the  latter  celebrated  personages, 
that  they  had  been  described  as  well  by  Mr.  Cruikshank's  pencil  as 
by  Mr.  Dickens's  pen. 

As  for  Tom  and  Jerry,  to  show  the  mutability  of  human  affairs 
and  the  evanescent  nature  of  reputation,  we  have  been  to  the  British 
Museum  and  no  less  than  five  circulating  libraries  in  quest  of  the 
book,  and  "  Life  in  London,"  alas,  is  not  to  be  found  at  any  one  of 
them.  We  can  only,  therefore,  speak  of  the  work  from  recollection, 
but  have  still  a  very  clear  remembrance  of  the  leather-gaiters  of 
Jerry  Hawthorn,  the  green  spectacles  of  Logic,  and  the  hooked  nose 
of  Corinthian  Tom.     They  were  the  schoolboy's  delight;  and  in 


294  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

the  days  when  the  work  appeared  we  firndy  believed  the  three 
heroes  above  named  to  be  types  of  the  most  elegant,  fashionable 
young  fellows  the  town  aiforded,  and  thought  their  occupations 
and  amusements  were  those  of  all  high-bred  English  gentlemen. 
Tom  knocking  down  the  watchman  at  Temple  Bar ;  Tom  and  Jerry 
dancing  at  Almack's ;  or  flirting  in  the  saloon  at  the  theatre ;  at 
the  night-houses,  after  the  play;  at  Tom  Cribb's,  examining  the 
silver  cup  then  in  the  possession  of  that  champion ;  at  the  chambers 
of  Bob  Logic,  who,  seated  at  a  cabinet  piano,  plays  a  waltz  to  which 
Corinthian  Tom  and  Kate  are  dancing  ;  ambling  gallantly  in  Rotten 
Row ;  or  examining  the  poor  fellow  at  Newgate  who  was  having  his 
chains  knocked  off  before  hanging  :  all  these  scenes  remain  indelibly 
engraved  upon  the  mind,  and  so  far  we  are  independent  of  all  the 
circulating  libraries  in  London. 

As  to  the  literary  contents  of  the  book,  they  have  passed  sheer 
away.  It  was,  most  likely,  not  particularly  refined ;  nay,  the 
chances  are  that  it  was  absolutely  vulgar.  But  it  must  have  had 
some  merit  of  its  own,  that  is  clear  ;  it  must  have  given  striking 
descriptions  of  life  in  some  part  or  other  of  London,  for  all  London 
read  it,  and  went  to  see  it  in  its  dramatic  shape.  The  artist,  it  is 
said,  wished  to  close  the  career  of  the  three  heroes  by  bringing  them 
all  to  ruin,  but  the  writer,  or  publishers,  would  not  allow  any  such 
melancholy  subjects  to  dash  the  merriment  of  the  public,  and  we 
believe  Tom,  Jerry,  and  Logic  were  married  off  at  the  end  of  the 
tale,  as  if  they  had  been  the  most  moral  personages  in  the  world. 
There  is  some  goodness  in  this  pity,  which  authors  and  the  public 
are  disposed  to  show  towards  certain  agreeable,  disreputable 
characters  of  romance.  Who  would  mar  the  prospects  of  honest 
Roderick  Random,  or  Charles  Surface,  or  Tom  Jones  ?  only  a  very 
stern  moralist  indeed.  And  in  regard  of  Jerry  Hawthorn  and  that 
hero  without  a  surname,  Corinthian  Tom,  Mr.  Cruikshank,  we  make 
little  doubt,  was  glad  in  his  heart  that  he  was  not  allowed  to  have 
his  own  way. 

Soon  after  the  "  Tom  and  Jerry  "  and  the  "  Life  in  Paris,"  Mr. 
Cruikshank  produced  a  much  more  elaborate  set  of  prints,  in  a  work 
which  was  called  "  Points  of  Humour."  These  "  Points "  were 
selected  from  various  comic  works,  and  did  not,  we  believe,  extend 
beyond  a  couple  of  numbers,  containing  about  a  score  of  copper- 
plates. The  collector  of  humorous  designs  cannot  fail  to  have 
them  in  his  portfolio,  for  they  contain  some  of  the  very  best  efforts 
of  Mr.  Oruikshank's  genius,  and  though  not  quite  so  highly  laboured 
as  some  of  his  later  productions,  are  none  the  worse,  in  our  opinion, 
for  their  comparative  want  of  finish.  All  the  effects  are  perfectly 
given,  and  the  expression  is  as  good  as  it  could  be  in  the  most 


GEORGE    CRUIKSHANK  295 

delicate  engraving  upon  steel.  The  artist's  style,  too,  was  then 
completely  formed ;  and,  for  our  parts,  we  should  say  that  we  pre- 
ferred his  manner  of  1825  to  any  other  which  he  has  adopted 
since.  The  first  picture,  which  is  called  "  The  Point  of  Honour," 
illustrates  the  old  story  of  the  officer  who,  on  being  accused  of 
cowardice  for  refusing  to  fight  a  duel,  came  among  his  brother 
officers  and  flung  a  lighted  grenade  down  upon  the  floor,  before 
which  his  comrades  fled  ignominiously.  This  design  is  capital,  and 
the  outward  rush  of  heroes,  walking,  trampling,  twisting,  scuffling 
at  the  door,  is  in  the  best  style  of  the  grotesque.  You  see  but  the 
back  of  most  of  these  gentlemen;  into  which,  nevertheless,  the 
artist  has  managed  to  throw  an  expression  of  ludicrous  agony  that 
one  could  scarcely  have  expected  to  find  in  such  a  part  of  the  human 
figure.  The  next  plate  is  not  less  good.  It  represents  a  couple 
who,  having  been  found  one  night  tipsy,  and  lying  in  the  same 
gutter,  were,  by  a  charitable  though  misguided  gentleman,  supposed 
to  be  man  and  wife,  and  put  comfortably  to  bed  together.  The 
morning  came  ;  fancy  the  surprise  of  this  interesting  pair  when 
they  awoke  and  discovered  their  situation.  Fancy  the  manner,  too, 
in  which  Oruikshank  has  depicted  them,  to  which  words  cannot  do 
justice.  It  is  needless  to  state  that  this  fortuitous  and  temporary 
union  was  followed  by  one  more  lasting  and  sentimental,  and  that 
these  two  worthy  persons  were  married,  and  lived  happily  ever 
after. 

We  should  like  to  go  through  every  one  of  these  prints.  There 
is  the  jolly  miller,  who,  returning  home  at  night,  calls  upon  his  wife 
to  get  him  a  supper,  and  falls  to  upon  rashers  of  bacon  and  ale. 
How  he  gormandises,  that  jolly  miller !  rasher  after  rasher,  how 
they  pass  away  frizzling  and  smoking  from  the  gridiron  down  that 
immense  grinning  gulf  of  a  mouth.  Poor  wife  !  how  she  pines  and 
frets,  at  that  untimely  hour  of  midnight  to  be  obliged  to  fry,  fi-y, 
fry  perpetually,  and  minister  to  the  monster's  appetite.  And  yonder 
in  the  clock  :  what  agonised  face  is  that  we  see  1  By  heavens,  it  is 
the  squire  of  the  parish.  What  business  has  he  there  1  Let  us  not 
ask.     Suffice  it  to  say,  that  he  has,  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment, 

left  upstairs  his  br ;  his — psha  !  a  part  of  his  dress,  in  short, 

with  a  number  of  bank-notes  in  the  pockets.  Look  in  the  next 
page,  and  you  will  see  the  ferocious,  bacon-devouring  ruffian  of  a 
miUer  is  actually  causing  this  garment  to  be  carried  through  the 
village  and  cried  by  the  town-crier.  And  we  blush  to  be  obliged  to 
say  that  the  demoralised  miller  never  ofi"ered  to  return  the  bank- 
notes, although  he  was  so  mighty  scrupulous  in  endeavouring  to 
find  an  owner  for  the  corduroy  portfolio  in  which  he  had  found 
them. 


296  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Passing  from  this  painful  subject,  we  come,  we  regret  to 
state,  to  a  series  of  prints  representing  personages  not  a  whit 
more  moral.  Burns's  famous  "  Jolly  Beggars "  have  all  had 
their  portraits  drawn  by  Cruikshank.  There  is  the  lovely 
"hempen  widow,"  quite  as  interesting  and  romantic  as  the  famous 
Mrs.  Sheppard,  who  has  at  the  lamented  demise  of  her  husband 
adopted  the  very  same  consolation. 

"  My  curse  upon  them  every  one, 
They've  hanged  my  braw  John  Highlandman  ; 

And  now  a  widow  I  must  mourn, 
Departed  joys  that  ne'er  return  ; 
No  comfort  but  a  hearty  can 
When  I  think  on  John  Highlandman." 

Sweet  "raucle  carlin,"  she  has  none  of  the  sentimentality  of  the 
English  highwayman's  lady  ;  but  being  wooed  by  a  tinker  and 

"  A  pigmy  scraper  wi'  his  fiddle 
Wha  us'd  to  trystes  and  fairs  to  driddle,'' 

prefers  the  practical  to  the  merely  musical  man.  The  tinker  sings 
with  a  noble  candour,  worthy  of  a  fellow  of  his  strength  of  body 
and  station  in  life — 

' '  My  bonnie  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinker  is  my  station  ; 
I've  travell'd  round  all  Christian  ground 

In  this  my  occupation. 
I've  taen  the  gold,  I've  been  enroll'd 

In  many  a  noble  squadron  ; 
But  vain  they  search'd  when  off  I  march'd 

To  go  an'  clout  the  caudron." 

It  was  his  ruhng  passion.  What  was  military  glory  to  him,  forsooth  1 
He  had  the  greatest  contempt  for  it,  and  loved  freedom  and  his 
copper  kettle  a  thousand  times  better — a  kind  of  hardware  Diogenes. 
Of  fiddling  he  has  no  better  opinion.  The  picture  represents  the 
"sturdy  caird"  taking  "poor  gut-scraper"  by  the  beard, — drawing 
his  "roosty  rapier,"  and  swearing  to  "  speet  him  like  a  pliver" 
unless  he  would  relinquish  the  bonnie  lassie  for  ever — 

"  Wi'  ghastly  ee,  poor  tweedle-dee 
Upon  his  hunkers  bended. 
An'  pray'd  for  grace  wi'  ruefu'  face, 
An'  so  the  quarrel  ended." 

Hark  how  the  tinker  apostrophises  the  violinist,  stating  to  the 


GEORGE    GRUIKSHANK  297 

widow  at  the  same  time  the  advantages  wliich  she  might  expect 
from  an  alliance  with  himself: — 

"  Bespise  that  shrimp,  that  withered  imp, 
Wi'  a'  his  noise  and  caperin' ; 
And  take  a  share  with  those  that  bear 
The  budget  and  the  apron  ! 

And  by  that  stowp,  my  faith  an'  houpe, 

An'  by  that  dear  Kilbaigie  ! 
If  e'er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi'  scant. 

May  I  ne'er  weet  my  oraigie." 

Cruikshank's  caird  is  a  noble  creature;  his  face  and  figure  show 
him  to  be  fully  capable  of  doing  and  saying  all  that  is  above  written 
of  him. 

In  the  second  part,  the  old  tale  of  "  The  Three  Hunchbacked 
Fiddlers"  is  illustrated  with  equal  felicity.  The  famous  classical 
dinners  and  duel  in  "  Peregrine  Pickle "  are  also  excellent  in  their 
way ;  and  the  connoisseur  of  prints  and  etchings  may  see  in  the 
latter  plate,  and  in  another  in  this  volume,  how  great  the  artist's 
mechanical  skill  is  as  an  etcher.  The  distant  view  of  the  city  in 
the  duel,  and  of  a  market-place  in  "  The  Quack  Doctor,"  are  delight- 
ful specimens  of  the  artist's  skill  in  depicting  buildings  and  back- 
grounds. They  are  touched  with  a  grace,  truth,  and  dexterity 
of  workmanship  that  leave  nothing  to  desire.  We  have  before 
mentioned  the  man  with  the  mouth,  which  appears  in  this  number 
emblematical  of  gout  and  indigestion,  in  which  the  artist  has  shown 
all  the  fancy  of  Callot.  Little  demons,  with  long  saws  for  noses, 
are  making  dreadful  incisions  into  the  toes  of  the  unhappy  sufferer ; 
some  are  bringing  pans  of  hot  coals  to  keep  the  wounded  member 
warm ;  a  huge,  solemn  nightmare  sits  on  the  invalid's  chest,  staring 
solemnly  into  his  eyes ;  a  monster,  with  a  pair  of  drumsticks,  is  bang- 
ing a  devil's  tattoo  on  his  forehead ;  and  a  pair  of  imps  are  nailing 
great  tenpenny  nails  into  his  hands  to  make  his  happiness  complete. 

The  late  Mr.  Clark's  excellent  work,  "Three  Courses  and  a 
Dessert,"  was  published  at  a  time  when  the  rage  for  comic  stories 
was  not  so  great  as  it  since  has  been,  and  Messrs.  Clark  and 
Cruikshank  only  sold  their  hundreds  where  Messrs.  Dickens  and 
Phiz  dispose  of  their  thousands.  But  if  our  recommendation  can  in 
any  way  influence  the  reader,  we  would  enjoin  him  to  have  a  copy 
of  the  "Three  Courses,"  that  contains  some  of  the  best  designs 
of  our  artist,  and  some  of  the  most  amusing  tales  in  our  language. 
The  invention  of  the  pictures,  for  which  Mr.  Clark  takes  credit  to 
himself,  says  a  great  deal  for  his  wit  and  fancy.  Can  we,  for  instance, 
praise  too  highly  the  man  who  invented  that  wonderful  oysterl 


298  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Examine  him  well :  his  beard,  his  pearl,  his  little  round  stomach, 
and  his  sweet  smile.  Only  oysters  know  how  to  smile  in  this  way ; 
cool,  gentle,  waggish,  and  yet  inexpressibly  innocent  and  winning. 
Dando  himself  must  have  allowed  such  an  artless  native  to  go  free, 
and  consigned  him  to  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave  again. 

In  writing  upon  such  subjects  as  these  with  which  we  have 
been  furnished,  it  can  hardly  be  expected  that  we  should  follow  any 
fixed  plan  and  order — we  must  therefore  take  such  advantage  as 
we  may,  and  seize  upon  our  subject  when  and  wherever  we  can  lay 
hold  of  him. 

For  Jews,  sailors,  Irishmen,  Hessian  boots,  little  boys,  beadles, 
policemen,  tall  life-guardsmen,  charity  children,  pumps,  dustmen, 
very  short  pantaloons,  dandies  in  spectacles,  and  ladies  with  aquiline 
noses,  remarkably  taper  waists,  and  wonderfully  long  ringlets,  Mr. 
Cruikshank  has  a  special  predilection.  The  tribe  of  Israelites  he 
has  studied  with  amusing  gusto ;  witness  the  Jew  in  Mr.  Ains- 
worth's  "Jack  Sheppard,"  and  the  immortal  Fagin  of  "Oliver 
Twist."  Whereabouts  lies  the  comic  vis  in  these  persons  and 
things  ?  Why  should  a  beadle  be  comic,  and  his  opposite  a  charity 
boy?  Why  should  a  tall  life-guardsman  have  something  in  him 
essentially  absurd?  Why  are  short  breeches  more  ridiculous  than 
long  ?  What  is  there  particularly  jocose  about  a  pump,  and 
wherefore  does  a  long  nose  always  provoke  the  beholder  to  laughter  ? 
These  points  may  be  metaphysically  elucidated  by  those  who  list. 
It  is  probable  that  Mr.  Cruikshank  could  not  give  an  accurate 
definition  of  that  which  is  ridiculous  in  these  objects,  but  his 
instinct  has  told  him  that  fun  lurks  in  them,  and  cold  must  be 
the  heart  that  can  pass  by  the  pantaloons  of  his  charity  boys,  the 
Hessian  boots  of  his  dandies,  and  the  fan-tail  hats  of  his  dustmen, 
without  respectful  wonder. 

He  has  made  a  complete  little  gallery  of  dustmen.  There  is, 
in  the  first  place,  the  professional  dustman,  who  having,  in  the 
enthusiastic  exercise  of  his  delightful  trade,  laid  hands  upon  property 
not  strictly  his  own,  is  pursued,  we  presume,  by  the  right  owner, 
from  whom  he  flies  as  fast  as  his  crooked  shanks  will  carry  him. 

What  a  curious  picture  it  is — the  horrid  rickety  houses  in  some 
dingy  suburb  of  London,  the  grinning  cobbler,  the  smothered 
butcher,  the  very  trees  which  are  covered  with  dust — it  is  fine  to 
look  at  the  different  expressions  of  the  two  interesting  fugitives. 
The  fiery  charioteer  who  belabours  the  poor  donkey  has  still  a 
glance  for  his  brother  on  foot,  on  whom  punishment  is  about  to 
descend.  And  not  a  little  curious  is  it  to  think  of  the  creative 
power  of  the  man  who  has  arranged  this  little  tale  of  low  life. 
How  logically  it  is  conducted,  how  cleverly  each  one  of  the  acces- 


GEORGE    CRUIKSHANK  299 

sories  is  made  to  contribute  to  the  effect  of  the  whole.  What  a 
deal  of  thought  and  humour  has  the  artist  expended  on  this  little 
block  of  ■wood ;  a  large  picture  might  have  been  painted  out  of  the 
very  same  materials,  which  Mr.  Cruikshank,  out  of  his  wondrous 
fund  of  merriment  and  observation,  can  afford  to  throw  away  upon 
a  drawing  not  two  inches  long.  From  the  practical  dustmen  we 
pass  to  those  purely  poetical.  There  are  three  of  them  who  rise  on 
clouds  of  their  own  raising,  the  very  genii  of  the  sack  and  shovel. 

Is  there  no  one  to  write  a  sonnet  to  these  ? — and  yet  a  whole 
poem  was  written  about  Peter  Bell  the  Waggoner,  a  character  by 
no  means  so  poetic. 

And  lastly,  we  have  the  dustman  in  love :  the  honest  fellow 
having  seen  a  young  beauty  stepping  out  of  a  gin-shop  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  is  pressing  eagerly  his  suit. 

Gin  has  furnished  many  subjects  to  Mr.  Cruikshank,  who 
labours  in  his  own  sound  and  hearty  way  to  teach  his  countrymen 
the  dangers  of  that  drink.  In  the  "  Sketch-Book  "  is  a  plate  upon 
the  subject,  remarkable  for  fancy  and  beauty  of  design ;  it  is  called 
the  "Gin  Juggernaut,"  and  represents  a  hideous  moving  palace, 
with  a  reeking  still  at  the  roof  and  vast  gin-barrels  for  wheels, 
under  which  unhappy  millions  are  crushed  to  death.  An  immense 
black  cloud  of  desolation  covers  over  the  country  through  which  the 
gin  monster  has  passed,  dimly  looming  through  the  darkness  whereof 
you  see  an  agreeable  prospect  of  gibbets  with  men  dangling,  burnt 
houses,  &c.  The  vast  cloud  comes  sweeping  on  in  the  wake  of 
this  horrible  body-crusher;  and  you  see,  by  way  of  contrast,  a 
distant,  smiling,  sunshiny  track  of  old  English  country,  where  gin 
as  yet  is  not  known.  The  allegory  is  as  good,  as  earnest,  and  as 
ftmciful  as  one  of  John  Bunyan's,  and  we  have  often  fancied  there 
was  a  similarity  between  the  men. 

The  reader  will  examine  the  work  called  "  My  Sketch-Book " 
with  not  a  little  amusement,  and  may  gather  from  it,  as  we  fancy, 
a  good  deal  of  information  regarding  the  character  of  the  individual 
man,  George  Cruikshank :  what  points  strike  his  eye  as  a  painter ; 
what  move  his  anger  or  admiration  as  a  moralist ;  what  classes  he 
seems  most  especially  disposed  to  observe,  and  what  to  ridicule. 
There  are  quacks  of  all  kinds,  to  whom  he  has  a  mortal  hatred : 
quack  dandies,  who  assume  under  his  pencil,  perhaps  in  his  eye, 
the  most  grotesque  appearance  possible— their  hats  grow  larger, 
their  legs  infinitely  more  crooked  and  lean;  the  tassels  of  their 
canes  swell  out  to  a  most  preposterous  size  ;  the  tails  of  their  coats 
dwindle  away,  and  finish  where  coat-tails  generally  begin.  Let  us 
lay  a  wager  that  Cruikshank,  a  man  of  the  people  if  ever  there  was 
one,  heartily  hates  and  despises  these  supercilious,  swaggering  young 


SOO  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

gentlemen ;  and  his  contempt  is  not  a  whit  the  less  laudable  because 
there  may  be  tant  soit  pen  of  prejudice  in  it.  It  is  right  and 
wholesome  to  scorn  dandies,  as  Nelson  said  it  was  to  hate  Frenchmen ; 
in  which  sentiment  (as  we  have  before  said)  George  Cruikshank 
undoubtedly  shares.     In  the  "  Sunday  in  London,"  *  Monsieur  the 

*  The  following  lines — ever  fresh — by  the  author  of  "Headlong  Hall," 
published  years  ago  in  the  Oldbe  and  Traveller,  are  an  excellent  comment  on 
several  of  the  cuts  from  the  "  Sunday  in  London  "  : — 


"  The  poor  man's  sins  are  glaring  ; 
In  the  face  of  ghostly  warning 
He  is  caught  in  the  fact 
Of  an  overt  act 
Buying  greens  on  Sunday  morning. 

n. 
The  rich  man's  sins  are  hidden 
In  the  pomp  of  wealth  and  ."station, 

And  escape  the  sight 

Of  the  children  of  light, 
Who  are  wise  in  their  generation. 

III. 
The  rich  man  has  a  kitchen. 
And  cooks  to  dress  his  dinner ; 

The  poor  who  would  roast. 

To  the  baker's  must  post. 
And  thus  becomes  a  sinner. 

IV. 
The  rich  man's  painted  windows 
Hide  the  concerts  of  the  quality ; 
The  poor  can  but  share 
A  craok'd  fiddle  in  the  air. 
Which  offends  all  sound  morality. 

V. 
The  rich  man  has  a  cellar 
And  a  ready  butler  by  him  ; 

The  poor  must  steer 

For  his  pint  of  beer 
Where  the  saint  can't  choose  but  spy  him.' 

VI. 

The  rich  man  is  invisible 

In  the  crowd  of  his  gay  society  ; 

But  the  poor  man's  delight 

Is  a  sore  in  the  sight 
And  a  stench  in  the  nose  of  piety, " 


GEORGE    ORUIKSHA'NK  301 

Chef  is  instructing  a  kitchen-maid  how  to  compound  some  rascally 
French  kickshaw  or  the  other — a  pretty  scoundrel  truly !  with  what 
an  air  he  wears  that  nightcap  of  his,  and  shrugs  his  lank  shoulders, 
and  chatters,  and  ogles,  and  grins :  they  are  all  the  same,  these 
mounseers ;  there  are  other  two  fellows — morbleu !  one  is  putting 
his  dirty  fingers  into  the  saucepan ;  there  are  frogs  cooking  in  it, 
no  doubt ;  and  just  over  some  other  dish  of  abomination,  another 
dirty  rascal  is  taking  snuff !  Never  mind,  the  sauce  won't  be  hurt 
by  a  few  ingredients  more  or  less.  Three  such  fellows  as  these  are 
not  worth  one  Englishman,  that's  clear.  There  is  one  in  the  very 
midst  of  them,  the  great  burly  fellow  with  the  beef :  he  could  beat 
all  three  in  five  minutes.  We  cannot  be  certain  that  such  was 
the  process  going  on  in  Mr.  Cruikshank's  mind  when  he  made  the 
design ;  but  some  feelings  of  the  sort  were  no  doubt  entertained 
by  him. 

Against  Dandy  footmen  he  is  particularly  severe.  He  hates 
idlers,  pretenders,  boasters,  and  punishes  these  fellows  as  best  he 
may.  Who  does  not  recollect  the  famous  picture,  "What  is  Taxes, 
Thomas  "i "  What  is  taxes  indeed  ?  well  may  that  vast,  over-fed, 
lounging  flunkey  ask  the  question  of  his  associate  Thomas  :  and  yet 
not  well,  for  all  that  Thomas  says  in  reply  is,  "  /  don't  hnoiv."  "  0 
heati  plushicolce,"  what  a  charming  state  of  ignorance  is  yours  ! 
In  the  "  Sketch-Book,"  many  footmen  make  their  appearance :  one 
is  a  huge  fat  Hercules  of  a  Portman  Square  porter,  who  calmly 
surveys  another  poor  fellow,  a  porter  likewise,  but  out  of  livery, 
who  comes  staggering  forward  with  a  box  that  Hercules  might  lift 
with  his  little  finger.  Will  Hercules  do  so?  not  he.  The  giant 
can  carry  nothing  heavier  than  a  cocked-hat  note  on  a  silver  tray, 
and  his  labours  are  to  walk  from  his  sentry-box  to  the  door,  and 
from  the  door  back  to  his  sentry-box,  and  to  read  the  Sunday  paper, 
and  to  poke  the  hall  fire  twice  or  thrice,  and  to  make  five  meals  a 
day.  Such  a  fellow  does  Cruikshank  hate  and  scorn  worse  even 
than  a  Frenchman. 

The  man's  master,  too,  comes  in  for  no  small  share  of  our  artist's 
wrath.  There  is  a  company  of  them  at  church,  who  humbly  desig- 
nate themselves  "  miserable  sinners  !  "  Miserable  sinners  indeed  ! 
Oh,  what  floods  of  turtle-soup,  what  tons  of  turbot  and  lobster- 
sauce  must  have  been  sacrificed  to  make  those  sinners  properly 
miserable.  My  lady  with  the  ermine  tippet  and  draggling  feather, 
can  we  not  see  that  she  lives  in  Portland  Place,  and  is  the  wife 
of  an  East  India  Director  1  She  has  been  to  the  Opera  over-night 
(indeed,  her  husband,  on  her  right,  with  his  fat  hand  dangling  over 
the  pew  door,  is  at  this  minute  thinking  of  Mademoiselle  Ldocadie, 
whom  he  saw  behind  the  scenes) — she  has  been  at  the  Opera  over- 


302  CRITICAL    KEVIEWS 

night,  which  with  a  trifle  of  supper  afterwards — a  white-and-brown 
soup,  a  lobster  salad,  some  woodcocks,  and  a  little  champagne — sent 
her  to  bed  quite  comfortable.  At  half-past  eight  her  maid  brings 
her  chocolate  in  bed,  at  ten  she  has  fresh  eggs  and  muifins,  with, 
perhaps,  a  half-hundred  of  pi-awns  for  breakfast,  and  so  can  get 
over  the  day  and  the  sermon  till  lunch-time  pretty  well.  What  an 
odour  of  musk  and  bergamot  exhales  from  the  pew ! — how  it  is 
wadded,  and  stuffed,  and  spangled  over  with  brass  nails !  what 
hassocks  are  there  for  those  who  are  not  too  fat  to  kneel !  what  a 
flustering  and  flapping  of  gilt  prayer-books  ;  and  what  a  pious 
whirring  of  Bible  leaves  one  hears  all  over  the  church,  as  the  doctor 
blandly  gives  out  the  text !  To  be  miserable  at  this  rate  you  must, 
at  the  very  least,  have  four  thousand  a  year  :  and  many  persons 
are  there  so  enamoured  of  grief  and  sin,  that  they  would  willingly 
take  the  risk  of  the  misery  to  have  a  life-interest  in  the  consols  that 
accompany  it,  quite  careless  about  consequences,  and  sceptical  as  to 
the  notion  that  a  day  is  at  hand  when  you  must  fulfil  your  share 
of  the  bargain. 

Our  artist  loves  to  joke  at  a  soldier ;  in  whose  livery  there 
appears  to  him  to  be  something  almost  as  ridiculous  as  in  the 
uniform  of  the  gentleman  of  the  shoulder-knot.  Tall  life-guardsmen 
and  fierce  grenadiers  figure  in  many  of  his  designs,  and  almost 
always  in  a  ridiciUous  way.  Here  again  we  have  the  honest  popular 
English  feeling  which  jeers  at  pomp  or  pretension  of  all  kinds,  and 
is  especially  jealous  of  all  display  of  military  authority.  "  Raw 
Recruit,"  "ditto  dressed,"  ditto  "served  up,"  as  we  see  them  in  the 
"  Sketch-Book,"  are  so  many  satires  upon  the  army :  Hodge  with 
his  ribbons  flaunting  in  his  hat,  or  with  red  coat  and  musket,  drilled 
stiff  and  pompous,  or  at  last,  minus  leg  and  arm,  tottering  about  on 
crutches,  does  not  fill  our  English  artist  with  the  enthusiasm  that 
follows  the  soldier  in  every  other  part  of  Europe.  Jeanjean,  the 
conscript  in  France,  is  laughed  at  to  be  sure,  but  then  it  is  because 
he  is  a  bad  soldier  :  when  he  comes  to  have  a  huge  pair  of  mustachios 
and  the  croix-d'honneur  to  briller  on  his  poitrine  cicatrise'e,  Jean- 
jean becomes  a  member  of  a  class  that  is  more  respected  than  any 
other  in  the  French  nation.  The  veteran  soldier  inspires  our  people 
with  no  such  awe — we  hold  that  democratic  weapon  the  fist  in 
much  more  honour  than  the  sabre  and  bayonet,  and  laugh  at  a  man 
tricked  out  in  scarlet  and  pipe-clay. 

That  regiment  of  heroes  is  "  marching  to  divine  service,"'  to  the 
tune  of  the  "  British  Grenadiers."  There  they  march  in  state,  and 
a  pretty  contempt  our  artist  shows  for  all  their  gimcracks  and 
trumpery.  He  has  drawn  a  perfectly  English  scene — the  little 
blackguard  boys  are  playing  pranks  round  about  the  men,  and 


H 
h 

■0> 


GEOEGE    CRUIKSHANK  303 

shouting,  "  Heads  up,  soldier,"  "  Eyes  right,  lobster,"  as  little  British 
urchins  will  do.  Did  one  ever  hear  the  like  sentiments  expressed 
in  France  1  Shade  of  Napoleon,  we  insult  you  by  asking  the  ques- 
tion. In  England,  however,  see  how  different  the  case  is :  and 
designedly  or  undesignedly,  the  artist  has  opened  to  us  a  piece  of 
his  mind.  In  the  crowd  the  only  person  who  admires  the  soldiers 
is  the  poor  idiot,  whose  pocket  a  rogue  is  picking.  There  is  another 
picture,  in  which  the  sentiment  is  much  the  same,  only,  as  in  the 
former  drawing  we  see  Englishmen  laughing  at  the  troops  of  the 
line,  here  are  Irishmen  giggling  at  the  militia. 

We  have  said  that  our  artist  has  a  great  love  for  the  drolleries 
of  the  Green  Island.  Would  any  one  doubt  what  was  the  country 
of  the  merry  fellows  depicted  in  his  group  of  Paddies  1 

"  Place  me  amid  O'Rourkes,  O'Tooles, 
The  ragged  royal  race  of  Tara ; 
Or  place  me  where  Dick  Martin  rules 
The  pathless  wilds  of  Connemara." 

We  know  not  if  Mr.  Cruikshank  has  ever  had  any  such  good  luck 
as  to  see  the  Irish  in  Ireland  itself,  but  he  certainly  has  obtained  a 
knowledge  of  their  looks,  as  if  the  country  had  boon  all  his  life 
familiar  to  him.  Could  Mr.  O'Connell  himself  desire  anything  more 
national  than  the  scene  of  a  drunken  row,  or  could  Father  Mathew 
have  a  better  text  to  preach  upon  1  There  is  not  a  broken  nose  in 
the  room  that  is  not  thoroughly  Irish. 

We  have  then  a  couple  of  compositions  treated  in  a  graver 
manner,  as  characteristic  too  as  the  other.  We  call  attention  to 
the  comical  look  of  poor  Teague,  who  has  been  pursued  and  beaten 
by  the  witch's  stick,  in  order  to  point  out  also  the  singular  neatness 
of  the  workmanship,  and  the  pretty,  fanciful  little  glimpse  of  land- 
scape that  the  artist  has  introduced  in  the  background.  Mr.  Cruik- 
shank has  a  fine  eye  for  such  homely  landscapes,  and  renders  them 
with  great  delicacy  and  taste.  Old  villages,  farm-yards,  groups  of 
stacks,  queer  chimneys,  churches,  gable-ended  cottages,  Elizabethan 
mansion-houses,  and  other  old  English  scenes,  he  depicts  with  evident 
enthusiasm. 

Famous  books  in  their  day  were  Oruikshank's  "  John  Gilpin  " 
and  "  Epping  Hunt "  ;  for  though  our  artist,  does  not  draw  horses 
very  scientifically, — to  use  a  phrase  of  the  atelier,  he  feels  them 
very  keenly ;  and  his  queer  animals,  after  one  is  used  to  them, 
answer  quite  as  well  as  better.  Neither  is  he  very  happy  in  trees, 
and  such  rustical  produce ;  or  rather,  we  should  say,  he  is  very 
original,  his  trees  being  decidedly  of  his  own  make  and  composition, 
not  imitated  from  any  master. 


304  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

But  what  then  ?  Can  a  man  be  supposed  to  imitate  everything  1 
We  know  what  the  noblest  study  of  mankind  is,  and  to  this  Mr. 
Cruikshank  has  confined  himself.  That  postillion  with  the  people 
in  the  broken-down  chaise  roaring  after  him  is  as  deaf  as  the  post 
by  which  he  passes.  Suppose  all  the  accessories  were  away,  could 
not  one  swear  that  the  man  was  stone-deaf,  beyond  the  reach  of 
trumpet  1  What  is  the  peculiar  character  in  a  deaf  man's  physiog- 
nomy ? — can  any  person  define  it  satisfactorily  in  words  ? — not  in 
pages ;  and  Mr.  Cruikshank  has  expressed  it  on  a  piece  of  paper 
not  so  big  as  the  tenth  part  of  your  thumb-nail.  The  horses  of 
John  Gilpin  are  much  more  of  the  equestrian  order ;  and  as  here 
the  artist  has  only  his  favourite  suburban  buildings  to  draw,  not  a 
word  is  to  be  said  against  his  design.  The  inn  and  old  buUdings 
are  charmingly  designed,  and  nothing  can  be  more  prettily  or  play- 
fully touched. 

"  At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 
From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wond'ring  much 
To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

'  Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  !     Here's  the  house  ! ' 

They  all  at  once  did  cry ; 
*  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired — ' 

Said  Gilpin — '  So  am  I ! ' 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  post-boy  scamp'ring  in  the  rear. 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry  : — 

'  Stop  thief  !  stop  thief  ! — a  highwayman  ! ' 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space  ; 
The  toll-men  thinking,  as  before. 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. " 

The  rush,  and  shouting,  and  clatter  are  excellently  depicted  by 
the  artist;  and  we,  who  have  been  scoffing  at  his  manner  of  de- 
signing animals,  must  here  make  a  special  exception  in  favour  of 
the  hens  and  chickens ;  each  has  a  difierent  action,  and  is  curiously 
natural. 

Happy  are  children  of  all  ages  who  have  such  a  ballad  and  such 
pictures  as  this  in  store  for  them !     It  is  a  comfort  to  think  that 


/ 


GEOEGE    GKUIKSHANK  305 

wood-cuts  never  wear  out,  and  that  the  book  still  may  be  had  for  a 
shilling,  for  those  who  can  command  that  sum  of  money. 

In  the  "Epping  Hunt,"  which  we  owe  to  the  facetious  pen 
of  Mr.  Hood,  our  artist  has  not  been  so  successful.  There  is  here 
too  much  horsemanship  and  not  enough  incident  for  him ;  but  the 
portrait  of  Koundings  the  huntsman  is  an  excellent  sketch,  and  a 
couple  of  the  designs  contain  great  humour.  The  first  represents 
the  Cockney  hero,  who,  "  like  a  bird,  was  singing  out  while  sitting 
on  a  tree." 

And  in  the  second  the  natural  order  is  reversed.  The  stag 
having  taken  heart,  is  hunting  the  huntsman,  and  the  Oheapside 
Nimrod  is  most  ignominiously  running  away. 

The  Easter  Hunt,  we  are  told,  is  no  more  ;  and  as  the  Quarterly 
Eevieiv  recommends  the  British  public  to  purchase  Mr.  Oatlin's 
pictures,  as  they  form  the  only  record  of  an  interesting  race  now 
rapidly  passing  away,  in  like  manner  we  should  exhort  all  our  friends 
to  purchase  Mr.  Cruikshank's  designs  of  another  interesting  race, 
that  is  run  already  and  for  the  last  time. 

Besides  these,  we  must  mention,  in  the  line  of  our  duty,  the 
notable  tragedies  of  "  Tom  Thumb  "  and  "  Bombastes  Furioso,"  both 
of  which  have  appeared  with  many  illustrations  by  Mr.  Cruikshank. 
The  "  brave  army "  of  Bombastes  exhibits  a  terrific  display  of 
brutal  force,  which  must  shock  the  sensibilities  of  an  English  radical. 
And  we  can  well  understand  the  caution  of  the  general,  who  bids 
this  soldatesque  effrenie  to  begone,  and  not  to  kick  up  a  row. 

Such  a  troop  of  lawless  ruffians  let  loose  upon  a  populous  city 
would  play  sad  havoc  in  it ;  and  we  fancy  the  massacres  of  Birming- 
ham renewed,  or  at  least  of  Badajoz,  which,  though  not  quite  so 
dreadful,  if  we  may  believe  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  as  the 
former  scenes  of  slaughter,  were  nevertheless  severe  enough  :  but  we 
must  not  venture  upon  any  ill-timed  pleasantries  in  presence  of  the 
disturbed  King  Arthur  and  the  awful  ghost  of  Gafier  Thumb. 

We  are  thus  carried  at  once  into  the  supernatural,  and  here  we 
find  Cruikshank  reigning  supreme.  He  has  invented  in  his  time  a 
little  comic  pandemonium,  peopled  with  the  most  droll,  good-natured 
fiends  possible.  We  have  before  us  Chamisso's  "  Peter  Schlemihl," 
with  Cruikshank's  designs  translated  into  German,  and  gaining 
nothing  by  the  change.  The  "  Kinder  und  Hans-Maerchen  "  of 
Grimm  are  Ukewise  ornamented  with  a  frontispiece,  copied  from 
that  one  which  appeared  to  the  amusing  version  of  the  English 
work.  The  books  on  Phrenology  and  Time  have  been  imitated  by 
the  same  nation;  and  even  in  France,  whither  reputation  travels 
slower  than  to  any  country  except  China,  we  have  seen  copies  of 
the  works  of  George  Cruikshank. 


306  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

He  in  return  has  complimented  the  French  by  illustrating  a 
couple  of  Lives  of  Napoleon,  and  the  "  Life  in  Paris  "  before  men- 
tioned. He  has  also  made  designs  for  Victor  Hugo's  "Hans  of 
Iceland."  Strange  wild  etchings  were  those,  on  a  strange,  mad 
subject ;  not  so  good  in  our  notion  as  the  designs  for  the  German 
books,  the  peculiar  humour  of  which  latter  seemed  to  suit  the 
artist  exactly.  There  is  a  mixture  of  the  awful  and  the  ridiculous 
in  these,  which  perpetually  excites  and  keeps  awake  the  reader's 
attention ;  the  German  writer  and  the  English  artist  seem  to  have 
an  entire  faith  in  their  subject.  The  reader,  no  doubt,  remembers 
the  awful  passage  in  "  Peter  Schlemihl,"  where  the  little  gentleman 
purchases  the  shadow  of  that  hero — "  Have  the  kindness,  noble  sir, 
to  examine  and  try  this  bag."  "  He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket, 
and  drew  thence  a  tolerably  large  bag  of  Cordovan  leather,  to  which 
a  couple  of  thongs  were  fixed.  I  took  it  from  him,  and  immediately 
counted  out  ten  gold  pieces,  and  ten  more,  and  ten  more,  and  still 
other  ten,  whereupon  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him.  Done,  said  I, 
it  is  a  bargain ;  you  shall  have  my  shadow  for  your  bag.  The 
bargain  was  concluded ;  he  knelt  down  before  me,  and  I  saw  him 
with  a  wonderful  neatness  take  my  shadow  from  head  to  foot, 
lightly  lift  it  up  from  the  grass,  roll  and  fold  it  up  neatly,  and  at 
last  pocket  it.  He  then  rose  up,  bowed  to  me  once  more,  and 
walked  away  again,  disappearing  behind  the  rose-bushes.  I  don't 
know,  but  I  thought  I  heard  him  laughing  a  little.  I,  however, 
kept  fast  hold  of  the  bag.  Everything  around  me  was  bright  in 
the  sun,  and  as  yet  I  gave  no  thought  to  what  I  had  done." 

This  marvellous  event,  narrated  by  Peter  with  such  a  faith- 
ful circumstantial  detail,  is  painled  by  Cruikshank  in  the  most 
wonderful  poetic  way,  with  that  happy  mixture  of  the  real  and 
supernatural  that  makes  the  narrative  so  curious,  and  like  truth. 
The  sun  is  shining  with  the  utmost  brilliancy  in  a  great  quiet  park 
or  garden ;  there  is  a  palace  in  the  background,  and  a  statue  bask- 
ing in  the  sun  quite  lonely  and  melancholy ;  there  is  a  sun-dial,  on 
which  is  a  deep  shadow,  and  in  the  front  stands  Peter  Schlemihl, 
bag  in  hand :  the  old  gentleman  is  down  on  his  knees  to  him, 
and  has  just  lifted  off  the  ground  the  shadoiv  of  cme  leg ;  he  is 
going  to  fold  it  back  neatly,  as  one  does  the  tails  of  a  coat,  and 
will  stow  it,  without  any  creases  or  crumples,  along  with  the  other 
black  garments  that  lie  in  that  immense  pocket  of  his.  Cruikshank 
has  designed  all  this  as  if  he  had  a  very  serious  belief  in  the  story ; 
he  laughs,  to  be  sure,  but  one  fancies  that  he  is  a  little  frightened 
in  his  heart,  in  spite  of  all  his  fun  and  joking. 

The  German  tales  we  have  mentioned  before.  "The  Prince 
riding   on   the  Fox,"   "Hans   in   Luck,"   "The   Fiddler   and   his 


GEORGE    ORUIKSHANK  307 

Goose,"  "  Heads  off,"  are  all  drawings  which,  albeit  not  before  us 
now,  nor  seen  for  ten  years,  remain  indelibly  fixed  on  the  memory. 
"  Heisst  du  etwa  Rumpelstilzchen  1 "  There  sits  the  Queen  on 
her  throne,  surrounded  by  grinning  beef-eaters,  and  little  Eumpel- 
stiltskin  stamps  his  foot  through  the  floor  in  the  excess  of  his 
tremendous  despair.  In  one  of  these  German  tales,  if  we 
remember  rightly,  there  is  an  account  of  a  little  orphan  who 
is  carried  away  by  a  pitying  fauy  for  a  term  of  seven  years,  and 
passing  that  period  of  sweet  apprenticeship  among  the  imps  and 
sprites  of  fairy-land.  Has  our  artist  been  among  the  same  com- 
pany, and  brought  back  their  portraits  in  his  sketch-book  ?  He  is 
the  only  designer  fairy-land  has  had.  Callot's  imps,  for  all  their 
strangeness,  are  only  of  the  earth  earthy.  Fuseli's  fairies  belong 
to  the  infernal  regions ;  they  are  monstrous,  lurid,  and  hideously 
melancholy.  Mr.  Cruikshank  alone  has  had  a  true  insight  into 
the  character  of  the  "  little  people."  They  are  something  like 
men  and  women,  and  yet  not  flesh  and  blood ;  they  are  laughing 
and  mischievous,  but  why  we  know  not.  Mr.  Cruikshank,  how- 
ever, has  had  some  dream  or  the  other,  or  else  a  natural  mysterious 
instiuct  (as  the  Seherin  of  Prevorst  had  for  beholding  ghosts),  or 
else  some  preternatural  fairy  revelation,  which  has  made  him 
acquainted  with  the  looks  and  ways  of  the  fantastical  subjects  of 
Oberon  and  Titania. 

We  have,  unfortunately,  no  fairy  portraits ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  can  descend  lower  than  fairy-land,  and  have  seen  some  fine 
specimens  of  devils.  One  has  already  been  raised,  and  the  reader 
has  seen  him  tempting  a  fat  Dutch  burgomaster,  in  an  ancient 
gloomy  market-place,  such  as  George  Cruikshank  can  draw  as 
well  as  Mr.  Prout,  Mr.  Nash,  or  any  man  living.  There  is  our 
friend  once  more ;  our  friend  the  burgomaster,  in  a  highly  excited 
state,  and  running  as  hard  as  his  great  legs  will  carry  him,  with 
our  mutual  enemy  at  his  tail. 

What  are  the  bets ;  will  that  long-legged  bond-holder  of  a 
devil  come  up  with  the  honest  Dutchman  ?  It  serves  him  right : 
why  did  he  put  his  name  to  stamped  paper  ?  And  yet  we  should 
not  wonder  if  some  lucky  chance  should  turn  up  in  the  burgo- 
master's favour,  and  his  infernal  creditor  lose  his  labour ;  for  one 
so  proverbially  cunning  as  yonder  tall  individual  with  the  saucer 
eyes,  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  has  been  very  often  outwitted. 

There  is,  for  instance,  the  case  of  "  The  Gentleman  in  Black," 
which  has  been  illustrated  by  our  artist.  A  young  French  gentle- 
man, by  name  M.  Desonge,  who  having  expended  his  patrimony 
in  a  variety  of  taverns  and  gaming-houses,  was  one  day  pondering 
upon  the  exhausted  state  of  his  finances,  and  utterly  at  a  loss 


308  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

to  think  how  he  should  provide  means  for  future  support, 
exclaimed,  very  naturally,  "  What  the  devil  shall  I  do  ? "  He 
had  no  sooner  spoken  than  a  Gentleman  in  Black  made  his 
appearance,  whose  authentic  portrait  Mr.  Cruikshank  has  had 
the  honour  to  paint.  This  gentleman  produced  a  black-edged 
book  out  of  a  black  bag,  some  black-edged  papers  tied  up  with 
black  crape,  and  sitting  down  familiarly  opposite  M.  Desonge, 
began  conversing  with  him  on  the  state  of  his  affairs. 

It  is  needless  to  state  what  was  the  result  of  the  interview. 
M.  Desonge  was  induced  by  tlie  gentleman  to  sign  his  name  to 
one  of  the  black-edged  papers,  and  foimd  himself  at  the  close 
of  the  conversation  to  be  possessed  of  an  unlimited  command  of 
capital.  This  arrangement  completed,  the  Gentleman  in  Black 
posted  (in  an  extraordinarily  rapid  manner)  from  Paris  to  London, 
there  found  a  young  English  merchant  in  exactly  the  same  situation 
in  which  M.  Desonge  had  been,  and  concluded  a  bargain  with  the 
Briton  of  exactly  the  same  nature. 

The  book  goes  on  to  relate  how  these  young  men  spent  the 
money  so  miraculously  handed  over  to  them,  and  how  both,  when 
the  period  drew  near  that  was  to  witness  the  performance  of  their 
part  of  the  bargain,  gi-ew  melancholy,  wretched,  nay,  so  absolutely 
dishonourable  as  to  seek  for  every  means  of  breaking  through  their 
agreement.  The  Englishman  living  in  a  country  where  the  lawyers 
are  more  astute  than  any  other  lawyers  in  the  world,  took  the 
advice  of  a  Mr.  Bagsby,  of  Lyon's  Inn ;  whose  name,  as  we  cannot 
find  it  in  the  "  Law  List,"  we  presume  to  be  fictitious.     Who  could 

it  be  that  was  a  match  for  the  devil  '\     Lord very  likely  ;  we 

shall  not  give  his  name,  but  let  every  reader  of  this  Review  fill  up 
the  blank  according  to  his  own  fancy,  and  on  comparing  it  with  the 
copy  purchased  by  his  neighbours,  he  will  find  that  fifteen  out  of 
twenty  have  written  down  the  same  honoured  name. 

Well,  the  Gentleman  in  Black  was  anxious  for  the  fulfilment 
of  his  bond.  The  parties  met  at  Mr.  Bagsby's  chambers  to  con- 
sult, the  Black  Gentleman  foolishly  thinking  that  he  could  act  as 
his  own  counsel,  and  fearing  no  attorney  alive.  But  mark  the 
superiority  of  British  law,  and  see  how  the  black  pettifogger  was 
defeated. 

Mr.  Bagsby  simply  stated  that  he  would  take  the  case  into 
Chancery,  and  his  antagonist,  utterly  humiliated  and  defeated, 
refused  to  move  a  step  farther  in  the  matter. 

And  now  the  French  gentleman,  M.  Desonge,  hearing  of  his 
friend's  escape,  became  anxious  to  be  free  from  his  own  rash  engage- 
ments. He  employed  the  same  counsel  who  had  been  successful  in 
the  former  instance,  but  the  Gentleman  in  Black  was  a  great  deal 


GEORGE    CRUIKSHANK  309 

wiser  by  this  time,  and  whether  M.  Desonge  escaped,  or  whether  he 
is  now  in  that  extensive  place  which  is  paved  with  good  intentions, 
we  shall  not  say.  Those  who  are  anxious  to  know  had  better 
purchase  the  book  wherein  all  these  interesting  matters  are  duly 
set  down.  There  is  one  more  diabolical  picture  in  our  budget, 
engraved  by  Mr.  Thompson,  the  same  dexterous  artist  who  has 
rendered  the  former  diableries  so  well. 

We  may  mention  Mr.  Thompson's  name  as  among  the  first  of 
the  engravers  to  whom  Cruikshank's  designs  have  been  entrusted ; 
and  next  to  him  (if  we  may  be  allowed  to  make  such  arbitrary 
distinctions)  we  may  place  Mr.  Williams;  and  the  reader  is  not 
possibly  aware  of  the  immense  difficulties  to  be  overcome  in  the 
rendering  of  these  little  sketches,  which,  traced  by  the  designer  in 
a  few  hours,  require  weeks'  labour  from  the  engraver.  Mr.  Cruik- 
shank  has  not  been  educated  in  the  regular  schools  of  drawing  (very 
luckily  for  him,  as  we  think),  and  consequently  has  had  to  make 
a  manner  for  himself,  which  is  quite  unlike  that  of  any  other 
draftsman.  There  is  nothing  in  the  least  mechanical  about  it ;  to 
produce  his  particular  effects  he  uses  his  own  particular  lines,  which 
are  queer,  free,  fantastical,  and  must  be  followed  in  all  their 
infinite  twists  and  vagaries  by  the  careful  tool  of  the  engraver. 
Those  three  lovely  heads,  for  instance,  imagined  out  of  the  rinds 
of  lemons,  are  worth  examining,  not  so  much  for  the  jovial  humour 
and  wonderful  variety  of  feature  exhibited  in  these  darling  counte- 
nances as  for  the  engraver's  part  of  the  work.  See  the  infinite 
delicate  cross-lines  and  hatchings  which  he  is  obliged  to  render; 
let  him  go,  not  a  hair's  breadth,  but  the  hundredth  part  of  a  hair's 
breadth,  beyond  the  given  line,  and  the  feeling  of  it  is  ruined.  He 
receives  these  little  dots  and  specks,  and  fantastical  quirks  of  the 
pencil,  and  cuts  away  with  a  little  knife  round  each,  not  too  much 
nor  too  little.  Antonio's  pound  of  flesh  did  not  puzzle  the  Jew  so 
much ;  and  so  well  does  the  engraver  succeed  at  last,  that  we 
never  remember  to  have  met  with  a  single  artist  who  did  not  vow 
that  the  wood-cutter  had  utterly  ruined  his  design. 

Of  Messrs.  Thompson  and  Williams  we  have  spoken  as  the  first 
engravers  in  point  of  rank ;  however,  the  regulations  of  professional 
precedence  are  certainly  very  difficult,  and  the  rest  of  their  brethren 
we  shall  not  endeavour  to  class.  Why  should  the  artists  who 
executed  the  cuts  of  the  admirable  "  Three  Courses  "  yield  the  pas 
to  any  one  ? 

There,  for  instance,  is  an  engraving  by  Mr.  Landells,  nearly  as 
good  in  our  opinion  as  the  very  best  wood-cut  that  ever  was  made 
after  Cruikshank,  and  curiously  happy  in  rendering  the  artist's 
pecidiar  manner  :  this  cut  does  not  come  from  the  facetious  publica- 


SIO  CEITICAL    REVIEWS 

tions  which  we  have  consulted ;  but  is  a  contribution  by  Mr. 
Oruikshank  to  an  elaborate  and  splendid  botanical  work  upon  the 
Orchidaceee  of  Mexico,  by  Mr.  Bateman.  Mr.  Bateman  despatched 
some  extremely  choice  roots  of  this  valuable  plant  to  a  friend  in 
England,  who,  on  the  arrival  of  the  case,  consigned  it  to  his 
gardener  to  unpack.  A  great  deal  of  anxiety  with  regard  to  the 
contents  was  manifested  by  all  concerned,  but  on  the  lid  of  the  box 
being  removed,  there  issued  from  it  three  or  four  fine  specimens  of 
the  enormous  Blatta  beetle  that  had  been  preying  upon  the  plants 
during  the  voyage;  against  these  the  gardeners,  the  grooms,  the 
porters,  and  the  porters'  children  issued  forth  in  arms,  and  this 
scene  the  artist  has  immortalised. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  admirable  way  in  which  Mr.  Cruikshank 
has  depicted  Irish  character  and  Cockney  character  :  English  country 
character  is  quite  as  faithfully  delineated  in  the  person  of  the  stout 
porteress  and  her  children,  and  of  the  "  Chawbacon "  with  the 
shovel,  on  whose  face  is  written  "Zummerzetsheer."  Chawbacon 
appears  in  another  plate,  or  else  Chawbacon's  brother.  He  has 
come  up  to  Lunnan,  and  is  looking  about  him  at  raaces. 

How  distinct  are  these  rustics  from  those  whom  we  have  just 
been  examining !  They  hang  about  the  purlieus  of  the  metropolis  : 
Brook  Green,  Epsom,  Greenwich,  Ascot,  Goodwood,  are  their 
haunts.  They  visit  London  professionally  once  a  year,  and  that  is 
at  the  time  of  Bartholomew  fair.  How  one  may  speculate  upon 
the  different  degrees  of  rascality,  as  exhibited  in  each  face  of  the 
thimblerigging  trio,  and  form  little  histories  for  these  worthies, 
charming  Newgate  romances,  such  as  have  been  of  late  the  fashion  ! 
Is  any  man  so  blind  that  he  cannot  see  the  exact  face  tlmt  is  writh- 
ing under  the  thimblerigged  hero's  hat?  Like  Timanthes  of  old, 
our  artist  expresses  great  passions  without  the  aid  of  the  human 
countenance.  There  is  another  specimen — a  street  row  of  inebriated 
bottles.  Is  there  any  need  of  having  a  face  after  this  1  "  Come 
on ! "  says  Claret-bottle,  a  dashing,  genteel  fellow,  with  his  hat  on 
one  ear — "  Come  on  !  has  any  man  a  mind  to  tap  me  ? "  Claret- 
bottle  is  a  little  screwed  (as  one  may  see  by  his  legs),  but  full  of 
gaiety  and  courage;  not  so  that  stout,  apoplectic  Bottle-of-rum, 
who  has  staggered  against  the  wall,  and  has  his  hand  upon  his 
liver :  the  fellow  hurts  himself  with  smoking,  that  is  clear,  and  is 
as  sick  as  sick  can  be.  See,  Port  is  making  away  from  the  storm, 
and  Double  X  is  as  flat  as  ditch-water.  Against  these,  awful  in 
their  white  robes,  the  sober  watchmen  come. 

Our  artist  then  can  cover  up  faces,  and  yet  show  them  quite 
clearly,  as  in  the  thimblerig  group;  or  he  can  do  without  faces 
altogether;  or  he  can,  at  a  pinch,  provide  a  countenance  for  a 


GEORGE   CRUIKSHANK  311 

gentleman  out  of  any  given  object — a  beautiful  Irish  physiognomy 
being  moulded  upon  a  keg  of  whisky ;  and  a  jolly  English  coun- 
tenance frothing  out  of  a  pot  of  ale  (the  spirit  of  brave  Toby 
Philpot  come  back  to  reanimate  his  clay) ;  while  in  a  fungus  may 
be  recognised  the  physiognomy  of  a  mushroom  peer.  Finally,  if 
he  is  at  a  loss,  he  can  make  a  living  head,  body,  and  legs  out  of 
steel  or  tortoise-shell,  as  in  the  case  of  the  vivacious  pair  of  spectacles 
that  are  jockeying  the  nose  of  Caddy  Cuddle. 

Of  late  years  Mr.  Cruikshank  has  busied  himself  very  much 
with  steel-engraving,  and  the  consequences  of  that  lucky  invention 
have  been,  that  his  plates  are  now  sold  by  thousands,  where  they 
could  only  be  produced  by  hundreds  before.  He  has  made  many 
a  bookseller's  and  author's  fortune  (we  trust  that  in  so  doing  ho 
may  not  have  neglected  his  own).  Twelve  admirable  plates, 
furnished  yearly  to  that  facetious  little  publication,  the  Comic 
Almanac,  have  gained  for  it  a  sale,  as  we  hear,  of  nearly  twenty 
thousand  copies.  The  idea  of  the  work  was  novel ;  there  was,  in 
the  first  number  especially,  a  great  deal  of  comic  power,  and  Cruik- 
shank's  designs  were  so  admirable  that  the  Almanac  at  once  became 
a  vast  favourite  with  the  public,  and  has  so  remained  ever  since. 

Besides  the  twelve  plates,  this  almanac  contains  a  prophetic 
wood-cut,  accompanying  an  awful  Blameyhum  Astrologicum  that 
appears  in  this  and  other  almanacs.  There  is  one  that  hints  in 
pretty  clear  terms  that  with  the  Reform  of  Municipal  Corporations 
the  ruin  of  the  great  Lord  Mayor  of  London  is  at  hand.  His 
lordship  is  meekly  going  to  dine  at  an  eightpenny  ordinary, — his 
giants  in  pawn,  his  men  in  armour  dwindled  to  "  one  poor  knight," 
his  carriage  to  be  sold,  his  stalwart  aldermen  vanished,  his  sheriffs, 
alas !  and  alas  !  in  gaol !  Another  design  shows  that  Rigdum,  if 
a  true,  is  also  a  moral  and  instructive  prophet.  John  Bull  is 
asleep,  or  rather  in  a  vision;  the  cunning  demon.  Speculation, 
blowing  a  thousand  bright  bubbles  about  him.  Meanwhile  the 
rooks  are  busy  at  his  fob,  a  knave  has  cut  a  cruel  hole  in  his 
pocket,  a  rattlesnake  has  coiled  safe  round  his  feet,  and  will  in  a 
trice  swallow  Bull,  chair,  money,  and  all ;  the  rats  are  at  his  corn- 
bags  (as  if,  poor  devil,  he  had  corn  to  spare) ;  his  faithful  dog  is 
bolting  his  leg-of-mutton — nay,  a  thief  has  gotten  hold  of  his  very 
candle,  and  there,  by  way  of  moral,  is  his  ale-pot,  which  looks  and 
winks  in  his  face,  and  seems  to  say,  0  BuU,  all  this  is  froth,  and  a 
cruel  satirical  picture  of  a  certain  rustic  who  had  a  goose  that  laid 
certain  golden  eggs,  which  goose  the  rustic  slew  in  expectation  of 
finding  all  the  eggs  at  once.  This  is  goose  and  sage  too,  to  borrow 
the  pun  of  "  learned  Doctor  Gill ; "  but  we  shrewdly  suspect  that 
Mr.  Cruikshank  is  becoming  a  little  conservative  in  his  notions. 


312  CRITICAL   REVIEWS 

We  love  these  pictures  so  that  it  is  hard  to  part  us,  and  we  still 
fondly  endeavour  to  hold  on,  but  this  wild  word,  farewell,  must  be 
spoken  by  the  best  friends  at  last,  and  so  good-bye,  brave  wood-cuts  : 
we  feel  quite  a  sadness  in  coming  to  the  last  of  our  coUeGtion. 

In  the  earlier  numbers  of  the  Comic  Almanac  all  the  manners 
and  customs  of  Londoners  that  would  afford  food  for  fun  were  noted 
down ;  and  if  during  the  last  two  years  the  mysterious  personage 
who,  under  the  title  of  "  Rigdum  Funnidos,"  compiles  this  ephemeris, 
has  been  compelled  to  resort  to  romantic  tales,  we  must  suppose 
that  he  did  so  because  the  great  metropolis  was  exhausted,  and  it 
was  necessary  to  discover  new  worlds  in  the  cloud  land  of  fancy.  The 
character  of  Mr.  Stubbs,  who  made  his  appearance  in  the  Almanac 
for  1839,  had,  we  think,  great  merit,  although  his  adventures  were 
somewhat  of  too  tragical  a  description  to  provoke  pure  laughter. 

We  should  be  glad  to  devote  a  few  pages  to  the  "  Illustrations 
of  Time,"  the  "  Scraps  and  Sketches,"  and  the  "  Illustrations  of 
Phrenology,"  which  are  among  the  most  famous  of  our  artist's 
publications ;  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  find  new  terms  of  praise, 
as  find  them  one  must,  when  reviewing  Mr.  Cruikshank's  publica- 
tions, and  more  difficult  still  (as  the  reader  of  this  notice  will  no 
doubt  have  perceived  for  himself  long  since)  to  translate  his  design 
into  words,  and  go  to  the  printer's  box  for  a  description  of  all  that 
fun  and  humour  which  the  artist  can  produce  by  a  few  skilful  turns 
of  his  needle.  A  famous  article  upon  the  "  Illustrations  of  Time  " 
appeared  some  dozen  years  since  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  of  which 
the  conductors  have  always  been  great  admirers  of  our  artist,  as 
became  men  of  honour  and  genius.  To  these  grand  qualities  do  not 
let  it  be  supposed  that  we  are  laying  claim,  but,  thank  heaven, 
Cruikshank's  humour  is  so  good  and  benevolent  that  any  man  must 
love  it,  and  on  this  score  we  may  speak  as  well  as  another. 

Then  there  are  the  "  Greenwich  Hospital "  designs,  which  must 
not  be  passed  over.  "  Greenwich  Hospital "  is  a  hearty,  good- 
natured  book,  in  the  Tom  Dibdin  school,  treating  of  the  virtues  of 
British  tars,  in  approved  nautical  language.  They  maul  Frenchmen 
and  Spaniards,  they  go  out  in  brigs  and  take  frigates,  they  relieve 
women  in  distress,  and  are  yard-arm  and  yard-arming,  athwart- 
hawsing,  marlinspiking,  binnacling,  and  helm's-a-leeing,  as  honest 
seamen  invariably  do,  in  novels,  on  the  stage,  and  doubtless  on 
board  ship.  This  we  cannot  take  upon  us  to  say,  but  the  artist, 
like  a  true  Englishman  as  he  is,  loves  dearly  these  brave  guardians 
of  Old  England,  and  chronicles  their  rare  or  fanciful  exploits  with 
the  greatest  goodwill.  Let  any  one  look  at  the  noble  head  of 
Nelson  in  the  "  Family  Library,"  and  they  will,  we  are  sure,  think 
with  us  that  the  designer  must  have  felt  and  loved  what  he  drew. 


o 

3! 


GEOEGE    CRUIKSHANK  313 

There  are  to  this  abridgment  of  Southey's  admirable  book  many 
more  cuts  after  Cruikshank ;  and  about  a  dozen  pieces  by  the  same 
hand  will  be  found  in  a  work  equally  popular,  Lockhart's  excellent 
"Life  of  Napoleon."  Among  these  the  retreat  from  Moscow  is 
very  fine;  the  Mamlouks  most  vigorous,  furious,  and  barbarous, 
as  they  should  be.  At  the  end  of  these  three  volumes  Mr.  Cruik- 
shank's  contributions  to  the  "  Family  Library "  seem  suddenly  to 
have  ceased. 

We  are  not  at  all  disposed  to  undervalue  the  works  and  genius 
of  Mr.  Dickens,  and  we  are  sure  that  he  would  admit  as  readily  as 
any  man  the  wonderful  assistance  that  he  has  derived  from  the 
artist  who  has  given  us  the  portraits  of  his  ideal  personages,  and 
made  them  familiar  to  all  the  world.  Once  seen,  these  figures 
remain  impressed  on  the  memory,  which  otherwise  would  have  had 
no  hold  upon  them,  and  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  Boz  become 
personal  acquaintances  with  each  of  us.  Oh,  that  Hogarth  could 
have  illustrated  Fielding  in  the  same  way  !  and  fixed  down  on  paper 
those  grand  figures  of  Parson  Adams,  and  Squire  AUworthy,  and 
the  great  Jonathan  Wild. 

With  regard  to  the  modern  romance  of  "Jack  Sheppard,"  in 
which  the  latter  personage  makes  a  second  appearance,  it  seems 
to  us  that  Mr.  Cruikshank  really  created  the  tale,  and  that  Mr. 
Ainsworth,  as  it  were,  only  put  words  to  it.  Let  any  reader  of 
the  novel  think  over  it  for  awhile,  now  that  it  is  some  months  since 
he  has  perused  and  laid  it  down — let  him  think,  and  tell  us  what 
he  remembers  of  the  tale  ?  George  Cruikshank's  pictures — always 
George  Cruikshank's  pictures.  The  storm  in  the  Thames,  for  in- 
stance :  all  the  author's  laboured  description  of  that  event  has  passed 
clean  away — we  have  only  before  the  mind's  eye  the  fine  plates  of 
Cruikshank  :  the  poor  wretch  cowering  under  the  bridge  arch,  as 
the  waves  come  rushing  in,  and  the  boats  are  whirling  away  in  the 
drift  of  the  great  swollen  black  waters.  And  let  any  man  look 
at  that  second  plate  of. the  murder  on  the  Thames,  and  he  must 
acknowledge  how  much  more  brilliant  the  artist's  description  is  than 
the  writer's,  and  what  a  real  genius  for  the  terrible  as  well  as  for 
the  ridiculous  the  former  has ;  how  awful  is  the  gloom  of  the  old 
bridge,  a  few  lights  glimmering  from  the  houses  here  and  there,  but 
not  so  as  to  be  reflected  on  the  water  at  all,  which  is  too  turbid  and 
raging :  a  great  heavy  rack  of  clouds  goes  sweeping  over  the  bridge, 
and  men  with  flaring  torches,  the  murderers,  are  borne  away  with 
the  stream. 

The  author  requires  many  pages  to  describe  the  fury  of  the 
storm,  which  Mr.  Cruikshank  has  represented  in  one.  First,  he 
has  to  prepare  you  with  the  something  inexpressibly  melancholy  in 


314  CRITICAL    KEVIEWS 

sailing  on  a  dark  night  upon  the  Thames:  "the  ripple  of  the 
■water,"  "  the  darkling  current,"  "  the  indistinctively  seen  craft," 
"  the  solemn  shadows,"  and  other  phenomena  visible  on  rivers  at 
night  are  detailed  (with  not  unskilful  rhetoric)  in  order  to  bring 
the  reader  into  a  proper  frame  of  mind  for  the  deeper  gloom  and 
horror  which  is  to  ensue.  Then  follow  pages  of  description.  "  As 
Roland  sprang  to  the  helm,  and  gave  the  signal  for  pursuit,  a  war 
like  a  volley  of  ordnance  was  heard  aloft,  and  the  wind  again  burst 
its  bondage.  A  moment  before  the  surface  of  the  stream  was  as 
black  as  ink.  It  was  now  whitening,  hissing,  and  seething,  like  an 
enormous  cauldron.  The  blast  once  more  swept  over  the  agitated 
river,  whirled  off  the  sheets  of  foam,  scattered  them  far  and  wide  in 
rain-drops,  and  left  the  raging  torrent  blacker  than  before.  Destruc- 
tion everywhere  marked  the  course  of  the  gale.  Steeples  toppled 
and  towers  reeled  beneath  its  fury.  All  was  darkness,  horror,  con- 
fusion, ruin.  Men  fled  from  their  tottering  habitations  and  returned 
to  them,  scared  by  greater  danger.  The  end  of  the  world  seemed 
at  hand.  .  .  .  The  hurricane  had  now  reached  its  climax.  The 
blast  shrieked,  as  if  exulting  in  its  wrathful  mission.  Stunning 
and  continuous,  the  din  seemed  almost  to  take  away  the  power  of 
hearing.  He  who  had  faced  the  gale  would  have  been  instantly 
stifled"  &c.  &c.  See  with  what  a  tremendous  war  of  words  (and 
good  loud  words  too ;  Mr.  Ainsworth's  description  is  a  good  and 
spirited  one)  the  author  is  obliged  to  pour  in  upon  the  reader  before 
he  can  eflFeet  his  purpose  upon  the  latter,  and  inspire  him  with  a 
proper  terror.  The  painter  does  it  at  a  glance,  and  old  Wood's 
dilemma  in  the  midst  of  that  tremendous  storm,  with  the  little 
infant  at  his  bosom,  is  remembered  afterwards,  not  from  the  words, 
but  from  the  visible  image  of  them  that  the  artist  has  left  us. 

It  would  not,  perhaps,  be  out  of  place  to  glance  through  the 
whole  of  the  "  Jack  Sheppard  "  plates,  which  are  among  the  most 
finished  and  the  most  successful  of  Mr.  Cruikshank's  performances, 
and  say  a  word  or  two  concerning  them.  Let  us  begin  with 
finding  fault  with  No.  1,  "Mr.  Wood  offers  to  adopt  little  Jack 
Sheppard."  A  poor  print,  on  a  poor  subject ;  the  figure  of  the 
woman  not  as  carefully  designed  as  it  might  be,  and  the  expression 
of  the  eyes  (not  an  uncommon  fault  with  our  artist)  much  carica- 
tured. The  print  is  cut  up,  to  use  the  artist's  phrase,  by  the 
number  of  accessories  which  the  engraver  has  thought  proper,  after 
the  author's  elaborate  description,  elaborately  to  reproduce.  The 
plate  of  "  Wild  discovering  Darrell  in  the  loft "  is  admirable — 
ghastly,  terrible,  and  the  treatment  of  it  extraordinarily  skilful, 
minute,  and  bold.  The  intricacies  of  the  tile-work,  and  the  mys- 
terious twinkling  of  light  among  the  beams,  are  excellently  felt 


aEORGE    ORUIKSHANK  315 

and  rendered ;  and  one  sees  here,  as  in  the  two  next  plates  of  the 
storm  and  murder,  what  a  fine  eye  the  artist  has,  what  a  skilful 
hand,  and  what  a  sympathy  for  the  wild  and  dreadful.  As  a  mere 
imitation  of  nature,  the  clouds  and  the  bridge  in  the  murder  picture 
may  be  examined  by  painters  who  make  far  higher  pretensions 
than  Mr.  Cruikshank.  In  point  of  workmanship  they  are  equally 
good,  the  manner  quite  unafi'ected,  the  effect  produced  without  any 
violent  contrast,  the  whole  scene  evidently  well  and  philosophically 
arranged  in  the  artist's  brain,  before  he  began  to  put  it  upon  copper. 

The  famous  di'awing  of  "  Jack  carving  the  name  on  the  beam," 
which  has  been  transferred  to  half  the  play-bills  in  town,  is  over- 
loaded with  accessories,  as  the  first  plate ;  but  they  are  much  better 
arranged  than  in  the  last-named  engraving,  and  do  not  injure  the 
effect  of  the  principal  figure.  Remark,  too,  the  conscientiousness 
of  the  artist,  and  that  shrewd  pervading  idea  of  form  which  is  one 
of  his  principal  characteristics.  Jack  is  surrounded  by  all  sorts  of 
implements  of  his  profession ;  he  stands  on  a  regular  carpenter's 
table :  away  in  the  shadow  under  it  lie  shavings  and  a  couple  of 
carpenter's  hampers.  The  glue-pot,  the  mallet,  the  chisel-handle, 
the  planes,  the  saws,  the  hone  with  its  cover,  and  the  other  para- 
phernalia are  all  represented  with  extraordinary  accuracy  and 
forethought.  The  man's  mind  has  retained  the  exact  drawing  of 
all  these  minute  objects  (unconsciously  perhaps  to  himself),  but 
we  can  see  with  what  keen  eyes  he  must  go  through  the  world, 
and  what  a  fund  of  facts  (as  such  a  knowledge  of  the  shape  of 
objects  is  in  his  profession)  this  keen  student  of  nature  has  stored 
away  in  his  brain.  In  the  next  plate,  where  Jack  is  escaping  from 
his  mistress,  the  figure  of  that  lady,  one  of  the  deepest  of  the 
PaOvKoXTToi,  strikes  us  as  disagreeable  and  unrefined ;  that  of 
Winifred  is,  on  the  contrary,  very  pretty  and  graceful ;  and  Jack's 
puzzled,  slinking  look  must  not  be  forgotten.  All  the  accessories 
are  good,  and  the  apartment  has  a  snug,  cosy  air;  which  is  not 
remarkable,  except  that  it  shows  how  faithfully  the  designer  has 
performed  his  work,  and  how  curiously  he  has  entered  into  all  the 
particulars  of  the  subject. 

Master  Thames  Darrell,  the  handsome  young  man  of  the  book, 
is,  in  Mr.  Cruikshank's  portraits  of  him,  no  favourite  of  ours.     The 
lad  seems  to  wish  to  make  up  for  the  natural  insignificance  of  his 
face  by  fi-owning  on  all  occasions  most  portentously.     This 
figure,  borrowed  from  the  compositor's  desk,  will  give  a   v^  V* 
notion  of  what  we  mean.     Wild's  face  is  too  violent  for        | 
the  great  man  of  history  (if  we  may  call  Fielding  history), 
but  this  is  in  consonance  with  the  ranting,  frowning,  braggadocio 
character  that  Mr.  Ainsworth  has  given  him. 


316  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

The  "  Interior  of  Willesden  Church  "  is  excellent  as  a  composi- 
tion, and  a  piece  of  artistical  workmanship ;  the  groups  are  well 
arranged ;  and  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Sheppard  looking  round  alarmed, 
as  her  son  is  robbing  the  dandy  Kneebone,  is  charming,  simple, 
and  unaffected.  Not  so  "  Mrs.  Sheppard  ill  in  bed,"  whose  face  is 
screwed  up  to  an  expression  vastly  too  tragic.  The  little  glimpse  of 
the  church  seen  through  the  open  door  of  the  room  is  very  beauti- 
ful and  poetical :  it  is  in  such  small  hints  that  an  artist  especially 
excels ;  they  are  the  morals  which  he  loves  to  append  to  his  st-ories, 
and  are  always  appropriate  and  welcome.  The  boozing-ken  is  not 
to  our  liking ;  Mrs.  Sheppai'd  is  there  with  her  horrified  eyebrows 
again.  Why  this  exaggeration — is  it  necessary  for  the  public? 
We  think  not,  or  if  they  require  such  excitement,  let  our  artist, 
like  a  true  painter  as  he  is,  teach  them  better  things.* 

The  "  Escape  from  Willesden  Cage  "  is  excellent ;  the  "  Burglary 
in  Wood's  house  "  has  not  less  merit ;  "  Mrs.  Sheppard  in  Bedlam," 
a  ghastly  picture  indeed,  is  finely  conceived,  but  not,  as  we  fancy, 
so  carefully  executed ;  it  would  be  better  for  a  little  more  careful 
drawing  in  the  female  figure. 

"  Jack  sitting  for  his  picture "  is  a  very  pleasing  group,  and 
savours  -  of  the  manner  of  Hogarth,  who  is  introduced  in  the 
company.  The  "  Murder  of  Trenchard "  must  be  noticed  too  as 
remarkable  for  the  effect  and  terrible  vigour  which  the  artist  has 
given  to  the  scene.  The  "Willesden  Churchyard"  has  great  merit 
too,  but  the  gems  of  the  book  are  the  little  vignettes  illustrating 
the  escape  from  Newgate.  Here,  too,  much  anatomical  care  of 
drawing  is  not  required ;  the  figures  are  so  small  that  the  outhne 
and  attitude  need  only  to  be  indicated,  and  the  designer  has  pro- 
duced a  series  of  figures  quite  remarkable  for  reality  and  poetry 
too.  There  are  no  less  than  ten  of  Jack's  feats  so  described  by  Mr. 
Cruikshank.  (Let  us  say  a  word  here  in  praise  of  the  excellent 
manner  in  which  the  author  has  carried  us  through  the  adventure.) 
Here  is  Jack  clattering  up  the  chimney,  now  peering  into  the  lonely 
red  room,  now  opening  "  the  door  between  the  red  room  and  the 
chapel."      What  a  wild,   fierce,   scared  look   he   has,   the  young 

*  A  gentleman  {whose  wit  is  so  celebrated  tliat  one  should  be  very  cautious 
in  repeating  his  stories)  gave  the  writer  a  good  illustration  of  the  philosophy 

of  exaggeration,     Mr.  was  once  behind  the  scenes  at  the  Opera  when  the 

scene-shifters  were  preparing  for  the  ballet.  Flora  was  to  sleep  under  a  bush, 
whereon  were  growing  a  number  of  roses,  and  amidst  which  was  fluttering  a 
gay  covey  of  butterflies.  In  size  the  roses  exceeded  the  most  expansive  sun- 
flowers, and  the  butterflies  were  as  large  as  cocked  hats  ; — the  scene-shifter 

explained  to  Mr.  ,  who  asked  the  reason  why  everything  was  so  magnified, 

that  the  galleries  could  never  see  the  objects  unless  they  were  enormously  ex- 
aggerated.    How  many  of  our  writers  and  designers  work  for  the  galleries  ? 


'* 


■^I. 


GEORGE    CRUIKSHANK  317 

ruffian,  as  cautiously  he  steps  in,  holding  light  his  bar  of  iron.  You 
can  see  by  his  face  how  his  heart  is  beating !  If  any  one  were 
there  !  but  no  !  And  this  is  a  very  fine  characteristic  of  the  prints, 
the  extreme  loneliness  of  them  aU.  Not  a  soul  is  there  to  disturb 
him — woe  to  him  who  should — and  Jack  drives  in  the  chapel  gate, 
and  shatters  down  the  passage  door,  and  there  you  have  him  on 
the  leads.  Up  he  goes !  it  is  but  a  spring  of  a  few  feet  from  the 
blanket,  and  he  is  gone — abiit,  evasit,  erupit !  Mr.  Wild  must 
catch  him  again  if  he  can. 

We  must  not  forget  to  mention  "  Oliver  Twist,"  and  Mr. 
Cruikshank's  famous  designs  to  that  work.*  The  sausage  scene  at 
Fagin's,  Nancy  seizing  the  boy ;  that  capital  piece  of  humour,  Mr. 
Bumble's  courtship,  which  is  even  better  in  Cruikshank's  version 
than  in  Boz's  exquisite  account  of  the  interview;  Sykes's  farewell 
to  the  dog;  and  the  Jew, — the  dreadful  Jew — that  Cruikshank 
drew !  What  a  fine  touching  picture  of  melancholy  desolation  is 
that  of  Sykes  and  the  dog !  The  poor  cur  is  not  too  weU  drawn, 
the  landscape  is  stiff  and  formal;  but  in  this  case  the  faults,  if 
faults  they  be,  of  execution  rather  add  to  than  diminish  the  effect 
of  the  picture  :  it  has  a  strange,  wUd,  dreary,  broken-hearted  look ; 
we  fancy  we  see  the  landscape  as  it  must  have  appeared  to  Sykes, 
when  ghastly  and  with  bloodshot  eyes  he  looked  at  it.  As  for  the 
Jew  in  the  dungeon,  let  us  say  nothing  of  it — what  can  we  say  to 
describe  it  ?  What  a  fine  homely  poet  is  the  man  who  can  produce 
this  little  world  of  mirth  or  woe  for  us !  Does  he  elaborate  his 
effects  by  slow  process  of  thought,  or  do  they  come  to  him  by 
instinct  I  Does  the  painter  ever  arrange  in  his  brain  an  image  so 
complete,  that  he  afterwards  can  copy  it  exactly  on  the  canvas,  or 
does  the  hand  work  in  spite  of  him  ? 

A  great  deal  of  this  random  work  of  course  every  artist  has  done 
in  his  time ;  many  men  produce  effects  of  which  they  never  dreamed, 
and  strike  off  excellences,  haphazard,  which  gain  for  them  reputa- 
tion; but  a  fine  quality  in  Mr.  Cruikshank,  the  quality  of  his 
success,  as  we  have  said  before,  is  the  extraordinary  earnestness  and 
good  faith  with  which  he  executes  all  he  attempts — the  ludicrous, 
the  polite,  the  low,  the  terrible.  In  the  second  of  these  he  often, 
in  our  fancy,  feils,  his  figures  lacking  elegance  and  descending  to 
caricature ;  but  there  is  something  fine  in  this  too :  it  is  good  that 
he  shotdd  fail,  that  he  should  have  these  honest  naive  notions 
regarding  the  beau  monde,  the  characteristics  of  which  a  namby- 
pamby  tea-party  painter  could  hit  off  far  better  than  he.  He  is 
a  great  deal  too  downright  and  manly  to  appreciate  the  flimsy 

*  Or  his  new  work,  "  The  Tower  of  London,"  which  promises  even  to  sur- 
pass Mr.  Cruikshank's  former  productions. 


S18  CEITICAL    REVIEWS 

delicacies  of  small  society — you  cannot  expect  a  lion  to  roar  you 
like  any  sucking  dove,  or  frisk  about  a  drawing-room  like  a  lady's 
little  spaniel. 

If  then,  in  the  course  of  his  life  and  business,  he  has  been 
occasionally  obliged  to  imitate  the  ways  of  such  small  animals,  he 
has  done  so,  let  us  say  it  at  once,  clumsily,  and  like  as  a  lion  should. 
Many  artists,  we  hear,  hold  his  works  rather  cheap ;  they  prate 
about  bad  drawing,  want  of  scientific  knowledge ; — they  would  have 
something  vastly  more  neat,  regular,  anatomical. 

Not  one  of  the  whole  band  most  likely  but  can  paint  an  Academy 
figure  better  than  himself;  nay,  or. a  portrait  of  an  alderman's  lady 
and  family  of  children.  But  look  down  the  list  of  the  painters  and  tell 
us  who  are  they  ?  How  many  among  these  men  are  poets  (makers), 
possessing  the  faculty  to  create,  the  greatest  among  tlie  gifts  with 
which  Providence  has  endowed  the  mind  of  man  1  Say  how  many 
there  are,  count  up  what  they  have  done,  and  see  what  in  the  course 
of  some  nine-and-twenty  years  has  been  done  by  this  indefatigable 
man. 

What  amazing  energetic  fecundity  do  we  find  in  him  !  As  a 
boy  he  began  to  fight  for  bread,  has  been  hungry  (twice  a  day  we 
trust)  ever  since,  and  has  been  obliged  to  sell  his  wit  for  his  bread 
week  by  week.  And  his  wit,  sterling  gold  as  it  is,  will  find  no  such 
purchasers  as  the  fashionable  painter's  thin  pinchbeck,  who  can  live 
comfortably  for  six  weeks,  when  paid  for  and  painting  a  portrait, 
and  fancies  his  mind  prodigiously  occupied  all  the  while.  There 
was  an  artist  in  Paris,  an  artist  hairdresser,  who  used  to  be  fatigued 
and  take  restoratives  after  inventing  a  new  coiffure.  By  no  such 
gentle  operation  of  head-dressing  has  Cruikshank  lived  :  time  was 
(we  are  told  so  in  print)  when  for  a  picture  with  thirty  heads  in  it 
he  was  paid  three  guineas — a  poor  week's  pittance  truly,  and  a  dire 
week's  labour.  We  make  no  doubt  that  the  same  labour  would  at 
present  bring  him  twenty  times  the  sum ;  but  whether  it  be  ill-paid 
or  well,  what  labour  has  Mr.  Cruikshank's  been.  Week  by  week, 
for  thirty  years,  to  produce  something  new  ;  some  smiling  offspring 
of  painful  labour,  quite  independent  and  distinct  from  its  ten 
thousand  jovial  brethren;  in  what  hours* of  sorrow  and  ill-health 
to  be  told  by  the  world,  "  Make  us  laugh  or  you  starve — Give  us 
fresh  fun ;  we  have  eaten  up  the  old  and  are  hungry."  And  all 
this  has  he  been  obliged  to  do — to  wring  laughter  day  by  day, 
sometimes,  perhaps,  out  of  want,  often  certainly  from  ill-health  or 
depression — to  keep  the  fire  of  his  brain  perpetually  alight :  for  the 
greedy  public  will  give  it  no  leisure  to  cool.  This  he  has  done  and 
done  well.  He  has  told  a  thousand  truths  in  as  many  strange 
and  fascinating  ways ;  he  has  given  a  thousand  new  and  pleasant 


GEORGE   CRUIKSHANK  319 

thoughts  to  millions  of  people;  he  has  never  used  his  wit  dis- 
honestly; he  has  never,  in  all  the  exuberance  of  his  frolicsome 
humour,  caused  a  single  painful  or  guilty  blush  :  how  little  do  we 
think  of  the  extraordinary  power  of  this  man,  and  how  ungrateful 
we  are  to  him  ! 

Here,  as  we  are  come  round  to  the  charge  of  ingratitude,  the 
starting-post  from  which  we  set  out,  perhaps  we  had  better  con- 
clude. The  reader  will  perhaps  wonder  at  the  high-flown  tone  in 
which  we  speak  of  the  services  and  merits  of  an  individual,  whom 
he  considers  a  humble  scraper  on  steel,  that  is  wonderfully  popular 
already.  But  none  of  us  remember  all  the  benefits  we  owe  him ; 
they  have  come  one  by  one,  one  driving  out  the  memory  of  the 
other :  it  is  only  when  we  come  to  examine  them  altogether,  as 
the  writer  has  done,  who  has  a  pile  of  books  on  the  table  before 
him — a  heap  of  personal  kindnesses  from  George  Cruikshank  (not 
presents,  if  you  please,  for  we  bought,  borrowed,  or  stole  every  one 
of  them) — that  we  feel  what  we  owe  him.  Look  at  one  of  Mr. 
Cruikshank's  works,  and  we  pronounce  him  an  excellent  humourist. 
Look  at  all :  his  reputation  is  increased  by  a  kind  of  geometrical 
progression ;  as  a  whole  diamond  is  a  hundred  times  more  valuable 
than  the  hundred  splinters  into  which  it  might  be  broken  would 
be.  A  fine  rough  English  diamond  is  this  about  which  we  have 
been  writing. 


A   PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  BY  MICHAEL 
ANGELO   TITMARSH 

WITH   AN   INTEODUOTOEY   LETTEE   TO    ME.  YOEKE 

MY  DEAR  YORKE, — Do  you  remember  the  orders  which 
you  gave  me  at  the  close  of  our  dinner  last  week  at  the 
Clarendon? — that  dinner  which  you  always  provide  upon  my 
arrival  in  town  from  my  country-seat ;  knowing  full  well  that  Tit- 
marsh  before  he  works  must  dine,  and  when  he  dines,  must  dine  well? 
Do  you,  I  say,  remember  the  remarks  which  you  addressed  to  me  ? 
Probably  not ;  for  that  third  bottle  of  Clos-Vougeot  had  evidently 
done  your  business,  and  you  were  too  tipsy,  even  to  pay  the  bill. 

Well,  let  bills  be  bills,  and  what  care  we  %  There  is  Mr.  James 
Eraser,  our  employer,  master,  publisher,  purse-bearer,  and  friend, 
who  has  such  a  pleasure  in  paying  that  it  is  a  pity  to  baulk  him ; 
and  I  never  saw  a  man  look  more  happy  than  he  when  he  lugged 
out  four  iive-pound  notes  to  pay  for  that  dinner  of  ours.  What 
a  scene  it  was !  You  asleep  with  your  head  in  a  dish  of  melted 
raspberry-ice ;  Mr.  Eraser  calm,  beneficent,  majestic,  counting  out 
the  thirteens  to  the  waiters ;  the  Doctor  and  Mr.  John  Abraham 
Heraud  singing  "  Suoni  la  tromba  intrepida,"  eacli  clutching  the 
other's  hand,  and  waving  a  punch-ladle  or  a  dessert-knife  in  the 
unemployed  paw,  and  the  rest  of  us  joining  in  chorus  when  they 
came  to  "  gridando  liberta." — But  I  am  wandering  from  the  point : 
the  address  which  you  delivered  to  me  on  drinking  my  health  was 
in  substance  this  : — 

"Mr.  Michael  Augelo  Titmarsh,  the  splendid  feast  of  which 
you  have  partaken,  and  the  celebrated  company  of  individuals  whom 
you  see  around  you,  will  show  you  in  what  estimation  myself  and 
Mr.  Eraser  hold  your  talents, — not  that  the  latter  point  is  of  any 
consequence,  as  I  am  the  sole  editor  of  the  Magazine.  Sir,  you 
have  been  called  to  the  metropolis  from  a  very  distant  part  of  the 
country,  your  coach-hire  and  personal  expenses  have  been  defrayed, 
you  have  been  provided  with  a  suit  of  clothes  that  ought  to  become 
you,  for  they  have  been  for  at  least  six  months  the  wonder  of  the 
town  while  exhibited  on  my  own  person  ;  and  you  may  well  fancy 


A    PIOTOEIAL    RHAPSODY  321 

that  all  these  charges  have  not  been  incurred  on  our  parts,  -without 
an  expectation  of  some  corresponding  return  from  you.  You  are 
a  devilish  bad  painter,  sir ;  but  never  mind,  Hazlitt  was  another, 
and  old  Peter  Pindar  was  a  miserable  dauber;  Mr.  Alexander  Pope, 
who  wrote  several  pretty  poems,  was  always  busy  with  brush  and 
palette,  and  made  sad  work  of  them.  You,  then,  in  common  with 
these  before-named  illustrations,  as  my  friend.  Lady  Morgan,  calls 
them  [Sir  Charles  returned  thanks],  are  a  wretched  artist ;  but  a 
tolerable  critic — nay,  a  good  critic — nay,  let  me  say  to  your  face, 
the  best  critic,  the  clearest,  the  soundest,  the  gayest,  the  most 
eloquent,  the  most  pathetic,  and,  above  all,  the  most  honest  critic 
in  matters  of  art  that  is  to  be  found  in  her  Majesty's  dominions. 
And  therefore,  Mr.  Titmarsh,  for  we  must  give  the  deuce  his  due, 
you  have  been  brought  from  your  cottage  near  John  O'Groat's  or 
Land's  End, — I  forget  which, — therefore  you  have  been  summoned 
to  London  at  the  present  season. 

"  Sir,  there  are  at  this  moment  no  less  than  five  public  exhibi- 
tions of  pictures  in  the  metropolis;  and  it  will  be  your  duty 
carefully  to  examine  every  one  of  them  during  your  residence  here, 
and  bring  us  a  fuU  and  accurate  report  upon  all  the  pieces  exhibited 
which  are  remarkable  for  goodness,  badness,  or  mediocrity." 

I  here  got  up;  and,  laying  my  hand  on  my  satin  waistcoat, 
looked  up  to  heaven,  and  said,  "  Sir,  I " 

"  Sit  down,  sir,  and  keep  your  eternal  wagging  jaws  quiet ! 
Waiter !  whenever  that  person  attempts  to  speak,  have  the  good- 
ness to  fill  his  mouth  with  olives  or  a  damson  cheese. — To  proceed. 
Sir,  and  you,  gentlemen,  and  you,  0  intelligent  public  of  Great 
Britain  !  (for  I  know  that  every  word  I  say  is  in  some  way  carried 
to  you)  you  must  all  be  aware,  I  say,  how  wickedly, — how  foully, 
basely,  meanly — how,  in  a  word,  with  every-deteriorating-adverb 
that  ends  in  ly — in  ly,  gentlemen  [here  Mr.  Yorke  looked  round, 
and  myself  and  Mr.  Fraser,  rather  alarmed  lest  we  should  have  let 
slip  a  pun,  began  to  raise  a  low  faint  laugh] — you  have  all  of  you 
seen  how  the  world  has  been  imposed  upon  by  persons  calling 
themselves  critics,  who,  in  daUy,  weekly,  monthly  prints,  protrude 
their  nonsense  upon  the  town.  What  are  these  men  1  Are  they 
educated  to  be  painters  ? — No  !  Have  they  a  taste  for  painting  ? — • 
No !  I  know  of  newspapers  in  this  town,  gentlemen,  which  send 
their  reporters  indifierently  to  a  police-ofiice  or  a  picture  gallery, 
and  expect  them  to  describe  Correggio  or  a  fire  in  Fleet  Street 
with  equal  fidelity.  And,  alas !  it  must  be  confessed  that  our 
matter-of-fact  public  of  England  is  itself  but  a  dull  appreciator  of 
the  arts,  and  is  too  easily  persuaded  by  the  dull  critics  who  lay 
down  their  stupid  laws. 

13  X 


322  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

"  But  we  cannot  expect,  Mr.  Titmarsli,  to  do  any  good  to  our 
beloved  public  by  telling  them  merely  that  their  instructors  are 
impostors.  Abuse  is  no  argument,  foul  words  admit  of  no  pretence 
(you  may  have  remarked  that  I  never  use  them  myself,  but  always 
employ  the  arts  of  gentlemanly  persuasion),  and  we  must  endeavour 
to  create  a  reform  amongst  the  nations  by  simply  preaching  a  purer 
and  higher  doctrine.  Go  you  among  the  picture  galleries,  as  you 
have  done  in  former  years,  and  prattle  on  at  your  best  rate ;  don't 
philosophise,  or  define,  or  talk  big,  for  I  will  cut  out  every  line  of 
such  stuff,  but  speak  in  a  simple  natural  way, — without  fear,  and 
without  favour. 

"Mark  that  latter  word  'favour'  well;  for  you  are  a  great 
deal  too  tender  in  your  nature,  and  too  profuse  of  compliments. 
Favour,  sir,  is  the  curse  of  the  critical  trade ;  and  you  will  observe 
how  a  spirit  of  camaraderie  and  partisanship  prevails  in  matters 
of  art  especially.  The  picture-critics,  as  I  have  remarked,  are 
eminently  dull — dull  and  loud  ;  perfectly  ignorant  upon  all  subjects 
connected  with  art,  never  able  to  guess  at  the  name  of  an  artist 
without  a  catalogue  and  a  number,  quite  unknowing  whether  a  picture 
be  well  or  ill  drawn,  well  or  ill  painted  ;  they  must  prate  nevertheless, 
about  light  and  shade,  warm  and  cool  colour,  keeping,  chiaroscuro, 
and  such  other  terms,  from  the  Painters'  Cant  Dictionary,  as 
they  hear  bandied  about  among  the  brethren  of  the  brush. 

"  You  will  observe  that  such  a  critic  has  ordinarily  his  one  or 
two  idols  that  he  worships ;  the  one  or  two  painters,  namely,  into 
whose  studios  he  has  free  access,  and  from  whose  opinions  he  forms 
his  own.  There  is  Dash,  for  instance,  of  the  Star  newspaper ;  now 
and  anon  you  hear  him  discourse  of  the  fine  arts,  and  you  may  take 
your  affidavit  that  he  has  just  issued  from  Blank's  atelier:  all 
Blank's  opinions  he  utters — utters  and  garbles,  of  course ;  all  his 
likings  are  founded  on  Blank's  dicta,  and  all  his  dislikings :  'tis 
probable  that  Blank  has  a  rival,  one  Asterisk,  living  over  the  way. 
In  Dash's  eye  Asterisk  is  the  lowest  of  creatures.  At  every  fresh 
exhibition  you  read  how  '  Mr.  Blank  has  transcended  his  already 
transcendent  reputation;'  'Myriads  are  thronging  round  his  glorious 
canvases ; '  '  Billions  have  been  trampled  to  death  while  rushing  to 
examine  his  grand  portrait  of  Lady  Smigsmag ; '  '  His  picture  of 
Sir  Claude  Calipash  is  a  gorgeous  representation  of  aldermanic 
dignity  and  high  chivalric  grace  ! '  As  for  Asterisk,  you  are  told, 
'  Mr.  Asterisk  has  two  or  three  pictures — pretty,  but  weak,  repeti- 
tions of  his  old  faces  and  subjects  in  his  old  namby-pamby  style. 
The  Committee,  we  hear,  rejected  most  of  his  pictures  :  the  Com- 
mittee are  very  compassionate.  How  dared  they  reject  Mr.  Blank's 
stupendous  historical  picture  of  So-aiid-so  ] ' " 


A   PIOTORIAL   RHAPSODY  323 

[Here,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  there  was  a  general 
snore  heard  from  the  guests  round  the  table,  which  rather  disturbed 
the  flow  of  your  rhetoric.  You  swallowed  down  two  or  three  pints 
of  burgundy,  however,  and  continued.] 

"But  I  must  conclude.  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  you  know 
your  duty.  You  are  an  honest  man  [loud  cheers,  the  people  had 
awakened  during  the  pause].  You  must  go  forth  determined  to 
tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth ;  as  far 
as  you,  a  fallible  creature  [cries  of  '  No,  no  ! '],  know  it.  If  you 
see  a  good  picture,  were  it  the  work  of  your  bitterest  enemy — and 
you  have  hundreds — praise  it." 

"  I  will,"  gasped  I. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  sir,  and  don't  be  interrupting  me  with 
your  perpetual  orations !  If  you  see  a  bad  picture,  were  it  the 
work  of  your  dearest  associate,  your  brother,  the  friend  of  your 
bosom,  yoOT  benefactor — cut,  slash,  slaughter  him  without  mercy. 
Strip  off  humbug,  sir,  though  it  cover  your  best  boon-companion. 
Praise  merit,  though  it  belong  to  your  fiercest  foe,  your  rival  in  the 
affections  of  your  mistress,  the  man  from  whom  you  have  borrowed 
money,  or  taken  a  beating  in  private  !  " 

"  Mr.  Yorke,"  said  I,  clenching  my  fists  and  starting  up,  "  this 

passes  endurance,  were  you  not  intox ; "  but  two  waiters  here 

seized  and  held  me  down,  luckily  for  you. 

"  Peace,  Titmarsh "  (said  you) ;  "  'twas  but  raillery.  Be 
honest,  my  friend,  is  all  that  I  would  say;  and  if  you  write  a 
decent  article  on  the  exhibitions,  Mr.  Eraser  will  pay  you  hand- 
somely for  your  trouble ;  and,  in  order  that  you  may  have  every 
facility  for  visiting  the  picture  galleries,  I  myself  will  give  you  a 
small  sum  in  hand.  Here  are  ten  shillings.  Five  exhibitions,  five 
shillings ;  catalogues,  four.  You  will  have  twelvepence  for  yourself, 
to  take  refreshments  in  the  intervals." 

I  held  out  my  hand,  for  my  anger  had  quite  disappeared. 

"Mr.  Fraser,"  said  you,  "give  the  fellow  half-a-sovereign;  and,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  teach  him  to  be  silent  when  a  gentleman  is  speaking ! " 

What  passed  subsequently  need  not  be  stated  here,  but  the 
above  account  of  your  speech  is  a  pretty  correct  one ;  and,  in 
pursuance  of  your  orders,  I  busied  myself  with  the  exhibitions  on 
the  following  day.  The  result  of  my  labours  will  be  found  in  the 
accompanying  report.  I  have  the  honour,  sir,  of  laying  it  at  your 
feet,  and  of  subscribing  myself,  with  the  profoundest  respect  and 
devotion,  Sir,  your  very  faithful  and  obedient  servant, 

Michael  Aneglo  Titmaesh. 

Moreland's  Coffee  House,  Dean  Street,  Soho. 


CEITIOAL    REVIEWS 


PA-*-I2iAIA  f,   rPAMMA  A' 

The  Royal  Academy. 

Had  the  author  of  the  following  paragraphs  the  pen  of  a  Sir  Walter 
Scott  or  a  Lady  Morgan,  he  would  write  something  excessively 
brilliant  and  witty  about  the  first  day  of  the  exhibition,  and  of  the 
company  which  crowd  the  rooms  upon  that  occasion.  On  Friday 
the  Queen  comes  (Heaven  bless  her  Majesty !)  attended  by  her 
courtiers  and  train;  and  deigns,  with  Eoyal  eyes,  to  examine  the 
works  of  her  Royal  Academicians.  Her,  as  we  are  given  to  under- 
stand,  the  President  receives,  bowing  profoundly,  awe-stricken ;  his 
gold  chain  dangles  from  his  presidential  bosom,  and  sweet  smiles  of 
respectful  courtesy  light  up  his  venerable  face.  Walking  by  her 
Majesty's  side,  he  explains  to  her  the  wonders  of  the  show.  "  That, 
may  it  please  your  Majesty,  is  a  picture  representing  yourself, 
painted  by  the  good  knight.  Sir  David  Wilkie :  deign  to  remark 
how  the  robes  seem  as  if  they  were  cut  out  of  British  oak,  and  the 
figure  is  as  wooden  as  the  figure-head  of  one  of  your  Majesty's  men- 
of-war.  Opposite  is  your  Majesty's  Royal  consort,  by  Mr.  Patten. 
We  have  tlie  honour  to  possess  two  more  pairs  of  Pattens  in  this 
Academy — ha,  ha !  Round  about  you  will  see  some  of  my  own 
poor  works  of  art.  Yonder  is  Mr.  Landseers  portrait  of  your 
Majesty's  own  cockatoo,  with  a  brace  of  Havadavats.  Please  your 
Royal  Highness  to  look  at  the  bit  of  biscuit ;  no  baker  could  have 
done  it  more  natural.  Fair  Maid  of  Honour,  look  at  that  lump  of 
sugar ;  couldn't  one  take  an  aflfidavit,  now,  that  it  cost  elevenpence 
a  pound?  Isn't  it  sweet?  I  know  only  one  thing  sweeter,  and 
that's  your  Ladyship's  lovely  face  ! " 

In  such  lively  conversation  might  we  fancy  a  bland  president 
discoursing.  The  Queen  should  make  august  replies ;  the  lovely 
smiling  Maids  of  Honour  should  utter  remai-ks  becoming  their 
innocence  and  station  (turning  away  very  red  from  that  corner  of 
the  apartment  where  hang  certain  Venuses  and  Andromedas,  painted 
by  William  Etty,  Esquire) ;  the  gallant  prince,  a  lordly,  handsome 
gentleman,  with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  should  curl  the  dark  mous- 
tache that  adorns  his  comely  lip,  and  say,  "  Potztausend  !  but  dat 
bigture  of  First  Loaf  by  Herr  von  Mulready  ist  wunder  schon ! " 
and  courtly  chamberlains,  prim  goldsticks,  and  sly  polonaises  of  the 
Court  should  take  their  due  share  in  the  gay  scene,  and  deliver 
their  portions  of  the  dialogue  of  the  little  drama. 

All  this,  I  say,  might  be  done  in  a  very  sprightly  neat  way, 
were  poor  Titmarsh  an  Ainsworth  or  a  Lady  Moraan ;  and  the 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  325 

scene  might  be  ended  smartly  with  the  knighting  of  one  of  the 
Academicians  by  her  Majesty  on  the  spot.  As  thus :  "  The 
Royal  party  had  stood  for  three-and-twenty  minutes  in  mute  admira- 
tion before  that  tremendous  picture  by  Mr.  Maclise,  representing 
the  banquet  in  the  hall  of  Dunsinane.  '  Gory  shadow  of  Banquo,' 
said  Lady  Almeria  to  Lady  Wilhelmina,  '  how  hideous  thou  art ! ' 
'  Hideous  !  hideous  yourself,  marry ! '  replied  the  arch  and  lovely 
Wilhelmina.  '  By  my  halidome  ! '  whispered  the  seneschal  to  the 
venerable  prime  minister,  Lord  Melborough — '  by  cock  and  pie,  Sir 
Count,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  yon  Scottish  kerne,  Macbeth,  hath 
a  shrewd  look  of  terror ! '  '  And  a  marvellous  unkempt  beard,' 
answered  the  Earl ;  '  and  a  huge  mouth  gaping  wide  for  very  terror, 
and  a  hand  palsied  with  fear.'  '  Hoot  awa,  mon  ! '  cried  an  old 
Scots  general,  '  but  the  chield's  Macbeth  (I'm  descanded  from  him 
leeneally  in  the  saxty-ninth  generation)  knew  hoo  to  wield  a  gude 
claymore  ! '  '  His  hand  looks  as  if  it  had  dropped  a  hot  potato  ! ' 
whispered  a  roguish  page,  and  the  little  knave's  remark  caused  a 
titter  to  iiin  through  the  courtly  circle,  and  brought  a  smile 
upon  the  cheek  of  the  President  of  the  Academy;  who,  sooth 
to  say,  had  been  twiddling  his  chain  of  ofiBce  between  his  finger 
and  thumb,  somewhat  jealous  of  the  praise  bestowed  upon  his 
young  rival. 

" '  My  Lord  of  Wellington,'  said  her  Majesty,  '  lend  me  your 
sword.'  The  veteran,  smiling,  drew  forth  that  trenchant  sabre, — 
that  spotless  blade  of  battle  that  had  flashed  victorious  on  the 
plains  of  far  Assaye,  in  the  breach  of  storm-girt  Badajoz,  in  the 
mighty  and  supreme  combat  of  Waterloo !  A  tear  stood  in  the 
hero's  eye  as  he  feU  on  his  gartered  knee ;  and  holding  the  blade 
between  his  finger  and  thumb,  he  presented  the  hilt  to  his  liege 
lady.  '  Take  it,  madam,'  said  he ;  '  sheathe  it  in  this  old  breast, 
if  you  will,  for  my  heart  and  sword  are  my  sovereign's.  Take  it, 
madam,  and  be  not  angry  if  there  is  blood  upon  the  steel — 'tis  the 
blood  of  the  enemies  of  my  country  ! '  The  Queen  took  it ;  and,  as 
the  young  and  delicate  creature  waved  that  tremendous  war-sword, 
a  gentleman  near  her  remarked,  that  surely  never  lighted  on  the 
earth  a  more  delightful  vision.  '  Where  is  Mr.  Maclise  1 '  said  her 
Majesty.  The  blushing  painter  stepped  forward.  '  Kneel !  kneel ! ' 
whispered  fifty  voices ;  and  frightened,  he  did  as  they  ordered  him. 
'Sure,  she's  not  going  to  cut  my  head  off?'  he  cried  to  the  good 
knights.  Sir  Augustus  Callcott  and  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  were 
standing.  '  Your  name,  sir  1 '  said  the  Ladye  of  England.  '  Sure 
you  know  it's  Maclise  ! '  cried  the  son  of  Erin.  '  Your  Christian 
name  ? '  shrieked  Sir  Martin  Shee  in  agony.  '  Christian  name,  is 
it?     Oh,  then  it's  Daniel  Malcolm,  your  Majesty,  and  much  at 


326  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

your  service ! '     She  waved  the  sword  majestically  over  his  head, 
and  said,  '  Rise  up.  Sir  Malcolm  Maclise  ! ' 

"The  ceremony  was  concluded,  the  brilliant  cortege  moved 
away,  the  Royal  barouches  received  the  illustrious  party,  the 
heralds  cried,  '  Largesse,  Largesse  ! '  and  flung  silver  pennies  among 
the  shouting  crowds  in  Trafalgar  Square  ;  and  when  the  last  man-at- 
arms  that  accompanied  the  Royal  train  had  disappeared,  the  loud 
vivas  of  the  crowd  were  heard  no  more,  the  shrill  song  of  the  silver 
clarions  had  died  away,  his  brother  painters  congratulated  the  newly- 
dubbed  chevalier,  and  retired  to  partake  of  a  slight  collation  of 
bread  and  cheese  and  porter  in  the  keeper's  apartments." 

Were  we,  I  say,  inclined  to  be  romantic,  did  we  dare  to  be 
imaginative,  such  a  scene  might  be  depicted  with  considerable 
eflfect ;  but,  as  it  is,  we  must  not  allow  poor  fancy  to  get  the  better 
of  reason,  and  declare  that  to  write  anything  of  the  sort  would  be 
perfectly  uncalled  for  and  absurd.  Let  it  simply  be  stated  that,  on 
the  Friday,  her  Majesty  comes  and  goes.  On  the  Saturday  the 
Academicians  have  a  private  view  for  the  great  personages ;  the 
lords  of  the  empire  and  their  ladies,  the  editors  of  the  newspapers 
arid  their  friends ;  and,  after  they  have  seen  as  much  as  possible, 
about  seven  o'clock  the  Academicians  give  a  grand  feed  to  their 
friends  and  patrons. 

In  the  arrangement  of  this  banquet,  let  us  say  roundly  that 
Messieurs  de  1' Academic  are  vastly  too  aristocratic.  Why  were  we 
not  asked  1  The  dinner  is  said  to  be  done  by  Gunter ;  and,  though 
the  soup  and  fish  are  notoriously  cold  and  uncomfortable,  we  are 
by  no  means  squeamish,  and  would  pass  over  this  gross  piece  of 
neglect.  We  long,  too,  to  hear  a  bishop  say  grace,  and  to  sit  cheek 
by  jowl  with  a  duke  or  two.  Besides,  we  could  make  some  return  ; 
a  good  joke  is  worth  a  plateful  of  turtle;  a  smart  brisk  pun  is 
quite  as  valuable  as  a  bottle  of  champagne ;  a  neat  anecdote  de- 
serves a  slice  of  venison,  with  plenty  of  fat  and  currant  jelly,  and 
so  on.  On  such  principles  of  barter  we  might  be  disposed  to  treat. 
But  a  plague  on  this  ribaldry  and  beating  about  the  bush !  let  us 
leave  the  plates,  and  come  at  once  to  the  pictures. 

Once  or  twice  before,  in  the  columns  of  this  Magazine,*  we  have 
imparted  to  the  public  our  notions  about  Greek  art,  and  its  manifold 
deadly  errors.  The  contemplation  of  such  specimens  of  it  as  we 
possess  hath  always,  to  tell  the  truth,  left  us  in  a  state  of  un- 
pleasant wonderment  and  perplexity.     It  carries  corporeal  beauty 

*  Fraser's  Magazine. 


A    PIOTOKIAL    RHAPSODY  327 

to  a  pitch  of  painful  perfection,  and  deifies  tlje  body  and  bones 
truly :  but,  by  dint  of  sheer  beauty,  it  leaves  humanity  altogether 
inhuman — quite  heartless  and  passionless.  Look  at  Apollo  the 
divine :  there  is  no  blood  in  his  marble  veins,  no  warmth  in  his 
bosom,  no  fire  or  speculation  in  his  dull  awful  eyes.  Laocoon 
writhes  and  twists  in  an  anguish  that  never  can,  in  the  breast  of 
any  spectator,  create  the  smallest  degree  of  pity.     Diana, 

"  La  chasseresse 
Blanche,  au  sein  virginal, 

Qui  presse 
Quelque  cerf  matinal,"  * 

may  run  from  this  till  Doomsday ;  and  we  feel  no  desire  to  join 
the  cold  passionless  huntress  in  her  ghostly  chase.  Such  monsters 
of  beauty  are  quite  out  of  the  reach  of  human  sympathy  ;  they  were 
purposely  (by  the  poor  benighted  heathens  who  followed  this  error, 
and  strove  to  make  their  error  as  grand  as  possible)  placed  beyond 
it.  They  seemed  to  think  that  human  joy  and  sorrow,  passion  and 
love,  were  mean  and  contemptible  in  themselves.  Their  gods  were 
to  be  calm,  and  share  in  no  such  feelings.  How  much  grander  is 
the  character  of  the  Christian  school,  which  teaches  that  love  is 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  things,  and  the  first  and  highest  element 
of  beauty  in  art ! 

I  don't  know,  madam,  whether  I  make  myself  clearly  understood 
in  saying  so  much  ;  but  if  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  look  at  a 
certain  little  picture  by  Mr.  Eastlake  in  this  gallery,  you  will  see 
to  what  the  observation  applies,  and  that  out  of  a  homely  subject, 
and  a  few  simple  figures  not  at  all  wonderful  for  excessive  beauty 
or  grandeur,  the  artist  can  make  something  infinitely  more  beau- 
tiful than  Medicean  Venuses,  and  sublimer  than  Pythian  Apollos. 
Happy  are  you,  Charles  Lock  Eastlake,  Esquire,  R.A.  !  I  think 
you  have  in  your  breast  some  of  that  sacred  fire  that  lighted  the 
bosom  of  Raphael  Sanctius,  Esquire,  of  Urbino,  he  being  a  young 
man, — a  holy  kind  of  Sabbath  repose — a  calm  that  comes  not  of 
feeling,  but  of  the  overflowing  of  it — a  tender  yearning  sympathy 
and  love  for  God's  beautiful  world  and  creatures.  Impelled  by  such 
a  delightful  sentiment,  the  gentle  spirit  of  him  in  whom  it  dwells 
(like  the  angels  of  old,  who  first  taught  us  to  receive  the  doctrine 
that  love  was  the  key  to  the  world)  breathes  always  peace  on'  earth 
and  goodwill  towards  men.  And  though  the  privilege  of  enjoying 
this  happy  frame  of  mind  is  accorded  to  the  humblest  as  well  as  the 
most  gifted  genius,  yet  the  latter  must  remember  that  the  intellect 
can  exercise  itself  in  no  higher  way  than  in  the  practice  of  this  kind 

*  Alfred  de  Musset. 


328  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

of  adoration  and  gratitude.  The  great  artist  who  is  the  priest  of 
nature  is  consecrated  especially  to  this  service  of  praise  ;  and  though 
it  may  have  no  direct  relation  to  religious  subjects,  the  view  of  a 
picture  of  the  highest  order  does  always,  like  the  view  of  stars  in  a 
calm  night,  or  a  fair  quiet  landscape  in  sunshine,  fill  the  mind  with 
an  inexpressible  content  and  gratitude  towards  the  Maker  who  has 
created  such  beautiful  things  for  our  use. 

And  as  the  poet  has  told  us  how,  not  out  of  a  wide  landscape 
merely,  or  a  sublime  expanse  of  glittering  stars,  but  of  any  very 
humble  thing,  we  may  gather  the  same  delightful  reflections  (as  out 
of  a  small  flower,  that  bring  us  "  thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too 
deep  for  tears") — in  like  manner  we  do  not  want  grand  pictures 
and  elaborate  yards  of  canvas  so  to  affect  us,  as  the  lover  of  drawing 
must  have  felt  in  looking  at  the  Raphael  designs  lately  exhibited 
in  London.  These  were  little  faint  scraps,  mostly  from  the  artist's 
pencil — small  groups,  unfinished  single  figures,  just  indicated ;  but 
the  divine  elements  of  beauty  were  as  strong  in  them  as  in  the 
grandest  pieces :  and  there  were  many  little  sketches,  not  half  an 
inch  high,  which  charmed  and  affected  one  like  the  violet  did 
Wordsworth  ;  and  left  one  in  that  unspeakable,  complacent,  grateful 
condition,  which,  as  I  have  been  endeavouring  to  state,  is  the  highest 
aim  of  the  art. 

And  if  I  might  be  allowed  to  give  a  hint  to  amateurs  concerning 
pictures  and  their  merit,  I  would  say  look  to  have  your  heart  touched 
by  them.  The  best  paintings  address  themselves  to  the  best  feelings 
of  it ;  and  a  great  many  very  clever  pictures  do  not  touch  it  at  all. 
Skill  and  handling  are  great  parts  of  a  painter's  trade,  but  heart  is 
the  first ;  this  is  God's  direct  gift  to  him,  and  cannot  be  got  in  any 
academy,  or  under  any  master.  Look  about,  therefore,  for  pictures, 
be  they  large  or  small,  finished  well  or  ill,  landscapes,  portraits, 
figure-pieces,  pen-and-ink  sketches,  or  what  not,  that  contain  senti- 
ment and  great  ideas.  He  who  possesses  these  will  be  sure  to 
express  them,  more  or  less  well.  Never  mind  about  the  manner. 
He  who  possesses  them  not  may  draw  and  colour  to  perfection,  and 
yet  be  no  artist.  As  for  telling  you  what  sentiment  is,  and  what  it 
is  not,  wherein  lies  the  secret  of  the  sublime,  there,  madam,  we  must 
stop  altogether ;  only,  after  reading  Burke  "  On  the  Sublime,"  you 
will  find  yourself  exactly  as  wise  as  you  were  before.  I  cannot  tell 
why  a  landscape  by  Claude  or  Constable  should  be  more  beautiful 

— it  is  certainly  not  more  dexterous — than  a  landscape  by  Mr. 

or  Mr. .     I  cannot  tell  why  Raphael  should  be  superior  to  Mr. 

Benjamin  Haydon  (a  fact  which  one  person  in  the  world  may 
be  perhaps  inclined  to  doubt) ;  or  why  "  Vedrai,  carino,"  in  "  Don 
Juan,"  should  be  more  charming  to  me  than  "Suoni  la  tromba," 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  329 

before  mentioned.  The  latter  has  twice  as  much  drumming,  trumpet- 
ing, and  thundering  in  it.  All  these  points  are  quite  undefinable 
and  inexplicable  (I  never  read  a  metaphysical  account  of  them  that 
did  not  seem  sheer  dulness  and  nonsense) ;  but  we  can  have  no 
doubt  about  them.  And  thus  we  come  to  Charles  Lock  Eastlake, 
Esquire,  from  whom  we  started  about  a  page  since ;  during  which 
we  have  laid  down,  first,  that  sentiment  is  the  first  quality  of  a 
picture ;  second,  that  to  say  whether  this  sentiment  exists  or  no 
rests  with  tiie  individual  entirely,  the  sentiment  not  being  capable 
of  any  sort  of  definition.  Charles  Lock  Eastlake,  Esquire,  possesses, 
to  my  thinking,  tliis  undefinable  arch-quality  of  sentiment  to  a  very 
high  degree.  And,  besides  him,  let  us  mention  William  Mulready, 
Esquire,  Cope,  Boxall,  Redgrave,  Herbert  (the  two  latter  don't  show 
so  much  of  it  this  year  as  formerly),  and  Richmond. 

Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  is  as  pure  as  a  Sabbath-hymn  sung  by 
the  voices  of  children.  He  has  taken  a  very  simple  subject — 
hardly  any  subject  at  all ;  but  such  suggestive  points  are  the  best, 
perhaps,  that  a  painter  can  take ;  for  with  the  illustration  of  a 
given  subject  out  of  a  history  or  romance,  when  one  has  seen  it, 
one  has  commonly  seen  all,  whereas  such  a  piece  as  this,  which 
Mr.  Eastlake  calls  "  The  Salutation  of  the  Aged  Friar,"  brings  the 
spectator  to  a  delightful  peaceful  state  of  mind,  and  gives  him 
matter  to  ponder  upon  long  after.  The  story  of  this  piece  is 
simply  this  : — A  group  of  innocent  happy-looking  Italian  peasants 
are  approaching  a  couple  of  friars ;  a  boy  has  stepped  forward  with 
a  little  flower,  which  he  presents  to  the  elder  of  these,  and  the  old 
monk  is  giving  him  his  blessing. 

Now,  it  would  be  very  easy  to  find  fault  with  this  picture,  and 
complain  of  excessive  redness  in  the  shadows,  excessive  whiteness 
in  the  linen,  of  repetition  in  the  faces, — the  smallest  child  is  the 
very  counterpart  of  one  in  the  "  Christ  and  the  Little  Children  " 
by  the  same  artist  last  year — the  women  are  not  only  copies  of 
women  before  painted  by  Mr.  Eastlake,  but  absolutely  copies  of 
one  another;  the  drawing  lacks  vigour,  the  flesh-tints  variety 
(they  seem  to  be  produced,  by  the  most  careful  stippling,  with  a 
brUliant  composition  of  lake  and  burnt  sienna,  cooled  off  as  they 
come  to  the  edges  with  a  little  blue).  But  though,  in  the  writer's 
judgment,  there  are  in  the  picture  every  one  of  these  faults,  the 
merits  of  the  performance  incomparably  exceed  them,  and  these 
are  of  the  purely  sentimental  and  intellectual  kind.  What  a  tender 
grace  and  purity  in  the  female  heads!  If  Mr.  Eastlake  repeats 
his  model  often,  at  least  he  has  been  very  lucky  in  finding  or 
making  her:  indeed,  I  don't  know  in  any  painter,  ancient  or 
modern,    such    a    charming    character    of   female    beauty.       The 


330  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

countenances  of  the  monks  are  full  of  unction ;  the  children,  with 
their  mild-beaming  eyes,  are  fresh  with  recollections  of  heaven. 
There  is  no  affectation  of  middle-age  mannerism,  such  as  silly 
Germans  and  silly  Frenchmen  are  wont  to  call  Catholic  art ;  and 
the  picture  is  truly  Catholic  in  consequence,  having  about  it  what 
the  hymn  calls  "solemn  mirth,"  and  giving  the  spectator  the 
utmost  possible  pleasure  in  viewing  it.  Now,  if  we  might  suggest 
to  Mr.  Lane,  the  lithographer,  how  he  might  confer  a  vast  benefit 
upon  the  public,  we  would  entreat  him  to  make  several  large  copies 
of  pictures  of  this  class,  executing  them  with  that  admirable  grace 
and  fidelity  which  are  the  characteristics  of  all  his  copies.  Let 
these  be  coloured  accurately,  as  they  might  be,  at  a  small  charge, 
and  poor  people  for  a  few  guineas  might  speedily  make  for  them- 
selves delightful  picture  galleries.  The  colour  adds  amazingly  to  the 
charm  of  these  pictures,  and  attracts  the  eye  to  them.  And  they  are 
such  placid  pious  companions  for  a  man's  study,  that  the  continual 
presence  of  them  could  not  fail  to  purify  his  taste  and  his  heart. 

I  am  not  here  arguing,  let  it  be  remembered,  that  Mr.  Eastlake 
is  absolute  perfection ;  and  will  concede  to  those  who  find  fault  with 
him  that  his  works  are  deficient  in  power,  however  remarkable  for 
grace.  Be  it  so.  But  then,  let  us  admire  his  skill  in  choosing 
such  subjects  as  are  best  suited  to  his  style  of  thinking,  and  least 
likely  to  show  his  faults.  In  the  pieces  ordinarily  painted  by  him, 
grace  and  tender  feeling  are  the  chief  requisites ;  and  I  don't 
recollect  a  work  of  his  in  which  he  has  aimed  at  other  qualities. 
One  more  picture  besides  the  old  Friar  has  Mr.  Eastlake,  a  portrait 
of  that  beautiful  Miss  Bury,  whom  our  readers  must  recollect  in 
the  old  house,  in  a  black  mantle,  a  red  gown,  with  long  golden 
hair  waving  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  lily  in  her  hand.  The 
picture  was  engraved  afterwards  in  one  of  the  Annuals ;  and  was 
one  of  the  most  delightful  works  that  ever  came  from  Mr.  East- 
lake's  pencil.  I  can't  say  as  much  for  the  present  portrait :  the 
picture  wants  relief,  and  is  very  odd  and  heavy  in  colour.  The 
handsome  lady  looks  as  if  she  wanted  her  stays.  0  beautiful  lily- 
bearer  of  six  years  since !  you  should  not  have  appeared  like  a 
mortal  after  having  once  shone  upon  us  as  an  angel. 

And  now  we  are  come  to  the  man  whom  we  delight  to  honour, 
Mr.  Mulready,  who  has  three  pictures  in  the  exhibition  that  are 
all  charming  in  their  way.  The  first  ("Fair  Time,"  116)  was 
painted,  it  is  said,  more  than  a  score  of  years  since ;  and  the 
observer  may  look  into  it  with  some  payment  for  his  curiosity,  for 
it  contains  specimens  of  the  artist's  old  and  new  manner.  The 
picture  in  its  first  state  is  somewhat  in  the  Wilkie  style  of  that 
day  (oh  for  the  Wilkie  style  of  that  day  !),  having  many  greys,  and 


A   PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  331 

imitating  closely  the  Dutchmen.  Since  then  the  painter  has  been 
touching  up  the  figures  in  the  foreground  with  his  new  anrl  favourite 
lurid  orange-colour ;  and  you  may  see  how  this  is  stippled  in  upon 
the  faces  and  hands,  and  borrow,  perhaps,  a  hint  or  two  regarding 
the  Mulreadian  secret. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  this  strange  colour? — these  glowing 
burning  crimsons,  and  intense  blues,  and  greens  more  green  than  the 
first  budding  leaves  of  spring,  or  the  mignonette-pots  in  a  Cockney's 
window  at  Brixton.  But  don't  fancy  that  we  are  joking  or  about 
to  joke  at  Mr.  Mulready.  These  gaudy  prismatic  colours  are 
wonderfully  captivating  to  the  eye :  and,  amidst  a  host  of  pictures, 
it  cannot  fail  to  settle  on  a  Mulready  in  preference  to  all.  But  for 
consistency's  sake,  a  protest  must  be  put  in  against  the  colour ;  it 
is  pleasant,  but  wrong ;  we  never  saw  it  in  nature — not  even  when 
looking  through  an  orange-coloured  glass.  This  point  being  settled, 
then,  and  our  minds  eased,  let  us  look  at  the  design  and  concep- 
tion of  "  First  Love  " ;  and  pray,  sir,  where  in  the  whole  works  of 
modern  artists  will  you  find  anything  more  exquisitely  beautiful? 
I  don't  know  what  that  young  fellow,  so  solemn,  so  tender,  is 
whispering  into  the  ear  of  that  dear  girl  (she  is  only  fifteen  now, 
but,  sapristie,  how  beautiful  she  will  be  about  three  years  hence  1), 
who  is  folding  a  pair  of  slim  arms  round  a  little  baby,  and  making 
believe  to  nurse  it,  as  they  three  are  standing  one  glowing  summer 
day  under  some  trees  by  a  stile.  I  don't  know,  I  say,  what  they 
are  saying  ;  nor,  if  I  could  hear,  would  I  tell — 'tis  a  secret,  madam. 
Recollect  the  words  that  the  Captain  whispered  in  your  ear  that 
afternoon  in  the  shubbery.  Your  heart  throbs,  your  cheek  flushes ; 
the  sweet  sound  of  those  words  tells  clear  upon  your  ear,  and  you 
say,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Titmarsh,  how  cmi  you  ? "  Be  not  afraid,  madam 
— never,  never  will  I  peach ;  but  sing,  in  the  words  of  a  poet  who 
is  occasionally  quoted  in  the  House  of  Commons — 

' '  Est  et  fide]i  tata  silentio 
Merces.     Vetabo  qui  Cereris  sacrum 

Vulgarit  arcanse,  sub  Isdem 

Sit  trabibus,  fragilemve  mecum 
Solvat  phase!  um." 

Which  may  be  interpreted  (with  a  slight  alteration  of  the  name 
of  Ceres  for  that  of  a  much  more  agreeable  goddess) — 

Be  happy,  and  thy  counsel  keep, 

'Tia  thus  the  bard  adviseth  thee  ; 
Remember  that  the  silent  lip 

In   silence  shall  rewarded  bo. 
And  ily  the  wretch  who  dares  to  strip 

Love  of  its  sacred  mystery. 


332  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

My  loyal  legs  I  would  not  stretch 

Beneath  the  same  mahogany  ; 
Nor  trust  myself  in  Chelsea  Reach, 

In  punt  or  skiff,  with  such  as  he. 
The  villain  who  would  kiss  and  peach, 

I  hold  him  for  mine  enemy  ! 

But,  to  return  to  our  muttons,  I  would  not  give  a  fig  for  the  taste 
of  the  individual  who  does  not  see  the  exquisite  beauty  of  this 
little  group.  Our  artist  has  more  passion  than  the  before-lauded 
Mr.  Eastlake,  but  quite  as  much  delicacy  and  tenderness ;  and  they 
seem  to  me  to  possess  the  poetry  of  picture-making  more  than  any 
other  of  their  brethren. 

By  the  way,  what  is  this  insane  yell  that  has  been  raised 
throughout  the  public  press  about  Mr.  Mulready's  other  perform- 
ance, the  postage  cover,  and  why  are  the  sages  so  bitter  against  it  ? 
The  Times  says  it  is  disgraceful  and  ludicrous ;  the  elegant  writers 
of  the  WeeUy  Dispatch  vow  it  is  ludicrous  and  disgraceful ;  the 
same  sweet  song  is  echoed  by  papers,  Radical  and  Conservative,  in 
London  and  the  provinces,  all  the  literary  gentlemen  being  alive, 
and  smarting  under  this  insult  to  the  arts  of  the  country.  Honest 
gentlemen  of  the  press,  be  not  so  thin-skinned !  Take  my  word 
for  it,  there  is  no  cause  for  such  vehement  anger — no  good  oppor- 
tunity here  for  you  to  show  off  that  exquisite  knowledge  of  the 
fine  arts  for  which  you  are  so  celebrated  throughout  the  world. 
Gentlemen,  the  drawing  of  which  you  complain  is  not  bad.  The 
commonest  engravers,  who  would  be  ashamed  to  produce  such  a 
design,  will  tell  you,  if  they  know  anything  of  their  business,  that 
they  could  not  make  a  better  in  a  hurry.  Every  man  who  knows 
what  drawing  is  will  acknowledge  that  some  of  these  little  groups 
are  charmingly  drawn ;  and  I  will  trouble  your  commonest  en- 
gravers to  design  the  Chinese  group,  the  American,  or  the  West 
Indian,  in  a  manner  more  graceful  and  more  characteristic  than  that 
of  the  much-bespattered  post  envelope. 

I  am  not  holding  up  the  whole  affair  as  a  masterpiece — pas  si 
bSte.  The  "triumphant  hallegory  of  Britannia  ruling  the  waves," 
as  Mathews  used  to  call  it,  is  a  little  stale,  certainly,  nowadays ; 
but  what  would  you  have  ?  How  is  the  sublime  to  be  elicited  from 
such  a  subject?  Let  some  of  the  common  engravers,  in  their 
leisure  moments,  since  the  thing  is  so  easy,  make  a  better  design,  or 
the  literary  men  who  are  so  indignant  invent  one.  The  Govern- 
ment, no  doubt,  is  not  bound  heart  and  soul  to  Mr.  Mulready,  and 
is  willing  to  hear  reason.  Fiat  justitia,  ruat  caelum :  though  all 
the  world  shall  turn  on  thee,  0  Government,  in  this  instance 
Titmarsh  shall  stand  by  thee — ay,  and  without  any  hope  of  reward. 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  333 

To  be  sure,  if  my  Lord  Normanby  absolutely  insists — but  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  I  repeat,  the  Post  Office  envelope  is  not 
bad,  qiioad  design.  That  very  lion,  which  some  of  the  men  of  the 
press  (the  Daniels  !)  have  been  crying  out  about,  is  finely,  carefully, 
and  characteristically  sketched;  those  elephants  I  am  sure  were 
closely  studied,  before  the  artist  in  a  few  lines  laid  them  down  on 
his  wood-block ;  and  as  for  the  persons  who  are  to  imitate  the 
engraving  so  exactly,  let  them  try.  It  has  been  done  by  the  best 
wood-engraver  in  Europe.  Ask  any  man  in  the  profession  if  Mr. 
Thompson  is  not  at  the  head  of  it  ?  He  has  bestowed  on  it  a  vast 
deal  of  time,  and  skill,  and  labour ;  and  all  who  know  the  diffi- 
culties of  wood-engraving — of  outline  wood-engraving — and  of 
rendering  faithfully  a  design  so  very  minute  as  this,  will  smile  at 
the  sages  who  declare  that  all  the  world  could  forge  it.  There  was 
one  provincial  paper  which  declared,  in  •  a  style  peculiarly  elegant, 
that  a  man  "with  a  block  of  wood  and  a  bread-and-eheese  knife 
could  easily  imitate  the  envelope ; "  which  remark,  for  its  profound 
truth  and  sagacity,  the  London  journals  copied.  For  shame,  gentle- 
men !  Do  you  think  you  show  your  knowledge  by  adopting  such 
opinions  as  these,  or  prove  your  taste  by  clothing  yourselves  in  the 
second-hand  garments  of  the  rustic  who  talks  about  bread  and 
cheese?  Try,  Tyrotomos,  upon  whatever  block  thou  choosest  to 
practise;  or,  be  wise,  and  with  appropriate  bread-and-cheese  knife 
cut  only  bread  and  cheese.  Of  bread,  white  and  brown,  of  cheese, 
old,  new,  mouldy,  toasted,  the  writer  of  the  Double-Gloster  Jowrnal, 
the  Stilton  Examiner,  the  Cheddar  Champion,  and  North  Wilt- 
shire Intelligencer,  may  possibly  be  a  competent  critic,  and  (with 
mouth  replete  with  the  delicious  condiment)  may  no  doubt  eloquently 
speak.  But  let  us  be  cautious  before  we  agree  to  and  admiringly 
adopt  his  opinions  upon  matters  of  art.  Mr.  Thompson  is  the  first 
wood-engraver  in  our  country — Mr.  Mulready  one  of  the  best 
painters  in  our  or  any  school :  it  is  hard  that  such  men  are  to  be 
assailed  in  such  language,  and  by  such  a  critic ! 

This  artist's  picture  of  an  interior  is  remarkable  for  the  same 
exaggerated  colour,  and  for  the  same  excellences.  The  landscape 
seen  from  the  window  is  beautifully  solemn,  and  very  finely  painted, 
in  the  clear  bright  manner  of  Van  Dyck  and  Cranach,  and  the 
early  German  school. 

Mr.  Richmond's  picture  of  "  Our  Lord  after  the  Resurrection  " 
deserves  a  much  better  place  than  it  has  in  the  little,  dingy,  newly- 
discovered  octagon  closet ;  and  leaves  us  to  regret  that  he  should 
occupy  himself  so  much  with  water-colour  portraits,  and  so  little 
with  compositions  in  oil.  This  picture  is  beautifully  conceived,  and 
very  finely  and  carefully  drawn  and  painted.     One  of  the  apostles 


334  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

is  copied  from  Raphael,  and  the  more  is  the  pity :  a  man  who  could 
execute  two  such  grand  figures  as  the  other  two  in  the  picture  need 
surely  borrow  from  no  one.  A  water-colour  group,  by  the  same 
artist  (547,  "The  Children  of  Colonel  Lindsay"),  contains  two 
charming  figures  of  a  young  lady  and  a  little  boy,  painted  with 
great  care  and  precision  of  design  and  colour,  with  great  purity  of 
sentiment,  and  without  the  least  affectation.  Let  our  aristocracy 
send  their  wives  and  children  (the  handsomest  wives  and  children 
in  the  world)  to  be  painted  by  this  gentleman,  and  those  who  are 
like  him.  Miss  Lindsay,  with  her  plain  red  dress  and  modest 
looks,  is  surely  a  thousand  times  more  captivating  than  those 
dangerous  smiling  Delilahs  in  her  neighbourhood,  whom  Mr.  Chalon 
has  painted.  We  must  not  be  understood  to  undervalue  this  latter 
gentleman  however ;  his  drawings  are  miracles  of  dexterity ;  every 
year  they  seem  to  be  more  skilful  and  more  brilliant.  Such  satins 
and  lace,  such  diamond  rings  and  charming  little  lapdogs,  were 
never  painted  before, — not  by  Watteau,  the  first  master  of  the 
genre, — and  Lancret,  who  was  scarcely  his  inferior.  A  miniature 
on  ivory  by  Mr.  Chalon,  among  the  thousand  prim,  pretty  little 
pictures  of  the  same  class  which  all  the  ladies  crowd  about,  is 
remarkable  for  its  brilliancy  of  colour  and  charming  freedom  of 
handling ;  as  is  an  oil  sketch  of  masquerading  figures,  by  the  same 
painter,  for  the  curious  coarseness  of  the  painting. 

Before  we  leave  the  high-class  pictures,  we  must  mention  Mr. 
Boxall's  beautiful  "  Hope,"  which  is  exquisitely  refined  and  delicate 
in  sentiment,  colour,  and  execution.  Placed  close  beneath  one  of 
Turner's  magnificent  tornadoes  of  colour,  it  loses  none  of  its  own 
beauty.  As  Uhland  writes  of  a  certain  king  and  queen  who  are 
seated  in  state  side  by  side, — 

"  Der  Turner  furohtbar  prachtig  wis  blut'ger  Nordliohtschein, 
Der  Boxall  siiss  und  milde,  als  blickte  VoUmond  drein." 

Which  signifies  in  English,  that 

"  As  beams  the  moon  so  gentle  near  the  sun,  that  blood-red  burner, 
So  shineth  William  Boxall  by  Joseph  Mallord  Turner." 

In  another  part  of  the  room,  and  contrasting  their  quiet  grace 
in  the  same  way  with  Mr.  Turner's  glaring  colours,  are  a  couple  of 
delightful  pictures  by  Mr.  Cope,  with  mottoes  that  will  explain 
their  subjects.  "  Help  thy  father  in  his  age,  and  despise  him  not 
when  thou  art  in  thy  full  strength  ; "  and  "  Reject  not  the  affliction 
of  the  afflicted,  neither  turn  away  thy  face  from  a  poor  man."  The 
latter  of  these  pictures  is  especially  beautiful,  and  the  figure  of  the 


A   PICTORIAL    EHAPSODY  335 

female  charity  as  graceful  and  delicate  as  may  be.  I  wish  I  could 
say  a  great  deal  in  praise  of  Mr.  Cope's  large  altar-piece :  it  is-  a 
very  meritorious  performance;  but  here  praise  stops,  and  such 
praise  is  worth  exactly  nothing.  A  large  picture  must  either  be 
splendid,  or  else  naught.  This  "  Crucifixion  "  has  a  great  deal  of 
vigour,  feeling,  grace  :  but — the  but  is  fatal ;  all  minor  praises  are 
drowned  in  it.  EecoUect,  however,  Mr.  Cope,  that  Titmarsh,  who 
writes  this,  is  only  giving  his  private  opinion ;  that  he  is  mortal ; 
that  it  is  barely  possible  that  he  should  be  in  the  wrong ;  and  with 
this  confession,  which  I  am  compelled  (for  fear  you  might  overlook 
the  circumstance)  to  make,  you  will,  I  daresay,  console  yourself, 
and  do  well.  But  men  must  gird  themselves,  and  go  through  long 
trainings,  before  they  can  execute  such  gigantic  works  as  altar-pieces. 
Handel,  doubtless,  wrote  many  little  pleasing  melodies  before  he 
pealed  out  the  "  Hallelujah  "  chorus ;  and  so  painters  will  do  well 
to  try  their  powers,  and,  if  possible,  measure  and  understand  them 
before  they  use  them.  There  is  Mr.  Hart,  for  instance,  who  took 
in  an  evil  hour  to  the  making  of  great  pictures ;  in  the  present 
exhibition  is  a  decently  small  one ;  but  the  artist  has  overstretched 
himself  in  the  former  attempts ;  as  one  hears  of  gentlemen  on  the 
rack,  the  limbs  are  stretched  one  or  two  inches  by  the  process,  and 
the  patient  comes  away  by  so  much  the  taUer :  but  he  can't  walk 
near  so  well  as  before,  and  all  his  strength  is  stretched  out  of  him. 

Let  this  be  a  solemn  hint  to  a  clever  young  painter,  Mr.  Elmore, 
who  has  painted  a  clever  picture  of  "  The  Murder  of  Saint  Thomas  k 
Becket,"  for  Mr.  Daniel  O'Connell.  Come  off  your  rack,  Mr.  Elmore, 
or  you  wiU  hurt  yourself.  Much  better  is  it  to  paint  small  subjects, 
for  some  time  at  least.  "  Non  cuivis  contingit  adire  Corinthum,"  as 
the  proverb  says ;  but  there  is  a  number  of  pleasant  villages  in  this 
world  beside,  where  we  may  snugly  take  up  our  quarters.  By  the 
way,  what  is  the  meaning  of  Tom  k  Becket's  black  cassock  under 
his  canonicals  ?  Would  John  Tuam  celebrate  mass  in  such  a  dress  % 
A  painter  should  be  as  careful  about  his  costumes  as  an  historian 
about  his  dates,  or  he  plays  the  deuce  with  his  composition. 

Now,  in  this  matter  of  costume,  nobody  can  be  more  scrupulous 
than  Mr.  Charles  Landseer,  whose  picture  of  Nell  Gwynne  is  painted 
with  admirable  effect,  and  honest  scrupulousness.  It  is  very  good 
in  colour,  very  gay  in  spirits  (perhaps  too  refined, — for  Nelly  never 
was  such  a  hypocrite  as  to  look  as  modest  as  that) ;  but  the  gentle- 
men and  ladies  do  not  look  as  if  they  were  accustomed  to  their 
dresses,  for  all  their  correctness,  but  had  put  them  on  for  the  first 
time.  Indeed,  this  is  a  very  small  fault,  and  the  merits  of  the 
picture  are  very  great :  every  one  of  the  accessories  is  curiously 
well  painted, — some  of  the  figures  very  spirited  (the  drawer  is 


336  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

excellent) ;  and  the  picture  one  of  the  most  agreeable  in  the  whole 
gallery.  Mr.  Redgrave  has  another  costume  picture,  of  a  rather 
old  subject,  from  "The  Rambler."  A  poor  girl  comes  to  be  com- 
panion to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtly,  who  are  at  piquet ;  their  servants 
are  bringing  in  tea,  and  the  master  and  mistress  are  looking  at  the 
new-comer  with  a  great  deal  of  easy  scorn.  The  poor  girl  is  charm- 
ing ;  Mrs.  Courtly  not  quite  genteel,  but  with  a  wonderful  quilted 
petticoat ;  Courtly  looks  as  if  he  were  not  accustomed  to  his  clothes  ; 
the  servants  are  very  good ;  and  as  for  the  properties,  as  they  would 
be  called  on  the  stage,  these  are  almost  too  good,  painted  with  a 
daguerr^o-typioal  minuteness  that  gives  this  and  Mr.  Redgrave's 
other  picture  of  "  Paracelsus "  a  finikin  air,  if  we  may  use  such 
a  disrespectful  term.  Both  performances,  however,  contain  very 
high  merit  of  expression  and  sentiment ;  and  are  of  such  a  char- 
acter as  we  seldom  saw  in  our  schools  twenty  years  ago. 

There  is  a  large  picture  by  a  Scotch  artist,  Mr.  Duncan, 
representing  "The  Entry  of  Charles  Edward  into  Edinburgh," 
which  runs  a  little  into  caricature,  but  contains  a  vast  deal  of 
character  and  merit ;  and  which,  above  all,  in  the  article  of  costume, 
shows  much  study  and  taste.  Mr.  Duncan  seems  to  have  formed 
his  style  upon  Mr.  Allan  and  Mr.  Wilkie — I  beg  his  pardon — Sir 
David.  The  former  has  a  pleasing  brown  picture  likewise  on  the 
subject  of  the  Pretender.  The  latter's  Maid  of  Saragossa  and 
Spaniard  at  the  gun,  any  one  may  see  habited  as  Irish  peasants 
superintending  "A  Whisky  Still,"  in  the  middle  room.  No.  252. 

This  picture,  I  say,  any  one  may  see  and  admire  who  pleases : 
to  me  it  seems  all  rags  and  duds,  and  a  strange,  straggling,  misty 
composition.  There  are  fine  things,  of  course ;  for  how  can  Sir 
David  help  painting  fine  things  ?  In  the  "  Benvenuto "  there  is 
superb  colour,  with  a  rich  management  of  lakes  especially,  which 
has  been  borrowed  from  no  master  that  we  know  of.  The  Queen 
is  as  bad  a  likeness  and  picture  as  we  have  seen  for  many  a  day. 
"  Mrs.  Ferguson,  of  Raith,"  a  magnificent  picture  indeed,  as  grand 
in  effect  as  a  Rubens  or  Titian,  and  having  a  style  of  its  own.  The 
little  sketch  from  AUan  Ramsay  is  delightful ;  and  the  nobleman 
and  hounds  (with  the  exception  of  his  own  clumsy  vermilion  robe), 
as  fine  as  the  fellow-sized  portrait  mentioned  before.  Allan  Ramsay 
has  given  a  pretty  subject,  and  brought  us  a  pretty  picture  from 
another  painter,  Mr.  A.  Johnston,  who  has  illustrated  those  pleasant 
quaint  lines, — 

"  Last  morning  I  was  gay,  and  early  out ; 
Upon  a  dike  I  leaned,  glow'ring  about. 
I  saw  my  Meg  come  linkan  o'er  the  lea  ; 
I  saw  my  Meg,  but  Meggy  saw  na  me. " 


A   PICTORIAL    KHAPSODY  337 

And  here  let  us  mention  with  praise  two  small  pictures  in 
a  style  somewhat  similar — "The  Recruit,"  and  "Herman  and 
Dorothea,"  by  Mr.  Poole.  The  former  of  these  little  pieces  is  very 
touching  and  beautiful.  There  is  among  the  present  exhibitioners 
no  lack  of  this  kind  of  talent ;  and  we  could  point  out  many 
pictures  that  are  equally  remarkable  for  grace  and  agreeable  feeling. 
Mr.  Stone's  "Annot  Lyle"  should  not  be  passed  over, — a  pretty 
picture,  very  well  painted,  the  female  head  of  great  beauty  and 
expression. 

Now,  if  we  want  to  praise  performances  showing  a  great  deal 
of  power  and  vigour,  rather  than  grace  and  delicacy,  there  are 
Mr.  Etty's  "Andromeda"  and  "Venus."  In  the  former,  the  dim 
%ure  of  advancing  Perseus  galloping  on  his  airy  charger  is  very 
fine  and  ghostly ;  in  the  latter,  the  body  of  the  Venus,  and  indeed 
the  whole  picture,  is  a  perfect  miracle  of  colour.  Titian  may  have 
painted  Italian  flesh  equally  well;  but  he  never,  I  think,  could 
surpass  the  skill  of  Mr.  Etty.  The  trunk  of  this  voluptuous 
Venus  is  the  most  astonishing  representation  of  beautiful  English 
flesh  and  blood,  painted  in  the  grandest  and  broadest  style.  It  is 
said  that  the  Academy  at  Edinburgh  has  a  room  full  of  Etty's 
pictures ;  they  could  not  do  better  in  England  than  follow  the 
eszample;  but  perhaps  the  paintings  had  better  be  kept  for  the 
Academy  only — for  the  profanum  vvlgus  are  scarcely  fitted  to 
comprehend  their  peculiar  beauties.  A  prettily  drawn,  graceful, 
nude  figure,  is  "  Bathsheba,"  by  Mr.  Fisher,  of  the  street  and  city 
of  Cork. 

The  other  great  man  of  Cork  is  Daniel  Maclise  by  name ;  and 
if  in  the  riot  of  fancy  he  hath  by  playful  Titmarsh  been  raised 
to  the  honour  of  knighthood,  it  is  certain  that  here  Titmarsh  is 
a  true  prophet,  and  that  the  sovereign  will  so  elevate  him,  one 
day  or  other,  to  sit  with  other  cavaliers  at  the  Academic  round 
table.  As  for  his  pictures, — why  as  for  his  pictures,  madam, 
these  are  to  be  carefully  reviewed  in  the  next  number  of  this 
Magazine ;  for  the  present  notice  has  noticed  scarcely  anybody,  and 
yet  stretched  to  an  inordinate  length.  "  Macbeth  "  is  not  to  be 
hurried  ofi'  under  six  pages ;  and,  for  this  June  number,  Mr.  Fraser 
vows  that  he  has  no  such  room  to  spare. 

We  have  said  how  Mr.  Turner's  pictures  blaze  about  the  rooms  ; 
it  is  not  a  little  curious  to  hear  how  artists  and  the  public  differ 
in  their  judgments  concerning  them ;  the  enthusiastic  wonder  of 
the  first-named,  the  blank  surprise  and  incredulity  of  the  latter. 
"The  new  moon;  or,  I've  lost  my  boat:  you  shan't  have  your 
hoop,"  is  the  ingenious  title  of  one, — a  very  beautiful  picture,  too, 
of  a  long  shining  searsand,  lighted  from  the  upper  part  of  the 


338  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Riinvas  by  the  above-named  luminary  of  night,  and  from  the  left- 
hand  corner  by  a  wonderful  wary  boy  in  a  red  jacket — the  best 
painted  figure  that  we  ever  knew  painted  by  Joseph  MaJlord 
Turner,  Esquire. 

He  and  Mr.  "Ward  vie  with  each  other  in  mottoes  for  their 

pictures.      Ward's    epigraph    to    the    S 's   nest   is   wondrous 

poetic. 

277.  The  S 's  Nest.     S.  Ward,  R.A. 

"  Say  they  that  happiness  lives  with  the  great, 
On  gorgeous  trappings  mixt  with  pomp  and  state  ? 
More  frequent  found  upon  the  simple  plain, 
In  poorest  garb,  with  Julia,  Jess,  or  Jane ; 
In  sport  or  slumber,  as  it  likes  her  best, 
Where'er  she  lays  she  finds  it  a  S— — 's  nest." 

Ay,   and  a  S 's  eggs,   too,   as   one   would  fancy,  were  great 

geniuses  not  above  grammar.     Mark  the  line,  too, 

"  On  gorgeous  trappings  minct  with  pomp  and  state," 

and  construe  the  whole  of  this  sensible  passage. 

Not  less  sublime  is  Mr.  Ward's  fellow-Academician  : — • 

230.   "Slavers    throwing    overboard    the    Dead    and    Dying: 

Typhon  coming  on."     J.  M.  W.  Turner,  R.A. 

"  Aloft  all  hands,  strike  the  topmasts  and  belay ! 
Yon  angry  setting  sun  and  fierce-edged  clouds 
Declare  the  Typhon's  coming. 
Before  it  sweeps  your  decks,  throw  overboard 
The  dead  and  dying — ne'er  heed  their  chains. 
Hope,  Hope,  fallacious  Hope  ! 
Where  is  thy  market  now  ? " 

MS.  Fallacies  of  Hope. 

Fallacies  of  Hope,  indeed  :  to  a  pretty  mart  has  she  brought  her 
pigs !  How  should  Hope  be  hooked  on  to  the  slaver  ?  By  the 
anchor,  to  be  sure,  which  accounts  for  it.  As  for  the  picture, 
the  R.A.'s  rays  are  indeed  terrific ;  and  the  slaver  throwing  its 
cargo  overboard  is  the  most  tremendous  piece  of  colour  that  ever 
was  seen ;  it  sets  the  corner  of  the  room  in  which  it  hangs  into 
a  flame.  Is  the  picture  sublime  or  ridiculous?  Indeed  I  don't 
know  which.  Rocks  of  gamboge  are  marked  down  upon  the 
canvas;  flakes  of  white  laid  on  with  a  trowel;  bladders  of 
vermilion  madly  spirted  here  and  there.  Yonder  is  the  slaver 
rocking  in  the  midst  of  a  flashing  foam  of  white-lead.  The  sun 
glares  down  upon  a  horrible  sea  of  emerald  and  purple,  into  which 
chocolate-coloured  slaves   are  plunged,  and  chains  that  will  not 


A    PICTOEIAL    RHAPSODY  339 

sink ;  and  round  these  are  floundering  such  a  race  of  fishes  as 
never  was  seen  since  the  smculum  Pyrrhcs ;  gasping  dolphins, 
redder  than  the  reddest  herrings;  horrid  spreading  polypi,  like 
huge,  slimy,  poached  eggs,  in  which  hapless  niggers  plunge  and 
disappear.  Ye  gods,  what  a  "  middle  passage  "  !  How  Mr.  Fowell 
Buxton  must  shudder !  What  would  they  say  to  this  in  Exeter 
Hall?  If  Wilberforce's  statue  downstairs  were  to  be  confronted 
with  this  picture,  the  stony  old  gentleman  would  spring  off  his 
chair,  and  fly  away  in  terror  ! 

And  here,  as  we  are  speaking  of  the  slave-trade,  let  us  say 
a  word  in  welcome  to  a  French  artist.  Monsieur  Biard,  and  his 
admirable  picture.  Let  the  friends  of  the  negro  forthwith  buy 
this  canvas,  and  cause  a  plate  to  be  taken  from  it.  It  is  the  best, 
most  striking,  most  pathetic  lecture  against  the  trade  that  ever 
was  delivered.  The  picture  is  as  fine  as  Hogarth ;  and  the  artist, 
who,  as  we  have  heard,  right  or  wrong,  has  only  of  late  years 
adopted  the  profession  of  painting,  and  was  formerly  in  the  French 
navy,  has  evidently  drawn  a  great  deal  of  his  materials  from  life 
and  personal  observation.  The  scene  is  laid  upon  the  African 
coast.  King  Tom  or  King  Boy  has  come  with  troops  of  slaves 
down  the  Quorra,  and  sits  in  the  midst  of  his  chiefs  and  mistresses 
(one  a  fair  creature,  not  much  darker  than  a  copper  tea-kettle), 
bargaining  with  a  French  dealer.  What  a  honible  callous  brutality 
there  is  in  the  scoundrel's  face,  as  he  lolls  over  his  greasy  ledger, 
and  makes  his  calculations.  A  number  of  his  crew  are  about  him  ; 
their  boats  close  at  hand,  in  which  they  are  stowing  their  cargo. 
See  the  poor  wretches,  men  and  women,  collared  together,  drooping 
down.  There  is  one  poor  thing,  just  parted  irom  her  child.  On 
the  ground  in  front  lies  a  stalwart  negro ;  one  connoisseur  is 
handling  his  chest,  to  try  his  wind ;  another  has  opened  his  mouth, 
and  examines  his  teeth,  to  know  his  age  and  soundness.  Yonder 
is  a  poor  woman  kneeling  before  one  of  the  Frenchmen ;  her 
shoulder  is  fizzing  under  the  hot  iron  with  which  he  brands  her ; 
she  is  looking  up,  shuddering  and  wild,  yet  quite  mild  and  patient : 
it  breaks  your  heart  to  look  at  her.  I  never  saw  anything  so 
exquisitely  pathetic  as  that  face.  God  bless  you,  Monsieur  Biard, 
for  painting  it !  It  stirs  the  heart  more  than  a  hundred  thousand 
tracts,  reports,  or  sermons :  it  must  convert  every  man  who  has 
seen  it.  You  British  Government,  who  have  given  twenty  millions 
towards  the  good  end  of  freeing  this  hapless  people,  give  yet  a 
couple  of  thousand  more  to  the  French  painter,  and  don't  let  his 
work  go  out  of  the  country,  now  that  it  is  here.  Let  it  hang  along 
with  the  Hogarths  in  the  National  Gallery ;  it  is  as  good  as  the 
best  of  them.     Or,  there  is  Mr.  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  who 


340  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

has  a  family  interest  in  the  matter,  and  does  not  know  how  to 
spend  all  the  money  he  brought  home  from  India;  let  the  right 
honourable  gentleman  look  to  it.  Down  with  your  dust,  right 
honourable  sir ;  give  Monsieur  Biard  a  couple  of  thousand  for  his 
picture  of  the  negroes,  and  it  will  be  the  best  black  act  you  ever 
did  in  your  life ;  and  don't  go  for  to  be  angry  at  the  suggestion,  or 
fancy  we  are  taking  liberties.  What  is  said  is  said  from  one  public 
man  to  another,  in  a  Pickwickian  sense,  de  puissarice  en  puissance, 
— from  Titmarsh,  in  his  critical  cathedra,  to  your  father's  eminent 
son,  rich  with  the  spoils  of  Ind,  and  wielding  the  bolts  of  war. 

What  a  marvellous  power  is  this  of  the  painter's !  how  each 
great  man  can  excite  us  at  his  wiU  !  what  a  weapon  he  has,  if  he 
knows  how  to  wield  it !  Look  for  a  while  at  Mr.  Etty's  pictures, 
and  away  you  rush,  your  "  eyes  on  fire,"  drunken  with  the  luscious 
colours  that  are  poured  out  for  you  on  the  liberal  canvas,  and  warm 
with  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  sirens  that  appear  on  it.  You  fly 
from  this  (and  full  time  too),  and  plunge  into  a  green  shady  land- 
scape of  Lee  or  Creswick,  and  follow  a  quiet  stream  babbling 
beneath  whispering  trees,  and  chequered  with  cool  shade  and  golden 
sunshine ;  or  you  set  the  world — nay,  the  Thames  and  the  ocean — 
on  fire  with  that  incendiary  Turner ;  or  you  laugh  with  honest 
kind-hearted  Webster,  and  his  troops  of  merry  children ;  or  you 
fall  a-weeping  with  Monsieur  Biard  for  his  poor  blacks ;  or  you  go 
and  consult  the  priests  of  the  place,  Eastlake,  Mulready,  Boxall, 
Cope,  and  the  like,  and  straightway  your  mind  is  carried  off  in  an 
ecstasy, — happy  thrilling  hymns  sound  in  your  ears  melodious,— 
sweet  thankfulness  fills  your  bosom.  How  much  instruction  and 
happiness  have  we  gained  from  these  men,  and  how  grateful  should 
we  be  to  them  ! 

It  is  well  that  Mr.  Titmarsh  stopped  here,  and  I  shall  take 
special  care  to  examine  any  further  remarks  which  he  may  think 
fit  to  send.  Four-fifths  of  this  would  have  been  cancelled,  had 
the  printed  sheets  fallen  sooner  into  our  hands.  The  story  about 
the  "  Clarendon "  is  an  absurd  fiction ;  no  dinner  ever  took  place 
there.  I  never  fell  asleep  in  a  plate  of  raspberry  ice ;  and  though 
I  certainly  did  recommend  this  person  to  do  justice  by  the  painters, 
making  him  a  speech  to  that  eff'ect,  my  opinions  were  infinitely 
better  expressed,  and  I  would  repeat  them  were  it  not  so  late  in 
the  month.  0.  Y. 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY;  CONCLUDED 

AST)    FOLLOWED   BY   A   REMARKABLE    STATEMENT    OF   FACTS   BY 
MRS.    BARBARA 

AND  now,  in  pursuance  of  the  promise  recorded  in  the  last 
number  of  this  Magazine,  and  for  the  performance  of  which 
-  the  public  has  ever  since  been  in  breathless  expectation,  it 
hath  become  Titmarsh's  duty  to  note  down  his  opinions  of  the  re- 
maining pictures  in  the  Academy  exhibition ;  and  to  criticise  such 
other  pieces  as  the  other  galleries  may  show. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  with  regard  to  Mr.  Maclise,  it  becomes 
us  to  say  our  say  :  and  as  the  Observer  newspaper,  which,  though 
under  the  express  patronage  of  the  Royal  family,  devotes  by  far 
the  noblest  part  of  its  eloquence  to  the  consideration  of  dramatic 
subjects,  and  to  the  discussion  of  the  gains,  losses,  and  theatrical 
conduct  of  managers,- — as,  I  say,  the  Observer  newspaper,  whenever 
Madame  Vestris  or  Mr.  Yates  adopts  any  plan  that  concurs  with 
the  notions  of  the  paper  in  question,  does  not  faU  to  say  that 
Madame  Vestris  or  Mr.  Yates  has  been  induced  so  to  reform  in 
consequence  of  the  Observer's  particular  suggestion ;  in  like  manner, 
Titmarsh  is  fully  convinced,  that  all  the  painters  in  this  town  have 
their  eyes  incessantly  fixed  upon  his  criticisms,  and  that  all  the 
wise  ones  regulate  their  opinions  by  his. 

In  the  language  of  the  Observer,  then,  Mr.  Maclise  has  done 
wisely  to  adopt  our  suggestions  with  regard  to  the  moral  treatment 
of  his  pictures,  and  has  made  a  great  advance  in  his  art.  Of  his 
four  pictures,  let  us  dismiss  the  scene  from  "  GU  Bias "  at  once. 
Coming  from  a  second-rate  man,  it  would  be  well  enough ;  it  is 
well  drawn,  grouped,  lighted,  shadowed,  and  the  people  all  grin 
very  comically,  as  people  do  in  pictures  called  comic ;  but  the  soul 
of  fun  is  wanting,  as  I  take  it, — the  merry,  brisk,  good-humoured 
spirit  which  in  Le  Sage's  text  so  charms  the  reader. 

"  Olivia  and  Malvolio  "  is,  on  the  contrary,  one  of  the  best  and 
most  spiritual  performances  of  the  artist.  Nothing  can  be  more 
elegant  than  the  tender  languid  melancholy  of  Olivia,  nor  more 
poetical   than   the   general   treatment  of  the   picture.     The  long 


342  OEITIOAL    REVIEWS 

clipped  alleys  and  quaint  gardens,  the  peacocks  trailing  through 
the  walks,  and  vases  basking  in  the  sun,  are  finely  painted  and 
conceived.  Examine  the  picture  at  a  little  distance,  and  the 
ensemble  of  the  composition  and  colour  is  extraordinai-ily  pleasing. 
The  details,  too,  are,  as  usual,  wonderful  for  their  accuracy.  Here 
are  flower-beds,  and  a  tree  above  Olivia's  head,  of  which  every  leaf 
is  painted,  and  painted  with  such  skill,  as  not  in  the  least  to  injure 
the  general  effect  of  the  picture.  Mr.  Maclise  has  a  daguerr^otypic 
eye,  and  a  feeling  of  form  stronger,  I  do  believe,  than  has  ever  been 
possessed  by  any  painter  before  him. 

Look  at  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Dickens, — well  arranged  as  a 
picture,  good  in  colour,  and  light,  and  shadow,  and  as  a  likeness 
perfectly  amazing;  a  looking-glass  could  not  render  a  better  fac- 
simile. Here  we  have  the  real  identical  man  Dickens :  the  artist 
must  have  understood  the  inward  Boz  as  well  as  the  outward  be- 
fore he  made  this  admirable  representation  of  him.  What  cheer- 
ful intelligence  there  is  about  the  man's  eyes  and  large  forehead ! 
The  mouth  is  too  large  and  full,  too  eager  and  active,  perhaps ;  the 
smile  is  very  sweet  and  generous.  If  Monsieur  de  Balzac,  that 
voluminous  physiognomist,  could  examine  this  head,  he  would,  no 
doubt,  interpret  every  tone  and  wrinkle  in  it :  the  nose  firm,  and 
well  placed ;  the  nostrils  wide  and  full,  as  are  the  nostrils  of  all 
men  of  genius  (this  is  Monsieur  Balzac's  maxim).  The  past  and 
the  future,  says  Jean  Paul,  are  written  in  every  countenance.  I 
think  we  may  promise  ourselves  a  brilliant  future  from  this  one. 
There  seems  no  flagging  as  yet  in  it,  no  sense  of  fatigue,  or  con- 
sciousness of  decaying  power.  Long  mayest  thou,  0  Boz  !  reign 
over  thy  comic  kingdom ;  long  may  we  pay  tribute,  whether  of 
threepence  weekly  or  of  a  shilling  monthly,  it  matters  not.  Mighty 
prince !  at  thy  imperial  feet,  Titmarsh,  humblest  of  thy  servants, 
oflfers  his  vows  of  loyalty,  and  his  humble  tribute  of  praise. 

And  now  (as  soon  as  we  are  off  our  knees,  and  have  done  pay- 
ing court  to  sovereign  Boz)  it  behoves  us  to  say  a  word  or  two 
concerning  the  picture  of  "  Macbeth,"  which  occupies  such  a  con- 
spicuous place  in  the  Academy  gallery.  Well,  then,  this  picture 
of  "  Macbeth  "  has  been,  to  our  notion,  a  great  deal  too  much  praised 
and  abused ;  only  Titmarsh  understands  the  golden  mean,  as  is 
acknowledged  by  all  who  read  his  criticisms.  Here  is  a  very  fine 
masterly  picture,  no  doubt,  full  of  beauties,  and  showing  extra- 
ordinary power ;  but  not  a  masterpiece,  as  I  humbly  take  it, — not 
a  picture  to  move  the  beholder  as  much  as  many  performances  that 
do  not  display  half  the  power  that  is  here  exhibited.  I  don't 
pretend  to  lay  down  any  absolute  laws  on  the  sublime  (the  reader 
will  remember  how  the  ancient  satirist  hath  accused  John  Dennis 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  343 

of  madness,  for  his  vehement  preaching  of  such  rules).  No,  no ; 
Michael  Angelo  T.  is  not  quite  so  impertinent  as  that;  but  the 
public  and  the  artist  will  not  mind  being  told,  -without  any  pre- 
vious definitions,  that  this  picture  is  not  of  the  highest  order :  the 
"Malvolio"  is  far  more  spiritual  and  suggestive,  if  we  may  so 
speak;  it  tells  not  only  its  own  tale  very  charmingly,  but  creates  for 
the  beholder  a  very  pleasant  melancholy  train  of  thought,  as  every 
good  picture  does  in  its  kind,  from  a  six-inch  canvas  by  Hobbema 
or  Ruysdael  up  to  a  thousand-foot  wall  of  Michael  Angelo.  If 
you  read  over  the  banquet-scene  in  words,  it  leaves  an  impression 
far  more  dreadfid  and  lively.  On  the  stage,  it  has  always  seemed 
to  us  to  fail ;  and  though  out  of  a  trap-door  in  the  middle  of  it  Mr. 
Cooper  is  seen  to  rise  very  solemnly, — his  face  covered  with  white, 
and  a  dreadful  gash  of  vermilion  across  his  neck ;  though  he  nods 
and  waggles  his  head  about  in  a  very  quiet  ghost-like  manner ;  yet, 
strange  to  say,  neither  this  scene,  nor  this  great  actor,  has  ever 
frightened  us,  as  they  both  should,  as  the  former  does  when  we 
read  it  at  home.  The  fact  is,  that  it  is  quite  out  of  Mr.  Cooper's 
power  to  look  ghostly  enough,  or,  perhaps,  to  soar  along  with  us 
to  that  sublime  height  to  which  our  imagination  is  continually 
carrying  us. 

A  large  part  of  this  vast  picture  Mr.  Maclise  has  painted  very 
finely.  The  lords  are  aU  there  in  gloomy  state,  fierce  stalwart  men 
in  steel;  the  variety  of  attitude  and  light  in  which  the  different 
groups  are  placed,  the  wonderful  knowledge  and  firmness  with  which 
each  individual  figure  and  feature  are  placed  down  upon  the  canvas 
will  be  understood  and  admired  by  the  public,  but  by  the  artist 
still  more,  who  knows  the  difficulty  of  these  things,  which  seem 
so  easy,  which  are  so  easy,  no  doubt,  to  a  man  with  Mr.  Maclise's 
extraordinary  gifts.  How  fine  is  yonder  group  at  the  farthest  table, 
lighted  up  by  the  reflected  light  from  the  armour  of  one  of  them  ! 
The  effect,  as  far  as  we  know,  is  entirely  new ;  the  figures  drawn 
with  exquisite  minuteness  and  clearness,  not  in  the  least  interrupt- 
ing the  general  harmony  of  the  picture.  Look  at  the  two  women 
standing  near  Lady  Macbeth's  throne,  and  those  beautiful  little 
hands  of  one  of  them  placed  over  the  state-chair;  the  science, 
workmanship,  feeling  in  these  figures  are  alike  wonderful.  The 
face,  bust,  and  attitude  of  Lady  Macbeth  are  grandly  designed; 
the  figures  to  her  right,  with  looks  of  stern  doubt  and  wonder, 
are  nobly  designed  and  arranged.  The  main  figure  of  Macbeth,  I 
confess,  does  not  please;  nor  the  object  which  has  occasioned  the 
frightful  convulsive  attitude  in  which  he  stands.  He  sees  not  the 
ghost  of  Banquo,  but  a  huge,  indistinct,  gory  shadow,  which  seems 
to  shake  its  bloody  locks,  and  frown  upon  him.      Through  this 


344.  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

shade,  intercepted  only  by  its  lurid  transparency,  you  see  the  figures 
of  the  guests ;  they  are  looking  towards  it,  and  through  it.  The 
skill  with  which  this  point  is  made  is  unquestionable;  there  is 
something  there,  and  nothing.  The  spectators  feel  this  as  well  as 
the  painted  actors  of  the  scene ;  there  are  times  when,  in  looking 
at  the  picture,  one  loses  sight  of  the  shade  altogether,  and  begins  to 
wonder  with  Rosse,  Lenox,  and  the  rest. 

The  idea,  then,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  as  excellently  worked  out 
as  it  is  daringly  conceived.  But  is  it  a  just  one  ?  I  think  not. 
I  should  say  it  was  a  grim  piece  of  comedy  rather  than  tragedy. 
One  is  puzzled  by  this  piece  of  diablerie, — not  deeply  affected  and 
awe-stricken,  as  in  the  midst  of  such  heroical  characters  and  circum- 
stances one  should  be. 

"  Avaunt,  and  quit  my  sight !     Let  the  earth  hide  thee  ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless — thy  blood  is  cold  ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with." 

Before  the  poet's  eyes,  at  least,  the  figure  of  the  ghost  stood 
complete — an  actual  visible  body,  with  the  life  gone  out  of  it ;  an 
image  far  more  grand  and  dreadful  than  the  painter's  fantastical 
shadow,  because  more  simple.  The  shadow  is  an  awful  object, — 
granted  ;  but  the  most  sublime,  beautiful,  fearful  sight  in  all  nature 
is,  surely,  the  face  of  a  man ;  wonderful  in  all  its  expressions  of 
grief  or  joy,  daring  or  endurance,  thought,  hope,  love,  or  pain. 
How  Shakspeare  painted  all  these;  with  what  careful  thought 
and  brooding  were  all  his  imaginary  creatures  made  ! 

I  believe  we  have  mentioned  the  best  figure-pieces  in  the 
exhibition ;  for,  alas !  the  "  Milton  and  his  Daughters "  of  Sir 
Augustus  Callcott,  although  one  of  the  biggest  canvases  in  the 
gallery,  is  by  no  means  one  of  the  best ;  and  one  may  regret  that 
this  most  spiritual  of  landscape-painters  should  have  forsaken  his 
old  style  to  follow  figure-drawing.  Mr.  HoUins  has  a  picture  of 
"  Benvenuto  Cellini  showing  a  Trinket  to  a  Lady."  A  subject  of 
absorbing  interest  and  passionate  excitement,  painted  in  a  corre- 
sponding manner.  A  prim  lady  sits  smiling  in  a  chair,  by  a  table, 
on  which  is  a  very  neat  regular  tablecloth,  drawn  at  right  angles 
with  the  picture-frame ;  parallel  with  the  table  is  a  chest  of 
drawers,  secretaire,  cabinet,  or  bahut.  Near  this  stands  a  waiting- 
maid,  smiling  archly ;  and  in  front  you  behold  young  Benvenuto, 
spick  and  span  in  his  very  best  clothes  and  silk  stockings,  looking 
— as  Benvenuto  never  did  in  his  life.  Of  some  parts  of  this  picture, 
the  colour  and  workmanship  are  very  pretty;  but  was  there  ever 


A    PIOTOEIAL    RHAPSODY  345 

such  a  niminypiminy  subject  treated  in  such  a  nmiinypiminy  way  ? 
We  can  remember  this  gentleman's  picture  of  "Margaret  at  the 
Spinning-wheel"  last  year,  and  should  be  glad  to  see  and  laud 
others  that  were  equally  pretty.  Mr.  Lauder  has,  in  the  same 
room,  a  pleasing  picture  from  Waiter  Scott,  "  The  Glee-Maiden ; " 
and  a  large  sketch,  likewise  from  Scott,  by  a  French  artist 
(who  has  been  celebrated  in  this  Magazine  as  the  author  of  the 
picture  "The  Sinking  of  the  Vengeur"),  is  fine  in  effect  and 
composition. 

If  Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  Travellers  taking  Refreshment  at 
a  Convent  Gate "  has  not  produced  much  sensation,  it  is  because 
it  is  feeble  in  tone,  not  very  striking  in  subject,  and  placed  some- 
what too  high.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  beauty  and  delicacy  in  all 
the  .figures ;  and  though  lost  here,  amidst  the  glare  and  bustle  of 
the  Academy,  it  will  be  an  excellent  picture  for  the  cabinet,  where 
its  quiet  graces  and  merits  will  be  better  seen. 

Mr.  Webster's  "Punch,"  before  alluded  to,  deserves  a  great 
deal  of  praise.  The  landscape  is  beautiful,  the  group  of  little 
figures  assembled  to  view  the  show  are  delightfully  gay  and  pretty. 
Mr.  Webster  has  the  bump  o,f  philoprogenitiveness  (as  some  ninny 
says  of  George  Cruikshank  in  the  Westminster  Review) ;  and  all 
mothers  of  large  families,  young  ladies  who  hope  to  be  so  one  day 
or  the  other,  and  honest  papas,  are  observed  to  examine  this  picture 
with  much  smiling  interest.  It  is  full  of  sunshine  and  innocent 
playful  good-humour ;  all  Punch's  audience  are  on  the  grin.  John, 
the  squire's  footman,  is  looking  on  with  a  protecting  air ;  the  old 
village  folk  are  looking  on,  grinning  with  the  very  youngest ;  boys 
are  scampering  over  the  common,  in  order  to  be  in  time  for  the 
show ;  Punchman  is  tootooing  on  the  pipes,  and  banging  away  on 
the  drum ;  potboy  has  consigned  to  the  earth  his  precious  cargo, 
and  the  head  of  every  tankard  of  liquor  is  wasting  its  frothy 
fragrance  in  the  air ;  in  like  manner,  the  pieman  permits  his  wares 
to  get  cold;  nurserymaids,  schoolboys,  happy  children  in  go-carts, 
are  employed  in  a  similar  way :  indeed,  a  delightful  little  rustic 
comedy. 

In  respect  of  portraits,  the  prettiest,  as  I  fancy,  after  Wilkie's 
splendid  picture  of  Mrs.  Ferguson,  is  one  by  Mr.  Grant,  of  a  lady 
with  a  scarf  of  a  greenish  colour.  The  whole  picture  is  of  the  same 
tone,  and  beautifully  harmonious ;  nor  are  the  lady's  face  and  air 
the  least  elegant  and  charming  part  of  it.  The  Duke  has  been 
painted  a  vast  number  of  times,  such  are  the  penalties  of  glory ; 
nor  is  it  possible  to  conceive  anything  much  worse  than  that 
portrait  of  him  in  which  Colonel  Gurwood  is  represented  by  his 
side,   in   a  red   velvet   waistcoat,    offering   to    his    Grace    certain 


346  CEITICAL    REVIEWS 

despatches.  It  is  in  the  style  of  the  famous  picture  in  the  Regent 
Circus,  representing  Mr.  Ooleby  the  cigarist,  an  orange,  a  pine- 
apple, a  champagne-cork,  a  little  dog,  some  decanters,  and  a  yellow 
bandanna,  —  all  which  personages  appear  to  be  so  excessively 
important,  that  the  puzzled  eyes  scarcely  know  upon  which  to 
settle.  In  like  manner,  in  the  Wellington-Gurwood  testimonial, 
the  accessories  are  so  numerous,  and  so  brilliantly  coloured,  that  it 
is  long  before  one  can  look  up  to  the  countenances  of  the  Colonel 
and  his  Grace ;  which,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  are  the  main  objects 
of  interest  in  the  piece.  And  this  plan  has  been  not  unartfuUy 
contrived, — for  the  heads  are  by  no  means  painted  up  to  the  point 
of  brilliancy  which  is  visible  in  boots,  clocks,  beU-pulls,  Turkey 
carpets,  arm-chairs,  and  other  properties  here  painted. 

Now,  if  the  artist  of  the  above  picture  wishes  to  know  how 
properties  may  be  painted  with  all  due  minuteness,  and  yet  conduce 
to  the  general  effect  of  the  picture,  let  him  examine  the  noble  little 
portrait  of  Lord  Cottenham,  by  Leslie, — the  only  contribution  of 
this  great  man  to  the  exhibition.  Here  are  a  number  of  accessories 
introduced,  but  with  that  forethought  and  sense  of  propriety  which, 
as  I  fancy,  distinguish  all  the  works  of  Mr.  Leslie.  They  are  not 
here  for  mere  picturesque  effect  or  ornamental  huddle ;  but  are 
made  to  tell  the  story  of  the  piece,  and  indicate  the  character  of 
the  dignified  personage  who  fills  the  centre  of  it.  The  black 
brocade  drapery  of  the  Chancellor's  gown  is  accurately  painted,  and 
falls  in  that  majestic  grave  way  in  which  a  chancellor's  robe  should 
fall.  Are  not  the  learned  Lord's  arms  somewhat  short  and  fin-like  1 
This  is  a  query  which  we  put  humbly,  having  never  had  occasion 
to  remark  that  part  of  his  person. 

Mr.  Briggs  has  his  usual  pleasant  well-painted  portraits;  and 
Mr.  Patten  a  long  full-length  of  Prince  Albert  that  is  not  admired 
by  artists,  it  is  said,  but  a  good  downright  honest  bov/rgeois  picture, 
as  we  fancy ;  or,  as  a  facetious  friend  remarked,  good  plain  roast- 
and-boiled  painting.  As  for  the  portrait  opposite — that  of  her 
Majesty,  it  is  a  sheer  libel  upon  that  pretty  gracious  countenance, 
an  act  of  rebellion  for  which  Sir  David  should  be  put  into  York 
gaol.  Parts  of  the  picture  are,  however,  splendidly  painted.  And 
here,  being  upon  the  subject,  let  us  say  a  word  in  praise  of  those 
two  delightful  lithographic  heads,  after  Ross,  which  appear  in  the 
print-shop  windows.  Our  gracious  Queen's  head  is  here  most 
charming ;  and  that  of  the  Prince  full  of  such  manly  frankness  and 
benevolence  as  must  make  all  men  cry  "  God  bless  him."  I  would 
much  sooner  possess  a  copy  of  the  Ross  miniature  of  the  Queen, 
than  a  cast  from  her  Majesty's  bust  by  Sir  Francis  Chantrey, 
which  has  the  place  of  honour  in  the  sculpture  va,ult. 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  347 

All  Macdonald's  busts  deserve  honourable  notice.  This  lucky- 
sculptor  has  some  beautiful  subjects  to  model,  and  beautiful  and 
graceful  all  his  marbles  are.  As  much  may  be  said  of  Mr. 
M'Dowell's  girl, — the  only  piece  of  imaginative  sculpture  in  the 
Academy  that  has  struck  us  as  pleasing.  Mr.  Behnes,  too,  should 
receive  many  commendations ;  an  old  man's  head  particularly,  that 
is  full  of  character  and  goodness ;  and  "  The  Bust  of  a  Lady," 
which  may  be  called  "  A  Lady  with  a  Bust," — a  beautiful  bust, 
indeed,  of  which  the  original  and  the  artist  have  both  good  right 
to  be  proud.  Mr.  Bell's  virgin  is  not  so  pleasing  in  the  full  size 
as  in  the  miniature  copy  of  it. 

For  the  matter  of  landscapes,  we  confess  ourselves  to  be  no 
very  ardent  admirers  of  these  performances,  clever  and  dexterous 
as  most  of  them  are.  The  works  of  Mr.  Stanfield  and  Mr.  Roberts 
cannot  fail  to  be  skilful ;  and  both  of  these  famous  artists  show 
their  wonderful  power  of  drawing,  as  usual.  But  these  skilful 
pictures  have  always  appeared  to  us  more  pleasing  in  little  on 
the  sketching-board  than  when  expanded  upon  the  canvas.  A 
couple  of  Martins  must  be  mentioned, — huge,  queer,  and  tawdry 
to  our  eyes,  but  very  much  admired  by  the  public,  who  is  no  bad 
connoisseur,  after  all ;  and  also  a  fine  Castle  of  Chillon,  or  Chalon, 
rudely  painted,  but  very  poetical  and  impressive. 

[Here  Titmarsh  exchanges  his  check  at  the  door  for  a  valuable 
gingham  umbrella,  with  a  yellow  horn-head,  representing  Lord 
Brougham  or  Doctor  Syntax,  and  is  soon  seen,  with  his  hat 
very  much  on  one  side,  swaggering  down  Pall  Mall  East,  to 
the  Water-Colour  Gallery.  He  flings  down  eighteenpence  in 
the  easiest  way,  and  goes  upstairs.] 

Accident,  or,  what  is  worse,  ill  health,  has  deprived  us  of 
the  two  most  skilful  professors  of  the  noble  art  of  water-colour 
painting ;  and,  without  the  works  of  Messrs.  Lewis  and  Cattermole, 
the  gallery  looks  empty  indeed.  Those  gentlemen  are  accustomed 
to  supply  the  picture-lover  with  the  pieces  de  rdsistance  of  the 
feast,  with  which,  being  decently  satisfied,  we  can  trifle  with  an 
old  market-place  by  Prout,  or  six  cows  and  four  pigs  by  Hill,  or 
a  misty  Downs  by  Copley  Fielding,  with  some  degree  of  pleasure. 
Discontented,  then,  with  the  absence  of  the  substantials,  it  must 
be  confessed  that  we  liave  been  examining  the  rest  of  the  pictures 
in  no  very  good  humour.  And  so,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I  do  not 
care  a  fig  for  all  the  old  town-halls  in  the  world,  though  they  be 
drawn  ever  so  skilfully.  How  long  are  we  to  go  on  with  Venice, 
Verona,  Lago  di  Soandso,  and  Ponte  di  What-d'ye-call-'em  ?     I  am 


348  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

weary  of  gondolas,  striped  awnings,  sailors  with  red  night  (or  rather 
day)  caps,  cobalt  distances,  and  posts  in  the  water.  I  have  seen 
so  many  white  palaces  standing  before  dark  purple  skies,  so  many 
black  towers  with  gamboge  atmospheres  behind  them,  so  many 
masses  of  rifle-green  trees  plunged  into  the  deepest  shadow,  in  the 
midst  of  sunshiny  plains,  for  no  other  reason  but  because  dark  and 
light  contrast  together,  that  a  slight  expression  of  satiety  may  be 
permitted  to  me,  and  a  longing  for  more  simple  nature.  On  a  great 
staring  theatre  such  pictures  may  do  very  well — you  are  obliged 
there  to  seek  for  these  startling  contrasts  ;  and  by  the  aid  of  blue 
lights,  red  lights,  transparencies,  and  plenty  of  drums  and  appro- 
priate music,  the  scene  thus  presented  to  one  captivates  the  eye, 
and  calls  down  thunder  from  the  galleries. 

But  in  little  quiet  rooms,  on  sheets  of  paper  of  a  yard  square, 
such  monstrous  theatrical  effects  are  sadly  painful.  You  don't 
mistake  patches  of  brickdust  for  maidens'  blushes,  or  fancy  that 
tinfoil  is  diamonds,  or  require  to  be  spoken  to  with  the  utmost  roar 
of  the  lungs.  Wh^y,  in  painting,  are  we  to  have  monstrous,  flaring, 
Drury  Lane  tricks  and  claptraps  put  in  practice,  when  a  quieter 
style  is,  as  I  fancy,  so  infinitely  more  charming  ? 

There  is  no  use  in  mentioning  the  names  of  persons  who  are 
guilty  of  the  above  crimes ;  but  let  us  say  who  is  not  guilty,  and 
that  is  D.  Cox,  upon  whose  quiet  landscapes,  moist  grass,  cool  trees, 
the  refreshed  eye  rests  with  the  utmost  pleasure,  after  it  has  been 
perplexed  and  dazzled  elsewhere.  May  we  add  an  humble  wish 
that  this  excellent  painter  will  remain  out  of  doors,  amidst  such 
quiet  scenes  as  he  loves,  and  not  busy  himself  with  Gothicism, 
middleageism,  and  the  painting  of  quaint  interiors?  There  are 
a  dozen  artists,  of  not  a  tithe  of  his  genius,  who  can  excel  him 
at  the  architectural  work.  There  is,  for  instance,  Mr.  Nash,  who 
is  improving  yearly,  and  whose  pictures  are  not  only  most  dexter- 
ously sketched,  but  contain  numberless  little  episodes,  in  the  shape 
of  groups  of  figures,  that  are  full  of  grace  and  feeling.  There  is 
Mr.  Haghe,  too,  of  the  lower  house  ;  but  of  him  anon. 

To  show  how  ill  and  how  well  a  man  may  paint  at  the  same 
time,  the  public  may  look  at  a  couple  of  drawings  by  J.  Nash, 
— one,  the  interior  of  a  church ;  the  other,  a  plain  landscape  :  both 
of  which  are  executed  with  excessive,  almost  childish  rudeness,  and 
are  yet  excellent,  as  being  close  copies  of  the  best  of  all  drawing- 
masters.  Nature :  and  Mr.  Barrett,  who  has  lately  written  a  book 
for  students,  tells  them  very  sagaciously  not  to  copy  the  manner  of 
any  master,  however  much  he  may  be  in  the  mode.  Some  there  are, 
fashionable  instructors  in  the  art  of  water-colouring,  of  whom,  indeed, 
a  man  had  better  not  learn  at  any  price ;  nay,  were  they  to  offer 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  349 

a  guinea  per  lesson,  instead  of  modestly  demanding  the  same,  the 
reader  should  be  counselled  not  to  accept  of  their  instructions. 

See  in  what  a  different  school  Mr.  Hunt  works,  and  what  mar- 
vellous effects  he  produces  !  There  is  a  small  picture  of  an  interior 
by  him  (to  wliich  the  blue  ticket  having  the  pretty  word  sold 
written  on  it  is  not  fixed)  that,  as  a  copy  of  nature,  is  a  perfect 
miracle.  No  De  Hooghe  was  ever  better,  more  airy  and  sunshiny. 
And  the  most  extraordinary  part  of  this  extraordinary  picture  is,  that 
the  artist  has  not  produced  his  effect  of  excessive  brilliancy  by  any 
violent  contrasting  darkness;  but  the  whole  picture  is  light;  the 
sunshine  is  in  every  corner  of  the  room ;  and  this  drawing  remains 
unsold,  while  Dash,  and  Blank,  and  Asterisk  have  got  off  all  theirs. 
The  large  head  of  the  black  girl  is  painted  with  wonderful  power ; 
in  water-colours  we  have  scarcely  seen  anything  so  vigorous.  The 
boys  and  virgins  are,  as  usual,  admirable ;  the  lad  with  the  bottle, 
he  reading  ballads  in  the  barn,  and  the  red,  ragged,  brickdust- 
coloured,  brigand-looking  fellow,  especially  good.  In  a  corner  is  a 
most  astonishing  young  gentleman  with  a  pan  of  mUk  :  he  is  stepping 
forward  full  into  your  face  ;  and  has  seen  something  in  it  which  has 
caused  him  to  spill  his  milk  and  look  dreadfuDy  frightened.  Every 
man  who  is  worth  a  fig,  as  he  comes  up  to  this  picture  bursts  out 
a-laughing — he  can't  help  himself;  you  hear  a  dozen  such  laughs  in 
the  course  of  your  visit.  Why  does  this  little  drawing  so  seize  hold 
of  the  beholder,  and  cause  him  to  roar  ?  There  is  the  secret :  the 
painter  has  got  the  soul  of  comedy  in  him — the  undefinable  humorous 
genius.  Happy  is  the  man  who  possesses  that  drawing  :  a  man  must 
laugh  if  he  were  taking  his  last  look  at  it  before  being  hanged. 

Mr.  Taylor's  flowing  pencil  has  produced  several  pieces  of  de- 
lightful colour ;  but  we  are  led  bitterly  to  deplore  the  use  of  that 
fatal  white-lead  pot,  that  is  clogging  and  blackening  the  pictures  of 
BO  many  of  the  water-colour  painters  nowadays.  His  large  picture 
contains  a  great  deal  of  this  white  mud,  and  has  lost,  as  we  fancy, 
in  consequence,  much  of  that  liquid  mellow  tone  for  which  his  works 
are  remarkable.  The  retreating  figures  in  this  picture  are  beautiful ; 
the  horses  are  excellently  painted,  with  as  much  dexterous  bril- 
Uancy  of  colour  as  one  sees  in  the  oil  pictures  of  Landseer.  If  the 
amateur  wants  to  see  how  far  transparent  colour  will  go,  what  rich 
effect  may  be  produced  by  it,  how  little  necessary  it  is  to  plaster 
drawings  with  flakes  of  white,  let  him  examine  the  background  of 
the  design  representing  a  page  asleep  on  a  chair,  than  which  nothing 
can  be  more  melodious  in  colour,  or  more  skilfully  and  naturally 
painted. 

In  the  beauty  gallery  which  this  exhibition  usually  furnishes, 
there  is  Mr.  Richter,  who  contributes  his  usual  specimens ;  the  fair 


350  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Miss  Sharpe,  with  those  languishing-eyed  charmers  whom  the  world 
admires  so  much ;  and  still  more  to  our  taste,  a  sweet  pretty  lady, 
by  Mr.  Stone,  in  a  hideous  dress,  with  upper-Benjamin  buttons ;  a 
couple  of  very  graceful  and  delicate  heads  by  Wright ;  and  one 
beautiful  head,  a  portrait  evidently,  by  Cristall,  that  is  placed  very 
modestly  in  a  corner  near  the  ground — where  such  a  drawing  should 
be  placed,  of  course,  being  vigorous,  honest,  natural,  and  beautiful. 
This  artist's  other  drawing — a  mysterious  subject,  representing 
primaeval  Scotchmen,  rocks,  waterfalls,  a  cataract  of  bulls,  and  other 
strange  things,  looks  like  a  picture  painted  in  a  dream.  Near  it 
hangs  Mr.  Mackenzie's  view  of  Saint  Denis's  Cathedral,  that  is 
painted  with  great  carefulness,  and  is  very  true  to  nature.  And 
having  examined  this,  and  Mr.  Varley's  fine  gloomy  sketches,  you 
shall  be  no  longer  detained  at  this  place,  but  walk  on  to  see  what 
more  remains  to  be  seen. 

Of  the  New  Water-Colour  Society,  I  think  it  may  be  asserted 
that  their  gallery  contains  neither  such  good  nor  such  bad  drawings 
as  may  be  seen  in  the  senior  exhibition ;  unless,  indeed,  we  except 
Mr.  Haghe,  a  gentleman  who  in  architectural  subjects  lias  a  marvel- 
lous skill,  and  whose  work  deserves  to  be  studied  by  all  persons 
who  follow  the  trade  of  water-colouring.  This  gentleman  appears 
to  have  a  profound  knowledge  (or  an  extraordinary  instinct)  of  his 
profession  as  an  architectural  draughtsman.  There  are  no  tricks, 
no  clumsy  plastering  of  white,  no  painful  niggling,  nor  swaggering 
affectation  of  boldness.  He  seems  to  understand  every  single  tone 
and  line  which  he  lays  down  ;  and  his  picture,  in  my  humble  judg- 
ment, contains  some  of  the  very  best  qualities  of  which  this  branch 
of  painting  is  capable.  You  cannot  produce  by  any  combination  of 
water-colours  such  effects  as  may  be  had  from  oil,  such  richness  and 
depth  of  tone,  such  pleasing  variety  of  texture,  as  gums  and  varnishes 
will  give ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  beauties  peculiar 
to  the  art,  which  the  oil-painter  cannot  arrive  at, — such  as  air, 
brightness,  coolness,  and  flatness  of  surface ;  points  which  painters 
understand  and  can  speak  of  a  great  deal  better  than  amateur  writers 
and  readers.  Why  will  the  practitioners,  then,  be  so  ambitious? 
Why  strive  after  effects  that  are  only  to  be  got  imperfectly  at  best, 
and  at  the  expense  of  qualities  far  more  valuable  and  pleasing? 
There  are  some  aspiring  individuals  who  will  strive  to  play  a  whole 
band  of  music  off  a  guitar,  or  to  perform  the  broadsword  exercise 
with  a  rapier,  — monstrous  attempts,  that  the  moral  critic  must  lift 
up  his  voice  to  reprehend.  Valuable  instruments  are  guitars  and 
small-swords  in  themselves,  the  one  for  making  pleasant  small 
music,  the  other  for  drilling  small  holes  in  the  human  person ;  but 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  351 

let  the  professor  of  each  art  do  his  agreeable  duty  iu  his  own  line, 
nor  strive  with  his  unequal  weapons  to  compete  with  persons  who 
have  greater  advantages.  Indeed,  I  have  seldom  seen  the  works  of 
a  skilful  water-colour  painter  of  figures,  without  regretting  that  he 
had  not  taken  to  oil,  which  would  allow  him  to  put  forth  all  the 
vigour  of  which  he  was  capable.  For  works,  however,  like  that  of 
Mr.  Haghe,  which  are  not  finished  pictures,  but  admirable  finished 
sketches,  water  is  best ;  and  we  wish  that  his  brethren  followed  his 
manner  of  using  it.  Take  warning  by  these  remarks,  0  Mr.  Absolon ! 
Your  interiors  have  been  regarded  by  Titmarsh  with  much  pleasure, 
and  deserve  at  his  hands  a  great  deal  of  commendation.  Mr. 
Absolon,  we  take  it,  has  been  brought  up  in  a  French  school — there 
are  many  traces  of  foreign  manner  in  him ;  his  figures,  for  instance, 
are  better  costumed  than  those  of  our  common  English  artists. 
Look  at  the  little  sketch  which  goes  by  the  laconic  title  of  "  Jump." 
Let  Mrs.  Seyffarth  come  and  look  at  it  before  she  paints  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley's  figure  again,  and  she  will  see  what  an  air  of  life  and 
authenticity  the  designer  has  thrown  into  his  work.  Several  larger 
pieces  by  Mr.  Absolon,  in  which  are  a  face — is  it  the  artist's  own, 
by  any  chance? — (We  fancy  that  we  have  a  knack  at  guessing  a 
portrait  of  an  artist  by  himself,  having  designed  about  five  thousand 
such  in  our  own  experience, — "  Portrait  of  a  Painter,"  "  A  Gentle- 
man in  a  Vandyke  Dress,"  "  A  Brigand,"  "  A  Turkish  Costume," 
and  so  on :  they  are  somehow  always  rejected  by  those  cursed 
Academicians) — but  to  return  to  Absolon,  whom  we  have  left  hang- 
ing up  all  this  time  on  the  branch  of  a  sentence,  he  has  taken 
hugely  to  the  body-coloui-  system  within  the  last  twelve  months, 
and  small  good  has  it  done  him.  The  accessories  of  his  pictures 
are  painted  with  much  vigour  and  feeling  of  colour,  are  a  great  deal 
stronger  than  heretofore — a  great  deal  too  strong  for  the  figures 
themselves;  and  the  figures  being  painted  chiefly  in  transparent 
colour,  will  not  bear  the  atmosphere  of  distemper  by  which  they 
are  surrounded.  The  picture  of  "The  Bachelor"  is  excellent  in 
point  of  efifect  and  justness  of  colour. 

Mr.  Corbould  is  a  gentleman  who  must  be  mentioned  with  a 
great  deal  of  praise.  His  large  drawing  of  the  "Canterbury 
Pilgrims  at  the  Tabard  "  is  very  gay  and  sparkling ;  and  the  artist 
shows  that  he  possesses  a  genuine  antiquarian  or  Walter-Scottish 
spirit.  It  is  a  pity  that  his  people  are  all  so  uncommon  handsome. 
It  is  a  pity  that  his  ladies  wear  such  uncommonly  low  dresses — 
they  did  not  wear  such  (according  to  the  best  authorities)  in 
Chaucer's  time;  and  even  if  they  did,  Mr.  Corbould  had  much 
better  give  them  a  little  more  cloth,  which  costs  nothing,  and  would 
spare  much  painful  blushing  to  modest  men  like — never  mind  whom. 


352  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

But  this  is  a  moral  truth  :  nothing  is  so  easy  to  see  in  a  painter  as 
a  certain  inclination  towards  naughtiness,  which  we  press-Josephs 
are  bound  to  cry  fie  at.  Cover  them  up,  Mr.  Corbould — muslin  is 
the  word ;  but  of  this  no  more.  Where  the  painter  departs  from 
his  line  of  beauty,  his  faces  have  considerable  humour  and  character. 
The  whole  of  the  pilgrim  group,  as  he  has  depicted  it,  is  exceedingly 
picturesque.  It  might  be  painted  with  a  little  more  strength,  and 
a  good  deal  less  finical  trifling  with  the  pencil ;  but  of  these  manual 
errors  the  painter  will  no  doubt  get  the  better  as  his  practice  and 
experience  increase. 

Here  is  a  large  and  interesting  picture  by  Mr.  Warren,  of  the 
Pasha  of  Egypt  in  the  middle  of  the  Nubian  desert,  surroipided  by 
pipe-bearers  and  camels,  and  taking  his  cup  of  coffee.  There  is 
much  character  both  in  the  figures  and  scenery.  A  slight  sketch 
by  the  same  artist,  "  The  King  in  Thule,"  is  very  pretty,  and  would 
make  a  very  good  picture. 

Mr.  Bright  is  an  artist  of  whom  we  do  not  before  remember  to 
have  heard.  His  pictures  are  chiefly  effects  of  sunset  and  mooiilight ; 
of  too  criarde  a  colour  as  regards  sun  and  moon,  but  pretty  and 
skilful  in  other  points,  and  of  a  style  that  strikes  us  as  almost  new. 
The  manner  of  a  French  artist,  Monsieur  Collignon,  somewhat 
resembles  that  of  Mr.  Bright.  The  cool  parts  of  his  pictures  are 
excellent ;  but  he  has  dangerous  dealings  with  gamboge  and  orange, 
pigments  with  the  use  of  which  a  painter  is  bound  to  be  uncommonly 
cautious.  Look  at  Mr.  Turner,  who  has  taken  to  them  until  they 
have  driven  him  quite  wild.  If  there  be  any  Emperor  of  the 
Painters,  he  should  issue  "  a  special  edict "  against  the  gamboge- 
dealers  : — 'tis  a  deleterious  drug.  "  Hasten,  hasten,"  Mr.  Bright ; 
"obey  with  trembling,"  and  have  a  care  of  gamboge  henceforth. 

For  the  rest  of  the  artists  at  this  place,  it  may  be  said  that 
Mr.  Hicks  has  not  been  quite  so  active  this  year  as  formerly ;  Mr. 
Boys  has  some  delightful  drawings  in  his  style  of  art ;  and  for  tlie 
curious  there  is,  moreover,  a  second-hand  Cattermole,  a  sham  Prout, 
a  pseudo-Bentley,  and  a  small  double  of  Cox,  whose  works  are  to 
be  seen  in  various  parts  of  the  room.  Miss  Corbould  has  a  pretty 
picture.  Mr.  Duncan's  drawings  exhibit  considerable  skill  and 
fidelity  to  nature.  And  here  we  must  close  our  list  of  the  juniors, 
whose  exhibition  is  very  well  worth  the  shilling  which  all  must  pay 
who  would  enter  their  pretty  gallery. 

We  have  been  through  a  number  of  picture  galleries,  and  cannot 
do  better  than  go  and  visit  a  gentleman  who  has  a  gallery  of  his 
own,  containing  only  one  picture.  We  mean  Mr.  Danby,  with  his 
"  Deluge,"  now  visible  in  Piccadilly.     Every  person  in  London  will 


A    PICTOKIAL    EHAPSODY  353 

no  doubt  go  and  see  this ;  artists,  because  the  treatment  and  effect 
of  the  picture  are  extraordinarily  skilful  and  broad ;  and  the  rest 
of  the  world,  who  cannot  fail  of  being  deeply  moved  by  the  awful 
tragedy  which  is  here  laid  before  them.  The  work  is  full  of  the 
strongest  dramatic  interest;  a  vast  performance,  grandly  treated, 
and  telling  in  a  wonderful  way  its  solemn  awful  tale.  Mr.  Danby 
has  given  a  curious  description  of.it  to  our  hand ;  and  from  this  the 
reader  will  be  able  to  understand  what  is  the  design  and  treatment  of 
the  piece. 

[Here  follows  a  long  description  of  the  picture.] 

The  episode  of  the  angel  is  the  sole  part  of  the  picture  with 
which  we  should  be  disposed  to  quarrel ;  but  the  rest,  which  has 
been  excellently  described  in  the  queer  wild  words  of  the  artist,  is 
really  as  grand  and  magnificent  a  conception  as  ever  we  saw.  Why 
Poussin's  famous  picture  of  an  inundation  has  been  called  "The 
Deluge,"  I  never  could  understand  :  it  is  only  a  very  small  and 
partial  deluge.  The  artist  has  genius  enough,  if  any  artist  ever  had, 
to  have  executed  a  work  far  more  vast  and  tremendous ;  nor  does 
his  picture  at  the  Louvre,  nor  Turner's  Deluge,  nor  Martin's,  nor 
any  that  we  have  ever  seen,  at  all  stand  a  competition  with  this 
extraordinary  performance  of  Mr.  Danby.  He  has  painted  the 
picture  of  "The  Deluge";  we  have  before  our  eyes  still  the  ark 
in  the  midst  of  the  ruin  floating  calm  and  lonely,  the  great  black 
cataracts  of  water  pouring  down,  the  mad  rush  of  the  miserable 
people  clambering  up  the  rocks  ;^nothing  can  be  finer  than  the  way 
in  which  the  artist  has  painted  the  picture  in  all  its  innumerable 
details,  and  we  hope  to  hear  that  his  room  will  be  hourly  crowded, 
and  his  great  labour  and  genius  rewarded  in  some  degree. 

Let  us  take  some  rest  after  beholding  this  picture,  and  what 
place  is  cooler  and  more  quiet  than  the  Suffolk  Street  Gallery? 
If  not  remarkable  for  any  pictures  of  extraordinary  merit,  it  is  at 
least  to  be  praised  as  a  place  singularly  favourable  to  meditation. 
It  is  a  sweet  calm  solitude,  lighted  from  the  top  with  convenient 
Winds  to  keep  out  the  sun.  If  you  have  an  assignation,  bid  your 
mistress  to  come  hither,  there  is  only  a  dumb  secretary  in  the 
room;  and  sitting,  like  the  man  in  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  perpe- 
tually before  a  great  book,  in  which  he  pores.  This  would  be  a 
grand  place  to  hatch  a  conspiracy,  to  avoid  a  dun,  to  write  an  epic 
poem.  Something  ails  the  place  !  What  is  it  ? — what  keeps  the 
people  away,  and  gives  the  moneytaker  in  his  box  a  gloomy  lonely 
sinecure  1  Alas,  and  alas !  not  even  Mr.  Haydon's  "  Samson 
Agonistes  "  is  strong-  enough  to  pull  the  people  in. 

13  z 


354  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

And  yet  this  picture  is  worth  going  to  see.  You  may  here 
take  occasion  to  observe  the  truth  of  Mr.  Yorke's  astute  remark 
about  another  celebrated  artist,  and  see  how  bad  a  painter  is  this 
great  writer  of  historical  paintings,  Mr.  Haydon.  There  is  an 
account  in  some  of  the  late  papers — from  America,  of  course — 
of  a  remarkably  fat  boy,  three  years  old,  five  feet  six  high,  with 
a  fine  bass  voice,  and  a  handsome  beard  and  whiskers.  Much 
such  a  hero  is  this  Samson — a  great  red  chubby-cheeked  monster, 
looking  at  you  with  the  most  earnest,  mild,  dull  eyes  in  the  world, 
and  twisting  about  a  brace  of  ropes,  as  he  comes  sprawling  for- 
wards. Sprawling  backwards  is  a  Delilah — such  a  Delilah,  with 
such  an  arm,  with  such  a  dress,  on  such  a  sofa,  with  such  a  set  of 
ruifians  behind  her !  The  picture  is  perfectly  amazing !  Is  this 
the  author  of  the  "  Judgment  of  Solomon  "  ] — the  restorer  or  setter 
up  of  the  great  style  of  painting  in  this  country  ?  The  drawing 
of  the  figures  is  not  only  faulty,  but  bad  and  careless  as  can  be. 
It  never  was  nor  could  be  in  nature ;  and,  such  as  it  is,  the  drawing 
is  executed  in  a  manner  so  loose  and  slovenly,  that  one  wonders 
to  behold  it.  Is  this  the  way  in  which  a  chef  d'Scole  condescends 
to  send  forth  a  picture  to  the  public  ?  Would  he  have  his  scholars 
finish  no  more  and  draw  no  better  ?  Look  at  a  picture  of  "  Milton 
and  his  Daughters,"  the  same  subject  which  Sir  A.  Callcott  has 
treated  in  the  Academy,  which  painters  will  insist  upon  treating, 
so  profoundly  interesting  does  it  seem  to  be.  Mr.  Haydon's 
"  Milton "  is  playing  on  the  organ,  and  turning  his  blind  eyes 
towards  the  public  with  an  expression  that  is  absolutely  laughable. 
A  buxom  wench  in  huge  gigot  sleeves  stands  behind  the  chair, 
another  is  at  a  table  writing.  The  draperies  of  the  ladies  are  mere 
smears  of  colour;  in  the  foreground  lies  a  black  cat  or  dog,  a 
smudge  of  lamp-black,  in  which  the  painter  has  not  condescended 
to  draw  a  figure.  The  chair  of  the  poetical  organ-player  is  a 
similar  lump  of  red  and  brown ;  nor  is  the  conception  of  the  picture, 
to  our  thinking,  one  whit  better  than  the  execution.  If  this  be  the 
true  style  of  art,  there  is  another  great  work  of  the  kind  at  the 
"  Saracen's  Head,"  Snow  Hill,  which  had  better  be  purchased  for 
the  National  Gallery. 

Mr.  Hurlstone  has,  as  usual,  chosen  this  retired  spot  to  exhibit 
a  very  great  number  of  pictures.  There  is  much  good  in  almost  all 
of  these.  The  children  especially  are  painted  with  great  truth  and 
sweetness  of  expression,  but  we  never  shall  be  able  to  reconcile 
ourselves  to  the  extraordinary  dirtiness  of  the  colour.  Here  are 
ladies'  dresses  which  look  as  if  they  had  served  for  May-day,  and 
arms  and  shoulders  such  as  might  have  belonged  to  Cinderella. 
Once  in  a  way  the  artist  shows  he  can  paint  a  clean  face,  such  an 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  355 

one  is  that  of  a  child  in  the  little  room ;  it  is  charming,  if  the 
artist  did  but  know  it,  how  much  more  charming  for  being  clean  ! 
A  very  good  picture  of  a  subject  somewhat  similar  to  those  which 
Mr.  Hurktone  loves  to  paint  is  Mr.  Buckner's  "  Peasants  of  Sora 
in  the  Regno  di  Napoli."  The  artist  has  seen  the  works  of  Leopold 
Robert,  and  profited  evidently  by  the  study  of  them. 

Concerning  other  artists  whose  works  appear  in  this  gallery, 
we  should  speak  favourably  of  Mr.  O'Neill,  who  has  two  pretty 
pictures ;  of  a  couple  of  animal  pieces,  "  A  Pony  and  Cows,"  by 
Mr.  Sosi;  and  of  a  pretty  picture  by  Mr.  Ehnore,  a  vast  deal 
better  than  his  great  Becket  performance  before  alluded  to.  Mr. 
Tomkins  has  some  skilful  street  scenes;  and  Mr.  Holland,  a  large, 
raw,  clever  picture  of  Milan  Cathedral.  And  so  farewell  to  this 
quiet  spot,  and  let  us  take  a  peep  at  the  British  Gallery,  where  a 
whole  room  is  devoted  to  the  exhibition  of  Mr.  Hilton,  the  late 
Academician. 

A  man's  sketches  and  his  pictures  should  never  be  exhibited 
together ;  the  sketches  invariably  kill  the  pictures ;  are  far  more 
vigorous,  masterly,  and  efiiective.  Some  of  those  hanging  here, 
chiefly  subjects  from  Spencer,  are  excellent,  indeed ;  and  fine  in 
drawing,  colour,  and  composition.  The  decision  and  spirit  of  the 
sketch  disappear  continually  in  the  finished  piece,  as  any  one  may 
see  in  examining  the  design  for  "  Comus,"  and  the  large  picture 
afterwards,  the  "Two  Amphitrites,"  and  many  others.  Were  the 
sketches,  however,  removed,  the  beholder  would  be  glad  to  admit 
the  great  feeling  and  grace  of  the  pictures,  and  the  kindly  poetical 
spirit  which  distinguishes  the  works  of  the  master.  Besides  the 
Hiltons,  the  picture-lover  has  here  an  opportunity  of  seeing  a  fine 
Virgin  by  Julio  Romano,  and  a  most  noble  one  by  Sebastian  del 
Piombo,  than  which  I  never  saw  anything  more  majestically 
beautiful.  The  simpering  beauties  of  some  of  the  Virgins  of  the 
Raphael  school,  many  painters  are  successful  in  imitating.  See,  0 
ye  painters  !  how  in  Michael  Angelo  strength  and  beauty  are  here 
combined,  wonderful  chastity  and  grace,  humility,  and  a  grandeur 
almost  divine.  The  critic  must  have  a  care  as  he  talks  of  these 
pictures,  however,  for  his  words  straightway  begin  to  grow  turgid 
and  pompous ;  and,  lo  !  at  the  end  of  his  lines,  the  picture  is  not  a 
whit  better  described  than  before. 

And  now  having  devoted  space  enough  to  the  discussion  of  the 
merits  of  these  different  galleries  and  painters,  I  am  come  to  the  im- 
portant part  of  this  paper — viz.  to  my  Essay  on  the  State  of  the  Fine 
Arts  in  this  Kingdom,  my  Proposals  for  the  General  Improvement 
of  Public  Taste,  and  my  Plan  for  the  Education  of  Young  Artists. 


356  CKITICAL    REVIEWS 

In  the  first  place,  I  propose  that  Government  should  endow  a 
college  for  painters,  where  they  may  receive  the  benefits  of  a  good 
literary  education,  without  which  artists  will  never  prosper.  I 
propose  that  lectures  should  be  read,  examinations  held,  and  prizes 
and  exhibitions  given  to  students ;  that  professorships  should  be 
instituted,  and — and  a  president  or  lord  rector  appointed,  with  a 
baronetcy,  a  house,  and  a  couple  of  thousands  a  year.  This  place, 
of  course,  will  be  offered  to  Michael  Angelo  Tit — — 

Mr.  Titmarsh's  paper  came  to  us  exactly  as  the  reader  here  sees 
it.  His  contribution  had  been  paid  for  in  advance,  and  we  regret 
exceedingly  that  the  public  should  be  deprived  of  what  seemed  to 
be  the  most  valuable  part  of  it.  He  has  never  been  heard  of  since 
the  first  day  of  June.  He  was  seen  on  that  day  pacing  Waterloo 
Bridge  for  two  hours ;  but  whether  he  plunged  into  the  river,  or 
took  advantage  of  the  steamboat  and  went  down  it  only,  we 
cannot  state. 

Why  this  article  was  incomplete,  the  following  document  will, 
perhaps,  show.  It  is  the  work  of  the  waiter  at  Morland's  Hotel, 
where  the  eccentric  and  unhappy  gentleman  resided. 


STATEMENT   BY  MRS.    BAEBAEA. 

"  On  the  evening  of  the  30th  of  May,  Anay  Domino  1840,  Mr. 
Mike  Titmash  came  into  our  house  in  a  wonderful  state  of  delarium, 
drest  in  a  new  coat,  a  new  bloo  satting  hankysher,  a  new  wite  at, 
and  polisht  jipannd  boots,  all  of  which  he'd  bot  sins  he  went  out 
after  dinner ;  nor  did  he  bring  any  of  his  old  cloves  back  with  him, 
though  he'd  often  said,  '  Barbara,'  says  he  to  me,  '  when  Mr.  Frasier 
pays  me  my  money,  and  I  git  new  ones,  you  shall  have  these  as 
your  requisites  : '  that  was  his  very  words,  thof  I  must  confess  I 
don't  understand  the  same. 

"He'd  had  dinner  and  coughy  before  he  wentj  and  we  all 
cumjectured  that  he'd  been  somewhere  particklar,  for  I  heer'd  him 
barging  with  a  cabman  from  HoUywell  Street,  of  which  he  said  the 
fair  was  only  hatepence ;  but  being  ableeged  to  pay  a  shilling,  he 
cust  and  swoar  horrybill. 

"  He  came  in,  ordered  some  supper,  laft  and  joakt  with  the 
gents  in  the  parlor,  and  shewed  them  a  deal  of  money,  which  some 
of  the  gentlemen  was  so  good  as  to  purpose  to  borry  of  him. 

"  They  talked  about  literary ture  and  the  fine  harts  (which  is 
both  much  used  by  our  gentlemen) ;  and  Mr.  Mike  was  very  merry. 
Specially  he  sung  them  a  song,  which  he  ancored  hisself  for  twenty 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  357 

minutes ;  and  ordered  a  bole  of  our  punch,  which  is  chocked  against 
his  skor  to  this  very  day. 

"About  twelve  o'clock  he  went  to  bed,  very  comfortable  and 
quiet,  only  he  cooldnt  stand  on  his  legs  very  well,  and  cooldnt  speak 
much,  excep,  '  Frasier  for  ever  ! '  '  All  of  a  York  ! '  and  some  such 
nonsense,  which  neither  me  nor  George  nor  Mrs.  Stoaks  could 
understand. 

"'What's  the  matter?'  says  Mrs.  ftokes.  'Barbara,'  says  she 
to  me,  '  has  he  taken  any  thin  1 '  says  she. 

" '  Law  bless  you,  mum  ! '  says  I  (I  always  says.  Law  bless 
you),  '  as  I  am  a  Chiisten  woman,  and  hope  to  be  married,  he's  had 
nothin  out  of  common.' 

"  '  AVhat  had  he  for  dinner  1 '  says  she,  as  if  she  didn't  know. 

"  '  There  was  biled  salmon,'  says  I,  '  and  a  half-crown  lobster  in 
SOBS  (bless  us  if  he  left  so  much  as  a  clor  or  tisspunfiil !),  boil  pork 
and  peace  puddn,  and  a  secknd  course  of  beef  steak  and  onions,  cole 
plumpuddn,  maccarony,  and  afterwards  cheese  and  saUat.' 

" '  I  don't  mean  that,'  says  she.  '  What  was  his  liquors,  or 
bavyrage  ? ' 

" '  Two  Guineas's  stouts ;  old  madeira,  one  pint ;  port,  half  a 
ditto ;  four  tumlers  of  niggus ;  and  three  cole  brandy  and  water, 
and  sigars.' 

'"He  is  a  good  fellow,'  says  Mrs.  Stokes,  ' and  spends  his 
money  freely,  that  I  declare.' 

" '  I  wish  he'd  ony  pay  it,'  says  I  to  Mrs.  Stokes,  says  I. 
'He's  lived  in  our  house  any  time  these  fourteen  years  and 
never ' 

"  '  Hush  your  imperence  ! '  says  Mrs.  Stokes ;  '  he's  a  gentleman, 
and  pays  when  he  pleases.  He's  not  one  of  your  common  sort. 
Did  he  have  any  tea  1 ' 

"  '  No,'  says  I,  '  not  a  drop ;  ony  coughy  and  mufins.  I  told 
you  so — three  on  'em ;  and  growled  preciously,  too,  because  there 
was  no  more.  But  I  wasn't  a  going  to  fetch  him  any  more,  he 
whose  money  we'd  never ' 

"'Barbara,'  says  Mrs.  Stokes,  'leave  the  room — do.  You're 
always  a  suspecting  every  gentleman.  Well,  what  did  he  have  at 
supper  1 ' 

"'You  know,'  says  I,  'pickled  salmon — that  chap's  a  reglar 
devil  at  salmon — (those  were  ray  very  words) — cold  pork,  and  cold 
peace  puddn  agin  ;  toasted  chease  this  time ;  and  such  a  lot  of  hale 
and  rum-punch  as  I  never  saw — nine  glasses  of  heach,  I  do  believe, 
as  I  am  an  honest  woman.' 

"  '  Barbara,'  says  mistress,  '  that's  not  the  question.  I>id  he 
mix  his  liquors,  Barbara  ?     That's  the  pint.' 


358  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

"  '  No,'  says  I,  '  Mrs.  Stokes  ;  that  indeed  he  didn't.'  And  so 
we  agread  that  he  couldnt  posbly  he  affected  by  drink,  and  that 
something  wunderile  must  have  hapned  to  him,  to  send  him  to  bed 
so  quear  like. 

"  Nex  morning  I  took  him  his  tea  in  bed  (on  the  4th  flore  back. 
No.  104  was  his  number) ;  and  says  he  to  me,  'Barbara,'  says  he, 
'  you  find  me  in  sperrits.' 

"  '  Find  you  in  sperrits  !  I  believe  we  do,'  says  I ;  '  we've  found 
you  in  'em  these  fifteen  year.  I  wish  you'd  find  us  in  money,'  says 
I ;  and  laft,  too,  for  I  thought  it  was  a  good  un. 

"  '  Pooh  ! '  says  he,  '  my  dear,  that's  not  what  I  mean.  You 
find  me  in  spirits  bycause  my  exlent  publisher,  Mr.  Frasier,  of 
Regent  Street,  paid  me  handsum  for  a  remarkable  harticle  I  wrote 
in  his  Magazine.  He  gives  twice  as  much  as  the  other  publishers,' 
says  he ;  '  though,  if  he  didn't,  I'd  write  for  him  just  the  same — 
rayther  more,  I'm  so  fond  of  him.' 

'"How  much  has  he  gave  you?'  says  I;  'because  I  hope 
you'll  pay  us.' 

"  'Oh,'  says  he,  after  a  bit,  'a  lot  of  money.  Here,  you,  you 
darling,'  says  he  (he  did ;  upon  my  word,  he  did),  '  go  and  git  me 
change  for  a  five-pound  note.' 

"  And  when  he  got  up  and  had  his  brekfast,  and  been  out,  he 
changed  another  five-pound  note ;  and  after  lunch,  another  five- 
pound  note ;  and  when  he  came  in  to  dine,  another  five-pound 
note,  to  pay  the  cabman.  Well,  thought  we,  he's  made  of  money, 
and  so  he  seemed  :  but  you  shall  hear  soon  how  it  was  that  he 
had  all  them  notes  to  change. 

"  After  dinner  he  was  a  sitten  over  his  punch,  when  some  of 
our  gents  came  in :  and  he  began  to  talk  and  brag  to  them  about 
his  harticle,  and  what  he  had  for  it;  and  that  he  was  the  best 
cricket  *  in  Europe ;  and  how  Mr.  Miurray  had  begged  to  be  intro- 
juiced  to  him,  and  was  so  pleased  with  him,  and  he  with  Murray; 
and  how  he'd  been  asked  to  write  in  the  Quartly  Review,  and  in 
bless  us  knows  what ;  and  how,  in  fact,  he  was  going  to  carry  all 
London  by  storm. 

"  '  Have  you  seen  what  the  Morning  Poast  says  of  you  ? '  says 
Frank  Flint,  one  of  them  hartist  chaps  as  comes  to  our  house. 

"  '  No,'  say  he,  '  I  aint.  Barbara,  bring  some  more  punch,  do 
you  hear?  No,  I  aint;  but  that's  a  fashnable  paper,'  says  he, 
'  and  always  takes  notice  of  a  fashnable  chap  like  me.  What  does 
it  say  1 '  says  he. 

"Mr.  Flint  opened  his  mouth  and  grinned  very  wide;  and 
taking  the  Morning  Poast  out  of  his  pocket  (he  was  a  great  friend 
'  Critic,  Mrs.  Barbara  means,  an  absurd  monomania  of  Mr.  Titmarsh. 


A   PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY  359 

of  Mr.  Titraarsh's,  and,  like  a  good-naterd  friend  as  he  was,  had 
always  a  kind  thing  to  say  or  do) — Frank  pulls  out  a  Morning 
Poast,  I  say  (which  had  cost  Frank  Phippens  *) :  '  Here  it  is,'  says 
he;  'read  for  youeself;  it  will  make  you  quite  happy.'  AJid  so 
he  began  to  grin  to  all  the  gents  like  winkin. 

"  When  he  red  it,  Titmarsh's  jor  dropt  all  of  a  sudn  :  he  turned 
pupple,  and  bloo,  and  violate ;  and  then,  with  a  mighty  efi'ut,  he 
Bwigg  off  his  rum  and  water,  and  staggered  out  of  the  room. 

"He  looked  so  ill  when  he  went  upstairs  to  bed,  that  Mrs. 
Stokes  insisted  upon  making  him  some  grool  for  him  to  have  warm 
in  bed ;  but.  Lor  bless  you !  he  threw  it  in  my  face  when  I  went 
up,  and  rord  and  swor  so  dredfle,  that  I  rann  downstairs  quite 
frightened. 

"  Nex  morning  I  knockt  at  his  dor  at  nine — no  anser. 

"  At  ten,  tried  agin — never  a  word. 

"  At  eleven,  twelve,  one,  two,  up  we  went,  with  a  fresh  cup 
of  hot  tea  every  time.  His  dor  was  lockt,  and  not  one  sillibaly 
could  we  git. 

"At  for  we  began  to  think  he'd  suasided  hisself ;  and  having 
called  in  the  policemen,  bust  open  the  dor. 

"  And  then  we  beheld  a  pretty  spactycle  !  Fancy  him  in  his 
gor,  his  throat  cut  from  hear  to  hear,  his  white  nightgownd  all 
over  blood,  his  beautiful  face  all  pail  with  hagny ! — well,  no  such 
thing.  Fancy  him  hanging  from  the  bedpost  by  one  of  his  pore 
dear  garters ! — well,  no  such  thing.  Agin,  fancy  him  flung  out  of 
the  window,  and  dasht  into  ten  Milium  peaces  on  the  minionet- 
potts  in  the  fust  floar ;  or  else  a  naked,  melumcoUy  corpse,  laying 
on  the  hairy  spikes ! — not  in  the  least.  He  wasn't  dead,  nor  he 
wasn't  the  least  unwell,  nor  he  wasn't  asleep  neither — he  only 
wasn't  there ;  and  from  that  day  we  have  heard  nothen  about  him. 
He  left  on  his  table  the  following  note  as  follows  : — 

"'1st  June,  1840.     Midmight. 

" '  Mes.  Stokes, — I  am  attached  to  you  by  the  most  disin 
terested  friendship.  I  have  patronised  your  house  for  fourteen 
years,  and  it  was  my  intention  to  have  paid  you  a  part  of  your 
bill,  but  the  Morning  Post  newspaper  has  destroyed  that  blessed 
hope  for  ever. 

"  '  Before  you  receive  this  I  shall  be — ash  not  where  ;  my  mind 
shudders  to  think  where !  You  will  carry  the  papers  directed  to 
Regent  Street  to  that  address,  and  perhaps  you  will  receive  in 
return  a  handsome  sum  of  money ;  but  if  the  bud  of  my  youth  is 

*  Fivepence,  Mrs.  Barbara  means. 


360  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

blighted,  the  promise  of  a  long  and  happy  career  suddenly  and 
cruelly  cut  short,  an  affectionate  family  deprived  of  its  support  and 
ornament,  say  that  the  Morning  Post  has  done  this  by  its  savage 
criticisms  upon  me,  the  last  this  day.  Farewell.' 

"  This  is  hall  he  said.  From  that  day  to  this  we  have  never 
seen  the  poor  fellow — we  have  never  heerd  of  him — we  have 
never  known  anythink  about  him.  Being  halarmed,  Mrs.  Stoks 
hadvertized  him  in  the  papers  ;  but  not  wishing  to  vex  his  family, 
we  called  him  by  another  name,  and  put  hour  address  diffrent  too. 
Hall  was  of  no  use ;  and  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  pang  I  felt  in  my 
busum  when,  on  going  to  get  change  for  the  five-pound  notes  he'd 
given  me  at  the  public-house  in  Hoxford  Street,  the  lan'lord  laft 
when  he  saw  them  ;  and  said,  says  he, '  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Barbara, 
that  a  queer  geut  came  in  here  with  five  sovrings  one  day,  has  a 
glass  of  hale,  and  haskes  me  to  change  his  sovrings  for  a  note  1  which 
I  did.  Then  in  about  two  hours  he  came  back  with  five  more 
sovrings,  gets  another  note,  and  another  glass  of  hale,  and  so  goes 
on  four  times  in  one  blessed  day  !  It's  my  beleaf  that  he  had  only 
five  pound,  and  wanted  you  to  suppose  that  he  was  worth  twenty, 
for  you've  got  all  his  notes,  I  see  ! ' 

"  And  so  the  poor  fellow  had  no  money  with  him  after  all ! 
I  do  pity  him,  I  do,  from  my  hart ;  and  I  do  hate  that  wicked 
Morning  Post  for  so  treating  such  a  kind,  sweet,  good-nater'd 
gentleman ! 

{Signed)     "  Baebaea. 
"  Morland's  Hotel  :  15  Jewin,  1840." 

This  is  conclusive.  Our  departed  friend  had  many  faults,  but 
he  is  gone,  and  we  will  not  discuss  them  now.  It  appears  that, 
on  the  1st  of  June,  the  Morning  Post  published  a  criticism  upon 
him,  accusing  him  of  ignorance,  bad  taste,  and  gross  partiality. 
His  gentle  and  susceptible  spirit  could  not  brook  the  rebuke ;  he 
was  not  angry  ;  he  did  not  retort ;  but  his  heart  broke  ! 

Peace  to  his  ashes  !  A  couple  of  volumes  of  his  works,  we  see 
by  our  advertisements,  are  about  immediately  to  appear. 


01}'  MEN  AND  PICTURES 

A   PEOPOS    OF   A   WALK    IN   THE   LOUVKE 

Paris  :  June  1841. 

IN  the  days  of  my  youth  I  knew  a  young  fellow  that  I  shall 
here  call  Tidbody,  and  who,  born  in  a  provincial  town  of 
respectable  parents,  had  been  considered  by  the  drawing-master 
of  the  place,  and,  indeed,  by  the  principal  tea-parties  there,  as  a 
great  genius  in  the  painting  line,  and  one  that  was  sure  to  make 
his  fortune. 

When  he  had  made  portraits  of  his  grandmother,  of  the  house- 
dog, of  the  door-knocker,  of  the  church  and  parson  of  the  place, 
and  had  copied,  tant  bien  qiie  mal,  most  of  the  prints  that  were  to 
be  found  in  the  various  houses  of  the  village,  Harry  Tidbody  was 
voted  to  be  very  nearly  perfect ;  and  his  honest  parents  laid  out 
their  little  savings  in  sending  the  lad  to  Rome  and  Paris. 

I  saw  him  in  the  latter  town  in  the  year  '32,  before  an  immense 
easel,  perched  upon  a  high  stool,  and  copying  with  perfect  com- 
placency a  Correggio  in  the  gallery,  which  he  thought  he  had 
imitated  to  a  nicety.  No '  misgivings  ever  entered  into  the  man's 
mind  that  he  was  making  an  ass  of  himself;  he  never  once  paused 
to  consider  that  his  copy  was  as  much  like  the  Correggio  as  my 
nose  is  like  the  Apollo's.  But  he  rose  early  of  mornings,  and 
scrubbed  away  all  day  with  his  macgilps  and  varnishes ;  he  worked 
away  through  cold  and  through  sunshine ;  when  other  men  were 
warming  their  fingers  at  the  stoves,  or  wisely  lounging  on  the 
Boulevard,  he  worked  away,  and  thought  he  was  cultivating  art 
in  the  purest  fashion,  and  smiled  with  easy  scorn  upon  those  who 
took  the  world  more  easily  than  he.  Tidbody  drank  water  with 
his  meals — if  meals  those  miserable  scraps  of  bread  and  cheese,  or 
bread  and  sausage,  could  be  called,  which  he  lined  his  lean  stomach 
with;  and  voted  those  persons  godless  gluttons  who  recreated 
themselves  with  brandy  and  beef.  He  rose  up  at  daybreak,  and 
worked  away  with  bladder  and  brush ;  he  passed  all  night  at  life- 
academies,  designing  life-guardsmen  with  chalk  and  stump  ;  he  never 
was  known  to  take  any  other  recreation ;  and  in  ten  years  he  had 


362  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

spent  as  much  time  over  his  drawing  as  another  man  spends  in 
thirty.  At  the  end  of  his  second  year  of  academical  studies  Harry 
Tidbody  could  draw  exactly  as  well  as  he  could  eight  years  after. 
He  had  visited  Florence,  and  Rome,  and  Venice,  in  the  interval; 
but  there  he  was  as  he  had  begun,  without  one  single  farther  idea, 
and  not  an  inch  nearer  the  goal  at  which  he  aimed. 

One  day,  at  the  Life-academy  in  Saint  Martin's  Lane,  I  saw 
before  me  the  back  of  a  shock  head  of  hair  and  a  pair  of  ragged 
elbows,  belonging  to  a  man  in  a  certain  pompous  attitude  which 
I  thought  I  recognised;  and  when  the  model  retired  behind  his 
curtain  to  take  his  ten  minutes'  repose,  the  man  belonging  to  the 
back  in  question  turned  round  a  little,  and  took  out  an  old  snuffy 
cotton  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  forehead  and  lank  cheekbones, 
that  were  moist  with  the  vast  mental  and  bodily  exertions  of  the 
night.  Harry  Tidbody  was  the  man  in  question.  In  ten  years  he 
had  spent  at  least  three  thousand  nights  in  copying  the  model. 
When  abroad,  perhaps,  he  had  passed  the  Sunday  evenings  too  in 
the  same  rigorous  and  dismal  pastime.  He  had  piles  upon  piles 
of  grey  .paper  at  his  lodgings,  covered  with  worthless  nudities  in 
black  and  white  chalk. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening  we  shook  hands,  and  I  asked  him 
how  the  arts  flourished.  The  poor  fellow,  with  a  kind  of  dismal 
humour  that  formed  a  part  of  his  character,  twirled  round  upon 
the  iron  heels  of  his  old  patched  Blucher  boots,  and  showed  me 
liis  figure  for  answer.  Such  a  lean,  long,  ragged,  fantastical- 
looking  personage,  it  would  be  hard  to  match  out  of  the  drawing- 
schools. 

"  Tit,  my  boy,''  said  he,  when  he  had  finished  his  pirouette, 
"  you  may  see  that  the  arts  have  not  fattened  me  as  yet ; 
and,  between  ourselves,  I  make  by  my  profession  something 
considerably  less  than  a  thousand  a  year.  But,  mind  you,  I 
am  not  discouraged ;  my  whole  soul  is  in  my  calling ;  I  can't  do 
anything  else  if  I  would ;  and  I  will  be  a  painter,  or  die  in  the 
attempt." 

Tidbody  is  not  dead,  I  am  happy  to  say,  but  has  a  snug  place 
in  the  Excise  of  eighty  pounds  a  year,  and  now  only  exercises  the 
pencil  as  an  amateur.  If  his  story  has  been  told  here  at  some 
length,  the  ingenious  reader  may  fancy  that  there  is  some  reason 
for  it.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  so  little  to  say  about  the  present 
exhibition  at  Paris,  that  your  humble  servant  does  not  know  how 
to  fill  his  pages  without  some  digressions ;  and,  secondly,  the 
Tidbodian  episode  has  a  certain  moral  in  it,  without  which  it 
never  would  have  been  related,  and  which  is  good  for  all  artists 
to  read. 


ON    MEN   AND    PICTURES  363 

It  came  to  my  mind  upon  examining  a  picture  of  sixty  feet  by 
forty  (indeed,  it  cannot  be  much  smaller),  which  takes  up  a  good 
deal  of  space  in  the  large  room  of  the  Louvre.  But  of  this  picture 
anon.     Let  us  come  to  the  general  considerations. 

Why  the  deuce  will  men  make  light  of  that  golden  gift  of 
mediocrity  which  for  the  most  part  they  possess,  and  strive  so 
absurdly  at  the  sublime  1  What  is  it  that  makes  a  fortune  in  this 
world  but  energetic  mediocrity?  What  is  it  that  is  so  respected 
and  prosperous  as  good,  honest,  emphatic,  blundering  dulness, 
bellowing  commonplaces  with  its  great  healthy  lungs,  kicking  and 
struggling  with  its  big  feet  and  fists,  and  bringing  an  awe-stricken 
public  down  on  its  knees  before  it?  Think,  my  good  sir,  of  the 
people  who  occupy  your  attention  and  the  world's.  Who  are 
they  ?  Upon  your  honour  and  conscience  now,  are  they  not  persons 
with  thews  and  sinews  like  your  own,  only  they  use  them  with 
somewhat  more  activity — with  a  voice  like  yours,  only  they  shout 
a  little  louder — with  the  average  portion  of  brains,  in  fact,  but 
working  them  more  ?  But  this  kind  of  disbelief  in  heroes  is  very 
offensive  to  the  world,  it  must  be  confessed.  There,  now,  is  the 
Times  newspaper,  which  the  other  day  rated  your  humble  servant 
for  publishing  an  account  of  one  of  the  great  humbugs  of  modern 
days,  viz.  the  late  funeral  of  Napoleon — which  rated  me,  I  say,  and 
talked  in  its  own  grave  roaring  way  about  the  flippancy  and  conceit 
of  Titmarsh. 

0  you  thundering  old  Times !  Napoleon's  funeral  was  a 
humbug,  and  your  constant  reader  said  so.  The  people  engaged 
in  it  were  humbugs,  and  this  your  Michael  Angelo  hinted  at. 
There  may  be  irreverence  in  this,  and  the  process  of  humbug- 
hunting  may  end  rather  awkwardly  for  some  people.  But,  surely, 
there  is  no  conceit.  The  shamming  of  modesty  is  the  most  pert 
conceit  of  all,  the  precieuse  affectation  of  deference  where  you  don't 
feel  it,  the  sneaking  acquiescence  in  lies.  It  is  very  hard  that  a 
man  may  not  tell  the  truth  as  he  fancies  it,  without  being  accused 
of  conceit :  but  so  the  world  wags.  As  has  already  been  prettily 
shown  in  that  before-mentioned  little  book  about  Napoleon,  that 
is  still  to  be  had  of  the  publishers,  there  is  a  ballad  in  the  volume, 
which,  if  properly  studied,  will  be  alone  worth  two-and-sixpence 
to  any  man. 

Well,  the  funeral  of  Napoleon  was  a  humbug;  and,  being  so, 
what  was  a  man  to  call  it  ?  What  do  we  call  a  rose  ?  Is  it  dis- 
respectful to  the  pretty  flower  to  call  it  by  its  own  innocent  name  ? 
And,  in  like  manner,  are  we  bound,  out  of  respect  for  society,  to 
speak  of  humbug  only  in  a  circumlocutory  way — to  call  it  some- 
thing else,  as  they  say  some  Indian  people  do  their  devil — to  wrap 


364  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

it  up  in   riddles   and   charades?     Nothing  is   easier.     Take,  for 
instance,  the  following  couple  of  sonnets  on  the  subject : — 

The  glad  spring  sun  shone  yesterday,  as  Mr. 

M.  Titmarsh  wandered  with  his  favourite  lassie 

By  silver  Seine,  among  the  meadows  grassy 
— Meadows,  like  mail-coach  guards  new  clad  at  Easter. 

Fair  was  the  sight  'twixt  Neuilly  and  Passy ;. 
And  green  the  iield,  and  bright  the  river's  glister. 

The  birds  sang  salutations  to  the  spring ; 

Already  buds  and  leaves  from  branches  burst: 

' '  The  surly  winter  time  hath  done  its  worst," 
Said  Michael ;  "  Lo,  the  bees  are  on  the  wing !  " 
Then  on  the  ground  his  lazy  limbs  did  fling. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  pass'd  by  him  with  my  first. 
My  second  dare  I  to  your  notice  bring, 

Or  name  to  delicate  ears  that  animal  accurst  ? 


To  all  our  earthly  family  of  fools 

My  whole,  resistless  despot,  gives  the  law — 

Humble  and  great,  we  kneel  to  it  with  awe ; 
O'er  camp  and  court,  the  senate  and  the  schools, 
Our  grand  invisible  Lama  sits  and  rules. 

By  ministers  that  are  its  men  of  straw. 
Sir  Robert  utters  it  in  place  of  wit, 

And  straight  the  Opposition  shouts  "Hear,  hear  !" 

And,  oh  !  but  all  the  Whiggish  benches  cheer 
When  great  Lord  John  retorts  it,  as  is  fit. 

In  you,  my  Pre&8*  each  day  throughout  the  year, 
On  vast  broad  sheets  we  find  its  praises  writ. 

0  wondrous  are  the  columns  that  you  rear, 
And  sweet  the  morning  hymns  you  roar  in  praise  of  it ! 

Sacred  word  !  it  is  kept  out  of  the  dictionaries,  as  if  the  great 
compilers  of  those  publications  were  afraid  to  utter  it.     Well,  then, 

*  The  reader  can  easily  accommodate  this  line  to  the  name  of  his  favourite 
paper.     Thus : — 

"  In  you,  my  i  •£*™«s>  1  eaiaii  day  throughout  the  year." 
( Post,     ) 
Or:— 

"In  you,  my  |  Berald,  1   j^jjy  t^rougj^  the  year." 

Or,  in  Trance  : — 

"In  you,  my  Galignani' s  Messengere ; " 

a  capital  paper,  because  you  have  there  the  very  cream  of  all  the  others.  In 
the  last  line,  for  "  morning  "  you  can  read  " evening,"  or  "  weekly,"  as  circum- 
stances prompt. 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTURES  365 

the  funeral  of  Napoleon  was  a  humbug,  as  Titmarsh  wrote ;  and 
a  still  better  proof  that  it  was  a  humbug  was  this,  that  nobody 
bought  Titmarsh's  book,  and  of  the  10,000  copies  made  ready  by 
the  publisher  not  above  3000  went  off.  It  was  a  humbug,  and 
an  exploded  humbug.  Peace  be  to  it !  Parlous  d'autres  choses  ; 
and  let  us  begin  to  discourse  about  the  pictures  without  further 
shilly-shally. 

I  must  confess,  with  a  great  deal  of  shame,  that  I  love  to  go 
to  the  picture  gallery  of  a  Sunday  after  church,  on  purpose  to  see 
the  thousand  happy  people  of  the  working  sort  amusing  themselves 
— not  very  wickedly,  as  I  fancy — on  the  only  day  in  the  week  on 
which  they  have  their  freedom.  Genteel  people,  who  can  amuse 
themselves  every  day  throughout  the  year,  do  not  frequent  the 
Louvre  on  a  Sunday.  You  can't  see  the  pictures  well,  and  are 
pushed  and  elbowed  by  all  sorts  of  low-bred  creatures.  Yesterday 
there  were  at  the  very  least  two  hundred  common  soldiers  in  the 
place — little  vulgar  rufiSans,  with  red  breeches  and  three-halfpence 
a  day,  examining  the  pictures  in  company  with  fifteen  hundred 
grisettes,  two  thousand  liberated  shojj-boys,  eighteen  hundred  and 
forty-one  artist-apprentices,  half-a-dozen  of  livery  servants,  and 
many  scores  of  feUows  with  caps,  and  jackets,  and  copper-coloured 
countenances,  and  gold  earrings,  and  large  ugly  hands,  that  are 
hammering,  or  weaving,  or  filing,  all  the  week.  Fi  done  !  what 
a  thing  it  is  to  have  a  taste  for  low  company  !  Every  man  of 
decent  breeding  ought  to  have  been  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  in 
white  kid  gloves  and  on  horseback  or  on  hackback  at  least.  How 
the  dandies  just  now  went  prancing  and  curvetting  down  the 
Champs  Elys^es,  making  their  horses  jump  as  they  passed  the 
carriages,  with  their  japanned  boots  glittering  in  the  sunshine  ! 

The  fountains  were  flashing  and  foaming,  as  if  they  too  were 
in  their  best  for  Sunday ;  the  trees  are  covered  all  over  with  little 
twinkling  bright  green  sprouts;  numberless  exhibitions  of  Punch 
and  the  Fantoccini  are  going  on  beneath  them;  and  jugglers  and 
balancers  are  entertaining  the  people  with  their  pranks.  I  met 
two  fellows  the  other  day,  one  with  a  barrel-organ,  and  the  other 
with  a  beard,  a  turban,  a  red  jacket,  and  a  pair  of  dirty,  short, 
spangled,  white  trousers,  who  were  cursing  each  other  in  the  purest 
Saint  Giles's  English ;  and  if  I  had  had  impudence  or  generosity 
enough,  I  should  have  liked  to  make  up  their  quarrel  over  a  chopine 
of  Strasburg  beer,  and  hear  the  histories  of  either.  Think  of  these 
fellows  quitting  our  beloved  country,  and  their  homes  in  some  calm 
nook  of  Field  Lane  or  Seven  Dials,  and  toiling  over  to  France  with 
their  music  and  their  juggling-traps,  to  balance  cart-wheels  and 
swallow  knives  for  the  amusement  of  our  natural  enemies !     They 


366  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

are  very  likely  at  work  at  this  minute,  with  grinning  bonnes  and 
conscripts  staring  at  their  skill.  It  is  pleasant  to  walk  by  and  see 
the  nurses  and  the  children  so  uproariously  happy.  Yonder  is  one 
who  has  got  a  halfpenny  to  give  to  the  beggar  at  the  crossing; 
several  are  riding  gravely  in  little  carriages  drawn  by  goats.  Ah, 
truly,  the  sunshine  is  a  fine  thing ;  and  one  loves  to  see  the  little 
people  and  the  poor  basking  in  it,  as  well  as  the  great  in  their 
fine  carriages,  or  their  prancing  cock-tailed  horses. 

In  the  midst  of  sights  of  this  kind,  you  pass  on  a  fine  Sunday 
afternoon  down  the  Elysian  Fields  and  the  Tuileries,  until  you 
reach  the  before-mentioned  low-bred  crowd  rushing  into  the  Louvre. 

Well,  then,  the  pictures  of  this  exliibition  are  to  be  numbered 
by  thousands,  and  these  thousands  contain  the  ordinary  number  of 
chefs-d'oeuvre ;  that  is  to  say,  there  may  be  a  couple  of  works  of 
genius,  half-a-dozen  very  clever  performances,  a  hundred  or  so  of 
good  ones,  fifteen  hundred  very  decent,  good,  or  bad  pictures,  and 
the  remainder  atrocious.  What  a  comfort  it  is,  as  I  have  often 
thought,  that  they  are  not  all  masterpieces,  and  that  there  is  a 
good  stock  of  mediocrity  in  this  world,  and  that  we  only  light  upon 
genius  now  and  then,  at  rare  angel  intervals,  handed  round  like 
tokay  at  dessert,  in  a  few  houses,  and  in  very  small  quantities 
only !  Fancy  how  sick  one  would  grow  of  it,  if  one  had  no  other 
drink. 

Now,  in  this  exhibition  there  are,  of  course,  a  certain  number 
of  persons  who  make  believe  that  they  are  handing  you  round 
tokay — giving  you  the  real  imperial  stuff,  vrith  the  seal  of  genius 
stamped  on  the  cork.  There  are  numbers  of  ambitious  pictures, 
in  other  words,  cliiefly  upon  sacred  subjects,  and  in  what  is  called 
a  severe  style  of  art. 

The  severe  style  of  art  consists  in  drawing  your  figures  in  the 
first  place  very  big  and  very  neat,  in  which  there  is  no  harm ;  and 
in  dressing  them  chiefly  in  stiflf,  crisp,  old-fashioned  draperies,  such 
as  one  sees  in  the  illuminated  missals  and  the  old  masters.  The 
old  masters,  no  doubt,  copied  the  habits  of  the  people  about  them ; 
and  it  has  always  appeared  as  absurd  to  me  to  imitate  these  antique 
costumes,  and  to  dress  up  saints  and  virgins  after  the  fashion  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  as  it  would  be  to  adorn  them  with  hoops  and  red 
heels  such  as  our  grandmothers  wore ;  and  to  make  a  Magdalen, 
for  instance,  taking  off  her  patches,  or  an  angel  in  powder  and  a 
hoop. 

It  is,  or  used  to  be,  the  custom  at  the  theatres  for  the  grave- 
digger  in  "  Hamlet "  always  to  wear  fifteen  or  sixteen  waistcoats,  of 
which  he  leisurely  divested  himself,  the  audience  roaring  at  each 
change  of  raiment.     Do  the  Denmark  gravediggers  always  wear 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTURES  367 

fifteen  waistcoats?  Let  anybody  answer  who  has  visited  the 
country.  But  the  probability  is  that  the  custom  on  the  stage  is  a 
very  ancient  one,  and  that  the  public  would  not  be  satisfied  at  a 
departure  from  the  legend.  As  in  the  matters  of  gravediggers,  so 
it  is  with  angels  :  they  have — and  Heaven  knows  why — a  regular 
costume,  which  every  "  serious  "  painter  follows ;  and  which  has 
a  great  deal  more  to  do  with  serious  art  than  people  at  first  may 
imagine.  They  have  large  white  wings,  that  fill  up  a  quarter  of 
the  picture  in  which  they  have  the  good  fortune  to  be ;  they  have 
white  gowns  that  fall  round  their  feet  in  pretty  fantastical  draperies  ; 
they  have  fillets  round  their  brows,  and  their  hair  combed  and 
neatly  pomatumed  down  the  middle ;  and  if  they  have  not  a  sword, 
have  an  elegant  portable  harp  of  a  certain  angelic  shape.  Large 
rims  of  gold  leaf  they  have  round  their  heads  always, — a  pretty 
business  it  would  be  if  such  adjuncts  were  to  be  left  out. 

Now,  suppose  the  legend  ordered  that  every  gravedigger  should 
be  represented  with  a  gold-leaf  halo  round  his  head,  and  every  angel 
with  fifteen  waistcoats,  artists  would  have  followed  serious  art  just 
as  they  do  now  most  probably,  and  looked  with  scorn  at  the  miser- 
able creature  who  ventured  to  scoff  at  the  waistcoats.  Ten  to  one 
but  a  certain  newspaper  would  have  called  a  man  flippant  who  did 
not  respect  the  waistcoats — would  have  said  that  he  was  irreverent 
for  not  worshipping  the  waistcoats.*  But  why  talk  of  if?  The 
fact  is  I  have  rather  a  desire  to  set  up  for  a  martyr,  like  my 
neighbours  in  the  literary  trade:  it  is  not  a  little  comforting  to 
undergo  such  persecutions  courageously.  "  O  Socrate  !  je  boirai  la 
eigne  avec  toi ! "  as  David  said  to  Robespierre.  You  too  were 
accused  of  blasphemy  in  your  time ;  and  the  world  has  been  treat- 
ing us  poor  literary  gents  in  the  same  way  ever  since.  There,  now, 
is  Bulw 

But  to  return  to  the  painters.  In  the  matter  of  canvas  cover- 
ing the  French  artists  are  a  great  deal  more  audacious  than  ours ; 
and  I  have  known  a  man  starve  all  the  winter  through,  without 
fire  and  without  Tseef,  in  order  that  he  might  have  the  honour  of 
filling  five-and-twenty  feet  square  of  canvas  with  some  favourite 
subject  of  his. 

It  is  curious  to  look  through  the  collection,  and  see  how  for 
the  most  part  the  men  draw  their  ideas.  There  are  caricatures 
of  the  late  and  early  style  of  Raphael ;  there  are  caricatures  of 
Masaccio ;  there  is  a  picture  painted  in  the  very  pyramidical  form, 

*  Last  year,  when  our  friend  published  some  article  in  this  Magazine 
[Fraaer^s  Magazine],  he  seemed  to  be  agitated  almost  to  madness  by  a 
criticism,  and  a  very  just  one  too,  which  appeared  in  the  Mornmg  Post.  At 
present  he  is  similarly  affected  by  some  strictures  on  a  defunct  work  of  his. 


368  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

and  in  the  manner  of  Andrea  del  Sarto ;  there  is  a  Holy  Family, 
the  exact  counterpart  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  and,  finally,  there  is 
Achille  Deveria — it  is  no  use  to  give  the  names  and  numbers  of 
the  other  artists,  who  are  not  known  in  England — there  is  Achille 
Deveria,  who,  having  nothing  else  to  caricature,  has  caricatured  a 
painted  window,  and  designed  a  Charity,  of  which  all  the  outlines 
are  half  an  inch  thick. 

Then  there  are  numberless  caricatures  in  colour  as  in  form. 
There  is  a  Violet  Entombment — a  crimson  one,  a  green  one;  a 
light  emerald  and  gamboge  Eve;  all  huge  pictures,  with  talent 
enough  in  their  composition,  but  remarkable  for  this  strange  mad 
love  of  extravagance,  which  belongs  to  the  nation.  Titian  and  the 
Venetians  have  loved  to  paint  lurid  skies  and  sunsets  of  purple  and 
gold :  here,  in  consequence,  is  a  piebald  picture  of  crimson  and 
yellow,  laid  on  in  streaks  from  the  top  to  the  bottom. 

Who  has  not  heard  a  great,  comfortable,  big-chested  man,  with 
bands  round  a  sleek  double  chin,  and  fat  white  cushion-squeezers  of 
hands,  and  large  red  whiskers,  and  a  soft  roaring  voice,  the  delight 
of  a  congregation,  preaching  for  an  hour  with  all  the  appearance  and 
twice  the  emphasis  of  piety,  and  leading  audiences  captive  ?  And 
who  has  not  seen  a  humble  individual,  who  is  quite  confused 
to  be  conducted  down  the  aisle  by  the  big  beadle  with  his  silver 
staff  (the  stalwart  "drum-major  ecclesiastic");  and  when  in  his 
pulpit,  saying  his  say  in  the  simplest  manner  possible,  uttering 
what  are  very  likely  commonplaces,  without  a  single  rhetorical 
grace  or  emphasis  ? 

The  great,  comfortable,  red-whiskered,  roaring  cushion-thumper 
is  most  probably  the  favourite  with  the  public.  But  there  are 
some  persons  who,  nevertheless,  prefer  to  listen  to  the  man  of  timid 
mild  commonplaces,  because  the  simple  words  he  speaks  come  from 
his  heart,  and  so  find  a  way  directly  to  yours ;  where,  if  perhaps 
you  can't  find  belief  for  them,  you  still  are  sure  to  receive  them 
with  respect  and  sympathy. 

There  are  many  such  professors  at  the  easel  as  well  as  the 
pulpit ;  and  you  see  many  painters  with  a  great  vigour  and  dexterity, 
and  no  sincerity  of  heart ;  some  with  little  dexterity,  but  plenty 
of  sincerity ;  some  one  or  two  in  a  million  who  have  both  these 
qualities,  and  thus  become  the  great  men  of  their  art.  I  think 
there  are  instances  of  the  two  former  kinds  in  this  present  exhibition 
of  the  Louvre.  There  are  fellows  who  have  covered  great  swaggering 
canvases  with  all  the  attitudes  and  externals  of  piety ;  and  some 
few  whose  humble  pictures  cause  no  stir,  and  remain  in  quiet  nooks, 
where  one  finds  them,  and  straightway  acknowledges  the  simple 
kindly  appeal  which  they  make. 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTURES  369 

Of  such  an  order  is  the  picture  entitled  "La  Prifere,"  by- 
Monsieur  Trimolet.  A  man  and  his  wife  are  lineeling  at  an  old- 
fashioned  praying-desk,  and  the  woman  clasps  a  little  sickly-looking 
child  in  her  arms,  and  all  three  are  praying  as  earnestly  as  their 
simple  hearts  will  let  them.  The  man  is  a  limner,  or  painter  of 
missals,  by  trade,  as  we  fancy.  One  of  his  works  lies  upon  the 
praying-desk,  and  it  is  evident  that  he  can  paint  no  more  that  day, 
for  the  sun  is  just  set  behind  the  old-fashioned  roofs  of  the  houses 
in  the  narrow  street  of  the  old  city  where  he  lives.  Indeed,  I  have 
had  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  looking  at  this  little  quiet  painting, 
and  in  the  course  of  half-a-dozen  visits  that  I  have  paid  to  it,  have 
become  perfectly  acquainted  with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  life  of 
the  honest  missal  illuminator  and  his  wife,  here  praying  at  the  end 
of  their  day's  work  in  the  calm  summer  evening. 

Very  likely  Monsieur  Trimolet  has  quite  a  different  history  for 
his  little  personages,  and  so  has  everybody  else  who  examines  the 
picture.  But  what  of  that?  There  is  the  privilege  of  pictures. 
A  man  does  not  know  all  that  lies  in  his  picture,  any  more  than  he 
understands  all  the  character  of  his  children.  Directly  one  or  the 
other  makes  its  appearance  in  the  world,  it  has  its  own  private 
existence,  independent  of  the  progenitor.  And  in  respect  of  works 
of  art,  if  the  same  piece  inspire  one  man  with  joy  that  fills  another 
with  compassion,  what  are  we  to  say  of  it,  but  that  it  has  sundry 
properties  of  its  own  which  its  author  even  does  not  understand  ? 
The  fact  is,  pictures  "are  as  they  seem  to  all,"  as  Mr.  Alfred 
Tennyson  sings  in  the  first  volume  of  his  poems. 

Some  of  this  character  of  holiness  and  devotion  that  I  fancy  I 
see  in  Monsieur  Trimolet's  pictures  is  likewise  observable  in  a  piece 
by  Madame  Juillerat,  representing  Saint  Elizabeth,  of  Hungary, 
leading  a  little  beggar-boy  into  her  house,  where  the  holy  dame  of 
Hungary  will,  no  doubt,  make  him  comfortable  with  a  good  plate 
of  victuals.  A  couple  of  young  ladies  follow  behind  the  princess, 
with  demure  looks,  and  garlands  in  their  hair,  that  hangs  straight 
on  their  shoulders,  as  one  sees  it  in  the  old  illuminations.  The 
whole  picture  has  a  pleasant,  mystic,  innocent  look ;  and  one  is  all 
the  better  for  regarding  it.  What  a  fiiie  instinct  or  taste  it  was 
in  the  old  missal  illuminators  to  be  so  particular  in  the  painting  of 
the  minor  parts  of  their  pictures  !  the  precise  manner  in  which  the 
flowers  and  leaves,  birds  and  branches,  are  painted,  gives  an  air  of 
truth  and  simplicity  to  the  whole  performance,  and  makes  nature, 
as  it  were,  an  accomplice  and  actor  in  the  scene  going  on.  For 
instance,  you  may  look  at  a  landscape  with  certain  feelings  of 
pleasure ;  but  if  you  have  pulled  a  rose,  and  are  smelling  it,  and 
if  of  a  sudden  a  blackbird  in  a  bush  hard  by  begins  to  sing  and 


370  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

chirrup,  your  feeling  of  pleasure  is  very  much  enhanced  most  likely ; 
the  senses  with  which  you  examine  the  scene  become  brightened  as 
it  were,  and  the  scene  itself  becomes  more  agreeable  to  you.  It  is 
not  the  same  place  as  it  was  before  you  smelt  the  rose,  or  before 
the  blackbird  began  to  sing.  Now,  in  Madame  Juillerat's  picture 
of  the  Saint  of  Hungary  and  the  hungry  boy,  if  the  flowers  on  the 
young  ladies'  heads  had  been  omitted,  or  not  painted  with  their 
pleasing  minuteness  and  circumstantiality,  I  fancy  that  the  eflFect  of 
the  piece  would  have  been  by  no  means  the  same.  Another  artist 
of  the  mystical  school,  Monsieur  Servan,  has  employed  the  same 
adjuncts  in  a  similarly  successful  manner.  One  of  his  pictures 
represents  Saint  Augustin  meditating  in  a  garden ;  a  great  cluster 
of  rose-bushes,  hollyhocks,  and  other  plants  is  in  the  foreground, 
most  accurately  delineated ;  and  a  fine  rich  landscape  and  river 
stretch  behind  the  saint,  round  whom  the  flowers  seem  to  keep  up 
a  mysterious  waving  and  whispering  that  fill  one  with  a  sweet, 
pleasing,  indescribable  kind  of  awe — a  great  perfection  in  this  style 
of  painting. 

In  Monsieur  Aguado's  gallery  there  is  an  early  Raphael  (which 
all  the  world  declares  to  be  a  copy,  but  no  matter).  This  piece 
only  represents  two  young  people  walking  hand-in-hand  in  a  garden, 
and  looking  at  you  with  a  kind  of  "  solemn  mirth  "  (the  expression 
of  old  Sternhold  and  Hopkins  has  always  struck  me  as  very  fine). 
A  meadow  is  behind  them,  at  the  end  of  which  is  a  cottage,  and  by 
which  flows  a  river,  environed  by  certain  very  prim-looking  trees ; 
and  that  is  all.  Well ;  it  is  impossible  for  any  person  who  has  a 
sentiment  for  the  art  to  look  at  this  picture  without  feeling  inde- 
scribably moved  and  pleased  by  it.  It  acts  upon  you — how  ?  How 
does  a  beautiful,  pious,  tender  air  of  Mozart  act  upon  you  ?  What 
is  there  in  it  that  should  make  you  happy  and  gentle,  and  fill  you 
with  all  sorts  of  good  thoughts  and  kindly  feelings?  I  fear  that 
what  Doctor  Thumpcushion  says  at  church  is  correct,  and  that  these 
indulgences  are  only  carnal,  and  of  the  earth  earthy ;  but  the  sensual 
effort  in  this  case  carries  one  quite  away  fi-om  the  earth,  and  up  to 
something  that  is  very  like  heaven. 

Now  the  writer  of  this  has  already  been  severely  reprehended 
for  saying  that  Raphael  at  thirty  had  lost  that  delightful  innocence 
and  purity  which  rendered  the  works  of  Raphael  of  twenty  so  divine ; 
and  perhaps  it  may  be  the  critic's  fault,  and  not  the  painter's  (I'm 
not  proud,  and  will  allow  that  even  a  magazine  critic  may  be  mis- 
taken). Perhaps  by  the  greatest  stretch  of  the  perhaps,  it  may  be 
that  Raphael  was  every  whit  as  divine  at  thirty  as  at  eighteen ;  and 
that  the  very  quaintnesses  and  imperfections  of  manner  observable 
in  his  early  works  are  the  reasons  why  they  appear  so  singularly 


ON   MEN    AND    PICTUEES  371 

pleasing  to  me.  At  least  among  painters  of  the  present  day,  I  feel 
myself  more  disposed  to  recognise  spiritual  beauties  in  those  whose 
powers  of  execution  are  manifestly  incomplete,  than  in  artists  whose 
hands  are  skilful  and  manner  formed.  Thus  there  are  scores  of  large 
pictures  here,  hanging  in  the  Louvre,  that  represent  subjects  taken 
from  Holy  Writ,  or  from  the  lives  of  the  saints,— pictures  skilfully 
enough  painted  and  intended  to  be  religious,  that  have  not  the 
slightest  eflFect  upon  me,  no  more  than  Doctor  Thumpcushion's 
loudest  and  glibbest  sermon. 

Here  is  No.  1475,  for  instance— a  "  Holy  Family,"  painted  in 
the  antique  manner,  and  with  all  the  accessories  before  spoken  of, 
viz.  large  flowers,  fresh  roses,  and  white  stately  lilies;  curling 
tendrils  of  vines  forming  fantastical  canopies  for  the  heads  of  the 
sacred  personages,  and  rings  of  gold-leaf  drawn  neatly  roimd  the 
same.  Here  is  the  Vii^gin,  with  long,  stifl;  prim  draperies  of  blue, 
red,  and  white ;  and  old  Saint  Anne  in  a  sober  dress,  seated  gravely 
at  her  side ;  and  Saint  Joseph  in  a  becoming  attitude ;  and  all  very 
cleverly  treated,  and  pleasing  to  the  eye.  But  though  this  picture 
is  twice  as  well  painted  as  any  of  those  before  mentioned,  it  does 
not  touch  my  heart  in  the  least;  nor  do  any  of  the  rest  of  the 
sacred  pieces.  Opposite  the  "  Holy  Family  "  is  a  great  "  Martyrdom 
of  Polycarp,"  and  the  catalogue  tells  you  how  the  executioners  first 
tried  to  burn  the  saint ;  but  the  fire  went  out,  and  the  executioners 
were  knocked  down ;  then  the  soldier  struck  the  saint  with  a  sword, 
and  so  killed  him.  The  legends  recount  numerous  miracles  of  this 
sort,  which  I  confess  have  not  any  very  edifying  efiect  upon  me. 
Saints  are  clapped  into  boiling  oil,  which  immediately  turns  cool ; 
or  their  heads  are  chopped  ofij  and  their  blood  turns  to  milk ;  and 
so  on.  One  can't  understand  why  these  continual  delays  and  disap- 
pointments take  place,  especially  as  the  martyr  is  always  killed  at 
the  end ;  so  that  it  would  be  best  at  once  to  put  him  out  of  his 
pain.  For  this  reason,  possibly,  the  execution  of  Saint  Polycarp 
did  not  properly  afiect  the  writer  of  this  notice. 

Monsieur  Laemlein  has  a  good  picture  of  the  "Waking  of 
Adam,"  so  royally  described  by  Milton,  a  picture  full  of  gladness, 
vigour,  and  sunshine.  There  is  a  very  fine  figure  of  a  weeping 
woman  in  a  picture  of  the  "  Death  of  the  Virgin  " ;  and  the  Virgin 
falling  in  Monsieur  Steuben's  picture  of  "  Our  Saviour  going  to 
Execution"  is  very  pathetic.  The  mention  of  this  gentleman 
brings  us  to  what  is  called  the  bourgeois  style  of  art,  of  which 
he  is  one  of  the  chief  professors.  He  excels  in  depicting  a  certain 
kind  of  Sentiment,  and  in  the  vulgar,  which  is  often  too  the  true, 
pathetic. 

Steuben  has  painted  many  scores  of  Napoleons ;  and  his  picture 


372  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

of  Napoleon  this  year  brings  numbers  of  admiring  people  round 
it.  The  Emperor  is  seated  on  a  sofa,  reading  despatches ;  and  the 
little  King  of  Rome,  in  a  white  muslin  frock,  with  his  hair  beauti- 
fully curled,  slumbers  on  his  papa's  knee.  What  a  contrast !  The 
conqueror  of  the  world,  the  stern  warrior,  the  great  giver  of  laws 
and  ruler  of  nations,  he  dare  not  move  because  the  little  baby 
is  asleep ;  and  he  would  not  disturb  him  for  all  the  kingdoms  he 
knows  so  well  how  to  conquer.  This  is  not  art,  if  you  please ;  but 
it  is  pleasant  to  see  fat  good-natured  mothers  and  grandmothers 
clustered  round  this  picture,  and  looking  at  it  with  solemn  eyes. 
The  same  painter  has  an  Esmeralda  dancing  and  frisking  in  her 
nightgown,  and  playing  the  tambourine  to  her  goat,  capering 
likewise.  This  picture  is  so  delightfully  bad,  the  little  gipsy  has 
such  a  killing  ogle,  that  all  the  world  admires  it.  Monsijeur 
Steuben  should  send  it  to  London,  where  it  would  be  sure  of  a 
gigantic  success. 

Monsieur  Grenier  has  a  piece  much  looked  at,  in  the  bourgeois 
line.  Some  rogues  of  gipsies,  or  mountebanks,  have  kidnapped  a 
iine  fat  child,  and  are  stripping  it  of  its  pretty  clothes ;  and  poor 
baby  is  crying;  and  the  gipsy-woman  holding  up  her  finger,  and 
threatening ;  and  the  he-mountebank  is  lying  on  a  bank,  smoking 
his  pipe, — the  callous  monster  !  Preciously  they  will  ill-treat  that 
dear  little  darling,  if  justice  do  not  overtake  them, — if,  ay,  if. 
But,  thank  Heaven  !  there  in  the  corner  come  the  police,  and  they 
will  have  that  pipe-smoking  scoundrel  off  to  the  galleys  before  five 
minutes  are  over. 

1056.  A  picture  of  the  galleys.  Two  galley-slaves  are  before 
you,  and  the  piece  is  called  "  A  Crime  and  a  Fault."  The  poor 
"  Fault "  is  sitting  on  a  stone,  looking  very  repentant  and  unhappy 
indeed.  The  great  "  Crime "  stands  grinning  you  in  the  face, 
smoking  his  pipe.  The  ruffian  !  That  pipe  seems  to  be  a  great 
mark  of  callosity  in  ruffians.  I  heard  one  man  whisper  to 
another,  as  they  were  looking  at  these  galley-slaves,  "  They  are 
portraits"  and  very  much  affected  his  companion  seemed  by  the 
information. 

Of  a  similar  virtuous  interest  is  705,  by  Monsieur  Finart, 
"  A  Family  of  African  Colonists  carried  off  by  Abd-el-Kader." 
There  is  the  poor  male  colonist  without  a  single  thing  on  but  a 
rope  round  his  wrists.  His  silver  skin  is  dabbled  with  his  golden 
blood,  and  he  looks  up  to  heaven  as  the  Arabs  are  poking  him 
on  with  the  tips  of  their  horrid  spears.  Behind  him  come  his 
flocks  and  herds,  and  other  members  of  his  family.  In  front, 
principal  figure,  is  his  angelic  wife,  in  her  nightgown,  and  in  the 
arms  of  an  odious  blackamoor  on  horseback.     Poor  thing — poor 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTURES  373 

thing!  she  is  kicking,  and  struggling,   and  resisting  as  hard  as 
she  possibly  can. 

485.     "  The  Two  Friends."     Debay. 

"Deux  jeunes  femmes  se  donnent  le  gage  le  plus  sacr^  d'une 
amitid  sincere,  dans  un  acte  de  ddvoHment  et  de  reconnaissance. 

"  L'une  d'elles,  faible,  extfoufe  d'efforts  inutilement  tenths  pour 
allaiter,  d&ouvre  son  sein  tari,  cause  du  ddpdrissement  de  son 
enfant.  Sa  douleur  est  comprise  par  son  amie,  k  qui  la  santd  permet 
d'ajouter  au  bonheur  de  nourrir  son  propre  enfant,  celui  de  rappeler 
k  la  vie  le  fils  mourant  de  sa  compagne." 

Monsieur  Debay's  pictures  are  not  bad,  as  most  of  the  others 
here  mentioned  as  appertaining  to  the  bourgeois  class ;  but,  good 
or  bad,  I  can't  but  own  that  I  like  to  see  these  honest  hearty 
representations,  which  work  upon  good  simple  feeling  in  a  good 
downright  way ;  and  if  not  works  of  art,  are  certainly  works  that 
can  do  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  make  honest  people  happy.  Who 
is  the  man  that  despises  melodramas  ?  I  swear  that  T.  P.  Cooke 
is  a  benefactor  to  mankind.  Away  with  him  who  has  no  stomach  for 
such  kind  of  entertainments,  where  vice  is  always  punished,  where 
virtue  always  meets  its  reward ;  where  Mrs.  James  Vining  is  always 
sure  to  be  made  comfortable  somewhere  at  the  end  of  the  third  act ; 
and  if  0.  Smith  is  lying  in  agonies  of  death,  in  red  breeches,  on  the 
front  of  the  stage,  or  has  just  gone  off  in  a  flash  of  fire  down  one  of 
the  traps,  I  know  it  is  only  make-believe  on  his  part,  and  believe  him 
to  be  a  good  kind-hearted  fellow,  that  would  not  do  harm  to  mortal ! 
So  much  for  pictures  of  the  serious  melodramatic  sort. 

Monsieur  Biard,  whose  picture  of  the  "  Slave-trade "  made  so 
much  noise  in  London  last  year — and  indeed  it  is  as  fine  as  Hogarth 
— has  this  year  many  comic  pieces,  and  a  series  representing  the 
present  Majesty  of  France  when  Duke  of  Orleans,  undergoing  various 
perils  by  land  and  by  water.  There  is  much  good  in  these  pieces ; 
but  I  mean  no  disrespect  in  saying  I  like  the  comic  ones  best. 
There  is  one  entitled  "Une  Distraction."  A  National  Guard  is 
amusing  himself  by  catching  flies.  You  can't  fail  to  laugh  when 
you  see  it.  There  is  "  Le  Gros  Pdchd,"  and  the  biggest  of  all  sins, 
no  less  than  a  drum-major  confessing.  You  can't  see  the  monster's 
face,  which  the  painter  has  wisely  hidden  behind  the  curtain,  as 
beyond  the  reach  of  art ;  but  you  see  the  priest's,  and,  murder ! 
what  a  sin  it  must  be  that  the  big  tambour  has  just  imparted 
to  him !  All  the  French  critics  sneer  at  Biard,  as  they  do  at 
Paul  de  Kock,  for  not  being  artistical  enough;  but  I  do  not 
think  these  gentlemen  need  mind  the  sneer ;  they  have  the  millions 


374  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

with  them,  as  Feargus  O'Connor  says,  and  they  are  good  judges, 
after  all. 

A  great  comfort  it  is  to  think  that  there  is  a  reasonable  prospect 
that,  for  the  future,  very  few  more  battle-pieces  will  be  painted. 
They  have  used  up  all  the  victories,  and  Versailles  is  almost  full. 
So  this  year,  much  to  my  happiness,  only  a  few  yards  of  warlike 
canvas  are  exhibited  in  place  of  the  furlongs  which  one  was  called 
upon  to  examine  in  former  exhibitions.  One  retreat  from  Moscow 
is  there,  and  one  storming  of  El  Gibbet,  or  El  Arish,  or  some  such 
place  in  Africa.  In  the  latter  picture,  you  see  a  thousand  fellows, 
in  loose  red  pantaloons,  rushing  up  a  hill  with  base  heathen  Turks 
on  the  top,  who  are  firing  off  guns,  carabines,  and  other  pieces  of 
ordnance,  at  them.  All  this  is  very  well  painted  by  Monsieur 
BoUange,  and  the  rush  of  red  breeches  has  a  queer  and  pleasing 
effect.  In  the  Russian  piece,  you  have  frozen  men  and  cattle; 
mothers  embracing  their  offspring;  grenadiers  scowling  at  the 
enemy,  and  especially  one  fellow  standing  on  a  bank  with  his 
bayonet  placed  in  the  attitude  for  receiving  the  charge,  and  actually 
charged  by  a  whole  regiment  of  Cossacks, — a  complete  pulk,  my 
dear  madam,  coming  on  in  three  lines,  with  their  lances  pointed 
against  this  undaunted  warrior  of  France.  I  believe  Monsieur  Thiers 
sat  for  the  portrait,  or  else  the  editor  of  the  Courrier  Frangais, — 
the  two  men  in  this  belligerent  nation  who  are  the  belligerentest. 
A  propos  of  Thiers  ;  the  ffouvelles  a  la  Main  has  a  good  story  of 
this  little  sham  Napoleon.  When  the  second  son  of  the  Duke  of 
Orleans  was  bom  (I  forget  his  Royal  Highness's  title),  news  was 
brought  to  Monsieur  Thiers.  He  was  told  the  Princess  was  well, 
and  asked  the  courier  who  brought  the  news,  "  Comment  se  portait 
le  Boi  de  Rome  1 "  It  may  be  said,  in  confidence,  that  there  is  not 
a  single  word  of  truth  in  the  story.  But  what  of  that  ?  Are  not 
sham  stories  as  good  as  real  ones  ?  Ask  Monsieur  LeuUier ;  who, 
in  spite  of  all  that  has  been  said  and  written  upon  a  certain  sea- 
fight,  has  actually  this  year  come  forward  with  his 

1311.  "H^roisme  de  I'Equipage  du  Vaisseau  le  Vengeur, 
4  Juin,  1794." 

"  Aprfes  avoir  soutenu  longtemps  un  combat  achamd  contre  trois 
vaisseaux  Anglais,  le  vaisseau  le  Vengeur  avait  perdu  la  moitid  de 
son  Equipage,  le  reste  dtait  blessd  pour  la  plupart ;  le  second  capi- 
taine  avait  6t6  coup^  en  deux  par  un  boulet ;  le  vaisseau  dtait  ras^ 
par  le  feu  de  I'ennemi,  sa  m&ture  abattue,  sea  flancs  cribMs  par  les 
boulets  ^taient  ouverts  de  toutes  parts  :  sa  cale  se  remplissait  k  vu 
d'oeil ;  il  s'enfon^ait  dans  la  mer.  Les  marins  qui  restent  sur  son 
bord  servent  la  batterie  basse  jusqu'k  ce  qu'elle  se  trouve  au  niveau 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTURES  375 

de  la  mer ;  quand  elle  va  disparaltre,  ils  s'^lancent  dans  la  seconde, 
oil  ils  r^pfetent  la  m§me  manoeuvre ;  celle-ci  engloutie,  ils  raontent 
sur  le  pont.  Un  tron9on  de  mat  d'artimon  restait  encore  debout ; 
leurs  pavilions  en  lambeaux  y  sont  clouds ;  puis,  r^unissant  instinc- 
tivement  leurs  volont^s  en  une  seule  pensfe,  ils  veulent  p^rir  avec  le 
iiavire  qui  leur  a  6t6  confix.  Tous,  combattants,  blesses,  mourants 
se  raniraent :  un  cri  immense  s'flfeve,  r^p^t^  sur  toutes  les  parties  du 
tillao  ;  Vive  la  Rdpubliqiw  1  Vive  la  France  !  .  .  .  Le  Vengeur 
eoule  ...  les  cris  continuent ;  tous  les  bras  sont  dressfe  aii  del,  at 
ces  braves,  pr^f&ant  la  mort  \  la  captivity,  emportent  triomphale- 
ment  leur  pavilion  dans  ce  glorieux  tombeau." — France  Maritime. 

I  think  Mr.  Thomas  Carlyle  is  in  the  occasional  habit  of  calling 
lies  wind-bags.  This  wind-bag,  one  would  have  thought,  exploded 
last  year ;  but  no  such  thing.  You  caiit  sink  it,  do  what  you 
will ;  it  always  comes  bouncing  up  to  the  surface  again,  where  it 
swims  and  bobs  about  gaily  for  the  admiration  of  all.  This  lie  the 
Frenchman  will  believe;  all  the  papers  talk  gravely  about  the 
affair  of  Vengeur  as  if  an  established  fact :  and  I  heard  the 
matter  disposed  of  by  some  artists  the  other  day  in  a  very  satis- 
factory manner.  One  has  always  the  gratification,  in  all  French 
societies  where  the  matter  is  discussed,  of  telling  the  real  story  (or 
if  the  subject  be  not  discussed,  of  bringing  the  conversation  roimd 
to  it,  and  then  telling  the  real  story) ;  one  has  always  this  gratifica- 
tion, and  a  great,  wicked,  delightful  one  it  is, — you  make  the  whole 
company  uncomfortable  at  once ;  you  narrate  the  history  in  a  calm, 
good-humoured,  dispassionate  tone ;  and  as  you  proceed,  you  see  the 
different  personages  of  the  audience  looking  uneasily  at  one  another, 
and  bursting  out  occasionally  with  a  "  Mais  cependant ; "  but  you 
continue  your  tale  with  perfect  suavity  of  manner,  and  have  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you  have  stuck  a  dagger  into  the  heart 
of  every  single  person  using  it. 

Telling,  I  eay,  this  story  to  some  artists  who  were  examining 
Monsieur  Leullier's  picture,  and  I  trust  that  many  scores  of  persons 
besides  were  listening  to  the  conversation,  one  of  them  replied  to 
my  assertion,  that  Captain  Eenaudin's  letters  were  extant,  and  that 
the  whole  affair  was  a  humbug,  in  the  following  way. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "the  sinking  of  the  Vengeur  is  an  established 
fact  of  history.  It  is  completely  proved  by  the  documents  of  the 
time ;  and  as  for  the  letters  of  Captain  Kenaudin  of  which  you 
speak,  have  we  not  had  an  example  the  other  day  of  some  pre- 
tended letters  of  Louis  Philippe's  which  were  published  in  a  news- 
paper here  1     And  what,  sir,  were  those  letters  1.     Forgeries  I " 

Q.  E.  D.     Everybody  said  sansculotte  was  right :  and  I  have 


376  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

no  doubt  that,  if  all  the  Yengeur's  crew  could  rise  from  the 
dead,  and  that  English  cox — or  boat — swain,  who  was  last  on  board 
the  ship*  of  which  he  and  his  comrades  had  possession,  and  had  to 
swim  for  his  life,  could  come  forward,  and  swear  to  the  real  story, 
I  make  no  doubt  that  the  Frenchmen  would  not  believe  it.  Only- 
one  I  know,  my  friend  Julius,  who,  ever  since  the  tale  has  been 
told  to  him,  has  been  crying  it  into  all  ears  and  in  all  societies,  and 
vows  he  is  perfectly  hoarse  with  telling  it. 

As  for  Monsieur  Leullier's  picture,  there  is  really  a  great  deal 
of  good  in  it.  Fellows  embracing  each  other,  and  holding  up  hands 
and  eyes  to  heaven ;  and  in  the  distance  an  English  ship,  with  the 
crew  in  red  coats,  firing  away  on  the  doomed  vessel.  Possibly, 
they  are  only  marines  whom  we  see ;  but  as  I  once  beheld  several 
English  naval  officers  in  a  play  habited  in  top-boots,  perhaps  the 
legend  in  France  may  be,  that  the  navy,  like  the  army,  with  us, 
is  caparisoned  in  scarlet.  A  good  subject  for  another  historical 
picture  would  be  Cambronne,  saying,  "  La  Garde  meurt,  mais  ne 
se  rend  pas."  I  have  bought  a  couple  of  engravings  of  the  Ven- 
geur  and  Cambronne,  and  shall  be  glad  to  make  a  little  historical 
collection  of  facts  similarly  authenticated. 

Accursed,  I  say,  be  all  uniform  coats  of  blue  or  of  red;  all  ye 
epaulets  and  sabertashes ;  all  ye  guns,  shrapnels,  and  musketoons ; 
all  ye  silken  banners  embroidered  with  bloody  reminiscences  of 
successful  fights  :  down — down  to  the  bottomless  pit  with  you  all, 
and  let  honest  men  live  and  love  each  other  without  you !  What 
business  have  I,  forsooth,  to  plume  myself  because  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  beat  the  French  in  Spain  and  elsewhere;  and  kindle 
as  I  read  the  tale,  and  fancy  myself  of  a  heroic  stock,  because  my 
uncle  Tom  was  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  because  we  beat 
Napoleon  there  ]  Who  are  we,  in  the  name  of  Beelzebub  ?  Did 
we  ever  fight  in  our  lives'?  Have  we  the  slightest  inclination  for 
fighting  and  murdering  one  another  ?  Why  are  we  to  go  on  hating 
one  another  from  generation  to  generation,  swelling  up  our  little 
bosoms  with  absurd  national  conceit,  strutting  and  crowing  over 
our  neighbours,  and  longing  to  be  at  fisticuffs  with  them  again? 
As  Aristotle  remarks,  in  war  there  are  always  two  parties;  and 
though  it  often  happens  that  both  declare  themselves  to  be  vic- 
torious, it  still  is  generally  the  case  that  one  party  beats  and  the 
other  is  beaten.  The  conqueror  is  thus  filled  with  national  pride, 
and  the  conquered  with  national  hatred  and  a  desire  to  do  better 
next  time.  If  he  has  his  revenge  and  beats  his  opponent  as  desired, 
these  agreeable  feelings  are  reversed,  and  so  Pride  and  Hatred  con- 

*  The  writer  heard  of  this  man  from  an  English  captain  in  the  navy,  who 
had  him  on  board  his  ship. 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTURES  377 

tinue  in  scecvla  sceculorwm,  and  ribands  and  orders  are  given  away, 
and  great  men  rise  and  flourish.     "  Remember  you  are  Britons  ! " 

cries  our  general ;  "  there  is  the  enemy,  and  d 'em,  give  'em  the 

bayonet!"  Hurrah  !  helter-skelter,  load  and  fire,  cut  and  thrust,  down 
they  go  !  "  Soldats  !  dans  ce  moment  terrible  la  France  vous  regarde ! 
Vive  I'Empereur  !  "  shouts  Jacques  Bonhomme,  and  his  sword  is 
through  your  ribs  in  a  twinkling.  "  Children  !  "  roars  Feld-marechal 
Sauerkraut,  "  men  of  HohenzoUemsigmaringen  !  remember  the  eyes 
of  Vaterland  are  upon  you  !  "  and  murder  again  is  the  consequence. 
Toniahee-tereboo  leads  on  the  Ashantees  with  the  very  same  war-cry, 
and  they  eat  all  their  prisoners  with  true  patriotic  cannibalism. 
Thus  the  great  truth  is  handed  down  from  father  to  son,  that 


A  Briton, 

A  Frenchman, 

An  Ashantee, 

A  Hohenzollernsigmaringenite,  &c. 


is  superior  to  aU  the  world ; 


and  by  this  truth  the  dullards  of  the  respective  nations  swear,  and 
by  it  statesmen  govern. 

Let  the  reader  say  for  himself,  does  he  not  believe  himself  to 
he  superior  to  a  man  of  any  other  country?  We  can't  help  it — 
in  spite  of  ourselves  we  do.  But  if,  by  changing  the  name,  the 
feble  applies  to  yourself,  why  do  you  laugh  ] 

^apvXa  vapparvp, 

as  a  certain  poet  says  (in  a  quotation  that  is  pretty  well  known 
in  England,  and  therefore  put  down  here  in  a  new  fashion).  Why 
do  you  laugh,  forsooth?  Why  do  you  not  laugh?  If  donkeys' 
ears  are  a  matter  of  laughter,  surely  we  may  laugh  at  them  when 
growing  on  our  own  skulls. 

Take  a  couple  of  instances  from  "actual  life,"  as  the  fashion- 
able novel-puffers  say. 

A  little  fat  silly  woman,  who  in  no  country  but  this  would  ever 
have  pretensions  to  beauty,  has  lately  set  up  a  circulating  library 
in  our  street.  She  lends  the  five-franc  editions  of  the  English 
novels,  as  well  as  the  romances  of  her  own  country,  and  I  have 
had  several  of  the  former  works  of  fiction  from  her  store  :  Bulwer's 
"  Night  and  Morning,"  very  pleasant  kind-hearted  reading ;  "  Peter 
Priggins,"  an  astonishing  work  of  slang,  that  ought  to  be  translated 
if  but  to  give  Europe  an  idea  of  what  a  gay  young  gentleman  in 
England  sometimes  is ;  and  other  novels— never  mind  what.  But 
to  revert  to  the  fat  woman. 

She  sits  all  day  ogling  and  simpering  behind  her  little  counter ; 


378  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

and  from  the  slow,  prim,  precise  way  in  which  she  lets  her  silly 
sentences  slip  through  her  mouth,  you  see  at  once  that  she  is  quite 
satisfied  with  them,  and  expects  that  every  customer  should  give 
her  an  opportunity  of  uttering  a  few  of  them  for  his  benefit.  Going 
there  for  a  book,  I  always  find  myself  entangled  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  conversation. 

This  is  carried  on  in  not  very  bad  French  on  my  part ;  at  least 
I  find  that  when  I  say  something  genteel  to  the  library-woman, 
she  is  not  at  a  loss  to  understand  me,  and  we  have  passed  already 
many  minutes  in  this  kind  of  intercourse.  Two  days  since,  return- 
ing "  Night  and  Morning  "  to  the  library-lady  and  demanding  the 
romance  of  "Peter  Priggins,"  she  offered  me  instead  "Ida,"  par 
Monsieur  le  Vicomte  Darlincourt,  which  I  refused,  having  already 
experienced  some  of  his  Lordship's  works;  next  she  produced 
"  Stella,"  "  Valida,"  "  Eloa,"  by  various  French  ladies  of  literary 
celebrity ;  but  again  I  declined,  declaring  respectfully  that,  however 
agreeable  the  society  of  ladies  miglit  be,  I  found  their  works  a  little 
insipid.  The  fact  is,  that  after  being  accustomed  to  such  potent 
mixtures  as  the  French  romancers  offer  you,  the  mild  compositions 
of  the  French  romanceresses  pall  on  the  palate.* 

"Madame,"  says  I,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  "je  ne  demande 
qu'un  roman  Anglais,  '  Peter  Priggins ' :  I'avez-vous  ?  oui  ou  non  t " 

"  Ah !  "  says  the  library-woman,  "  Monsieur  ne  comprend  pas 
notre  langue,  c'est  dommage." 

Now  one  might,  at  first  sight,  fancy  the  above  speech  an  epi- 
gram, and  not  a  bad  one,  on  an  Englishman's  blundering  French 
grammar  and  pronunciation ;  but  those  who  know  the  Hbrary-lady 
must  be  aware  that  she  never  was  guilty  of  such  a  thing  in  her  life. 
It  was  'simply  a  French  bull,  resulting  from  the  lady's  dulness,  and 
by  no  means  a  sarcasm.  She  uttered  the  words  with  a  great  air  of 
superiority  and  a  prim  toss  of  the  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  How 
much  cleverer  I  am  than  you,  you  silly  foreigner  !  and  what  a  fine 
thing  it  is  in  me  to  know  the  finest  language  in  the  world  ! "  In 
this  way  I  have  heard  donkeys  of  our  two  countries  address  foreigners 
in  broken  English  or  French,  as  if  people  who  could  not  understand 
a  language  when  properly  spoken  could  comprehend  it  when  spoken 
ill.  Why  the  deuce  do  people  give  themselves  these  impertinent 
stupid  airs  of  superiority,  and  pique  themselves  upon  the  great 
cleverness  of  speaking  their  own  language  1 

*  In  our  own  country,  of  course,  Mrs.  TroUope,  Miss  Mitford,  Miss  Pardee, 
Mrs.  Charles  Gore,  Miss  Edgeworth,  Miss  Ferrier,  Miss  Stiokney,  Miss  Barrett, 
Lady  Blessington,  Miss  Smith,  Mrs.  Austin,  Miss  Austen,  &c.,  form  exceptions 
to  this  rule ;  and  glad  am  I  to  offer  per  favour  of  this  note  a  bumble  tribute 
of  admiration  to  those  ladies. 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTUEES  379 

Take  another  instance  of  this  same  egregious  national  conceit. 
At  the  English  pastrycook's — (you  can't  readily  find  a  prettier  or 
more  graceful  woman  than  Madame  Oolombin,  nor  better  plum-cake 
than  she  sells) — at  Madame  Colombin's,  yesterday,  a  huge  Briton, 
with  sandy  whiskers  ami  a  double  chin,  was  swallowing  patties  and 
cherry-brandy,  and  all  the  while  making  remarks  to  a  friend  simi- 
larly employed.  They  were  talking  about  English  and  French 
ships. 

"  Hang  me,  Higgins,"  says  Sandy -whiskers,  "  if  I'd  ever  go  into 
one  of  their  cursed  French  ships !  I  should  be  afraid  of  sinking  at 
the  very  first  puff  of  wind  !  " 

What  Higgins  replied  does  not  matter.  But  think  what  a 
number  of  Sandy-whiskerses  there  are  in  our  nation, — fellows  who 
are  proud  of  this  stupid  mistrust, — who  think  it  a  mark  of  national 
spirit  to  despise  French  skill,  bravery,  cookery,  seamanship,  and 
what  not.  Swallow  your  beef  and  porter,  you  great  fat-paunched 
man ;  enjoy  your  language  and  your  country,  as  you  have  been  bred 
to  do  ;  but  don't  fancy  yourself,  on  account  of  these  inheritances  of 
yours,  superior  to  other  people  of  other  ways  and  language.  You 
have  luck,  perhaps,  if  you  will,  in  having  such  a  diet  and  dwelling- 
place,  but  no  merit.  .  .  .  And  with  this  little  discursive  essay  upon 
national  prejudices  let  us  come  back  to  the  pictures,  and  finish  our 
walk  through  the  gallery. 

In  that  agreeable  branch  of  the  art  for  which  we  have  I  believe 
no  name,  but  which  the  French  call  genre,  there  are  at  Paris  several 
eminent  professors;  and  as  upon  the  French  stage  the  costume- 
pieces  are  far  better  produced  than  with  us,  so  also,  are  French 
costume-pictures  much  more  accurately  and  characteristically  handled 
than  are  such  subjects  in  our  own  country.  You  do  not  see  Cimabue 
and  Giotto  in  the  costume  of  Francis  I.,  as  they  appeared  (depicted 
by  Mr.  Simpson,  I  think)  in  the  Eoyal  Academy  Exhibition  of  last 
year ;  but  the  artists  go  to  some  trouble  in  collecting  their  anti- 
quarian stuff,  and  paint  it  pretty  scrupulously. 

Monsieur  Jacquard  has  some  pretty  small  pictures  de  genre  : 
a  very  good  one,  indeed,  of  fat  "  Monks  granting  Absolution  from 
Fasting ; "  of  which  the  details  are  finely  and  accurately  painted,  a 
task  more  easy  for  a  French  artist  than  an  English  one,  for  the 
former's  studio  (as  may  be  seen  by  a  picture  in  this  exhibition) 
is  generally  a  magnificent  curiosity  shop;  and  for  old  carvings, 
screens,  crockery,  armour,  draperies,  &c.,  the  painter  here  has  but 
to  look  to  his  own  walls  and  copy  away  at  his  ease.  Accordingly 
Jacquard's  monks,  especially  all  the  properties  of  the  picture,  are 
admirable. 

Monsieur  Baron  has  "  The  Youth  of  Eibera,"  a  merry  Spanish 


380  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

beggax-boy,  among  a  crowd  of  his  like,  drawing  sketches  of  them 
under  a  garden  wall.  The  figures  are  very  prettily  thought  and 
grouped;  there  is  a  fine  terrace,  and  palace,  and  statues  in  the 
background,  very  rich  and  luxurious ;  perhaps  too  pretty  and  gay 
in  colours,  and  too  strong  in  details. 

But  the  king  of  the  painters  of  small  history  subjects  is 
Monsieur  Robert  Fleury ;  a  great  artist  indeed,  and  I  trust  heartily 
he  may  be  induced  to  send  one  or  two  of  his  pieces  to  London,  to 
show  our  people  what  he  can  do.  His  mind,  judging  from  his 
works,  is  rather  of  a  gloomy  turn ;  and  he  deals  somewhat  too 
much,  to  my  taste,  in  the  horrible.  He  has  this  year  "A  Scene 
in  the  Inquisition."  A  man  is  howling  and  writhing  with  his  feet 
over  a  fire ;  grim  inquisitors  are  watching  over  him ;  and  a  dreadful 
executioner,  with  fierce  eyes  peering  from  under  a  mysterious 
capuchin,  is  doggedly  sitting  over  the  coals.  The  picture  is  down- 
right horror,  but  admirably  and  honestly  drawn ;  and  in  effect  rich, 
sombre,  and  simple. 

"  Benvenuto  Cellini "  is  better  still ;  and  the  critics  have  lauded 
the  piece  as  giving  a  good  idea  of  tlie  fierce  fantastic  Florentine 
sculptor ;  but  I  think  Monsieur  Fleury  has  taken  him  in  too  grim 
a  mood,  and  made  his  ferocity  too  downright.  There  was  always 
a  dash  of  the  ridiculous  in  the  man,  even  in  his  most  truculent 
moments ;  and  I  fancy  that  such  simple  rage  as  is  here  represented 
scarcely  characterises  him.  The  fellow  never  cut  a  throat  without 
some  sense  of  humour,  and  here  we  have  him  greatly  too  majestic 
to  my  taste. 

"  Old  Michael  Angelo  watching  over  the  Sick-bed  of  his  servant 
Urbino "  is  a  noble  painting ;  as  fine  in  feeling  as  in  design  and 
colour.  One  can't  but  admire  in  all  these  the  manliness  of  the 
artist.  Tlie  picture  is  painted  in  a  large,  rich,  massive,  vigorous 
manner;  and  it  is  gratifying  to  see  that  this  great  man,  after 
resolute  seeking  for  many  years,  has  found  the  full  use  of  his  hand 
at  last,  and  can  express  himself  as  he  would.  The  picture  is  fit 
to  hang  in  the  very  best  gallery  in  the  world ;  and  a  century  hence 
will  no  doubt  be  worth  five  times  as  many  crowns  as  the  artist  asks 
or  has  had  for  it. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  great  pictures,  let  us  here  mention, 

712.  "  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  by  Hippolyte  Flandrin. 

Of  this  portrait  all  I  can  say  is,  that  if  you  take  the 
best  portraits  by  the  best  masters — a  head  of  Sebastian  or 
Michael  Angelo,  a  head  of  Raphael,  or  one  of  those  rarer  ones 
of  Andrea  del  Sarto — not  one  of  them,  for  lofty  character  and 
majestic  nobleness  and  simplicity,  can  surpass  this  magnificent 
work. 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTUEES  381 

This  seems,  doubtless,  very  exaggerated  praise,  and  people  read- 
ing it  may  possibly  sneer  at  the  critic  who  ventures  to  speak  in 
such  a  way.  To  all  such  I  say.  Come  and  see  it.  You  who  admire 
Sir  Thomas  and  the  "  Books  of  Beauty "  will  possibly  not  admire 
it ;  you  who  give  ten  thousand  guineas  for  a  blowsy  Murillo  will 
possibly  not  relish  Monsieur  Flandrin's  manner ;  but  you  who  love 
simplicity  and  greatness  come  and  see  how  an  old  lady,  with  a 
blax;k  mantilla  and  dark  eyes,  and  grey  hair  and  a  few  red  flowers 
in  her  cap,  has  been  painted  by  Monsieur  Flandrin  of  Lyons.  If 
I  were  Louis  Philippe,  I  would  send  a  legion-of-honour  cross,  of  the 
biggest  sort,  to  decorate  the  bosom  of  the  painter  who  has  executed 
this  noble  piece. 

As  for  portraits  (with  the  exception  of  this  one,  which  no  man 
in  England  can  equal,  not  even  Mr.  Samuel  Lawrence,  who  is  try- 
ing to  get  to  this  point,  but  has  not  reached  it  yet)  our  English 
painters  keep  the  lead  stUl,  nor  is  there  much  remarkable  among 
the  hundreds  in  the  gallery.  There  are  vast  numbers  of  English 
faces  staring  at  you  from  the  canvases ;  and  among  the  miniatures 
especially  one  can't  help  laughing  at  the  continual  recurrence  of  the 
healthy,  vacant,  simpering,  aristocratic  English  type.  There  are 
black  velvets  and  satins,  ladies  with  birds  of  paradise,  deputies 
on  sofas,  and  generals  and  marshals  in  the  midst  of  smoke  and 
cannon-balls.  Nothing  can  be  less  to  my  taste  than  a  pot-bellied 
swaggering  Marshal  Soult,  who  rests  his  b^ton  on  his  stomach,  and 
looks  at  you  in  the  midst  of  a  dim  cloud  of  war.  The  Duchess 
de  Nemours  is  done  by  Monsieur  Winterhalter,  and  has  a  place  of 
honour,  as  becomes  a  good  portrait ;  and,  above  aU,  such  a  pretty 
lady.  She  is  a  pretty,  smiling,  buxom  blonde,  with  plenty  of  hair, 
and  rather  too  much  hands,  not  to  speak  disrespectfully ;  and  a 
slice  of  lace  which  goes  across  the  middle  of  her  white  satin  gown 
seems  to  cut  the  picture  very  disagreeably  in  two.  There  is  a 
beautiful  head  in  a  large  portrait  of  a  lad  of  eighteen,  painted  by 
himself  j  and  here  may  be  mentioned  two  single  figures  in  pastel 
by  an  architect,  remarkable  for  earnest  spirituel  beauty ;  likewise 
two  heads  in  chalk  by  De  Eudder ;  most  charming  sketches,  full  of 
delicacy,  grace,  and  truth. 

The  only  one  of  the  acknowledged  great  who  has  exhibited  this 
year  is  Monsieur  Delacroix,  who  has  a  large  picture  relative  to  the 
siege  of  Constantinople,  that  looks  very  like  a  piece  of  crumpled 
tapestry,  but  that  has  nevertheless  its  admirers  and  its  merits,  as 
what  work  of  his  has  not  1 

His  two  smaller  pieces  are  charming.  "  A  Jewish  Wedding  at 
Tangiers  "  is  brilliant  with  light  and  merriment ;  a  particular  sort 
of  merriment,  that  is,  that  makes  you  gloomy  in  the  very  midst  of 


382  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

the  heyday :  and  his  "  Boat "  is  awful.  A  score  of  shipwrecked 
men  are  in  this  boat,  on  a  great,  wide,  swollen,  interminable  sea — 
no  hope,  no  speck  of  sail — and  they  are  drawing  lots  which  shall 
be  killed  and  eaten.  A  burly  seaman,  with  a  red  beard,  has  just 
put  his  hand  into  the  hat  and  is  touching  his  own  to  the  officer. 
One  fellow  sits  with  his  hands  clasped,  and  gazing — gazing  into  the 
great  void  before  him.  By  Jupiter,  his  eyes  are  unfathomable ! 
he  is  looking  at  miles  and  miles  of  lead-coloured,  bitter,  pitiless 
brine !  Indeed  one  can't  bear  to  look  at  him  long ;  nor  at  that 
poor  woman,  so  sickly  and  so  beautiful,  whom  they  may  as  well 
kill  at  once,  or  she  -will  save  them  the  trouble  of  drawing  straws ; 
and  give  up  to  their  maws  that  poor,  white,  faded,  delicate, 
shrivelled  carcass.  Ah,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  hungry !  Oh, 
Eugenius  Delacroix !  how  can  you  manage,  with  a  few  paint- 
bladders,  and  a  dirty  brush,  and  a  careless  hand,  to  dash  down 
such  savage  histories  as  these,  and  fill  people's  minds  with  thoughts 
so  dreadful  1  Ay,  there  it  is ;  whenever  I  go  through  that  part 
of  the  gallery  where  Monsieur  Delacroix's  picture  is,  I  always  turn 
away  now,  and  look  at  a  fat  woman  with  a  parroquet  opposite. 
For  what's  the  use  of  being  uncomfortable. 

Another  great  picture  is  one  of  about  four  inches  square — "  The 
Chess-Play ers,"  by  Monsieur  Meissonier — -truly  an  astonishing  piece 
of  workmanship.  No  silly  tricks  of  effect,  and  abrupt  startling 
shadow  and  light,  but  a  picture  painted  with  the  minuteness  and 
accuracy  of  a  daguerreotype,  and  as  near  as  possible  perfect  in  its 
kind.  Two  men  are  playing  at  chess,  and  the  chess-men  are  no 
bigger  than  pin-heads  ;  every  one  of  them  an  accurate  portrait,  with 
all  the  light,  shadow,  roundness,  character,  and  colour  belonging 
to  it. 

Of  the  landscapes  it  is  very  hard  indeed  to  speak,  for  professors 
of  landscapes  almost  all  execute  their  art  well ;  but  few  so  well  as 
to  strike  one  with  especial  attention,  or  to  produce  much  remark. 
Constable  has  been  a  great  friend  to  the  new  landscape-school  in 
France,  who  have  laid  aside  the  slimy  weak  manner  formerly  in 
vogue,  and  perhaps  have  adopted  in  its  place  a  method  equally 
reprehensible — that  of  plastering  their  pictures  excessively.  When 
you  wish  to  represent  a  piece  of  old  timber,  or  a  crumbling 
wall,  or  the  ruts  and  stones  in  a  road,  this  impasting  method 
is  very  successful ;  but  here  the  skies  are  trowelled  on ;  the  light- 
vapouring  distances  are  as  thick  as  plum-pudding,  the  cool  clear 
shadows  are  mashed-down  masses  of  sienna  and  indigo.  But  it 
is  undeniable  that,  by  these  violent  means,  a  certain  power  is  had, 
and  noonday  effects  of  strong  sunshine  are  often  dashingly 
rendered. 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTURES  383 

How  much  pleasanter  is  it  to  see  a  little  quiet  grey  waste  of 
David  Cox  than  the  very  best  and  smartest  of  such  works  !  Some 
men  from  Diisseldorf  have  sent  very  fine  scientific  faithful  pictures, 
that  are  a  little  heavy,  but  still  you  see  that  they  are  portraits 
drawn  respectfully  from  the  great,  beautiful,  various,  divine  face 
of  Nature. 

In  the  statue-gallery  there  is  nothing  worth  talking  about ;  and 
so  let  us  make  an  end  of  the  Louvre,  and  politely  wish  a  good- 
morning  to  everybody. 


JEROME  PATUROT 

WITH   CONSIDERATIONS   ON    NOVELS   IN   GENEEAl — IN   A 
LETTER    FROM   M.    A.    TITMARSH 

Paris:  July  20(A. 

IF  I  had  been  his  Majesty  Louis  Philippe,  and  the  caricaturist 
had  made  fun  of  me  ever  so,  I  would,  for  the  sake  of  the 
country,  have  put  up  with  the  insult — ay,  perhaps  gone  a  little 
farther,  and  encouraged  it.  I  would  be  a  good  king,  and  give  a 
premium  to  any  fellow  who,  for  a  certain  number  of  hours,  could 
make  a  certain  number  of  my  subjects  laugh.  I  would  take  the 
Salle  des  Pas  Perdus,  and  have  an  exhibition  of  caricature-cartoons, 
with  a  dozen  of  handsome  prizes  for  the  artists  who  should  invent 
the  dozen  ugliest  likenesses  of  me.  But,  wise  as  the  French  King 
proverbially  is,  he  has  not  attained  this  degree  of  wisdom.  Let 
a  poor  devil  but  draw  the  royal  face  like  a  pear  now,  or  in  the 
similitude  of  a  brioche,  and  he,  his  printer,  and  publisher,  are 
clapped  into  prison  for  months,  severe  fines  are  imposed  upon  them, 
their  wives  languish  in  their  absence,  their  children  are  deprived  of 
their  bread,  and,  pressing  round  the  female  author  of  their  days,  say 
sadly,  "  Maman,  oil  est  notre  pfere  ? " 

It  ought  not  to  be  so.  Laughing  never  did  harm  to  any  one 
yet;  or  if  laughing  does  harm,  and  king's  majesties  suffer  from 
the  exhibition  of  caricatures,  let  them  suffer.  Mon  Dieu !  it  is 
the  lesser  evil  of  the  two.  Majesties  are  to  be  had  any  day ;  but 
many  a  day  passes  without  a  good  joke.  Let  us  cherish  those  that 
come. 

Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  opinion  commonly 
held  about  the  gaiety  Fran^aise  is  no  more  than  a  mystification,  a 
vulgar  practical  joke  of  the  sort  which  the  benevolent  mind  abhors. 
For  it  is  a  shame  to  promise  us  something  pleasant,  and  then  dis- 
appoint us.  Men  and  children  feel  in  this  matter  alike.  To  give 
a  child  an  egg-shell,  under  pretence  that  it  is  an  egg,  is  a  joke ;  but 
the  child  roars  in  reply,  and  from  such  joking  the  gentle  spirit  turns 
away  abashed,  disgusted. 

So   about    the   gaiet^  Frangaise.     We    are  told  that  it  still 


JEROME    PATUROT  385 

exists,  and  are  invited  by  persons  to  sit  down  and  make  a  meal  of 
it.  But  it  is  almost  all  gone.  Somebody  has  scooped  out  all  the 
inside  and  swallowed  it,  and  left  only  the  shell  behind.  I  declare, 
for  my  part,  I  know  few  countries  where  there  is  less  joking  than 
in  France ;  it  is  of  a  piece  with  the  boasted  amenity  and  politeness 
of  the  Gauls.  Really  and  truly,  there  is  more  real  and  true  polite- 
ness in  Wapping  than  in  the  Champs  Elysdes.  People  whom  the 
stranger  addresses  give  him  civil  answers,  and  they  are  leaving  off 
this  in  France.  Men  in  Wapping  do  not  jostle  ladies  off  the  street, 
and  this  they  do  in  France,  where  the  charcoal-man,  drinking  at 
the  corner  of  the  wine-shop,  will  let  a  lady's  muslin  slip  into  the 
gutter  rather  than  step  aside  an  inch  to  allow  her  to  pass. 

In  the  matter  of  novels  especially,  the  national  jocularity  has 
certainly  passed  away.  Paul  de  Kock  writes  now  in  such  a  way 
as  not  to  make  you  laugh,  but  to  make  you  blush  for  the  intolerable 
vulgarity  of  the  man.  His  last  book  is  so  little  humorous,  that 
even  the  English  must  give  him  up — the  English,  whose  island  is 
said  after  dinner  to  be  "the  home  of  the  world,"  and  who  certainly 
gave  Monsieur  Paul  a  very  hearty  welcome.  In  his  own  country 
this  prophet  has  never  been  much  honoured.  People  sneer  at  his 
simple  tricks  for  exciting  laughter,  and  detect  a  vulgarity  of  style 
which  the  foreigner  is  not  so  ready  to  understand.  And  as  one 
has  seen  many  a  vulgar  fellow  who  dropped  his  h's,  and  came  from 
Hislington,  received  with  respect  by  foreigners,  and  esteemed  as  a 
person  of  fashion,  so  we  are  on  our  side  slow  in  distinguishing  the 
real  and  sham  foreign  gentleman. 

Besides  Paul  de  Kock,  there  is  another  humorous  writer  of  a 
very  diflferent  sort,  and  whose  works  have  of  late  found  a  con- 
siderable popularity  among  us — Monsieur  de  Bernard.  He  was 
first  discovered  by  one  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  who  wrote  a 
critique  on  one  of  his  works,  and  pilfered  one  of  his  stories.  Mrs. 
Gore  followed  him  by  "editing"  Bernard's  novel  of  "Gerfeuil," 
which  was  badly  translated,  and  pronounced  by  the  press  to  be 
immoral.  It  may  be  so  in  certain  details,  but  it  is  not  immoral  in 
tendency.  It  is  ftdl  of  fine  observation  and  gentle  feeling ;  it  has 
a  gaUant  sense  of  the  absurd,  and  is  written — rare  quality  for  a 
French  romance — in  a  gentlemanlike  style. 

Few  celebrated  modem  French  romance -writers  can  say  as 
much  for  themselves.  Monsieur  Sue  has  tried  almost  always,  and, 
in  "  Mathilde,"  very  nearly  succeeded,  in  attaining  a  tone  of  bonne 
ccmpagnie.  But  his  respect  for  lacqueys,  furniture,  carpets,  titles, 
bcmquets,  and  such  aristocratic  appendages,  is  too  great.  He  slips 
quietly  over  the  carpet,  and  peers  at  the  silk  hangings,  and  looks 
at  Lafleur  handing  about  the  tea-tray  with  too  much  awe  for  a 
13  2  B 


S86  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

gentleman.  He  is  in  a  flutter  in  the  midst  of  his  marquesses  and 
princes — happy,  clever,  smiling,  but  uneasy.  As  for  De  Balzac,  he 
is  not  fit  for  the  salon.  In  point  of  gentility,  Dumas  is  about  as 
genteel  as  a  courier ;  and  Fr^d&ic  SouM  as  elegant  as  a  huissier. 

These  are  hard  words.  But  a  hundred  years  hence  (when,  of 
course,  the  frequenters  of  the  circulating  library  wiU  be  as  eager  to 
read  the  works  of  Souli^,  Dumas,  and  the  rest,  as  now),  a  hundred 
years  hence,  what  a  strange  opinion  the  world  will  have  of  the 
French  society  of  to-day  !  Did  all  married  people,  we  may  imagine 
they  wiU  ask,  break  a  certain  commandment  1 — They  all  do  in  the 
novels.  Was  French  society  composed  of  murderers,  of  forgers,  of 
children  without  parents,  of  men  consequently  running  the  daily 
risk  of  marrying  their  grandmothers  by  mistake ;  of  disguised 
princes,  who  lived  in  the  friendship  of  amiable  cut-throats  and 
spotless  prostitutes ;  who  gave  up  the  sceptre  for  the  savate,  and 
the  stars  and  pigtails  of  the  court  for  the  chains  and  wooden 
shoes  of  the  galleys?  All  these  characters  are  quite  common  in 
French  novels,  and  France  in  the  nineteenth  century  was  the 
politest  country  in  the  world.  What  must  the  rest  of  the  world 
have  been  ? 

Indeed,  in  respect  to  the  reading  of  novels  of  the  present  day,  I 
would  be  glad  to  suggest  to  the  lovers  of  these  instructive  works 
the  simple  plan  of  always  looking  at  the  end  of  a  romance,  to  see 
what  becomes  of  the  personages,  before  they  venture  upon  the 
whole  work,  and  become  interested  in  the  characters  described  in  it. 
Why  interest  oneself  in  a  personage  who  you  know  must,  at  the 
end  of  the  third  volume,  die  a  miserable  death  ?  What  is  the  use 
of  making  oneself  unhappy  needlessly,  watching  the  consumptive 
symptoms  of  Leonora  as  they  manifest  themselves,  or  tracing 
Antonio  to  his  inevitable  assassination  ? 

Formerly,  whenever  I  came  to  one  of  these  fatally  virtuous 
characters  in  a  romance  (ladies  are  very  fond  of  inventing  such 
suffering  angels  in  their  novels,  pale,  pious,  pulmonary,  crossed  in 
love  of  course ;  hence  I  do  not  care  to  read  ladies'  novels,  except 
those  of  Mesdames  Gore  and  Trollope) — whenever  I  came  to  one 
of  those  predestined  creatures,  and  saw  from  the  complexion  of  the 
story  that  the  personage  in  question  was  about  to  occupy  a  good 
deal  of  the  reader's  attention,  I  always  closed  the  book  at  once, 
and  in  disgust,  for  my  feelings  are  much  too  precious  to  be  agitated 
at  threepence  per  volume.  Even  then  it  was  often  too  late.  One 
may  have  got  through  half  a  volume  before  the  ultimate  fate  of 
Miss  Trevanion  was  made  clear  to  one.  In  that  half  volume,  one 
may  have  grown  to  be  exceedingly  interested  in  Miss  Trevanion;  and 
hence  one  has  all  the  pangs  of  parting  with  her,  which  were  not 


JEROME   PATUROT  S87 

worth  incurring  for  the  brief  pleasure  of  her  acquaintance.  Le 
jeu  ne  valait  pas  la  chandelle.  It  is  well  to  say,  I  never  loved  a 
young  gazelle  to  glad  me  with  his  dark  blue  eye,  but  when  he  came  to 
know  me  well  he  was  sure  to  die ;  and  to  add,  that  I  never  loved 
a  tree  or  flower  but  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away.  Is  it  not  better, 
instead  of  making  yourself  unhappy,  as  you  inevitably  must  be,  to 
spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  this  bootless  afiection'?  Do  not  let 
us  give  up  our  affections  rashly  to  young  gazelles,  or  trees,  or 
flowers;  and  confine  our  tenderness  to  creatures  that  are  more 
long-lived. 

Therefore,  I  say,  it  is  much  better  to  look  at  the  end  of  a 
novel;  and  when  I  read,  "There  is  a  fresh  green  mound  in  Brent- 
ford churchyard,  and  a  humble  stone,  on  which  is  inscribed  the 
name  of  '  Anna  Maria ' ; "  or  "  Le  jour  aprfes  on  voyait  sur  les 
dalles  humides  de  la  terrible  Morgue  le  corps  virginal  et  ruisselant 
de  Bathilde ; "  or  a  sentence  to  that  effect,  I  shut  the  book  at  once, 
declining  to  agitate  my  feelings  needlessly ;  for  at  that  stage  I  do 
not  care  a  fig  for  Anna  Maria's  consumption  or  Bathilde's  suicide  : 
I  have  not  the  honour  of  their  acquaintance,  nor  will  I  make  it. 
If  you  had  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and  people  proposed  to  introduce 
you  to  a  man  who  you  knew  would  borrow  money  of  you,  or  would 
be  inevitably  hanged,  or  would  subject  you  to  some  other  annoy- 
ance, would  you  not  decline  the  proposed  introduction?  So  with 
novels.  The  Book  of  Fate  of  the  heroes  and  heroines  is  to  be 
found  at  the  end  of  Vol.  III.  One  has  but  to  turn  to  it  to  know 
whether  one  shall  make  their  acquaintance  or  not.  For  my  part, 
I  heartily  pardon  the  man  who  brought  Cordelia  to  life  (was  it 
Gibber,  or  Stemhold  and  Hopkins  V)  I  would  have  the  stomach- 
pump  ijrought  for  Eomeo  at  the  fifth  act ;  for  Mrs.  Macbeth  I  am 
not  in  the  least  sorry ;  but,  as  for  the  general,  I  would  have  him 
destroy  that  swaggering  Macduff  (who  always  looks  as  if  he  had 
just  slipped  off  a  snufl'-shop),  or,  if  not,  cut  him  in  pieces,  disarm 
him,  pink  him  certainly ;  and  then  I  would  have  Mrs.  Macduff  and 
all  her  little  ones  come  in  from  the  slips,  stating  that  the  account 
of  their  murder  was  a  shameful  fabrication  of  the  newspapers,  and 
that  they  were  aU  of  them  perfectly  well  and  hearty.  The  entirely 
wicked  you  may  massacre  without  pity;  and  I  have  always 
admired  the  German  Red  Riding-Hood  on  this  score,  which  is  a 
thousand  times  more  agreeable  than  the  ferocious  English  tale, 
because,  when  the  wolf  has  gobbled  up  Red  Riding-Hood  and  her 
grandmother,  in  come  two  foresters,  who  cut  open  the  wolf,  and  out 
step  the  old  lady  and  the  young  one  quite  happy. 

So  I  recommend  all  people  to  act  with  regard  to  lugubrious 
novels,  and  eschew  them.     I  have  never  read  the  Nelly  part  of  the 


S88  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

"Old  Curiosity  Shop"  more  than  once;  whereas,  I  have  Dick 
Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness  by  heart ;  and,  in  like  manner,  with 
regard  to  "  Oliver  Twist,"  it  did  very  well  to  frighten  one  in 
numbers ;  but  I  am  not  going  to  look  on  at  Nancy's  murder,  and 
to  writhe  and  twist  under  the  Jew's  nightmare  again.  No !  no ! 
give  me  Sam  Weller  and  Mr.  Pickwick  for  a  continuance.  Which 
are  read  most — "  The  Pirate  "  and  "  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor," 
or  "Ivanhoe"  and  "Quentin  Durward"? — The  former  may  be 
preferred  by  scowling  Frenchmen,  who  pretend  to  admire  Lord 
Byron.  But,  if  we  get  upon  the  subject  of  Lord  Byron,  Heaven 
knows  how  far  we  may  go.  Let  us  return  to  the  Frenchmen,  and 
ask  pardon  for  the  above  digression. 

"The  taste  for  horrors  in  France  is  so  general,  that  one  can  really 
get  scarcely  any  novels  to  read  in  the  country  (and  so  much  the 
better,  no  doubt,  say  you ;  the  less  of  their  immoralities  any  man 
reads  the  better) ;  hence  (perfectly  disregarding  the  interruption 
of  the  reader),  when  a  good,  cheerful,  clever,  kind-hearted,  merry, 
smart,  bitter,  sparkling  romance  falls  in  the  way,  it  is  a  great 
mercy ;  and  of  such  a  sort  is  the  "  Life  of  Jerome  Paturot."  It 
will  give  any  reader  who  is  familiar  with  Frenchmen  a  couple  of 
long  summer  evenings'  laughter,  and  any  person  who  does  not  know 
the  country  a  curious  insight  into  some  of  the  social  and  political 
humbugs  of  the  great  nation. 

Like  many  an  idle  honest  fellow  who  is  good  for  nothing  else, 
honest  Paturot  commences  life  as  a  literary  man.  And  here,  but 
that  a  man  must  not  abuse  his  own  trade,  would  be  a  fair  oppor- 
tunity for  a  tirade  on  the  subject  of  literary  characters — those 
doomed  poor  fellows  of  this  world  whose  pockets  Fate  has  ordained 
shall  be  perpetually  empty.  Pray,  all  parents  and  guardians,  that 
your  darlings  may  not  be  born  with  literary  tastes  !  If  so  endowed, 
make  up  your  minds  that  they  will  be  idle  at  school,  and  useless  at 
college ;  if  they  have  a  profession,  they  will  be  sure  to  neglect  it ; 
if  they  have  a  fortune,  they  will  be  sure  to  spend  it.  How  much 
money  has  all  the  literature  of  England  in  the  Three  per  Cents  1 
That  is  the  question ;  and  any  bank-clerk  could  calculate  accurately 
the  advantage  of  any  other  calling  over  that  of  the  pen.  Is  there 
any  professional  penman  who  has  laid  by  five  thousand  pounds  of 
his  own  earnings  ?  Lawyers,  doctors,  and  all  other  learned  persons, 
save  money ;  tradesmen  and  warriors  save  money ;  the  Jew-boy 
who  sells  oranges  at  the  coach-door,  the  burnt-umber  Malay  who 
sweeps  crossings,  save  money  ;  there  is  but  Vates  in  the  world  who 
does  not  seem  to  know  the  art  of  growing  rich,  and,  as  a  rule, 
leaves  the  world  with  as  little  coin  about  him  as  he  had  when  he 
entered  it. 


JEROME    PATUROT  389 

So,  when  it  is  said  that  honest  Paturot  begins  life  by  publishing 
certain  volumes  of  poems,  the  rest  is  understood.  You  are  sure  he 
will  come  to  the  parish  at  the  end  of  the  third  volume ;  that  he 
will  fail  in  all  he  undertakes ;  that  he  will  not  be  more  honest  than 
his  neighbours,  but  more  idle  and  weak ;  that  he  will  be  a  thriftless, 
vain,  kind-hearted,  irresolute,  devil-may-care  fellow,  whose  place  is 
marked  in  this  world ;  whom  bankers  sneer  at,  and  tradesmen  hold 
in  utter  discredit. 

Jerome  spends  his  patrimony,  then,  first,  in  eating,  drinking, 
and  making  merry  ;  secondly,  in  publishing  four  volumes  of  poems, 
four  copies  of  which  were  sold ;  and  he  wondered  to  this  day  who 
bought  them  :  and  so,  having  got  to  the  end  of  his  paternal  inherit- 
ance, he  has  to  cast  about  for  means  of  making  a  livelihood.  There 
is  his  uncle  Paturot,  the  old  hosier,  who  has  sold  flannel  and  cotton 
nightcaps  with  credit  for  this  half-century  past.  "Come  and  be 
my  heir,  and  sell  flannels,  Jerome,"  says  this  excellent  uncle  (alas  ! 
it  is  only  in  novels  that  these  uncles  are  found, — living  literary 
characters  have  no  such  lucky  relationships).  But  Jerome's  soul  is 
above  nightcaps.  How  can  you  expect  a  man  of  genius  to  be  any- 
thing but  an  idiot  1 

The  events  of  his  remarkable  history  are  supposed  to  take  place 
just  after  the  late  glorious  Revolution.  In  the  days  of  his  bombance, 
Jerome  had  formed  a  connection  with  one  of  those  interesting  young 
females  with  whom  the  romances  of  Paul  de  Kook  have  probably 
made  some  readers  acquainted, — a  connection  sanctified  by  every- 
thing except  the  magistrate  and  the  clergyman, — a  marriage  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  the  ceremony  only  being  omitted. 

The  lovely  Malvina,  the  typification  of  the  grisette,  as  warm  an 
admirer  of  Paul  de  Kock  as  any  in  the  three  kingdoms,  comes  to 
Jerome's  aid,  after  he  has  spent  his  money  and  pawned  his  plate, 
and  while  (with  the  energy  peculiar  to  the  character  of  persons  who 
pubHsh  poems  in  four  volumes)  he  sits  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
bemoaning  his  fate,  Malvina  has  bethought  herself  of  a  means  of 
livelihood,  and  says,  "  My  Jerome,  let  us  turn  Saint-Sim onians." 

So  Saint-Simonians  they  become.  For  some  time,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  Saint-Simonianism  was  long  a  flourishing  trade  in 
this  strange  country  ;  and  the  two  new  disciples  were  admitted  into 
the  community  chacun  selon  sa  capacity 

[A  long  extract  from  the  book  relating  their  experiences  among 
the  Saint-Simonians  is  omitted.] 

The  funds  of  the  religion,  as  history  has  informed  us,  soon 
began  to  fail;  and  the  high-priestess,  little  relishing  the  meagre 


390  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

diet  on  which  the  society  was  now  forced  to  subsist,  and  likewise 
not  at  all  approving  of  the  extreme  devotion  which  some  of  the 
priests  manifested  for  her,  quitted  th6  Saint-Simonians,  and  estab- 
lished herself  once  more  very  contentedly  in  her  garret,  and  resumed 
her  flower-making.  As  for  Paturot,  he  supported  the  falling  cause 
as  long  as  strength  was  left  him,  and  for  a  while  blacked  the  boots 
of  the  fraternity  very  meekly.  But  he  was  put  upon  a  diet  of  sour 
grapes,  which  by  no  means  strengthened  his  constitution,  and  at 
last,  by  the  solicitations  of  his  Malvina,  was  induced  to  recant,  and 
come  back  again  into  common  life. 

Now  begin  new  plans  of  advancement.  Malvina  makes  him 
the  treasurer  of  the  Imperial  Morocco  Bitumen  Company,  which 
ends  in  the  disappearance  of  the  treasury  with  its  manager,  the 
despair  and  illness  of  the  luckless  treasurer.  He  is  thrown  on  the 
world  yet  again,  and  resumes  his  literary  labours.  He  becomes 
editor  of  that  famous  journal  the  Aspick ;  which,  in  order  to 
gather  customers  round  it,  proposes  to  subscribers  a  journal  and 
a  pair  of  boots,  a  journal  and  a  greatcoat,  a  journal  and  a  leg  of 
mutton,  according  to  the  taste  of  the  individual.  Then  we  have 
him  as  a  dramatic  critic,  then  a  writer  of  romances,  then  the 
editor  of  a  Government  paper ;  and  aU  these  numerous  adventures 
of  his  are  told  with  capital  satire  and  hearty  fun.  The  book  is, 
in  fact,  a  course  of  French  humbug,  commercial,  legal,  literary, 
political ;  and  if  there  be  any  writer  in  England  who  has  knowledge 
and  wit  sufficient,  he  would  do  well  to  borrow  the  Frenchman's 
idea,  and  give  a  similar  satire  in  our  own  country. 

The  novel  in  numbers  is  known  with  us,  but  the  daily 
Feuilleton  has  not  yet  been  tried  by  our  newspapers,  the  pro- 
prietors of  some  of  which  would,  perhaps,  do  well  to  consider  the 
matter.  Here  is  Jerome's  theory  on  the  subject,  offered  for  the 
consideration  of  all  falling  journals,  as  a  means  whereby  they  may 
rise  once  more  into  estimation  : — 

"  You  must  recollect,  sir,  that  the  newspaper,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, the  Feuilleton,  is  a  family  affair.  The  father  and  mother 
read  the  story  first,  from  their  hands  it  passes  to  the  children,  from 
the  children  to  the  servants,  from  the  servants  to  the  house  porter, 
and  becomes  at  once  a  part  of  the  family.  They  cannot  do  without 
the  story,  sir,  and,  in  consequence,  must  have  the  journal  which 
contains  it.  Suppose,  out  of  economy,  the  father  stops  the  journal ; 
mamma  is  sulky,  the  children  angry,  the  whole  house  is  in  a  rage ; 
in  order  to  restore  peace  to  his  family,  the  father  must  take  in  the 
newspaper  again.  It  becomes  as  necessary  as  their  coffee  in  n 
morning  or  as  their  soup  for  dinner. 


JEEOME    PATUEOT  391 

"Well,  granting  that  the  Feuilleton  is  a  necessity  nowadays, 
what  sort  of  a  Feuilleton  must  one  write  in  order  to  please  all  these 
various  people  % 

"  My  dear  sir,  nothing  easier.  After  you  have  written  a 
number  or  two,  you  wiU  see  that  you  can  write  seventy  or  a 
hundred  at  your  will.  For  example,  you  take  a  young  woman, 
beautiful,  persecuted,  and  unhappy.  You  add,  of  course,  a  brutal 
tyrant  of  a  husband  or  father ;  you  give  the  lady  a  perfidious 
friend,  and  introduce  a  lover,  the  pink  of  virtue,  valour,  and  manly 
beauty.  What  is  more  simple  ?  You  mix  up  your  characters  well, 
and  can  serve  them  out  hot  in  a  dozen  or  fourscore  numbers  as 
you  please. 

"  And  it  is  the  manner  of  cutting  your  story  into  portions  to 
which  you  must  look  especially.  One  portion  must  be  bound  to  the 
other,  as  one  of  the  Siamese  twins  to  his  brother,  and  at  the  end  of 
each  number  there  must  be  a  mysterious  word,  or  an  awful  situation, 
and  the  hero  perpetually  the  hero  before  your  public.  They  never 
tire  of  the  hero,  sir,  they  get  acquainted  with  him,  and  the  more 
they  do  so  the  more  they  like  him,  and  you  may  keep  up  the  interest 
for  years.  For  instance,  I  will  show  you  a  specimen  of  the  interest- 
ing in  number  writing,  made  by  a  young  man,  whom  I  educated 
and  formed  myself,  and  whose  success  has  been  prodigious.  It  is  a 
story  of  a  mysterious  castle. 

"  '  Ethelgida  was  undressed  for  the  night.  Her  attendant  had 
retired,  and  the  maiden  was  left  in  her  vast  chamber  alone.  She 
sat  before  the  dressing-glass,  revolving  the  events  of  the  day,  and 
particularly  thinking  over  the  strange  and  mysterious  words  which 
Alfred  had  uttered  to  her  in  the  shrubbery.  Other  thoughts  suc- 
ceeded and  chased  through  her  agitated  brain.  The  darkness  of 
the  apartment  filled  with  tremor  the  sensitive  and  romantic  soul 
of  the  young  girl.  Dusky  old  tapestries  waved  on  the  wall,  against 
which  a  huge  crucifix  of  ivory  and  ebony  presented  its  image  of 
woe  and  gloom.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if,  in  the  night-silence,  groans 
passed  through  the  chamber,  and  a  noise,  as  of  chains  clanking  in 
the  distance,  jarred  on  her  frightened  ear.  The  tapers  flickered, 
and  seemed  to  burn  blue.  Ethelgida  retired  to  bed  with  a  shudder, 
and,  drawing  the  curtains  round  her,  sought  to  shut  out  the  ghostly 
scene.  But  what  was  the  maiden's  terror  when,  from  the  wall  at 
her  bedside,  she  saw  thrust  forward  a  naked  hand  and  arm,  the 
hand  was  clasping  by  its  clotted  hair  a  living,  bloody  head  !  What 
was  that  hand !  ! !  ! — what  was  that  head  !!!!!! 

'[To  be  continued  in  our  next.)'  " 


392  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

This  delightful  passage  has  been  translated  for  the  benefit  of 
literary  men  in  England,  who  may  learn  from  it  a  profitable  lesson. 
The  terrible  and  mysterious  style  has  been  much  neglected  with 
us  of  late,  and  if,  in  the  recess  of  parliament,  some  of  our  news- 
papers are  at  a  loss  to  fill  their  double  sheets,  or  inclined  to  treat 
for  a  story  in  this  genre,  an  eminent  English  hand,  with  the  aid 
of  Dumas,  or  Fr^d^ric  Souli^,  might  be  got  to  transcribe  such  a 
story  as  would  put  even  Mr.  O'Oonnell's  Irish  romances  out  of 
countenance. 

Having  gone  through  all  the  phases  of  literary  quackery,  and 
succeeded  in  none,  lionest  Jerome,  driven  to  despair,  has  nothing 
for  it,  at  the  end  of  the  first  volume  of  his  adventures,  but  to  try 
the  last  quackery  of  all,  the  charcoal-pan  and  suicide.  But  in  this 
juncture  the  providential  uncle  (by  means  of  Malvina,  who  is  by 
no  means  disposed  to  quit  this  world,  unsatisfactory  as  it  is),  the 
uncle  of  the  cotton  nightcap  steps  in,  and  saves  the  unlucky  youth, 
who,  cured  henceforth  of  his  literary  turn,  submits  to  take  his  place 
behind  the  counter,  performs  all  the  ceremonies  which  were  neces- 
sary for  making  his  union  with  Malvina  perfectly  legal,  and  settles 
down  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

May,  one  cannot  help  repeating,  may  all  literary  characters, 
at  the  end  of  the  first  volume  of  their  lives,  find  such  an  uncle ! 
but,  alas !  this  is  the  only  improbable  part  of  the  book.  There 
is  no  such  blessed  resource  for  the  penny-a-liner  in  distress.  All 
he  has  to  do  is  to  write  more  lines,  and  get  more  pence,  and  wait 
for  grim  Death,  who  will  carry  him  off  in  the  midst  of  a  penny, 
and,  lo  !  where  is  he  ?  You  read  in  the  papers  that  yesterday, 
at  his  lodgings  in  Grub  Street,  "died  Thomas  Smith,  Esq.,  the 
ingenious  and  delightful  author,  whose  novels  have  amused  us  all 
so  much.  This  eccentric  and  kind-hearted  writer  has  left  a  wife 
and  ten  children,  wlio,  we  understand,  are  totally  unprovided  for, 
but  we  are  sure  that  the  country  will  never  allow  them  to  want." 
Smith  is  only  heard  of  once  or  twice  again.  A  pubHsher  discovers 
a  novel  left  by  that  lamented  and  talented  author;  on  which 
another  publisher  discovers  another  novel  by  the  same  hand :  and 
"Smith's  last  work,"  and  "the  last  work  of  Smith,"  serve  the 
bibliopolists'  turn  for  a  week,  and  then  are  found  entirely  stupid 
by  the  pubhc ;  and  so  Smith,  and  his  genius,  and  his  wants,  and 
his  works,  pass  away  out  of  this  world  for  ever.  The  paragraph 
in  the  paper  next  to  that  which  records  Smith's  death  announces 
the  excitement  created  by  the  forthcoming  work  of  the  admirable 
Jones ;  and  so  to  the  end  of  time.  But  these  considerations  are 
too  profoundly  melancholic,  and  we  had  better  pass  on  to  the  second 
tome  of  Jerome  Paturot's  existence. 


JEROME    PATUROT  S9S 

One  might  fancy  that,  after  Monsieur  Paturot  had  settled  down 
in  his  nightcap  and  hosiery  shop,  he  would  have  cahnly  enveloped 
himself  in  lambswool  stockings  and  yards  of  flannel,  and,  so  pro 
tected,  that  Fortune  would  have  had  no  more  changes  for  him. 
Such,  probably,  is  the  existence  of  an  English  hosier :  but  in  "  the 
empire  of  the  middle  classes  "  matters  are  very  differently  arranged, 
and  the  bonnetier  de  France  pent  aspirer  a  tout.  The  defunct 
Paturot  whispered  that  secret  to  Jerome  before  he  departed  this 
world,  and  our  honest  tradesman  begins  presently  to  be  touched  by 
ambition,  and  to  push  forward  towards  the  attainment  of  those 
dignities  which  the  Revolution  of  July  has  put  in  his  reach. 

The  first  opportunity  for  elevation  is  offered  him  in  the  ranks 
of  that  cheap  defence  of  nations,  the  National  Guard.  He  is  a 
warm  man,  as  the  saying  is ;  he  is  looked  up  to  in  his  quarter,  he 
is  a  member  of  a  company ;  why  should  he  not  be  its  captain  too  ? 
A  certain  Oscar,  painter  in  ordinary  to  his  Majesty,  who  paints 
spinach-coloured  landscapes,  and  has  an  orange-coloured  beard,  has 
become  the  bosom  friend  of  the  race  of  Paturot,  and  is  the  chief 
agent  of  the  gallant  hosier  in  his  attempts  at  acquiring  the  captain's 
epaulettes. 

[An  extract  from  the  novel  relates  his  election  to  the  National 
Guard.] 

Thus  happily  elected,  the  mighty  Paturot  determines  that  the 
eyes  of  France  are  on  his  corps  of  voltigeurs,  and  that  they  shall 
be  the  model  of  all  National  Guardsmen.  He  becomes  more  and 
more  like  Napoleon.  He  pinches  the  sentinels  with  whom  "  he 
is  content "  by  the  ear ;  he  swears  every  now  and  then  with  much 
energy ;  he  invents  a  costume  (it  was  in  the  early  days  when  the 
fancy  of  the  National  Guardsman  was  allowed  to  luxuriate  over  his 
facings  and  pantaloons  at  will)  ;  and  in  a  grand  review  before 
Marshal  Soban  the  Paturot  company  turns  out  in  its  splendid  new 
uniform,  yellow  facings,  yellow-striped  trousers,  brass  buckles  and 
gorgets — the  most  brilliant  company  ever  seen.  But,  though  these 
clothes  were  strictly  military  and  unanimously  splendid,  the  wearers 
had  not  been  bred  up  in  those  soldatesque  habits  which  render 
much  inferior  men  more  effective  on  parade.  They  failed  in  some 
manoeuvre  which  the  old  soldier  of  the  Empire  ordered  them  to 
perform — the  front  and  rear  ranks  were  mingled  in  hopeless 
confusion.  "  Ho,  porter ! "  shouted  the  old  general  to  the  guard 
of  the  Carrousel  gate,  "  shut  the  gates,  porter  !  these  canaries  will 
fly  off  if  you  don't." 

Undismayed  by  this  little  check,  and  determined,  like  all  noble 


§94  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

spirits,  to  repair  it,  Captain  Paturot  now  laboured  incessantly  to  bring 
his  company  into  discipline,  and  brought  them  not  only  to  march  and 
to  countermarch,  but  to  fire  with  great  precision,  until  on  an  un 
lucky  day,  the  lieutenant,  being  in  advance  of  his  men,  a  certain 
voltigeur,  who  had  forgotten  to  withdraw  his  ramrod  from  his  gun, 
discharged  the  rod  into  the  fleshy  part  of  the  lieutenant's  back, 
which  accident  caused  the  firing  to  abate  somewhat  afterwards. 

Ambition,  meanwhile,  had  seized  upon  the  captain's  wife,  who 
too  was  determined  to  play  her  part  in  the  world,  and  had  chosen 
the  world  of  fashion  for  her  sphere  of  action.  A  certain  Russian 
Princess,  of  undoubted  grandeur,  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Madame 
Paturot,  and,  under  the  auspices  of  that  illustrious  hyperborean 
chaperon,  she  entered  into  the  genteel  world. 

Among  the  fashionable  public  of  Paris,  we  are  led  by  Monsieur 
Paturot's  memoirs  to  suppose  that  they  mingle  virtue  with  their 
pleasure,  and,  so  that  they  can  aid  in  a  charitable  work,  are  ready 
to  sacrifice  themselves  and  dance  to  any  extent.  It  happened  that 
a  part  of  the  Borysthenes  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Princess 
Flibustikopfkoi's  estate  overflowed,  and  the  Parisian  public  came 
forward  as  sympathisers,  as  they  did  for  sufiering  Ireland  and 
Prince  O'Connell  the  other  day.  A  great  fete  was  resolved  on,  and 
Madame  de  Paturot  became  one  of  the  ladies  patronesses. 

And  at  this/efe  we  are  presented  to  a  great  character,  in  whom 
the  hahitui  of  Paris  will  perhaps  recognise  a  certain  likeness  to 
a  certain  celebrity  of  the  present  day,  by  name  Monsieur  Hector 
Berlioz,  the  musician  and  critic. 

"  The  great  artist  promised  his  assistance.  All  the  wind 
instruments  in  Paris  were  engaged  in  advance,  and  all  the  brass 
bands,  and  all  the  fiddles  possible. 

"  '  Princess,'  said  the  artist,  agitating  his  locks,  '  for  your  sake 
I  would  find  the  hymn  of  the  creation  that  has  been  lost  since  the 
days  of  the  deluge.' 

"  The  day  of  the  festival  arrived.  The  artist  would  allow  none 
but  himself  to  conduct  his  own  chef-d'oeuvre  ;  he  took  his  place  at 
a  desk  five  metres  above  the  level  of  the  waves  of  the  orchestra, 
and  around  him  were  placed  the  most  hairy  and  romantic  musicians 
of  the  day,  who  were  judged  worthy  of  applauding  at  the  proper 
place.  The  artist  himself,  the  utterer  of  the  musical  apocalypse, 
cast  his  eyes  over  the  assembly,  seeking  to  dominate  the  multitude 
by  that  glance,  and  also  to  keep  in  order  a  refractory  lock  of 
hair  which  would  insist  upon  interrupting  it.  I  had  more  than 
once  heard  of  the  plan  of  this  great  genius,  which  consists  in  set- 
ting public  and  private  life  to  music.      A  thousand  extraordinary 


JEROME    PATUROT  395 

anecdotes  are  recorded  of  the  extraordinary  power  which  he 
possessed  for  so  doing;  among  others  is  the  story  of  the  circum- 
stance which  occurred  to  him  in  a  tavern.  Having  a  wish  for  a 
dish  of  fricandeau  and  sorrel,  the  genius  took  a  flageolet  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  modulated  a  few  notes. 

'  Tum-tiddle-di-tum-tiddle-de,'  &o. 

The  waiter  knew  at  once  what  was  meant,  and  brought  the  frican- 
deau and  the  sauce  required.  Genius  always  overcomes  its  detractors 
in  this  way. 

"  I  am  not  able  to  give  a  description  of  the  wonderful  marceau 
of  music  now  performed.  With  it  the  festival  terminated.  The 
hero  of  the  evening  sat  alone  at  his  desk,  vanquished  by  his 
emotions,  and  half-drowned  in  a  lock  of  hair,  which  has  previously 
been  described.  The  music  done,  the  hairy  musicians  round  about 
rushed  towards  the  maestro  with  the  idea  of  carrying  him  in 
triumph  to  his  coach,  and  of  dragging  him  home  in  the  same.  But 
he,  modestly  retiring  by  a  back-door,  called  for  his  cloak  and  his 
clogs,  and  walked  home,  where  he  wrote  a  critique  for  the  news- 
papers of  the  music  which  he  had  composed  and  directed  previously. 
It  is  thus  that  modem  genius  is  made  ;  it  is  suificient  for  all  duties, 
and  can  swallow  any  glory  you  please." 

Whether  this  little  picture  is  a  likeness  or  not,  who  shall  say  ? 
but  it  is  a  good  caricature  of  a  race  in  France,  where  geniuses 
poussent  as  they  do  nowhere  else ;  where  poets  are  prophets,  where 
romances  have  revelations.  It  was  but  yesterday  I  was  reading 
in  a  Paris  newspaper  some  account  of  the  present  state  of  things 
in  Spain.  "  Battles  in  Spain  are  mighty  well,"  says  the  genius ; 
"  but  what  does  Europe  care  for  them  1  A  single  word  spoken  in 
France  has  more  influence  than  a  pitched  battle  in  Spain."  So 
stupendous  a  genius  is  that  of  the  country  ! 

The  nation  considers,  then,  its  beer  the  strongest  that  ever 
was  brewed  in  the  world ;  and  so  with  individuals.  This  has  his 
artistical,  that  his  musical,  that  his  poetical  beer,  which  frothy 
liquor  is  preferred  before  that  of  all  other  taps ;  and  the  musician 
above  has  a  number  of  brethren  in  other  callings. 

Jerome's  high  fortunes  are  yet  to  come.  From  being  captain 
of  his  company  he  is  raised  to  be  heutenant^colonel  of  his  regiment, 
and  as  such  has  the  honour  to  be  invited  to  the  palace  of  the 
Tuileries  with  Madame  Paturot.  This  great  event  is  described  in 
the  following  eloquent  manner  : — 

[Here  follows  a  description  of  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries.] 

If  the  respected  reader,  like  the  writer  of  this,  has  never  had 


396  CKITICAL    REVIEWS 

the  honour  of  figuring  at  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries  (at  home,  of  course, 
we  are  as  regular  at  Pimlico  as  Lord  Melbourne  used  to  be),  here 
is  surely  in  a  couple  of  pages  a  description  of  the  aifair  so  accurate, 
that,  after  translating  it,  I  for  my  part  feel  as  if  I  were  quite 
familiar  with  the  palace  of  the  French  king.  I  can  see  Louis 
Philippe  grinning  endlessly,  ceaselessly  bobbing  his  august  head  up 
and  down.  I  can  see  the  footmen  in  red,  the  officiers  d'ordonnance 
in  stays,  the  spindle-shanked  young  princes  frisking  round  to  the 
sound  of  the  brass  bands.  The  chandeliers,  the  ambassadors,  the 
flaccid  Germans  with  their  finger-rings,  the  Spaniards  looking  like 
gilded  old  clothesmen ;  here  and  there  a  deputy  lieutenant,  of 
course,  and  one  or  two  hapless  Britons  in  their  national  court  suits, 
that  make  the  French  mob,  as  the  Briton  descends  from  his  carriage, 
exclaim,  "  Oh,  ce  marquis  !  "  Fancy  besides  fifteen  hundred  women, 
of  whom  fourteen  hundred  and  fifty  are  ugly — it  is  the  proportion 
iu  France.  And  how  much  easier  is  it  to  enjoy  this  Barmecide 
dance  in  the  description  of  honest  Paturot  than  to  dress  at  mid- 
night, and  pay  a  guinea  for  a  carriage,  and  keep  out  of  one's 
wholesome  bed,  in  order  to  look  at  King  Louis  Philippe  smiling ! 
What  a  mercy  it  is  not  to  be  a  gentleman  !  What  a  blessing  it 
is  not  to  be  obliged  to  drive  a  cab  in  white  kid  gloves,  nor  to 
sit  behind  a  great  floundering  racing-tailed  horse  of  Rotten  Row, 
expecting  momentarily  that  he  will  jump  you  into  the  barouche 
full  of  ladies  just  ahead !  What  a  mercy  it  is  not  to  be  obliged 
to  wear  tight  lacquered  boots,  nor  to  dress  for  dinner,  nor  to  go 
to  balls  at  midnight,  nor  even  to  be  a  member  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  nor  to  be  prevented  from  smoking  a  cigar  if  you  are 
so  minded !  All  which  privileges  of  poverty  may  Fortune  long 
keep  to  us !  Men  do  not  know  half  their  luck,  that  is  the  fact. 
If  the  real  truth  were  known  about  things,  we  should  have  their 
Graces  of  Sutherland  and  Devonshire  giving  up  their  incomes  to 
the  national  debt,  and  saying  to  the  country,  "  Give  me  a  mutton 
chop  and  a  thousand  a  year  !  " 

In  the  fortunes  of  honest  Paturot  this  wholesome  moral  is  indi- 
cated with  much  philosophic  acumen,  as  those  will  allow  who  are  in- 
clined from  the  above  specimen  of  their  quality  to  make  themselves 
acquainted  with  the  further  history  of  his  fortunes.  Such  persons 
may  read  how  Jerome,  having  become  a  colonel  of  the  National 
Guards,  becomes,  of  course,  a  member  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  how 
he  is  tempted  to  aspire  to  still  further  dignities,  how  he  becomes 
a  deputy,  and  how  his  constituents  are  served  by  him ;  how,  being 
deputy,  he  has  perhaps  an  inclination  to  become  minister,  but  that  one 
fine  day  he  finds  that  his  house  cannot  meet  certain  bills  which  are 
presented  for  payment,  and  so  the  poor  fellow  becomes  a  bankrupt. 


JEROME    PATUROT  397 

He  gets  a  little  place,  he  retires  with  Malvina  into  a  country 
town ;  she  is  exceedingly  fond  of  canaries  and  dominoes,  and  Jerome 
cultivates  cabbages  and  pinks  with  great  energy  and  perfect  content- 
ment. He  says  he  is  quite  happy.  Ought  he  not  to  be  so  who 
has  made  a  thousand  readers  happy,  and  perhaps  a  little  wiser  ? 

I  have  just  heard  that  "  Jerome  Paturot "  is  a  political  novel : 
one  of  the  Reviews  despatches  this  masterpiece  in  a  few  growling 
lines,  and  pronounces  it  to  be  a  failure.  Perhaps  it  is  a  political 
novel,  perhaps  there  is  a  great  deal  of  sound  thinking  in  this  care- 
less, familiar,  sparkling  narrative,  and  a  vast  deal  of  reflection 
hidden  under  Jerome's  ordinary  cotton  nightcap ;  certainly  it  is  a 
most  witty  and  entertaining  story,  and  as  such  is  humbly  recom- 
mended by  the  undersigned  to  all  lovers  of  the  Pantagruelian 
philosophy.  It  is  a  great  thing  nowadays  to  get  a  funny  book 
which  makes  you  laugh,  to  read  three  volumes  of  satire  in  which 
there  is  not  a  particle  of  bad  blood,  and  to  add  to  one's  knowledge 
of  the  world,  too,  as  one  can't  help  doing  by  the  aid  of  this  keen 
and  good-humoured  wit.  The  author  of  "Jerome  Paturot"  is 
Monsieur  Reybaud,  understood  to  be  a  grave  man,  dealing  in 
political  economy,  in  Fourierism,  and  other  severe  sciences.  There 
is  a  valuable  work  by  the  late  Mr.  Henry  Fielding,  the  police- 
magistrate,  upon  the  prevention  of  thieving  in  the  metropolis,  and 
some  political  pamphlets  of  merit  by  the  same  author ;  but  it  hath 
been  generally  allowed  that  the  history  of  Mr.  Thomas  Jones  by 
the  same  Mr.  Fielding  is  amongst  the  most  valuable  of  the  scienti&c 
works  of  this  author.  And  in  like  manner,  whatever  may  be  the 
graver  works  of  Monsieur  Reybaud,  I  heartily  trust  that  he  has 
some  more  of  the  Paturot  kind  in  his  brain  or  his  portfolio,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  lazy,  novel-reading,  unscientific  world. 

M.  A.  TiTMAESH. 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS 


"t  ^HE  Argwment. — Mr.  Yorke  having  despatched  to  Mr.  Titmarsh, 
■i  in  Switzerland,  a  box  of  novels  (carriage  paid),  the  latter 
returns  to  Oliver  an  essay  upon  the  same,  into  which  he  in- 
troduces a  variety  of  other  interesting  discourse.  He  treats  of  the 
severity  of  critics ;  of  his  resolution  to  reform  in  that  matter,  and  of 
the  nature  of  poets ;  of  Irishmen;  of  Harry  Lorrequer,  and  that  Hairy 
is  a  sentimental  writer  ;  of  Harry's  critics  ;  of  Tom  Burke ;  of  Eory 
O'More ;  of  the  Young  Pretender  and  the  Duke  of  Bordeaux ;  of 
Irish  Repeal  and  Repeal  songs ;  concerning  one  of  which  he  ad- 
dresseth  to  Eory  O'More  words  of  tender  reproach.  He  mentioneth 
other  novels  found  in  the  box,  viz.  "The  Miser's  Son,"  and 
"  The  Burgomaster  of  Berlin.''  He  bestoweth  a  parting  benediction 
on  Boz. 

Some  few — very  few  years  since,  dear  sir,  in  our  hot  youth, 
when  Will  the  Fourth  was  king,  it  was  the  fashion  of  many  young 
and  ardent  geniuses  who  contributed  their  share  of  high  spirits  to 
the  columns  of  this  Magazine,*  to  belabour  with  unmerciful  ridicule 
almost  all  the  writers  of  this  country  of  England,  to  sneer  at  their 
scholarship,  to  question  their  talents,  to  shout  with  fierce  laughter 
over  their  faults  historical,  poetical,  grammatical,  and  sentimental ; 
and  thence  to  leave  the  reader  to  deduce  our  (the  critic's)  own 
immense  superiority  in  all  the  points  which  we  questioned  in  aU  the 
world  beside.  I  say  <nur,  because  the  undersigned  Michael  Angelo 
has  handled  the  tomahawk  as  well  as  another,  and  has  a  scalp  or 
two  drying  in  his  lodge. 

Those  times,  dear  Yorke,  are  past.  I  found  you,  on  visiting 
London  last  year,  grown  fat  (pardon  me  for  saying  so) — fat  and 
peaceful.  Your  children  clambered  smiling  about  your  knee.  You 
did  not  disdain  to  cut  bread  and  butter  for  them ;  and,  as  you 
poured  out  their  milk  and  water  at  supper,  I  could  not  but  see  that 
you,  too,  had  imbibed  much  of  that  sweet  and  wholesome  milk  of 
human  kindness,  at  which  in  youth  we  are  ready  to  sneer  as  a  vapid 
and  unprofitable  potion ;  but  whereof  as  manhood  advances  we  are 

*  Eraser's  Magazimf, 


A    BOX    OF    NOVELS  399 

daily  more  apt  to  recognise  the  healthful  qualities.  For  of  all  diets 
good-humour  is  the  most  easy  of  digestion ;  if  it  does  not  create  that 
mad  boisterous  flow  of  spirits  which  gi-eater  excitement  causes,  it 
has  yet  a  mirth  of  its  own,  pleasanter,  truer,  and  more  lasting  than 
the  intoxication  of  sparkling  satire ;  above  all,  one  rises  the  next 
morning  without  fever  or  headache,  and. without  the  dim  and  frightful 
consciousness  of  having  broken  somebody's  undeserving  bones  in  a 
frolic,  while  under  the  satirical  frenzy.  You  are  grown  mild — we 
are  all  grown  mild.  I  saw  Morgan  Battler  going  home  with  a 
wooden  horse  for  his  little  son.  Men  and  fathers,  we  can  assault 
men  and  fathers  no  more. 

Besides,  a  truth  dawns  upon  the  mature  mind,  which  may  thus 
be  put  by  interrogation  Because  a  critic,  deeming  A  and  B  to  be 
blockheads  for  whom  utter  destruction  is  requisite,  forthwith  sets 
to  work  to  destroy  them  is  it  clear  that  the  public  are  interested  in 
that  work  of  demolition,  and  that  they  admire  the  critic  hugely  for 
his  pains  ?  At  my  present  mature  age,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
the  nation  does  not  much  care  for  this  sort  of  executiveness ;  and 
that  it  looks  upon  the  press-Mohawks  (this  is  not  the  least  personal) 
as  it  did  upon  the  gallant  young  noblemen  who  used  a  few  years 
since  to  break  the  heads  of  policemen,  and  paint  apothecaries'  shops 
pea-green, — with  amusement,  perhaps,  but  with  anything  but  respect 
and  liking.  And  as  those  young  noblemen,  recognising  the  justice 
of  public  opinion,  have  retired  to  their  estates,  which  they  are  now 
occupied  peacefully  in  administering  and  improving,  so  have  the 
young  earls  and  marquesses  of  the  court  of  Ebgina  of  Kegent 
Street  calmly  subsided  into  the  tillage  of  the  pleasant  fields  of 
literature,  and  the  cultivation  of  the  fresh  green  crops  of  good- 
humoured  thought.  My  little  work  on  the  difierential  calculus,  for 
instance,  is  in  a  most  advanced  state ;  and  you  wiU  correct  me  if  I 
break  a  confidence  in  saying,  that  your  translation  of  the  first 
hundred  and  ninety-six  chapters  of  the  Mahabharata  will  throw 
some  extraordinary  light  upon  a  subject  most  intensely  interesting 
to  England,  viz.  the  Sanscrit  theosophy. 

This  introduction,  then,  will  have  prepared  you  for  an  exceed- 
ingly humane  and  laudatory  notice  of  the  packet  of  works  which 
you  were  good  enough  to  send  me,  and  which,  though  they  doubtless 
contain  a  great  deal  that  the  critic  would  not  write  (from  the  extreme 
delicacy  of  his  taste  and  the  vast  range  of  his  learning),  also  contain, 
between  ourselves,  a  great  deal  that  the  critic  could  not  write  if  he 
would  ever  so :  and  this  is  a  truth  which  critics  are  sometimes  apt 
to  forget  in  their  judgments  of  works  of  fiction.  As  a  rustical  boy, 
hired  at  twopence  per  week,  may  fling  stones  at  the  blackbirds  and 
drive  them  off  and  possibly  hit  one  or  two,  yet  if  he  get  into  the 


400  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

hedge  and  begin  to  sing,  he  will  make  a  wretched  business  of  the 
music,  and  Lubin  and  Colin  and  the  dullest  swains  of  the  village 
will  laugh  egregiously  at  his  folly ;  so  the  critic  employed  to  assault 

the  poet But  the  rest  of  the  simile  is  obvious,  and  will  be 

apprehended  at  once  by  a  person  of  your  experience. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  blackbirds  of  letters — the  harmless,  kind 
singing  creatures  who  line  the  hedgesides  and  chirp  and  twitter  as 
nature  bade  them  (they  can  no  more  help  singing,  these  poets,  than 
a  flower  can  help  smelling  sweet),  have  been  treated  much  too  ruth- 
lessly by  the  watcli-boys  of  the  press,  who  have  a  love  for  flinging 
stones  at  the  little  innocents,  and  pretend  that  it  is  their  duty,  and 
that  every  wren  or  sparrow  is  likely  to  destroy  a  whole  field  of 
wheat,  or  to  turn  out  a  monstrous  bird  of  prey.  Leave  we  these 
vain  sports  and  savage  pastimes  of  youth,  and  turn  we  to  the  bene- 
volent philosophy  of  maturer  age. 

A  characteristic  of  the  Irish  writers  and  people,  which  has  not 
been  at  all  appreciated  by  the  English,  is,  I  think,  that  of  extreme 
melancholy.  All  Irish  stories  are  sad,  all  humorous  Irish  songs 
are  sad ;  there  is  never  a  burst  of  laughter  excited  by  them  but,  as 
I  fancy,  tears  are  near  a,t  hand ;  and  from  "  Castle  Raekrent "  down- 
wards, every  Hibernian  tale  that  I  have  read  is  sure  to  leave  a  sort 
of  woeful  tender  impression.  Mr.  Carleton's  books — and  he  is  by 
far  the  greatest  genius  who  has  written  of  Irish  life — are  pre- 
eminently melancholy.  Griffin's  best  novel,  "  The  Collegians,"  has 
the  same  painful  character;  and  I  have  always  been  surprised, 
while  the  universal  English  critic  has  been  laughing  over  the  stirring 
stories  of  "  Harry  Lorrequer,"  that  he  has  not  recognised  the  fund 
of  sadness  beneath.  The  most  jovial  song  that  I  know  of  in  the 
Irish  language  is  "  The  Night  before  Larry  was  stretched ; "  but, 
along  with  the  joviality,  you  always  carry  the  impression  of  the 
hanging  the  next  morning.  "  The  Groves  of  Blarney  "  is  the  richest 
nonsense  that  the  world  has  known  since  the  days  of  Rabelais ;  but 
is  it  not  very  pathetic  nonsense  ?  The  folly  is  uttered  with  a  sad 
look,  and  to  the  most  lamentable  wailing  music  :  it  affects  you  like 
the  jokes  of  Lear's  fool.  An  Irish  landscape  conveys  the  same 
impression.  You  may  walk  all  Ireland  through,  and  hardly  see  a 
cheerful  one ;  and  whereas  at  five  miles  from  the  spot  where  this  is 
published  or  read  in  England,  you  may  be  sure  to  light  upon  some 
prospect  of  English  nature  smiling  in  plenty,  rich  in  comfort,  and 
delightfully  cheerful,  however  simple  and  homely,  the  finest  and 
richest  landscape  in  Ireland  always  appeared  to  me  to  be  sad,  and 
the  people  corresponded  with  the  place.  But  we  in  England  have 
adopted  our  idea  of  the  Irishman,  and,  like  the  pig-imitator's  audience 
in  the  fable  (which  simile  is  not  to  be  construed  into  an  opinion  on 


A    BOX    OF    NOVELS  401 

the  writer's  part  that  the  Irish  resemble  pigs,  but  simply  that  the 
Saxon  is  dull  of  comprehension),  we  will  have  the  sham  Irishman 
in  preference  to  the  real  one,  and  will  laugh  at  the  poor  wag,  what- 
ever his  mood  may  be.  The  romance-writers  and  dramatists  have 
wronged  the  Irish  cruelly  (and  so  has  every  Saxon  among  them,  the 
O'ConnelUtes  will  say)  in  misrepresenting  them  as  they  have  done. 
What  a  number  of  false  accounts,  for  instance,  did  poor  Power  give 
to  English  playgoers,  about  Ireland  !  He  led  Cockneys  to  suppose 
that  aU  that  Irish  gaiety  was  natural  and  constant ;  that  Paddy 
was  in  a  perpetual  whirl  of  high  spirits  and  whisky ;  for  ever 
screeching  and  whooping  mad  songs  and  wild  jokes  ;  a  being  entirely 
devoid  of  artifice  and  calculation :  it  is  only  after  an  Englishman 
has  seen  the  country  that  he  learns  how  false  these  jokes  are ;  how 
sad  these  high  spirits^  and  how  cunning  and  fitful  that  exuberant 
joviality,  which  we  have  been  made  to  fancy  are  the  Irishman's 
everyday  state  of  mind.  There  is,  for  example,  the  famous  Sir 
Lucius  O'Trigger  of  Sheridan,  at  whose  humours  we  all  laugh  de- 
lightfully. He  is  the  most  real  character,  in  all  that  strange  company 
of  profligates  and  swindlers  who  people  Sheridan's  plays,  and  I  think 
the  most  profoundly  dismal  of  all.  The  poor  Irish  knight's  jokes 
are  only  on  the  surface.  He  is  a  hypocrite  all  through  the  comedy, 
and  his  fun  no  more  real  than  his  Irish  estate.  He  makes  others 
laugh,  but  he  does  not  laugh  himself,  as  Falstaflf  does,  and  Sydney 
Smith,  and  a  few  other  hearty  humorists  of  the  British  sort. 

So  when  he  reads  in  the  "Opinions  of  the  Press"  how  the 
provincial  journalists  are  affected  with  Mr.  Lever's  books;  how 
the  Doncaster  Argus  declares,  "We  have  literally  roared  with 
laughter  over  the  last  number  of  'Our  Mess';"  or  the  Manx 
Mercury  vows  it  has  "absolutely  burst  with  cachin nation "  over 
the  facetiae  of  friend  Harry  Lorrequer ;  or  the  Bungay  Beacon  has 
been  obliged  to  call  in  two  printer's  devils  to  hold  the  editorial 
sides  while  perusing  "  Charles  O'Malley's "  funny  stories ;  let  the 
reader  be  assured  that  he  has  fallen  upon  critical  opinions  not  worth 
the  having.  It  is  impossible  to  yell  with  laughter  through  thirty- 
two  pages.  Laughter,  to  be  worth  having,  can  only  come  by  fits 
and  now  and  then.  The  main  body  of  your  laughter-inspiring  book' 
must  be  calm ;  and  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  give  an  opinion  about 
Lorrequer  after  all  that  has  been  said  for  and  against  him,  a,fter 
the  characteristics  of  boundless  merriment  which  the  English  critic 
lias  found  in  him,  and  the  abuse  which  the  Irish  writers  have 
hurled  at  him  for  presenting  degrading  pictures  of  the  national 
character,  it  would  be  to  enter  a  calm  protest  against  both  opinions, 
and  say  that  the  author's  characteristic  is  not  humour,  but  senti- 
nient, — neither  more  nor  less  than  sentiment,  in  spite  of  all  the 


402  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

rollicking  and  bawling,  and  the  songs  of  Micky  Free,  and  the 
horse-racing,  and  punch-making,  and  charging,  and  steeplechasing — 
the  quality  of  the  Lorrequer  stories  seems  to  me  to  be  extreme 
delicacy,  sweetness,  and  kindliness  of  heart.  The  spirits  are  for 
the  most  part  artificial,  the  fond  is  sadness,  as  appears  to  me  to  be 
that  of  most  Irish  writing  and  people. 

Certain  Irisli  critics  will  rise  up  in  arms  against  this  dictum, 
and  will  fall  foul  of  the  author  of  the  paradox  and  of  the  subject 
of  these  present  remarks  too.  For  while  we  have  been  almost 
universal  in  our  praise  of  Lorrequer  in  England,  no  man  has  been 
more  fiercely  buffeted  in  his  own  country,  Mr.  O'Connell  himself 
taking  the  lead  to  attack  this  kindly  and  gentle  writer,  and  thunder- 
ing oat  abuse  at  him  from  his  cathedra  in  the  Corn  Exchange.  A 
strange  occupation  this  for  a  statesman !  Fancy  Sir  Robert  Peel 
taking  occasion  to  bring  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit "  before  the  House 
of  Commons ;  or  the  American  President  rapping  "  Sam  Slick " 
over  the  knuckles  in  the  thirty-fourth  column  of  his  speech;  or  Lord 
Brougham  attacking  Mr.  Albert  Smith  in  the  Privy  Council ! 

The  great  Corn  Exchange  critic  says  that  Lorrequer  has  sent 
abroad  an  unjust  opinion  of  the  Irish  character,  which  he  (the 
Corn  Exchange  critic)  is  upholding  by  words  and  example.  On  this 
signal  the  Irish  Liberal  journals  fall  foul  of  poor  Harry  with  a 
ferocity  which  few  can  appreciate  in  this  country,  where  the  labours 
of  our  Hibernian  brethren  of  the  press  are  little  read.  But  you 
would  fancy  from  the  Nation  that  the  man  is  a  stark  traitor 
and  incendiary ;  that  he  has  written  a  libel  against  Ireland  such 
as  merits  cord  and  fire !  0  patriotic  critic !  what  Brutus-like 
sacrifices  will  the  literary  man  not  commit !  what  a  noble  pro- 
fessional independence  he  has !  how  free  from  envy  he  is !  how 
pleased  with  his  neighbour's  success  !  and  yet  how  ready  (on  public 
grounds — of  course,  only  on  public  grounds)  to  attack  his  nearest 
friend  and  closest  acquaintance !  Although  he  knows  that  the 
success  of  one  man  of  letters  is  the  success  of  all,  that  with  every 
man  who  rises  a  score  of  others  rise  too,  that  to  make  what  has 
hitherto  been  a  struggling  and  uncertain  calling  an  assured  and 
respectable  one,  it  is  necessary  that  some  should  succeed  greatly, 
and  that  every  man  who  lives  by  his  pen  should,  therefore,  back 
the  efforts  and  applaud  the  advancement  of  his  brother ;  yet  the 
virtues  of  professional  literature  are  so  obstinately  republican,  that 
it  will  acknowledge  no  honours,  help  no  friend,  have  all  on  a  level ; 
and  so  the  Irish  press  is  at  present  martyrising  the  most  successful 
member  of  its  body.  His  books  appeared;  they  were  very  pleasant; 
Tory  and  Liberal  applauded  alike  the  good-humoured  and  kind- 
hearted  writer,  who  quarrelled  with  none,  and  amused  all,     But  hi^ 


A    BOX    OF    NOVELS  403 

publishers  sold  twenty  thousand  of  his  books.  He  was  a  monster 
from  that  moment,  a  doomed  man ;  if  a  man  can  die  of  articles, 
Harry  Lorrequer  ought  to  have  yielded  up  the  ghost  long  ago. 

Lorrequer's  military  propensities  have  been  objected  to  strongly 
by  his  squeamish  Hibernian  brethren.  I  freely  confess,  for  my  part, 
that  there  is  a  great  deal  too  much  fighting  in  the  Lorrequerian 
romances  for  my  taste,  an  endless  clashing  of  sabres,  unbounded 
alarums,  "chambers"  let  off  (as  in  the  old  Shakspeare  stage- 
directions),  the  warriors  drive  one  another  on  and  off  the  stage  until 
the  quiet  citizen  is  puzzled  by  their  interminable  evolutions,  and 
gets  a  headache  with  the  smell  of  the  powder.  But  is  Lorrequer 
the  only  man  in  Ireland  who  is  fond  of  military  spectacles  1  Why 
do  ten  thousand  people  go  to  the  Phaynix  Park  twice  a  week  1 
Why  does  the  Nation  newspaper  publish  those  edifying  and 
Christian  war  songs'?  And  who  is  it  that  prates  about  the  Irish 
at  Waterloo,  and  the  Irish  at  Fontenoy,  and  the  Irish  at  Seringa- 
patam,  and  the  Irish  at  Timbuctoo  ?  If  Mr.  O'Connell,  like  a  wise 
rhetorician,  chooses,  and  very  properly,  to  flatter  the  national 
military  passion,  why  should  not  Harry  Lorrequer?  There  is  bad 
blood,  bitter,  brutal,  unchristian  hatred  in  every  line  of  every  single 
ballad  of  the  Nation ;  there  is  none  in  the  harmless  war-pageants 
of  honest  Harry  Lorrequer.  And  as  for  the  Irish  brigade,  has  not 
Mr.  O'Connell  bragged  more  about  that  than  any  other  author  of 
fiction  in  or  out  of  his  country  ? 

The  persons  who  take  exception  to  numerous  hunting  and 
steeplechasing  descriptions  which  abound  in  these  volumes  have, 
perhaps,  some  reason  on  their  side.  Those  quiet  people  who  have 
never  leaped  across  anything  wider  than  a  gutter  in  Pall  Mall,  or 
have  learned  the  chivalric  art  in  Mr.  Fozard's  riding-school,  are  not 
apt  to  be  extremely  interested  in  hunting  stories,  and  may  find 
themselves  morally  thrown  out  in  the  midst  of  a  long  fox-chase, 
which  gallops  through  ever  so  many  pages  of  close  type.  But  these 
descriptions  are  not  written  for  such.  Go  and  ask  a  "fast  man" 
at  college  what  he  thinks  of  them.  Go  dine  at  Lord  Cardigan's 
mess-table,  and  as  the  black  bottle  passes  round  ask  the  young 
comets  and  captains  whether  they  have  read  the  last  number  of 
"  Tom  Burke,"  and  you  will  see  what  the  answer  will  be.  At  this 
minute  those  pink-bound  volumes  are  to  be  found  in  every  garrison, 
in  every  one  of  the  towns,  colonies,  islands,  continents,  isthmuses, 
and  promontories,  where  her  Majesty's  flag  floats;  they  are  the 
pleasure  of  country  folk,  high  and  low ;  they  are  not  scientific 
treatises,  certainly,  but  are  they  intended  as  such  ?  They  are  not, 
perhaps,  taken  in  by  Dissenting  clergymen  and  doctors  of  divinity 
(though  for  my  part  I  have  seen,  in  the  hall  of  a  certaiu  college  of 


404  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Dublin,  a  score  of  the  latter,  in  gowns  and  bands,  crowding  round 
Harry  Lorrequer  and  listening  to  his  talk  with  all  their  might) ; 
but  does  the  author  aim  especially  at  instructing  their  reverences  1 
No.  Though  this  is  a  favourite  method  with  many  critics — viz. 
to  find  fault  with  a  book  for  what  it  does  not  give,  as  thus : — 
"  Lady  Smigsmag's  new  novel  is  amusing,  but  lamentably  deficient 
in  geological  information."  "  Dr.  Swishtail's  '  Elucidations  of  the 
Digamma '  show  much  sound  scholarship,  but  infer  a  total  absence 
of  humour."  And  "  Mr.  Lever's  tales  are  trashy  and  worthless, 
for  his  facts  are  not  borne  out  by  any  authority,  and  he  gives  us  no 
information  upon  the  political  state  of  Ireland.  Oh  !  our  country ; 
our  green  and  beloved,  our  beautiful  and  oppressed  !  accursed  be 
the  tongue  that  should  now  speak  of  aught  but  thy  wrong ;  withered 
the  dastard  hand  that  should  strike  upon  thy  desolate  harp  another 
string  !  "  &c.  &c.  &c. 

And  now,  having  taken  exception  to  the  pugnacious  and  horse- 
racious  parts  of  the  Lorrequer  novels  (whereof  an  admirable  parody 
appeared  some  months  since  in  Tait's  Magazine),  let  us  proceed  to 
state  further  characteristics  of  Lorrequer.  His  stories  show  no  art 
of  construction  ;  it  is  the  good  old  plan  of  virtue  triumphant  at  the 
end  of  the  chapter,  vice  being  woefully  demolished  some  few  pages 
previously.  As  Scott's  heroes  were,  for  the  most  part,  canny, 
gallant,  prudent,  modest  young  North  Britons,  Lorrequer's  are 
gallant  young  Irishmen,  a  little  more  dandified  and  dashing,  per- 
haps, than  such  heroes  as  novelists  create  on  this  side  of  the  water ; 
wonderfully  like  each  other  in  personal  qualities  and  beauty ;  but, 
withal,  modest  and  scrupulously  pure-minded.  And  there  is  no 
reader  of  Mr.  Lever's  tales  but  must  admire  the  extreme,  almost 
womanlike,  delicacy  of  the  author,  who,  amidst  all  the  wild  scenes 
through  which  he  carries  his  characters  and  vrith  all  liis  outbreaks 
of  spirits  and  fun,  never  writes  a  sentence  that  is  not  entirely  pure. 
Nor  is  he  singular  in  this  excellent  chastity  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion ;  it  is  almost  a  national  virtue  with  the  Irish,  as  any  person  will 
acknowledge  who  has  lived  any  time  in  their  country  or  society. 

The  present  hero  of  the  Lorrequerian  cyclus  of  romances  re- 
sembles the  other  young  gentlemen  whose  history  they  record  in  his 
great  admiration  for  the  military  profession,  in  the  which,  after 
some  adventurous  half-dozen  numbers  of  civil  life,  we  find  him 
launched.  Drums,  trumpets,  blunderbusses,  guns,  and  thunder 
form  the  subject  of  the  whole  set,  and  are  emblazoned  on  the  backs 
of  every  one  of  the  volumes.  The  present  volume  is  bound  in  a 
rich  blood-coloured  calico,  and  has  a  most  truculent  and  ferocious 
look.  The  illustrations,  from  the  hand  of  the  famous  Phiz,  show 
to  great  advantage  the  merits  of  that  dashing  designer.     He  draws 


A   BOX   OF    NOVELS  405 

a  horse  admirably,  a  landscape  beautifully,  a  female  figure  ■with 
extreme  grace  and  tenderness ;  but  as  for  his  humour,  it  is  stark 
naught ;  ay,  worse  !  the  humorous  faces  are  bad  caricatures,  with- 
out, as  I  fancy,  the  slightest  provocation  to  laughter.  If  one  were 
to  meet  these  monsters  expanded  from  two  inches  to  six  feet,  people 
would  be  frightened  by  them,  not  amused,  so  cruel  are  their  grimaces 
and  unearthly  their  ugliness.  And  a  study  of  the  admirable 
sketches  of  Rafifet  and  Charlet  would  have  given  the  designer  a 
better  notion  of  the  costume  of  the  soldiery  of  the  Consulate  than 
that  which  he  has  adopted.  Indeed,  one  could  point  out  sundry 
errors  in  costume  which  the  author  himself  has  committed,  were 
the  critic  inclined  to  be  severely  accurate,  and  not  actuated  by  that 
overflowing  benevolence  which  is  so  delightful  to  feel. 

"  Tom  Burke  of  Ours "  *  is  so  called  because  he  enters  the 
French  service  at  an  early  age ;  but  his  opening  adventures  occur  at 
the  close  of  the  rebellion,  before  the  union  of  Ireland  and  England, 
and  before  the  empire  of  Napoleon.  The  opening  chapters  are  the 
best  because  they  are  the  most  real.  The  author  is  more  at  home 
in  Ireland  than  in  the  French  camp  or  capital,  the  scenes  and  land- 
scapes he  describes  there  are  much  more  naturally  depicted,  and  the 
characters  to  whom  he  introduces  us  more  striking  and  lifelike.  The 
novel  opens  gloomily  and  picturesquely.  Old  Burke  is  dying,  alone 
in  his  dismal  old  tumble-down  house,  somewhere  near  the  famous 
town  of  Athlone  (who  can  describe  with  suificient  desolation  the 
ride  from  that  city  to  Ballinasloe  ?).  Old  Burke  is  dying,  and  this 
is  young  Tom's  description  of  the  appearance  of  an  old  house  at 
home. 

[A  long  extract  is  omitted.] 

How  Tom  Burke  further  fared — how  he  escaped  the  dragoon's 
sabre  and  the  executioner's  rope — how  he  became  the  protigi  of 
the  facetious  Bubbleton  (a  most  unnatural  character  certainly,  but 
who  is  drawn  exactly  from  a  great  living  model) — how  Captain  de 
Meudon,  the  French  cuirassier,  took  a  liking  to  the  lad,  and  died 
in  a  uniform  sparkling  with  crosses  (which  crosses  were  not  yet 
invented  in  France),  leaving  Tom  a  sum  of  money,  and  a  recommen- 
dation to  the  Ecole  Polytechnique  (where,  by  the  way,  students  are 
not  admitted  with  any  such  recommendations) — how  Tom  escaped 
to  Prance,  and  beheld  the  great  First  Consul,  and  was  tried  for 
the  infernal  machine  aifair,  and  was  present  at  the  glorious  field 
of  Austerlitz,  and  made  war,  and  blunders,  and  love — are  not  all 

*  "Our  Mess."  Edited  by  Charles  Lever  (Harry  Lorrequer).  Vol.  ii. 
"Tom  Burke  of  Ours,"  vol.  i.  Dublin:  Curry,  jun.  &  Co.  London:  Orr. 
Edinburgh  :  Fraser  &  Co.     1844. 


406  OEITICAL   REVIEWS 

these  tilings  written  in  the  blood-coloured  volume  embroidered  with 
blunderbusses  aforesaid,  and  can  the  reader  do  better  than  recreate 
himself  therewith?  Indeed,  as  the  critic  lays  down  the  lively, 
sparkling,  stirring  volume,  and  thinks  of  its  tens  of  thousands  of 
readers ;  and  that  it  is  lying  in  the  little  huckster's  window  at 
Dunleary,  and  upon  the  artillery  mess-table  at  Damchun ;  and  that 
it  is,  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  taken  in  at  Hong-kong,  where 
poor  dear  Commissioner  Lin  has  gazed,  delighted,  at  the  picture 
of  "  Peeping  Tom  " ;  or  that  it  is  to  be  had  at  the  Library,  Cape 
Town,  where  the  Dutch  boors  and  the  Hottentot  princes  are  long- 
ing for  the  reading  of  it — the  critic,  I  say,  considering  the  matter 
merely  in  a  geographical  point  of  view,  finds  himself  overcome  by 
an  amazing  and  blushing  modesty,  timidly  apologises  to  the  reader 
for  discoursing  to  him  about  a  book  which  the  universal  public 
peruses,  and  politely  takes  his  leave  of  the  writer  by  wishing  him 
all  health  and  prosperity. 

By  the  way,  one  solemn  protest  ought  to  be  made  regarding 
the  volume.  The  monster  of  the  latter  part  is  a  certain  truculent 
captain  (who  is  very  properly  done  for),  and  who  goes  by  the  name 
of  Amedie  Pichot.  Why  this  name  above  all  others  ?  Why  not 
Jules  Janin,  or  Alexandre  Dumas,  or  Eugfene  Sue  1  Am^d^e  Pichot 
is  a  friend  to  England  in  a  country  where  friends  to  England  are 
rare,  and  worth  having.  Am^dfe  Pichot  is  the  author  of  the 
excellent  life  of  Charles  Edward,  the  friend  of  Scott,  and  the  editor 
of  the  JRevue  Britannique,  -in  which  he  inserts  more  translations 
from  Fraser's  Magazine  than  from  any  other  periodical  produced 
in  this  empire.  His  translations  of  the  works  of  a  certain  gentle- 
man with  a  remarkably  good  memory  have  been  quoted  by  scores 
of  French  newspapers  ;  his  version  of  other  articles  (which,  perhaps, 
modesty  forbids  the  present  writer  to  name)  has  given  the  French 
people  a  most  exalted  idea  of  English  lighter  literature ;  he  is  such 
a  friend  to  English  literature,  that  he  will  not  review  a  late  work 
called  "  Paris  and  the  Parisians,"  lest  France  should  have  a  con- 
temptible opinion  of  our  tourists ;  it  is  a  sin  and  a  shame  that 
Harry  Lorrequer  should  have  slaughtered  Amdd^e  Pichot  in  this 
wanton  and  cruel  manner. 

And  now,  having  said  our  little  say  regarding  "  Tom  Burke," 
we  come  to  the  work  of  an  equally  famous  Irish  novelist,  the 
ingenious,  the  various  author  of  "  £.  S.  D.,"*  latterly  called, 
though  we  know  not  for  what  very  good  reason,  "  Treasure  Trove."  t 

*  "  £.  S.  D.  ;  or,  Accounts  of  Irish  Heirs  furnished  to  the  Public  monthly." 
By  Samuel  Lover.     London  :  Lover,  and  Groombridge.     1843. 

t  If  the  respected  critic  had  read  the  preface  of  Mr.  Lover's  work,  he  would 
have  perceived  that  "£.  S.  D."  is  the  general  name  of  a,  series  of  -works,  of 


A    Box   OF   NOVELS  407 

It  is  true  that  something  concerning  a  treasure  is  to  be  discovered 
at  the  latter  end  of  the  novel,  but  "£.  S.  I).,"  or  D.O.L.,  or 
what  you  will,  is  quite  as  good  a  title  as  another.  It  is  the 
rose  smells  sweet,  and  not  the  name  of  it, — at  least  I  take  it 
is  only  a  publisher  who  would  assert  the  contrary.  For  instance, 
everybody  quarrels  with  the  title  of  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  and  all 
that  incomprehensible  manifesto  about  the  silver  spoons  and  the 
family  plate  which  followed;  but  did  we  read  it  the. less  1  No. 
The  British  public  is  of  that  order  of  gormandisers  which  would 
like  a  cabinet  pudding,  even  though  you  called  it  hard-dumpling, 
and  is  not  to  be  taken  in  by  titles  in  the  main.  •'  £.  S.  D."  is  a 
good  name ;  may  all  persons  concerned  have  plenty  of  it ! 

The  present  tale  of  Mr.  Lover's  contains  more  action  and  inci- 
dent than  are  to  be  found  in  his  former  works.  It  is  an  historical 
romance  in  due  form, — a  romance  of  war,  and  love,  and  fun,  and 
sentiment,  and  intrigue,  and  escape,  and  rebellion.  I  have  but  the 
dozen  first  numbers,  and  the  thirteenth  of  the  series  is  to  complete 
the  tale ;  but  the  question  is,  how  on  earth  is  it  to  be  finished  1 
It  is  true  the  wicked  rival  has  been  done  for — that  circumstances 
look  prosperously  enough  for  the  hero^ — that  he  has  saved  the 
heroine  from  a  proper  number  of  dangers,  and  made  himself  agree- 
able to  her  father ;  all  this  is  very  well.  But  the  hero's  name  is 
Corhery.  Bon  Dieu  1  can  the  lovely  Ellen  Lynch  of  Galway,  the 
admired  of  a  Brady,  a  Bodkin,  a  Marshal  Saxe,  the  affianced  of  a 
Kirwan  (name  equally  illustrious,  as  Hardeman's  "  Galway  "  relates) 
— can  Ellen  Lynch  marry  a  fellow  by  the  name  of  Corkery?  I 
won't  believe  it.  It  is  against  all  the  rules  of  romance.  They 
must  both  die  miserably  in  No.  XIII.,  or  young  Ned  Corkery  must 
be  found  to  be  somebody  else's  son  than  his  father's,  the  old  grocer 
of  Gralway.  But  this  matter  has  been  settled  long  ere  this ;  and  if 
Ellen  and  Edward  are  married  and  happy  (though,  indeed,  some 
people  are  married  and  unhappy,  and  some  happy  and  unmarried, 
for  the  matter  of  that),  if  they  have  taken  the  matrimonial  line, 
Ellen,  I  would  lay  a  wager,  is  not  Mrs.  Corkery.* 

The  novel  carries  us  back  to  the  year  1745,  when  the  respected 
Mr.  Edward  Waverley  distinguished  himself  in  the  service  of  his 
late  Royal  Highness  the  Pretender,  and  when  men,  instead  of 
bandying  compliments  and  congees  in  Belgrave  Square,  flying  thither 

which  "Treasure  Trove"  is  only  the  first.  Those  who  know  Irelaild  nrust  be 
aware  that  the  title  "£.  S.  D."  is  singularly  applicable  to  that  country,  the 
quantity  of  specie  there  being  immense — only  a  good  deal  of  it  is  yet  undis- 
covered.— 0.  Y. 

*  Private  to  the  Editor. — Please  to  add  here  in  a  short  note  the  catastrophe 
of  the  novel,  which  I  don't  know. 


408  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

in  hack-cabs,  with  white  kid  gloves  on,  and  comfortable  passports 
in  their  pockets,  turned  out  on  the  hillside  sword  in  hand,  and 
faced  Cumberland's  thundering  dragoons,  and  saw  the  backs  of 
Johnny  Cope's  grenadiers.  The  contrast  between  the  times  is  not 
a  bad  one,  in  the  warriors  of  Perth  and  Falkirk  yonder,  with 
tartan  and  claymore,  and  the  young  French  dandies,  with  oiled 
beards,  and  huge  gold-topped  canes,  grinning  over  a  fricandeau  at 
Vary's !  We  have  seen  them,  these  warriors  of  the  latter  days — 
we  have  seen  Belgrave  Square — we  have  seen  the  chivalry  of 
France  (in  cabs)  collected  round  the  Royal  door,  and  battling  about 
eightpenny  fares  at  the  sacred  threshold — we  have  seen  the  cads 
shouting,  "  This  way,  my  Lord  !  this  way,  Mounseer  !  " — we  have 
seen  Gunter's  cart  driving  up  with  orgeat  and  limonade  for  the 
faithful  warriors  of  Henei  !  He  was  there — there,  in  the  one-pair 
front,  smiling  royally  upon  them  as  they  came ;  and  there  was 
eau  sucr^e  in  the  dining-room  if  the  stalwart  descendants  of  Du 
Guesclin  were  athirst.  0  vanitas  !  0  woeful  change  of  times  ! 
The  play  is  played  up.  Who  dies  for  kings  now  ?  If  Henri  was 
to  say  to  one  of  those  martyrs  in  white  paletots  and  lacquered 
boots,  "  Seigneur  comte,  coupez  moi  cette  barbe,  que  vous  paraissez 
tant  ch&ir,"  would  the  count  do  it  ?  Ah  !  do  not  ask !  do  not 
let  us  cut  too  deep  into  this  dubious  fidelity !  let  us  have  our 
opinions,  but  not  speak  them  too  loudly.  At  any  rate,  it  was 
better  for  Mr.  Lover  to  choose  1740  for  a  romance  in  place  of 
1840,  which  is  the  sole  moral  of  the  above  sentence. 

The  book  is  written  with  ability,  and  inspires  great  interest. 
The  incidents  are  almost  too  many.  The  scene  varies  too  often. 
We  go  from  Galway  to  Hamburg — from  Hamburg  to  Bruges — 
from  Bruges,  vid  London,  to  Paris — from  Paris  to  Scotland,  and 
thence  to  Ireland,  with  war's  alarms  ringing  in  the  ear  the  whole 
way,  and  are  plunged  into  sea-fights,  and  land-fights,  and  shipwrecks, 
and  chases,  and  conspiracies,  without  end.  Our  first  battle  is  no 
less  than  tlie  battle  of  Fontenoy,  and  it  is  described  in  a  lively  and 
a  brilliant  manner.  Voltaire,  out  of  that  defeat,  has  managed  to 
make  such  a  compliment  to  the  English  nation,  that  a  thrashing 
really  becomes  a  pleasure,  and  Mr.  Lover  does  not  neglect  a  certain 
little  opportunity  : — 

"  '  Dillon  ! '  said  Marshal  Saxe,  '  let  the  whole  Irish  brigade 
charge !  to  you  I  commend  its  conduct.  Where  Dillon's  regiment 
leads  the  rest  will  follow.  The  cavalry  has  made  no  impression 
yet ;  let  the  Irish  brigade  show  an  example  ! ' 

'"It  shall  be  done.  Marshal!'  said  Dillon,  touching  his  hat, 
and  turning  his  horse. 


A    BOX    OF    NOVELS  409 

"  '  To  victory  ! '  cried  Saxe  emphatically. 

"  '  Or  Death  ! '  cried  Dillon  solemnly,  kissing  the  cross  of  his 
sword,  and  plunging  the  rowels  in  his  horse's  side,  that  swiftly  he 
might  do  his  bidding,  and  that  the  Irish  brigade  might  first  have 
the  honour  of  changing  the  fortune  of  the  day. 

"  Galloping  along  the  front  of  their  line,  where  the  brigade  stood 
impatient  of  the  order  to  advance,  Dillon  gave  a  word  that  made 
every  man  clench  his  teeth,  firmly  plunge  his  foot  deep  in  the 
stirrup,  and  grip  his  sword  for  vengeance ;  for  the  word  that  Dillon 
gave  was  talismanic  as  others  that  have  been  memorable ;  he 
shouted,  as  he  rode  along,  '  Remember  Limerick ! '  and  then, 
wheeling  round,  and  placing  himself  at  the  head  of  his  own  regi- 
ment, to  whom  the  honour  of  leading  was  given,  he  gave  the 
word  to  charge ;  and  down  swept  the  whole  brigade,  terrible  as 
a  thunderbolt,  for  the  hitherto  unbroken  column  of  Cumberland 
was  crushed  under  the  fearful  charge,  the  very  earth  trembled 
beneath  that  horrible  rush  of  horse.  Dillon  was  amongst  the  first 
to  fall ;  he  received  a  mortal  wound  from  the  steady  and  well- 
directed  fire  of  the  English  column,  and,  as  he  was  struck,  he 
knew  his  presentiment  was  fulfilled ;  but  he  lived  long  enough 
to  know  also  he  completed  his  prophecy  of  a  glorious  charge ; 
plunging  his  spurs  into  his  fiery  horse,  he  jumped  into  the  forest 
of  bayonets,  and,  laying  about  him  gallantly,  he  saw  the  English 
column  broken,  and  fell,  fighting,  amidst  a  heap  of  slain.  The 
day  was  won ;  the  column  could  no  longer  resist ;  but,  with  the 
indomitable  spirit  of  Englishmen,  they  still  turned  their  faces 
to  the  foe,  and  retired  without  confusion ;  they  lost  the  field 
with  honowr,  and,  in  the  midst  of  defeat,  it  was  some  satisfac- 
tion to  know  it  was  the  bold  islanders  of  their  own  seas  who 
carried  the  victory  against  them.  It  was  no  foreigner  before 
whom  they  yielded.  The  thought  was  bitter  that  they  them- 
selves had  disbanded  a  strength  so  mighty ;  but  they  took 
consolation  in  a  strange  land  in  the  thought  that  it  was  only 
their  own  right  arm  could  deal  a  blow  so  heavy.  Thanks  be  to 
God,  these  unnatural  days  are  past,  and  the  unholy  laws  that  made 
them  so  are  expunged.  In  little  more  than  sixty  years  after,  and 
not  fifty  miles  from  that  very  spot,  Irish  valour  helped  to  win 
victory  on  the  side  of  England;  for,  at  Waterloo,  Erin  gave  to 
Albion,  not  only  her  fiery  columns,  but  her  unconquered  chieftain." 

That  Irish  brigade  is  the  deuce,  certainly.  When  once  it 
appears,  the  consequences  are  obvious.  No  mortal  can  stand 
against  it.  Why  does  not  some  military  Liberal  write  the  history 
of  this  redoubtable  legion  ? 


410  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

There  is  something  touching  in  these  legends  of  the  prowess  of 
the  exile  in  his  banishment,  and  no  doubt  it  could  be  shown  that 
where  the  French  did  not  happen  to  have  the  uppermost  in  their 
contest  with  the  Saxon,  it  was  because  their  allies  were  engaged 
elsewhere,  and  not  present  in  the  field  to  Jag  an  33ealac|^,  as 
Mr.  Lover  writes  it,  to  "  clear  the  way " ;  on  which  subject  he 
writes  a  song,  which,  he  says,  "at  least  all  Ireland  will  heartily 
digest." 

"  Fdff  an  Bealach. 

"  Fill  the  cup,  my  brothers. 

To  pledge  a  toast, 
Which,  beyond  all  others. 

We  prize  the  most : 
As  yet  'tis  but  a  notion 

We  dare  not  name  ; 
But  soon  o'er  land  or  ocean 

'Twill  fly  with  fame  ! 
Then  give  the  game  before  us 

One  view  holla, 
Hip  !  hurra !  in  chorus. 

Fag  an  Bealach ! 

We  our  hearts  can  fling,  boys, 

O'er  this  notion. 
As  the  sea-bird's  wing,  boys, 

Dips  the  ocean. 
*Tis  too  deep  for  words,  boys, 

The  thought  we  know — 
So,  like  the  ocean  bird,  boys, 

We  touch  and  go  ; 
For  dangers  deep  surrounding. 

Our  hopes  might  swallow ; 
So  through  the  tempest  bounding. 

Fag  an  Bealach  ! 

This  thought  with  glory  rife,  boys, 

Did  brooding  dwell, 
TiU  time  did  give  it  life,  boys. 

To  break  the  shell : 
'Tis  in  our  hearts  yet  lying. 

An  unfledged  thing  ; 
But  soon,  an  eaglet  flying, 

'Twill  take  the  wing  ! 
For  'tis  no  timeling  frail,  boys — 

No  summer  swallow — 
'Twill  live  through  winter's  gale,  boys. 

Fag  an  Bealach  ! 


A    BOX    OP    NOVELS  411 

Lawyers  may  indict  us 

By  crooked  laws, 
Soldiers  strive  to  fright  us 

From  country's  cause ; 
But  we  will  sustain  it 

Living — dying — ■ 
Point  of  law  or  bay'net 

Still  defying ! 
Let  their  parchment  rattle  — 

Drums  are  hollow. 
So  is  lawyer's  prattle — 

Fag  an  Bealaoh ! 

Better  early  graves,  boys, 

Dark  locks  gory, 
Than  bow  the  head  as  slaves,  boys. 

When  they're  hoary. 
Fight  it  out  we  must,  boys, 

Hit  or  miss  it ; 
Better  hite  the  dust,  boys, 

Than  to  Mss  it ! 
For  dust  to  dust  at  last,  boys, 

Death  will  swallow — 
Hark  !  the  trumpet's  blast,  boys. 

Fag  an  Bealach  !  " 

Hurra !  clear  the  course  !  Here  comes  Kory  O'More  thunder- 
ing down  with  his  big  alpeen;  his  blood  is  up,  and  woe  to  the 
Saxon  skull  that  comes  in  contact  with  the  terrible  fellow's  oak- 
stick.  He  is  in  a  mortal  fury,  that's  a  fact.  He  talks  of  dying 
as  easy  as  of  supping  buttermilk ;  he  rattles  out  rhymes  for  bayonet 
and  cartouche-box  as  if  they  were  his  ordinary  weapons ;  he  is  a 
sea-bird,  and  then  an  eagle  breaking  his  shell,  and  previously  a 
huntsman — anything  for  his  country  !  "  Your  sowl !  "  how  I  see 
the  Saxons  flying  before  Eory  and  his  wild  huntsmen,  as  the  other 
foul  animals  did  before  St.  Patrick  ! 

It  is  a  good  rattling  lyric,  to  be  sure.  But  is  it  well  sung  by 
you,  0  Samuel  Lover?  Are  yow,  too,  turning  rebel,  and  shouting 
out  songs  of  hatred  against  the  Saxon?  You,  whose  gentle  and 
kindly  muse  never  breathed  anything  but  peace  and  goodwill  as 
yet :  you  whose  name  did  seem  to  indicate  your  nature ;  the  happy 
discoverer  of  the  four-leaved  shamrock,  and  of  that  blessed  island 
"  where  not  a  tear  or  aching  heart  should  be  found  !  "  Leave  the 
brawling  to  the  politicians  and  the  newspaper  ballad-mongers. 
They  live  by  it.  You  need  not.  The  lies  which  they  tell,  and 
the  foul  hatred  which  they  excite,  and  the  fierce  lust  of  blood  which 
they  preach, — leave  to  them.  Don't  let  poets  and  men  of  genius 
join  in  the  brutal  chorus,  and  lead  on  starving  savages  to  murder. 


412  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Or  do  you,  after  maturely  deliberating  the  matter,  mean  to  say, 
you  think  a  rebellion  a  just,  feasible,  and  useful  thing  for  your 
country — the  oTdy  feasible  thing,  the  inevitable  slaughter  which 
it  would  occasion,  excusable  on  account  of  the  good  it  would  do  ? 
"A  song,"  say  you,  ushering  this  incendiary  lyric  into  print,  "is 
the  spawn  of  a  poet,  and,  when  healthy,  a  thing  of  life  and  feeling 
that  should  increase  and  multiply,  and  become  food  for  the  world." 
And  so,  with  this  conviction  of  the  greatness  of  your  calling,  and 
this  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  every  line  you  write  is  food  for 
mankind  to  profit  by,  you  sit  down  calmly  and  laboriously  in  your 
study  in  London,  and  string  together  rhymes  for  Faug  a  BoUa,  and 
reasons  for  treason  !  "  AH  Ireland,"  forsooth,  is  "  heartily  to 
digest "  the  song  !  A  pretty  morsel,  truly,  for  all  Ireland — a  com- 
fortable dinner !  Blood,  arsenic,  blue-vitriol,  Prussic  acid,  to  wash 
doviTi  pikes,  cannon-balls,  and  red-hot  shot ! 

Murder  is  the  meaning  of  this  song,  or  what  is  if?  Let  a 
Saxon  beseech  you  to  hold  your  hand  before  you  begin  this  terrible 
sport.  Can  you  say,  on  your  honour  and  conscience,  and  after 
living  in  England,  that  you  ever  met  an  Englishman  with  a  heart 
in  his  Saxony-cloth  surtout  that  was  not  touched  by  the  wrongs 
and  miseries  of  your  country  %  How  are  these  frantic  denunciations 
of  defiance  and  hatred,  these  boasts  of  strength  and  hints  of  murder, 
received  in  England  %  Do  the  English  answer  you  with  a  hundredth 
part  of  the  ferocity  with  which  you  appeal  to  them?  Do  they 
fling  back  hatred  for  your  hatred  %  Do  they  not  forget  your  anger 
in  regard  for  your  misery,  and  receive  your  mad  curses  and  outcries 
with  an  almost  curious  pitying  forbearance?  Now,  at  least,  the 
wrong  is  not  on  our  side,  whatever  in  former  days  it  may  have 
been.  And  I  think  a  poet  shames  his  great  calling,  and  has  no 
more  right  to  preach  this  wicked,  foolish,  worn-out,  unchristian 
doctrine  from  his  altar  than  a  priest  from  his  pulpit.  No  good 
over  came  of  it.  This  will  never  "  be  food  for  the  world,"  be  sure 
of  that.  Loving,  honest  men  and  women  were  never  made  to  live 
upon  such  accursed  meat.  Poets  least  of  all  should  recommend  it ; 
for  are  they  not  priests,  too,  in  their  way?  do  they  not  occupy  a 
happy  neutral  ground,  apart  from  the  quarrels  and  hatred  of  the 
world, — a  ground  to  which  they  should  make  all  welcome,  and 
where  there  should  only  be  kindness  and  peace  ?  ...  I  see  Eory 
O'More  relents.  He  drops  his  terrific  club  of  battle  ;  he  will  spare 
the  Sassenach  this  time,  and  leave  him  whole  bones.  Betty,  take 
down  the  gentleman's  stick,  and  make  a  fire  with  it  in  the  kitchen, 
and  we'll  have  a  roaring  pot  of  twankay. 

While  discussing  the  feast,  in  perfect  good-humour  and  benevo- 
lence, let  us  say  that  the  novel  of  "  Treasure  Trove  "  is  exceedingly 


A    60X    OF    NOVELS  MB 

pleasant  and  lively.  It  has.  not  been  written  without  care,  and  a 
great  deal  of  historical  reading.  Bating  the  abominable  Faug  a 
Bolla,  it  contains  a  number  of  pleasant,  kindly,  and  sweet  lyrics, 
such  as  the  author  has  the  secret  of  inventing,  and  of  singing, 
and  of  setting  to  the  most  beautiful  music ;  and  is  illustrated  by 
a  number  of  delicate  and  graceful  etchings,  far  better  than  any 
before  designed  by  the  author. 

Let  us  give  another  of  his  songs,  which,  albeit  of  the  military 
sort,  has  the  real,  natural,  Lover-like  feeling  about  it : — 

"  The  Soldier. 

"  'TWAS  glorious  day,  worth  a  warrior's  telling, 

Two  kings  had  fought,  and  the  fight  was  done, 
When  midst  the  shout  of  victory  swelling, 

A  soldier  fell  on  the  field  he  won. 
He  thought  of  kings  and  of  royal  quarrels, 

And  thought  of  glory  without  a  smile  ; 
For  what  had  he  to  do  with  laurels  ? 

He  was  only  one  of  the  rank  and  file. 
But  he  pulled  out  his  little  oruiskeen, 
And  drank  to  his  pretty  colleen  : 

'  Oh  !  darling ! '  says  he,  '  when  I  die 

You  won't  be  a  widow — for  why  ? — 
Ah  !  you  never  would  have  me,  vourneen.' 

A  raven  tress  from  his  bosom  taking, 

That  now  was  stained  with  his  life-stream  shed  ; 
A  fervent  prayer  o'er  that  ringlet  making, 

He  blessings  sought  on  the  loved  one's  head. 
And  visions  fair  of  his  native  mountains 

Arose,  enchanting  his  fading  sight ; 
Their  emerald  valleys  and  crystal  fountains 

Were  never  shining  more  green  and  bright ; 
And  grasping  his  little  a'uiskeen, 
He  pledged  the  dear  Island  of  green ; — 

'  Though  far  from  thy  valleys  I  die, 

Dearest  isle,  to  my  heart  thou  art  nigh, 
As  though  absent  I  never  had  been.' 

A  tear  now  fell — for  as  life  was  sinking, 

The  pride  that  guarded  his  manly  eye 
Was  weaker  grown,  and  his  last  fond  thinking 

Brought  heaven  and  home,  and  his  true  love  nigh. 
But,  with  the  fire  of  his  gallant  nation, 

He  scorn'd  surrender  without  a  blow  ! 
He  made  with  death  capitulation, 

And  with  warlike  honours  he  still  would  go ; 


414  CRITICAL    EEVIEWS 

For  draining  his  little  cruiskeen, 
He  drank  to  his  cruel  colleen, 

To  the  emerald  land  of  his  birth — 

And  lifeless  he  sank  to  the  earth, 
Brave  a  soldier  as  ever  was  seen  !  " 

Here  is  the  commencement  of  another  lyric  : — 

0  remember  this  life  is  but  dark  and  brief ; 

There  are  sorrows,  and  tears,  and  despair  for  all. 

And  hope  and  joy  are  a^  leaves  that  fall. 
Then  pluck  the  beauteous  and  fragrant  leaf 
Before  the  autumn  of  pain  and  grief  ! 

There  are  hopes  and  smiles  with  their  starry  rays,— 

0  press  them  tenderly  to  thy  heart ! 

They  will  not  return  when  they  once  depart ! 
Eejoioe  in  the  radiant  and  joyous  days 
Though  the  light,  though  the  glee  but  a  moment  stays  !  " 

But  these  pretty,  wild,  fantastical  lines  are  not  from  "  Treasure 
Trove."  They  come  from  another  volume  bound  in  yellow  ;  another 
monthly  tale,  from  another  bard  who  "  lisps  in  numbers,"  and  has 
produced  a  story  called  the  "Miser's  Son."* 

The  "Miser's  Son"  (no  relation  to  the  "Miser's  Daughter") 
is  evidently  the  work  of  a  very  young  hand.  It,  too,  is  a  stirring 
story  of  love  and  war ;  and  the  Pretender  is  once  more  in  the 
field  of  fiction.  The  writer  aims,  too,  at  sentiment  and  thoughtful- 
ness,  and  writes  sometimes  wisely,  sometimes  poetically,  and  often 
(must  it  be  said  ?)  bombastically  and  absurdly.  But  it  is  good 
to  find  a  writer  nowadays  (whether  it  be  profitable  for  himself  is 
another  question)  who  takes  tlie  trouble  to  think  at  all.  Reflection 
is  not  the  ordinary  quality  of  novels,  whereof  it  seems  to  be  the 
writer's  maxim  to  give  the  reader  and  himself  no  trouble  of 
thinking  at  all,  but  rather  to  lull  the  mind  into  a  genial  doze 
and  forgetfulness.  For  this  wholesome  and  complete  vacuity  I 
would  recommend f 

And  now  we  come  to  the  "  Burgomaster  of  Berlin,"  J  from  the 
German  of  WiUebald  Alexis,  which  has  been  admirably  translated 
by  W.  A.  G.  It  is  a  somewhat  hard  matter  to  peruse  these  three 
great  volumes ;  above  aU,  the  commencement  is  difficult.     The  type 

*  "The  Miser's  Son:  a  Tale."  London:  Thompson,  James  Street,  Gray's 
Inn  Lane. 

f  Here  our  correspondent's  manuscript  is  quite  illegible. 

$  "The  Burgomaster  of  Berlin."  From  the  German  of  WiUebald  Alexis. 
3  vols.     London :  Saunders  k  Otley. 


A   BOX    OP   NOVELS  415 

is  close ;  the  German  names  very  outlandish  and  hard  to  pronounce ; 
the  action  of  the  novel  ratlier  confused  and  dUatory.  But  as  soon 
as  the  reader  grows  accustomed  to  the  names  and  the  style,  he  will 
find  much  to  interest  him  in  the  volumes,  and  a  most  curious  and 
careful  picture  of  German  life  in  the  fifteenth  century  exhibited  to 
him.  German  burghers,  with  their  quarrels  and  carouses ;  German 
princes,  for  whom  the  author  has  a  very  German  respect ;  German 
junkers  and  knights  gallantly  robbmg  on  the  highway.  The 
whole  of  that  strange,  wild,  forgotten  German  life  of  the  middle 
ages  is  here  resuscitated  for  him  with  true  German  industry, 
and  no  small  share  of  humour.  There  are  proverbs  enough  in  the 
book  to  stock  a  dozen  High-Dutch  Sanchos  with  wisdom ;  and 
you  feel,  after  reading  through  the  volumes,  glad  to  have  perused 
them,  and  not  a  little  glad  that  the  work  is  done.  It  is  like 
a  heavy  book  of  travels ;  but  it  carries  the  reader  into  quite 
a  new  country,  and  familiarises  him  with  new  images,  person- 
ages, ideas. 

And  now  there  is  but  one  book  left  in  the  box,  the  smallest 
one,  but  oh !  how  much  the  best  of  all.  It  is  the  work  of  the 
master  of  all  the  English  humorists  now  alive ;  the  young  man  who 
came  and  took  his  place  calmly  at  the  head  of  the  whole  tribe,  and 
who  has  kept  it.  Think  of  all  we  owe  Mr.  Dickens  since  those  half- 
dozen  years,  the  store  of  happy  hours  that  he  has  made  us  pass, 
the  kindly  and  pleasant  companions  whom  he  has  introduced  to  us  ; 
the  harmless  laughter,  the  generous  wit,  the  frank,  manly,  human 
love  which  he  has  taught  us  to  feel !  Every  month  of  those  years 
has  brought  us  some  kind  token  from  this  delightful  genius.  His 
books  may  have  lost  in  art,  perhaps,  but  could  we  aflbrd  to  wait  ? 
Since  the  days  when  the  Spectator  was  produced  by  a  man  of 
kindred  mind  and  temper,  what  books  have  appeared  that  have 
taken  so  afiiectionate  a  hold  of  the  English  public  as  these  ?  They 
have  made  millions  of  rich  and  poor  happy ;  they  might  have  been 
locked  up  for  nine  years,  doubtless,  and  pruned  here  and  there  and 
improved  (which  I  doubt),  but  where  would  have  been  the  reader's 
benefit  aU  this  time,  whUe  the  author  was  elaborating  his  per- 
formance? Would  the  communion  between  the  writer  and  the 
pubhc  have  been  what  it  is  now — something  continual,  confidential, 
something  like  personal  affection  1  I  do  not  know  whether  these 
stories  are  written  for  future  ages  :  many  sage  critics  doubt  on  this 
head.  There  are  always  such  conjurers  to  tell  literary  fortunes ; 
and,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  Boz,  according  to  them,  has  been 
sinking  regularly  these  six  years.  I  doubt  about  that  mysterious 
writing  for  futurity  which  certain  big-wigs  prescribe.  Snarl  has  a 
chance,  certainly.     His  works,  which  have  not  been  read  in  this 


416  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

age,  may  be  read  in  future  ;  but  the  receipt  for  that  sort  of  writing 
has  never  as  yet  been  clearly  ascertained.  Shakspeare  did  not 
write  for  futurity ;  he  wrote  his  plays  for  the  same  purpose  which 
inspires  the  pen  of  Alfred  Bunn,  Esquire,  viz.  to  fill  his  Theatre 
Royal.  And  yet  we  read  Shakspeare  now.  Le  Sage  and  Fielding 
wrote  for  their  public ;  and  though  the  great  Doctor  Johnson  put 
his  peevish  protest  against  the  fame  of  the  latter,  and  voted  him 
"a  dull  dog,  sir, — a  low  fellow,"  yet  somehow  Harry  Fielding  has 
survived  in  spite  of  the  critic,  and  Parson  Adams  is  at  this  minute 
as  real  a  character,  as  much  loved  by  us  as  the  old  Doctor  himself. 
What  a  noble  divine  power  this  of  genius  is,  which,  passing  from 
the  poet  into  his  reader's  soul,  mingles  with  it,  and  there  engenders, 
as  it  were,  real  creatures,  which  is  as  strong  as  history,  which 
creates  beings  that  take  their  place  by  nature's  own.  All  that  we 
know  of  Don  Quixote  or  Louis  XIV.  we  got  to  know  in  the  same 
way — out  of  a  book.  I  declare  I  love  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  quite 
as  much  as  Izaak  Walton,  and  have  just  as  clear  a  consciousness 
of  the  looks,  voice,  habit,  and  manner  of  being  of  the  one  as  of 
the  other. 

And  so  with  regard  to  this  question  of  futurity ;  if  any  benevo- 
lent being  of  the  present  age  is  imbued  with  a  yearning  desire  to 
know  what  his  great-gfeat-grandehild  will  think  of  this  or  that 
author — of  Mr.  Dickens  especially,  whose  claims  to  fame  have 
raised  the  question — the  only  way  to  settle  it  is  by  the  ordinary 
historic  method.  Did  not  your  great-great-grandfather  love  and 
delight  in  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza?  Have  they  lost 
their  vitality  by  their  age  %  Don't  they  move  laughter  and  awaken 
affection  now  as  three  hundred  years  ago?  And  so  with  Don 
Pickwick  and  Sancho  Weller,  if  their  gentle  humours,  and  kindly 
wit,  and  hearty  benevolent  natures,  touch  us  and  convince  us, 
as  it  were,  now,  why  should  they  not  exist  for  our  children  as 
well  as  for  us,  and  make  the  twenty-fifth  century  happy,  as  they 
have  the  nineteenth  \  Let  Snarl  console  himiself,  then,  as  to  the 
future. 

As  for  the  '•'  Christmas  Carol,"  *  or  any  other  book  of  a  like 
nature  which  the  public  takes  upon  itself  to  criticise,  the  individual 
critic  had  quite  best  hold  his  peace.  One  remembers  what  Bona- 
parte replied  to  some  Austrian  critics,'  of  much  correctness  and 
acumen,  who  doubted  about  acknowledging  the  French  Republic. 
I  do  not  mean  that  the  "  Christmas  Carol"  is  quite  as  brilliant  or 
self-evident  as  the  sun  at  noonday ;  but  it  is  so  spread  over  England 

*  "A  Christmas  Carol  in  Prose  ;  being  a  Ghost  Story  of  Christmas."  By 
Charles  Dickens.  With  Illustrations  by  John  Leech.  London :  Chapman  &  Hall. 
1843. 


A    BOX    OF    NOVELS  417 

by  this  time,  that  no  Bceptio,  no  Fraser's  Magazine, — no,  not  even 
the  godlike  and  ancient  Quarterly  itself  (venerable,  Saturnian, 
big  wigged  dynasty  !)  could  review  it  down.  "  Unhappy  people  ! 
deluded  race  !  "  one  hears  the  cauliflowered  god  exclaim,  mournfully 
shaking  the  powder  out  of  his  ambrosial  curls.  "  What  strange  new 
folly  is  this  ?  What  new  deity  do  ye  worship  1  Know  ye  what  ye 
do  ?  Know  ye  that  your  new  idol  hath  little  Latin  and  less  Greek  ? 
Know  ye  that  he  has  never  tasted  the  birch  of  Eton,  nor  trodden 
the  flags  of  Carfax,  nor  paced  the  academic  flats  of  Trumpington  1 
Know  ye  that  in  mathematics,  or  logics,  this  wretched  ignoramus  is 
not  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  a  wooden  spoon  ?  See  ye  not  how,  from 
describing  low  humours,  he  now,  forsooth,  will  attempt  the  sublime  1 
Discern  ye  not  his  faults  of  taste,  his  deplorable  propensity  to  write 
blank  verse  ?  Come  back  to  your  ancient,  venerable,  and  natural 
instructors.  Leave  this  new,  low,  and  intoxicating  draught  at  which 
ye  rush,  and  let  us  lead  you  back  to  the  old  wells  of  classic  lore. 
Come  and  repose  with  us  there.  We  are  your  gods ;  we  are  the 
ancient  oracles,  and  no  mistake.  Come  listen  to  us  once  more,  and 
we  will  sing  to  you  the  mystic  numbers  of  as  in  presenti  under  the 
arches  of  the  Pons  Asinorum."  But  the  children  of  the  present 
generation  hear  not;  for  they  reply,  "Kush  to  the  Strand!  and 
purchase  five  thousand  more  copies  of  the  '  Christmas  Carol.'  " 

In  fact,  one  might  as  well  detail  the  plot  of  the  "  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor,"  or  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  as  recapitulate  here  the  adven- 
tures of  Scrooge  the  miser,  and  his  Christmas  conversion.  I  am 
not  sure  that  the  allegory  is  a  very  complete  one,  and  protest,  with 
the  classics,  against  the  use  of  blank  verse  in  prose ;  but  here  all 
objections  stop.  Who  can  listen  to  objections  regarding  such  a 
book  as  this  1  It  seems  to  me  a  national  benefit,  and  to  every  man 
or  woman  who  reads  it  a  personal  kindness.  The  last  two  people 
I  heard  speak  of  it  were  women ;  neither  knew  the  other,  or  the 
author,  and  both  said,  by  way  of  criticism,  "  God  bless  him  !  "  A 
Scotch  philosopher,  who  nationally  does  not  keep  Christmas  Day, 
on  reading  the  book,  sent  out  for  a  turkey,  and  asked  two  friends 
to  dine — this  is  a  fact !  Many  men  were  known  to  sit  down  after 
perusing  it,  and  write  off  letters  to  their  friends,  not  about  business, 
but  out  of  their  fulness  of  heart,  and  to  wish  old  acquaintances  a 
happy  Christmas.  Had  the  book  appeared  a  fortnight  earlier,  all 
the  prize  cattle  would  have  been  gobbled  up  in  pure  love  and  friend- 
ship, Epping  denuded  of  sausages,  and  not  a  turkey  left  in  Norfolk. 
His  Koyal  Highness's  fat  stock  would  have  fetched  unheard-of 
prices,  and  Alderman  Bannister  would  have  been  tired  of  slaying. 
But  there  is  a  Christmas  for  1844,  too ;  the  book  will  be  as  early 
then  as  now,  and  so  let  speculators  look  out 

13  S  S 


418  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

As  for  Tiny  Tim,  there  is  a  certain  passage  in  the  book  regard- 
ing that  young  gentleman,  about  which  a  man  should  hardly  venture 
to  speak  in  print  or  in  public,  any  more  than  he  would  of  any  other 
affections  of  his  private  heart.  There  is  not  a  reader  in  England 
but  that  little  creature  will  be  a  bond  of  union  between  the  author 
and  him  ;  and  he  will  say  of  Charles  Dickens,  as  the  woman  just 
now,  "  God  bless  him  !  "  What  a  feeling  is  this  for  a  writer  to  be 
able  to  inspire,  and  what  a  reward  to  reap  ! 


MAY  GAMBOLS;  OR,  TITMAR8H  IN  THE 
PICTURE  GALLERIES 


THE  readers  of  this  miscellany  *  may,  perhaps,  have  remarked 
that  always,  at  the  May  season  and  the  period  of  the 
exhibitions,  our  eccentric  correspondent  Titmarsh  seems  to 
be  seized  with  a  double  fit  of  eccentricity,  and  to  break  out  into 
such  violent  fantastical  gambols  as  might  cause  us  to  be  alarmed 
did  we  not  know  him  to  be  harmless,  and  induce  us  to  doubt  of 
his  reason  but  that  the  fit  is  generally  brief,  and  passes  off  after 
the  first  excitement  occasioned  by  visiting  the  picture  galleries.  It 
was  in  one  of  these  fits,  some  years  since,  that  he  announced  in 
this  Magazine  his  own  suicide,  which  we  know  to  be  absurd,  for 
he  has  drawn  many  hundred  guineas  from  us  since : — on  the 
same  occasion  he  described  his  debts  and  sojourn  at  a  respectable 
hotel,  in  which  it  seems  he  has  never  set  his  foot.  But  these 
hallucinations  pass  away  with  May,  and  next  month  he  will, 
no  doubt,  be  calmer,  or,  at  least,  not  more  absurd  than  usual. 
Some  disappointments  occurring  to  himself,  and  the  refusal  of 
his  great  picture  of  "  Heliogabalus "  in  the  year  1803  (which 
caused  liis  retirement  from  practice  as  a  painter),  may  account 
for  his  extreme  bitterness  against  some  of  the  chief  artists  in 
this  or  any  other  school  or  country.  Thus  we  have  him  in 
these  pages  abusing  Eaphael;  in  the  very  last  month  he  fell 
foul  of  Rubens,  and  in  the  present  paper  he  actually  pooh- 
poohs  Sir  Martin  Shee  and  some  of  the  Eoyal  Academy.  This 
is  too  much.  "  Cselum  ipsum,"  as  Horace  says,  "petimus  stul- 
titil"  But  we  will  quote  no  more  the  well-known  words  of  the 
Epicurean  bard. 

We  only  add  that  we  do  not  feel  in  the  least  bound  by  any 
one  of  the  opinions  here  brought  forward,  from  most  of  which, 
except  where  the  writer  contradicts  himself  and  so  saves  us  the 
trouble,  we  cordially  dissent ;  and  perhaps  the  reader  had  best  pass 
on  to  the  next  article,  omitting  all  perusal  of  this,  excepting,  of 
course,  the  editorial  notice  of — O.  Y. 

*  Fraser's  Magazine. 


420  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Jack  Straw's  Castle,  Hampstead  :  May  25. 

This  is  written  in  the  midst  of  a  general  desolation  and  dis- 
couragement of  the  honest  practitioners  who  dwell  in  the  dingy 
first-floors  about  Middlesex  Hospital  and  Soho.  The  long-haired 
ones  are  tearing  their  lanky  locks  :  the  velvet-coated  sons  of  genius 
are  plunged  in  despair ;  the  law  has  ordered  the  suppression  of 
Art-Unions,  and  the  wheel  of  Fortune  has  suddenly  and  cruelly 
been  made  to  stand  still.  When  the  dreadful  news  came  that  the 
kindly  harmless  Art-lottery  was  to  be  put  an  end  to,  although 
Derby-lotteries  are  advertised  in  every  gin-shop  in  London,  and 
every  ruffian  in  the  City  may  gamble  at  his  leisure,  the  men  of  the 
brush  and  palette  convoked  a  tumultuous  meeting,  where,  amidst 
tears,  shrieks,  and  wrath,  the  cruelty  of  their  case  was  debated. 
Wyse  of  Waterford  calmly  presided  over  the  stormy  bladder- 
squeezers,  the  insulted  wielders  of  the  knife  and  maulstick.  Wyse 
soothed  their  angry  spirits  with  words  of  wisdom  and  hope.  He 
stood  up  in  the  assembly  of  the  legislators  of  the  land  and  pointed 
out  their  wrongs.  The  painters'  friend,  the  kind  old  Lansdowne, 
lifted  up  his  cordial  voice  among  the  peers  of  England,  and  asked 
for  protection  for  the  children  of  Raphael  and  Apelles.  No  one 
said  nay.  All  pitied  the  misfortune  of  the  painters ;  even  Lord 
Brougham  was  stilled  into  compassion,  and  the  voice  of  Vaux  was 
only  heard  in  sobs. 

These  are  days  of  darkness,  but  there  is  hope  in  the  vista ;  the 
lottery-subscription  lies  in  limbo,  but  it  shall  be  released  therefrom 
and  flourish,  exuberantly  revivified,  in  future  years.  Had  the  ruin 
been  consummated,  this  hand  should  have  withered  rather  than 
have  attempted  to  inscribe  jokes  concerning  it.  No,  Fraser  is 
the  artists'  friend,  their  mild  parent.  While  his  Royal  Highness 
Prince  Albert  dines  with  the  Academicians,  the  rest  of  painters, 
less  fortunate,  are  patronised  by  her  Majesty  Regina. 

Yes,  in  spite  of  the  Art-Union  accident,  there  is  hope  for  the 
painters.  Sir  Martin  Archer  Shee  thinks  that  the  Prince's  con- 
descension in  dining  with  the  Academy  will  do  incalculable  benefit 
to  the  art.  Henceforth  its  position  is  assured  in  the  world.  This 
august  patronage,  the  President  says,  evincing  the  sympathy  of  the 
higher  classes,  must  awaken  the  interest  of  the  low :  and  the  public 
(the  ignorant  rogues  !)  will  thus  learn  to  appreciate  what  they 
have  not  cared  for  hitherto.  Interested  !  Of  course  they  will  be. 
0  Academicians  !  ask  the  public  to  dinner,  and  you  will  see  how 
much  interested  they  will  be.  We  are  authorised  to  state  that 
next  year  any  person  who  will  send  in  his  name  wiU  have  a  cover 
provided ;  Trafalgar  Square  is  to  be  awned  in,  plates  are  to  be  laid 


MAY    GAMBOLS  421 

for  250,000,  one  of  the  new  basins  is  to  be  filled  with  turtle  and 
the  other  with  cold  punch.  The  President  and  the  Mte  are  to  sit 
upon  Nelson's  pillar,  while  rows  of  benches,  stretching  as  far  as  the 
tJnion  Club,  Northumberland  House,  and  Saint  Martin's  Church, 
will  accommodate  the  vulgar.  Mr.  Toole  is  to  have  a  speaking- 
trumpet;  and  a  twenty-four-pounder  to  be  discharged  at  each 
toast. 

There  are  other  symptoms  of  awakening  interest  in  the  public 
mind.  The  readers  of  newspapers  will  remark  this  year  that  the 
leaders  of  public  opinion  have  devoted  an  unusually  large  space  and 
print  to  reviews  of  the  fine  arts.  They  have  been  employing  critics 
who,  though  they  contradict  each  other  a  good  deal,  are  yet  evi- 
dently better  acquainted  with  the  subject  than  critics  of  old  used 
to  be,  when  gentlemen  of  the  profession  were  instructed  to  report 
on  a  fire,  or  an  Old  Bailey  trial,  or  a  Greek  play,  or  an  opera,  or  a 
boxing-match,  or  a  picture  gallery,  as  their  turn  came.  Bead  now 
the  Times,  the  Chronicle,  the  Post  (especially  the  Post,  of  which 
the  painting  critiques  have  been  very  good),  and  it  will  be  seen 
that  the  critic  knows  his  business,  and  from  the  length  of  his 
articles  it  may  be  conjectured  that  the  public  is  interested  in 
knowing  what  he  has  to  'say.  This  is  all,  probably,  from  the 
Prince  having  dined  at  the  Academy.  The  nation  did  not  care  for 
pictures  until  then, — until  the  nobility  taught  us ;  gracious  nobility ! 
Above  all,  what  a  compliment  to  the  public  ! 

As  one  looks  round  the  rooms  of  the  Royal  Academy,  one 
cannot  but  deplore  the  fate  of  the  poor  fellows  who  have  been 
speculating  upon  the  Art-Unions ;  and  yet  in  the  act  of  grief  there 
is  a  lurking  satisfaction.  The  poor  fellows  can't  sell  their  pieces ; 
that  is  a  pity.  But  why  did  the  poor  fellows  paint  such  fiddle- 
faddle  pictures  ?  They  catered  for  the  bmt/rgecyis,  the  sly  rogues ! 
They  know  honest  John  Bull's  taste,  and  simple  admiration  of 
namby-pamby,  and  so  they  supplied  him  with  an  article  that  was 
just  likely  to  suit  him.  In  like  manner  savages  are  supplied  with 
glass  beads;  children  are  accommodated  with  toys  and  trash,  by 
dexterous  speculators  who  know  their  market.  Well,  I  am  sorry 
that  the  painting  speculators  have  had  a  stop  put  to  their  little 
venture,  and  that  the  ugly  law  against  lotteries  has  stepped  in 
and  seized  upon  the  twelve  thousand  pounds,  which  was  to  furnish 
many  a  hungry  British  Raphael  with  a  coat  and  a  beefsteak. 
Many  a  Mrs.  Raphael,  who  was  looking  out  for  a  new  dress,  or  a 
trip  to  Margate  or  Boulogne  for  the  summer,  must  forego  the 
pleasure,  and  remain  in  dingy  Newman  Street.  Many  little  ones 
will  go  back  to  Tumham  Green  academies  and  not  carry  the  amount 
of  last  half-year's  bill  in  the  trunk;  ma.ny  a  landlord  will  bully 


422  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

about  the  non-payment  of  the  rent ;  and  a  vast  number  of  frame- 
makers  will  look  wistfully  at  their  carving  and  gilding  as  it  returns 
after  the  exhibition  to  Mr.  Tinto,  Charlotte  Street,  along  with  poor 
Tinto's  picture  from  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield "  that  he  made  sure 
of  selling  to  an  Art-Union  prizeman.  This  is  the  pathetic  side  of 
the  question.  My  heart  is  tender,  and  I  weep  for  the  honest 
painters  peering  dismally  at  the  twelve  thousand  pounds  like 
hungry  boys  do  at  a  tart-shop. 

But — here  stern  justice  interposes,  and  the  man  having  relented 
the  CKiTic  raises  his  inexorable  voice — but,  I  say,  the  enemies  of 
Art-Unions  have  had  some  reason  for  their  complaints,  and  I  fear  it 
is  too  true  that  the  effect  of  those  institutions,  as  far  as  they  have 
gone  hitherto,  has  not  been  mightily  favourable  to  the  cause  of  art. 
One  day,  by  custom,  no  dolibt,  the  public  taste  will  grow  better, 
and  as  the  man  who  begins  by  intoxicating  himself  with  a  glass  of 
gin  finishes  sometimes  by  easily  absorbing  a  bottle ;  as  the  law 
student,  who  at  first  is  tired  with  a  chapter  of  Blackstone,  wiU 
presently  swallow  you  down  with  pleasure  a  whole  volume  of 
Ohitty ;  as  education,  in  a  word,  advances,  it  is  humbly  to  be 
hoped  that  the  great  and  generous  British  public  will  not  be  so 
easily  satisfied  as  at  present,  and  will  ask  for  a  better  article  for 
its  money. 

Meanwhile,  their  taste  being  pitiable,  the  artists  supply  them 
with  poor  stuff — pretty  cheap  tawdry  toys  and  gimcracks  in  place 
of  august  and  beautiful  objects  of  art.  It  is  always  the  case.  I 
do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  literary  men  are  a  bit  better.  Poor 
fellows  of  the  pen  and  pencil !  we  must  live.  The  public  likes 
light  literature  and  we  write  it.  Here  am  I  writing  magazine  jokes 
and  follies,  and  why  ?  Because  the  public  like  such,  will  purchase 
no  other.  Otherwise,  as  Mr.  Nickisson,  and  all  who  are  acquainted 
with  M.  A.  Titmarsh  in  private,  know,  my  real  inclinations  would 
lead  me  to  write  works  upon  mathematics,  geology,  and  chemistry, 
varying  them  in  my  lighter  hours  with  little  playful  treatises  on 
questions  of  political  economy,  epic  poems,  and  essays  on  the  jEolic 
digamma.  So,  in  fact,  these  severe  rebukes  with  which  I  am  about 
to  belabour  my  neighbour  must  be  taken,  as  they  are  given,  in  a 
humble  and  friendly  spirit ;  they  are  not  actuated  by  pride,  but  by 
deep  sympathy.  Just  as  we  read  in  holy  Mr.  Newman's  life  of 
Saint  Stephen  Harding,  that  it  was  the  custom  among  the  godly 
Cistercian  monks  (in  the  good  old  times,  which  holy  Newman 
would  restore)  to  assemble  every  morning  in  full  chapter;  and 
there,  after  each  monk  had  made  his  confession,  it  was  free  to — 
nay,  it  was  strictly  enjoined  on — any  other  brother  to  rise  and  say, 
"Brother  So-and-so  hath  not  told  all  his  sins:  our  dear  brother 


MAY    GAMBOLS  423 

has  forgotten  that  yesterday  he  ate  Lis  split-peas  with  too  much 
gormandise ; "  or,  "  This  morning  he  did  indecently  rejoice  over 
his  water-gruel,"  or  what  not — these  real  Cliristians  were  called 
upon  to  inform,  not  only  of  themselves,  but  to  be  informers  over 
each  other ;  and,  the  information  being  given,  the  brother  informed 
against  thanked  his  brother  the  informer,  and  laid  himself  down  on 
the  desk,  and  was  flagellated  with  gratitude.  Sweet  friends  !  be 
you  like  the  Cistercians !  Brother  Michael  Angelo  is  going  to 
inform  against  you.  Get  ready  your  garments  and  prepare  for 
flagellation.  Brother  Michael  Angelo  is  about  to  lay  on  and 
spare  not. 

Brother  Michael  lifts  up  his  voice  against  the  young  painters 
collectively  in  the  first  place,  afterwards  individually,  when  he  will 
also  take  leave  to  tickle  them  with  the  wholesome  stripes  of  the 
flagellum.  In  the  first  place,  then  (and  my  heart  is  so  tender  that, 
rather  than  begin  the  operation,  I  have  been  beating  about  the 
bush  for  more  than  a  page,  of  which  page  the  reader  is  cordially 
requested  to  omit  the  perusal,  as  it  is  not  the  least  to  the  purpose), 
I  say  that  the  young  painters  of  England,  whose  uprise  this 
Magazine  and  this  critic  were  the  first  to  hail,  asserting  loudly  their 
superiority  over  the  pompous  old  sham  classical  big-wigs  of  the 
Academy — the  young  painters  of  England  are  not  doing  their  duty. 
They  are  going  backwards,  or  rather,  they  are  flinging  themselves 
under  the  wheels  of  that  great  golden  Juggernaut  of  an  Art-Union. 
The  thought  of  the  money  is  leading  them  astray ;  they  are  poets 
no  longer,  but  money-hunters.  They  paint  down  to  the  level  of 
the  public  intelligence,  rather  than  seek  to  elevate  the  public  to 
them.  Why  do  these  great  geniuses  fail  in  their  duty  of  instruc- 
tion ?  Why,  knowing  better  things,  do  they  serve  out  such  awful 
twaddle  as  we  have  from  them  ?  Alas  !  it  is  not  for  art  they  paint, 
but  for  the  Art-Union. 

The  first  dear  brother  I  shall  take  the  liberty  to  request  to 
get  ready  for  operation  is  brother  Charles  Landseer.  Brother 
Charles  has  sinned.  He  has  grievously  sinned.  And  we  will 
begin  with  this  miserable  sinner,  and  administer  to  him  admonition 
in  a  friendly,  though  most  fierce  and  cutting,  manner. 

The  subject  of  brother  Charles  Landseer's  crime  is  this.  The 
sinner  has  said  to  himself,  "The  British  public  likes  domestic 
pieces.  They  will  have  nothing  but  domestic  pieces.  I  will 
give  them  one,  and  of  a  new  sort.  Suppose  I  paint  a  picture 
that  must  make  a  hit.  My  picture  will  have  every  sort  of 
interest.  It  shall  interest  the  religious  public;  it  shall  interest 
the  domestic  public ;  it  shall  interest  the  amateur  for  the  clever- 
ness of  its  painting;  it  shall  interest  little  boys  and  girls,  for  I 


424  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

will  introduce  no  end  of  animals,  camels,  monkeys,  elephants,  and 
cockatoos ;  it  shall  interest  sentimental  young  ladies,  for  I  will  take 
care  to  have  a  pretty  little  episode  for  them.  I  will  take  the  town 
by  storm,  in  a  word."  This  is  what  I  conceive  was  passing  in 
brother  Charles  Landseer's  sinful  soul  when  he  conceived  and  exe- 
cuted his  noah's  aek  in  a  domestic  point  of  view. 

Noah  and  his  family  (with  some  supplemental  young  children, 
very  sweetly  painted)  are  seated  in  the  ark,  and  a  port-hole  is 
opened,  out  of  which  one  of  the  sons  is  looking  at  the  now  peaceful 
waters.  The  sunshine  enters  the  huge  repository  of  the  life  of  the 
world,  and  the  dove  has  just  flown  in  with  an  olive-branch  and 
nestles  in  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  daughters  of  Noah ;  the  patriarch 
and  his  aged  partner  are  lifting  up  their  venerable  eyes  in  thankful- 
ness ;  the  children  stand  around,  the  peaceful  labourer  and  the 
brown  huntsman  each  testifying  his  devotion  after  his  fashion.  The 
animals  round  about  participate  in  the  joyful  nature  of  the  scene, 
their  instinct  seems  to  tell  them  that  the  hour  of  their  deliverance 
is  near. 

There,  the  picture  is  described  romantically  and  in  the  best  of 
language.  Now  let  us  proceed  to  examine  the  poetry  critically  and 
to  see  what  its  claims  are.  Well,  the  ark  is  a  great  subject.  The 
history  from  which  we  have  our  account  of  it,  from  a  poet  surely 
demands  a  reverent  treatment ;  a  blacksmith  roaring  from  the  desk 
of  a  conventicle  may  treat  it  familiarly,  but  an  educated  artist 
ought  surely  to  approach  such  a  theme  with  respect.  The  point 
here  is  only  urged  aesthetically.  As  a  matter  of  taste,  then  (and 
the  present  humble  writer  has  no  business  to  speak  on  any  other), 
such  a  manner  of  treating  the  subject  is  certainly  reprehensible. 
The  ark  is  vulgarised  here  aad  reduced  to  the  proportions  of  a 
Calais  steamer.  The  passengers  are  rejoicing :  they  are  glad  to  get 
away.  Their  live  animals  are  about  them  no  more  nor  less  sublime 
than  so  many  cattle  or  horses  in  loose  boxes.  The  parrots  perched 
on  the  hoop  yonder  have  as  little  signification  as  a  set  of  birds  in 
a  cage  at  the  Zoological  Gardens ;  the  very  dove  becomes  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  pet  of  the  pretty  girl  represented  in  the 
centre  of  the  picture.  All  the  greatness  of  the  subject  is  lost ;  and, 
putting  the  historical  nature  of  the  personages  out  of  the  question, 
they  have  little  more  interest  than  a  group  of  any  emigrants  in  the 
hold  of  a  ship,  who  rouse  and  rally  at  the  sound  of  "  Land  ho  ! " 

Why,  if  all  great  themes  of  poetry  are  to  be  treated  in  this 
way,  the  art  would  be  easy.  We  might  have  Hector  shaving 
himself  before  going  out  to  fight  Achilles,  as,  undoubtedly,  the 
Trojan  hero  did ;  Priam  in  a  cotton  nightcap  asleep  in  a  four-poster 
on  the  night  of  the  sack  of  Troy,  Hecuba,  of  course,  by  his  side, 


MAY    GAMBOLS  425 

•with  curl-papers,  and  her  tour  de  tete  on  the  toilet-glass.  We 
might  have  Dido's  maid  coming  after  her  mistress  in  the  shower 
with  pattens  and  an  tirabrella ;  or  Cleopatra's  page  guttling  the 
figs  in  the  basket  which  had  brought  the  asp  that  killed  the 
mistress  of  Antony.  Absurd  trivialities,  or  pretty  trivialities,  are 
nothing  to  the  question ;  those  I  have  adduced  here  are  absurd, 
but  they  are  just  as  poetical  as  prettiness,  not  a  whit  less  degrading 
and  commonplace.  No  painter  has  a  right  to  treat  great  historical 
subjects  in  such  a  fashion  ;  and  though  the  public  are  sure  to 
admire,  and  young  ladies,  in  raptures,  look  on  at  the  darling  of  a 
dove,  and  little  boys  in  delight  cry,  "Look,  papa,  at  the  parro- 
quets  !  " — "  Law,  ma,  what  big  trunks  the  elephants  have  ! "  it  yet 
behoves  the  critic  to  say  this  is  an  unpoetical  piece,  and  severely 
to  reprehend  the  unhappy  perpetrator  thereof 

I  know  brother  Charles  will  appeal.  I  know  it  will  be  pleaded 
in  his  favour  that  the  picture  is  capitally  painted,  some  of  the 
figures  very  pretty ;  two,  that  of  the  old  woman  and  the  boy 
looking  out,  quite  grand  in  drawing  and  colour;  the  picture 
charming  for  its  silvery  tone  and  agreeable  pleasantry  of  colour. 
All  this  is  true.  But  he  has  sinned,  he  has  greatly  sinned;  let 
him  acknowledge  his  fault  in  the  presence  of  the  chapter,  and 
receive  the  customary  and  wholesome  reward  thereof. 

Frater  Kedgrave  is  the  next  malefactor  whose  sins  deserve  a 
reprobation.  In  the  namby-pamby  line  his  errors  are  -very  sad. 
Has  he  not  been  already  warned  in  this  very  miscellany  of  his 
propensity  to  small  sentiment  ?  Has  he  corrected  himself  of  that 
grievous  tendency  ?  No  :  his  weakness  grows  more  and  more  upon 
him,  and  he  is  now  more  sinful  than  ever.  One  of  his  pictures  is 
taken  from  the  most  startling  lyric  in  our  language,  the  "  Song  of 
the  Shirt,"  a  song  as  bitter  and  manly  as  it  is  exquisitely  soft  and 
tender,  a  song  of  which  the  humour  draws  tears.* 

Mr.  Eedgrave  has  illustrated  everything  except  the  humour,  the 
manliness,  and  the  bitterness  of  the  song.  He  has  only  depicted  the 
tender  good-natured  part  of  it.  It  is  impossible  to  quarrel  with 
the  philanthropy  of  the  painter.  His  shirt-maker  sits  by  her  little 
neat  bed,  work,  working  away.  You  may  see  how  late  it  is,  for 
the  candle  is  nearly  burnt  out,  the  clock  (capital  poetic  notion  !) 
says  what  o'clock  it  is,  the  grey-streaked  dawn  is  rising  over  the 
opposite  house  seen  through  the  cheerless  casement,  and  where 
(from  a  light  which  it  has  in  its  window)  you  may  imagine  that 
another  poor  shirt  maker  is  toiling  too.    The  one  before  us  is  pretty, 

*  How  is  it  that  none  of  the  papers  have  noticed  the  astonishing  poem  by 
Mr.  Hood  in  the  May  number  of  his  magazine,  to  which  our  language  contains 
no  parallel  ?— M.  A.  T. 


426  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

pale,  and  wan ;  she  turns  up  the  whites  of  her  fine  fatigued  eyes  to 
the  little  ceiling.  She  is  ill,  as  the  artist  has  shown  us  by  a  fine 
stroke  of  genius — a  parcel  of  medicine-bottles  on  the  mantelpiece  ! 
The  picture  is  carefully  and  cleverly  painted — extremely  popular — 
gazed  at  with  vast  interest  by  most  spectators.  Is  it,  however,  a 
poetical  subject  1  Yes,  Hood  has  shown  that  it  can  be  made  one, 
but  by  surprising  turns  of  thought  brought  to  bear  upon  it,  strange, 
terrible,  unexpected  lights  of  humour  which  he  has  flung  upon  it. 
And,  to  "  trump  "  this  tremendous  card,  Mr.  Redgrave  gives  us  this 
picture ;  his  points  being  the  clock,  which  tells  the  time  of  day,  the 
vials  which  show  the  poor  girl  takes  physic,  and  such  other  vast 
labours  of  intellect ! 

Mr.  Redgrave's  other  picture,  the  "Marriage  Morning,"  is  also 
inspired  by  that  milk-and-water  of  human  kindness,  the  flavour  of 
which  is  so  insipid  to  the  roast-beef  intellect.  This  is  a  scene  of 
a  marriage  morning ;  the  bride  is  taking  leave  of  her  mamma  after 
the  ceremony,  and  that  amiable  lady,  reclining  in  an  easy-chair,  is 
invoking  benedictions  upon  the  parting  couple,  and  has  a  hand  of 
her  daughter  and  her  son-in-law  clasped  in  each  of  hers.  She 
is  smiling  sadly,  restraining  her  natural  sorrow,  which  will  break 
out  so  soon  as  the  post-chaise  you  see  through  the  window,  and 
on  which  the  footman  is  piling  the  nuptial  luggage,  shall  have 
driven  off  to  Salt  Hill,  or  Rose  Cottage,  Richmond,  which  I  recom- 
mend. TJie  bride's  father,  a  venerable  bald-headed  gentleman,  with 
a  most  benignant,  though  slow-coachish  look,  is  trying  to  console 
poor  Anna  Maria,  the  unmarried  sister,  who  is  losing  the  companion 
of  her  youth.  Never  mind,  Anna  Maria,  my  dear,  your  turn  will 
come  too ;  there  is  a  young  gentleman  making  a  speech  in  the 
parlour  to  the  health  of  the  new-married  pair,  who,  I  lay  a  wager, 
will  be  struck  by  your  fine  eyes,  and  be  for  serving  you  as  your 
sister  has  been  treated.  This  small  fable  is  worked  out  with  great 
care  in  a  picture  in  which  there  is  much  clever  and  conscientious 
painting,  from  which,  however,  I  must  confess  I  derive  little  pleasure. 
The  sentiment  and  colour  of  the  picture  somehow  coincide ;  the  eye 
rests  upon  a  variety  of  neat  tints  of  pale  drab,  pale  green,  pale 
brown,  pale  puce  colour,  of  a  sickly  warmth,  not  pleasant  to  the 
eye.  The  drawing  is  feeble,  the  expression  of  the  faces  pretty,  but 
lackadaisical.  The  penance  I  would  order  Mr.  Redgrave  should  be 
a  pint  of  port-wine  to  be  taken  daily,  and  a  devilled  kidney  every 
morning  for  breakfast  before  beginning  to  paint. 

A  little  of  the  devil,  too,  would  do  Mr.  Frank  Stone  no  harm. 
He,  too,  is  growing  dangerously  sentimental.  His  picture,  with  a 
quotation  from  Horace,  "  Maecenas  atavis  edite  regibus,"  represents 
a  sort  of  game  of  tender  cross-purposes,  very  difficult  to  describe  in 


MAY    GAMBOLS  427 

print.    Suppose  two  lads,  Jocky  and  Tommy,  and  two  lasses,  Jenny 
and  Jessamy.     They  are  placed  thus  : — 


Now  Jocky  is  making  love  to  Jenny  in  an  easy  oif-hand  sort  of 
way,  and  though,  or,  perhaps,  because  he  doesn't  care  for  her  much, 
is  evidently  delighting  the  young  woman.  She  looks  round,  with 
a  pleased  smile  on  her  fresh  plump  cheeks,  and  turns  slightly  to- 
wards heaven  a  sweet  little  retrouss^  nose,  and  twiddles  her  fingers 
(most  exquisitely  these  hands  are  drawn  and  painted,  by  the  way) 
in  the  most  contented  way.  But,  ah  !  how  little  does  she  heed 
Tommy,  who,  standing  behind  Jocky,  reclining  against  a  porch,  is 
looking  and  longing  for  this  light  hearted  Jenny  !  And,  oh  !  why 
does  Tommy  cast  such  sheep's  eyes  upon  Jenny,  when  by  her  side 
sits  Jessamy,  the  tender  and  romantic,  the  dark-eyed  and  raven- 
haired  being,  whose  treasures  of  afi'ection  are  flung  at  heedless 
Tommy's  feet  1  All  the  world  is  interested  in  Jessamy ;  her  face 
is  beautiful,  her  look  of  despairing  love  is  so  exquisitely  tender, 
that  it  touches  every  spectator ;  and  the  ladies  are  unanimous  in 
wondering  how  Tommy  can  throw  himself  away  upon  that  simpering 
Jenny,  when  such  a  superior  creature  as  Jessamy  is  to  be  had  for 
the  asking.  But  such  is  the  way  of  the  world,  and  Tommy  will 
marry,  simply  because  everybody  tells  him  not. 

'Thus  far  for  the  sentiment  of  the  picture.  The  details  are  very 
good ;  there  is  too  much  stippling  and  show  of  finish,  perhaps,  in 
the  handling,  and  the  jjainting  might  have  been  more  substantial 
and  lost  nothing.  But  the  colour  is  good,  the  group  very  well 
composed,  and  the  variety  of  expression  excellent.  There  is  great 
passion,  as  well  as  charming  delicacy,  in  the  disappointed  maiden's 
face;  much  fine  appreciation  of  character  in  the  easy  smiling 
triumph  of  the  rival;  and,  although  this  sentence  was  commenced 
with  the  express  determination  of  rating  Mr.  Stone  soundly,  lo  !  it 
is  finished  without  a  word  of  blame.  Well,  let's  vent  our  anger  on 
the  dog.  That  is  very  bad,  and  seems  to  have  no  more  bones  than 
an  apple-dumpling.  It  is  only  because  the  artist  has  been  painting 
disappointed  lovers  a  great  deal  of  late,  that  one  is  disposed  to 
grumble,  not  at  the  work,  but  at  the  want  of  variety  of  subject. 

As  a  sentimental  picture,  the  best  and  truest,  to  my  taste,  is 
that  by  Mr.  Webster,  the  "  Portraits  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Webster," 
painted  to  celebrate  their  fiftieth  wedding-day.     Such  a  charming 


428  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

old  couple  were  never  seen.  There  is  delightful  grace,  sentiment, 
and  purity  in  these  two  gentle  kindly  heads ;  much  more  sentiment 
and  grace  than  even  in  Mr.  Eastlake's  "  Heloise,"  a  face  which  the 
artist  has  painted  over  and  over  again ;  a  beautiful  woman,  but 
tiresome,  unearthly,  unsubstantial,  and  no  more  like  Heloise  than 
like  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  If  the  late  Mr.  Pope's  epistle  be 
correct,  Bloisa  was  a  most  unmistakable  woman ;  this  is  a  sub- 
stanceless,  passionless,  solemn,  mystical  apparition ;  but  I  doubt  if 
a  woman  be  not  the  more  poetical  being  of  the  two. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  sentimental  pictures,  Monsieur  Delar 
roche's  great  "  Holy  Family "  must  be  mentioned  here  ;  and,  if 
there  is  reason  to  quarrel  with  the  unsatisfactory  nature  of  English 
sentiment,  in  truth  it  appears  that  the  French  are  not  much  better 
provided  with  the  high  poetical  quality.  This  picture  has  all  the 
outside  of  poetry,  all  the  costume  of  religion,  all  the  prettiness 
and  primness  of  the  new  German  daudy-pietistical  school.  It  is 
an  agreeable  compound  of  Correggio  and  Raphael,  with  a  strong 
dash  of  Overbeck ;  it  is  painted  as  clean  and  pretty  as  a  tulip  on 
a  dessert-plate,  the  lines  made  out  so  neatly  that  none  can  mistake 
them ;  the  drawing  good,  the  female  face  as  pretty  and  demure 
as  can  be,  her  drapery  of  spotless  blue,  and  the  man's  of  approved 
red,  the  infant  as  pink  as  strawberries  and  cream,  every  leaf  of  the 
tree  sweetly  drawn,  and  the  trunk  of  the  most  delicate  dove-coloured 
grey.  All  these  merits  the  picture  has ;  it  is  a  well-appointed 
picture.  But  is  that  all  ?  Is  that  enough  to  make  a  poet  ?  There 
are  lines  in  the  Oxford  prize  poems  that  are  smooth  as  Pope's ;  and 
it  is  notorious  that,  for  colouring,  there  is  no  painting  like  the 
Chinese.  But  I  hope  the  French  artists  have  better  men  spring- 
ing up  among  them  than  the  President  of  the  French  Academy 
at  Rome. 

Biard,  the  Hogarthian  painter,  whose  slave-trade  picture  was 
so  noble,  has  sent  us  a  couple  of  pieces,  which  both,  in  their  way, 
deserve  merit.  The  one  is  an  Arabian  caravan  moving  over  a 
brickdust-coloured  desert,  under  a  red  arid  sky.  The  picture  is 
lifelike,  and  so  far  poetical  that  it  seems  to  tell  the  truth.  Then 
there  is  a  steamboat  disaster,  with  every  variety  of  sea-sickness, 
laughably  painted.  Shuddering  soldiery,  sprawling  dandies,  English- 
men, Savoyards,  guitars,  lovers,  monkeys, — a  dreadful  confusion 
of  qualmish  people,  whose  agonies  will  put  the  most  misanthropic 
observer  into  good-humour.  Biard's  "Havre  Packet"  is  much 
more  praiseworthy  in  my  mind  than  Delaroche's  "  Holy  Family  " ; 
for  I  deny  the  merit  of  failing  greatly  in  pictures — the  great 
merit  is  to  succeed.  There  is  no  greater  error,  surely,  than  that 
received  dictum  of  the  ambitious,  to  aim  at  high  things ;  it  is  best 


MAY    GAMBOLS  429 

to  do  what  you  mean  to  do ;  better  to  kill  a  crow  than  to  miss 
an  eagle. 

As  the  French  artists  are  sending  in  their  works  from  across 
the  water,  why,  for  the  honour  of  England,  will  not  some  of  our 
painters  let  the  Parisians  know  that  here,  too,  are  men  whose 
genius  is  worthy  of  appreciation  1  They  may  be  the  best  di'aughts- 
men  in  the  world,  but  they  have  no  draughtsman  like  Maclise,  they 
have  no  colourist  like  Etty,  they  have  no  painter  like  Mtjleeady, 
above  all,  whose  name  I  beg  the  printer  to  place  in  the  largest 
capitals,  and  to  surround  with  a  wreath  of  laurels.  Mr.  Mulready 
was  crowned  in  this  Magazine  once  before.  Here  again  he  is  pro- 
claimed. It  looks  like  extravagance,  or  flattery,  for  the  blushing 
critic  to  tell  his  real  mind  about  the  "  Wbistonian  Controversy." 

And  yet,  as  the  truth  must  be  told,  why  not  say  it  now  at 
once?  I  believe  this  to  be  one  of  the  finest  cabinet  pictures  in  the 
world.  It  seems  to  me  to  possess  an  assemblage  of  excellences  so 
rare,  to  be  in  drawing  so  admirable,  in  expression  so  fine,  in  finish 
so  exquisite,  in  composition  so  beautiful,  in  humour  and  beauty  of 
expression  so  deUghtful,  that  I  can't  but  ask  where  is  a  good  picture 
if  this  be  not  one  ?  And,  in  enumerating  aU  the  above  perfections, 
I  find  I  have  forgotten  the  greatest  of  all,  the  colour;  it  is  quite 
original  this, — brilliant,  rich,  astonishingly  luminous,  and  intense. 
The  pictures  of  Van  Eyck  are  not  more  brilliant  in  tone  than  this 
magnificent  combination  of  blazing  reds,  browns,  and  purples.  I 
know  of  no  scheme  of  colour  like  it,  and  heartily  trust  that  time 
will  preserve  it;  when  this  little  picture,  and  some  of  its  fellows, 
will  be  purchased  as  eagerly  as  a  Hemlinck  or  a  Gerard  Douw  is 
bought  nowadays.  If  Mr.  Mulready  has  a  mind  to  the  Grand 
Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  he  has  but  to  send  this  picture  to 
Paris  next  year,  and,  with  the  recommendation  oi  Eraser's  Magazine, 
the  affair  is  settled.  Meanwhile  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  the 
artist  (although  his  work  wUl  fetch  ten  times  as  much  money  a 
hundred  years  hence)  has  not  been  ill  rewarded,  as  times  go,  for  his 
trouble  and  genius. 

We  have  another  great  and  original  colourist  among  us,  as 
luscious  as  Kubens,  as  rich  almost  as  Titian,  Mr.  Etty ;  and  every 
year  the  exhibition  sparkles  with  magnificent  little  canvases,  the 
works  of  this  indefatigable  strenuous  admirer  of  rude  Beauty.  The 
form  is  not  quite  so  sublime  as  the  colour  in  this  artist's  paintings ; 
the  female  figure  is  often  rather  too  expansively  treated,  it  swells 
here  and  there  to  the  proportions  of  the  Oafirarian,  rather  than 
the  Medicean,  Venus ;  but,  in  colour,  little  can  be  conceived  that 
is  more  voluptuously  beautiful.  This  year  introduces  to  us  one  of 
the  artist's  noblest  compositions,  a  classical  and  pictorial  orgy,  as  it 


430  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

were, — a  magnificent  vision  of  rich  colours  and  beautiful  forms, — a 
grand  feast  of  sensual  poetry.  The  verses  from  "  Oomus,"  which 
the  painter  has  taken  to  illustrate,  have  the  same  character : — 

"  All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 
That  sing  ahout  the  golden  tree, 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers, 
Eevels  the  spruce  and  jocund  spring. 
Beds  of  hyacinths  and  roses, 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound, 
In  slumber  soft  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  Queen  ; 
But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen. 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced. 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  entranced. " 

It  is  a  dream  rather  than  a  reality,  the  words  and  images 
purposely  indistinct  and  incoherent.  In  the  same  way  the  painter 
has  made  the  beautiful  figures  sweep  before  us  in  a  haze  of  golden 
sunshine.  This  picture  is  one  of  a  series  to  be  painted  in  fresco, 
and  to  decorate  the  walls  of  a  summer-house  in  the  gardens  of 
Buckingham  Palace,  for  which  edifice  Mr.  Maclise  and  Mr.  Leslie 
have  also  made  paintings. 

That  of  Mr.  Leslie's  is  too  homely.  He  is  a  prose  painter. 
His  kind  buxom  young  lass  has  none  of  the  look  of  Milton's  lady, 
that  charming  compound  of  the  saint  and  the  fine  lady — that  sweet 
impersonation  of  the  chivalric  mythology — an  angel,  but  with  her 
sixteen  quarterings — a  countess  descended  from  the  skies.  Leslie's 
lady  has  no  such  high  breeding,  the  Comus  above  her  looks  as  if 
he  might  revel  on  ale ;  a  rustic  seducer,  with  an  air  of  rude  hob- 
nailed health.  Nor  are  the  demons  and  fantastic  figures  introduced 
imaginative  enough ;  they  are  fellows  with  masks  from  Covent 
Garden.  Compare  the  two  figures  at  the  sides  of  the  picture  with 
the  two  Cupids  of  Mr.  Etty.  In  the  former  there  is  no  fancy. 
The  latter  are  two  flowers  of  poetry ;  there  are  no  words  to 
characterise  those  two  delicious  little  figures,  no  more  than  to 
describe  a  little  air  of  Mozart,  which,  once  heard,  remains  with  you 
for  ever ;  or  a  new  flower,  or  a  phrase  of  Keats  or  Tennyson,  which 
blooms  out  upon  you  suddenly,  astonishing  as  much  as  it  pleases. 
Well,  in  endeavouring  to  account  for  his  admiration,  the  critic 
pumps  for  words  in  vain ;  if  he  uses  such  as  he  finds,  he  runs 
the  risk  of  being  considered  intolerably  pert  and  affected ;  silent 
pleasure,  therefore,  best  beseems  him  ;  but  this  I  know,  that  were 
my   humble   recommendations   attended   to   at   Court,    when   the 


MAY    GAMBOLS  431 

pictures  are  put  in  the  pleasure-house,  her  sacred  Majesty,  giving 
a  splendid  baucjuet  to  welcome  them  and  the  painter,  should  touch 
Mr.  Etty  on  the  left  shoulder  and  say,  "  Rise,  my  knight  of  the 
Bath,  for  painting  the  left-hand  Oupid ; "  and  the  Emperor  of 
Bussia  (being  likewise  present)  should  tap  him  on  the  right 
shoulder,  exclaiming,  "  Rise,  my  knight  of  the  Eagle,  for  the  left- 
hand  Cupid." 

Mr.  Maclise's  "  Comus  "  picture  is  wonderful  for  the  variety  of 
its  design,  and  has,  too,  a  high  poetry  of  its  own.  All  the  figures 
are  here  still  and  solemn  as  in  a  tableau ;  the  lady  still  on  her 
unearthly  snaky  chair,  Sabrina  still  stooping  over  her.  On  one  side 
the  brothers,  and  opposite  the  solemn  attendant  spirit ;  round  these 
interminable  groups  and  vistas  of  fairy  beings,  twining  in  a  thou- 
sand attitudes  of  grace,  and  sparkling  white  and  bloodless  against  a 
leaden  blue  sky.  It  is  the  most  poetical  of  the  artist's  pictures, 
the  most  extraordinary  exhibition  of  his  proper  skill.  Is  it  true 
that  the  artists  are  only  to  receive  three  hundred  guineas  apiece 
for  these  noble  compositions?  Why,  a  print-seller  would  give 
more,  and  artists  should  not  be  allowed  to  paint  simply  for  the 
honour  of  decorating  a  Royal  summer-house. 

Among  the  poetical  pictures  of  the  exhibition  should  be 
mentioned  with  especial  praise  Mr.  Cope's  delightful  "Charity," 
than  the  female  figures  in  which  Raphael  scarce  painted  anything 
more  charmingly  beautiful.  And  Mr.  Cope  has  this  merit,  that 
his  work  is  no  prim  imitation  of  the  stiff  old  Cimabue  and  Giotto 
manner,  no  aping  of  the  crisp  draperies  and  hard  outlines  of  the 
missal  illuminations,  without  which  the  religious  artist  would  have 
us  believe  religious  expression  is  impossible.  It  is  pleasant  after 
seeing  the  wretched  caricatures  of  old-world  usages  which  stare  us 
in  the  face  in  every  quarter  of  London  now — little  dumpy  Saxon 
chapels  built  in  raw  brick,  spick  and  span  bandhox  churches  of  the 
pointed  Norman  style  for  Cockneys  in  zephyr  coats  to  assemble  in, 
new  old  painted  windows  of  the  twelfth  century,  tessellated  pave- 
ments of  the  Byzantine  school,  gimcrack  imitations  of  the  Golden 
Legend  printed  with  red  letters,  and  crosses,  and  quaint  figures 
stolen  out  of  Norman  missals — to  find  artists  aiming  at  the 
Beautiful  and  Pure  without  thinking  it  necessary  to  resort  to  these 
paltry  archaeological  quackeries,  which  have  no  Faith,  no  Truth, 
no  Life  in  them ;  but  which  give  us  ceremony  in  lieu  of  reality, 
and  insist  on  forms  as  if  they  were  the  conditions  of  belief. 

Lest  the  reader  should  misunderstand  the  cause  of  this  anger, 
we  beg  him  to  take  the  trouble  to  cross  Pall  Mall  to  Saint  James's 
Street,  where  objects  of  art  are  likewise  exhibited;  he  will  see 
the  reason  of  our  wrath.     Here  are  9.U  the  ornamental  artists  of 


4,32  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

England  sending  in  their  works,  and  what  are  they? — All  imita- 
tions. The  Alhambra  here ;  the  Temple  Church  there ;  here  a 
Gothic  saint ;  yonder  a  Saxon  altar-rail ;  farther  on  a  sprawling 
rococo  of  Louis  XV. ;  all  worked  neatly  and  cleverly  enough,  but 
with  no  originality,  no  honesty  of  thought.  The  twelfth  century 
revived  in  Mr.  Crockford's  bazaar,  forsooth !  with  examples  of 
every  century  except  our  own.  It  would  be  worth  while  for 
some  one  to  write  an  essay,  showing  how  astonishingly  Sir 
Walter  Scott*  has  influenced  the  world;  how  he  changed  the 
character  of  novelists,  then  of  historians,  whom  he  brought  from 
their  philosophy  to  the  study  of  pageantry  and  costume  :  how  the 
artists  then  began  to  fall  back  into  the  middle  ages  and  the 
architects  to  follow ;  until  now  behold  we  have  Mr.  Newman  and 
his  congregation  of  Littlemore  marching  out  with  taper  and  crosier, 
and  falling  down  to  worship  Saint  Willibald,  and  Saint  Winnibald, 
and  Saint  Walberga  the  Saxon  virgin.  But  Mr.  Cope's  picture  is 
leading  the  reader  rather  farther  than  a  critique  about  exhibitions 
has  any  right  to  divert  him,  and  let  us  walk  soberly  back  to 
Trafalgar  Square. 

Remark  the  beautiful  figures  of  the  children  in  Mr.  Cope's 
picture  (276),  the  fainting  one,  and  the  golden-haired  infant  at  the 
gate.  It  is  a  noble  and  touching  Scripture  illustration.  The 
artist's  other  picture,  "  Genevifeve,"  is  not  so  successful ;  the  faces 
seem  to  have  been  painted  from  a  dirty  palette,  the  evening  tints 
of  the  sky  are  as  smoky  as  a  sunset  in  Saint  James's  Park ;  the 
composition  unpleasant,  and  not  enough  to  fill  the  surface  of 
canvas. 

Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  The  Trial  of  the  Seven  Bishops " 
is  painted  with  better  attention  to  costume  than  most  English 
painters  are  disposed  to  pay.  The  characters  in  our  artists' 
history-pieces,  as  indeed  on  our  theatres,  do  not  look  commonly 
accustomed  to  the  dresses  which  they  assume ;  wear  them  awk- 
wardly, take  liberties  of  alteration  and  adjustment,  and  spoil 
thereby  the  truth  of  the  delineation.  The  French  artists,  on  the 
canvas  or  the  boards,  understand  this  branch  of  their  art  much 
better.  Look  at  Monsieur  Biard's  "  Mecca  Pilgrims,"  how  care- 
fully and  accurately  they  are  attired ;  or  go  to  the  French  play 
and  see  Oartigny  in  a  Hogarthian  dress.  He  wears  it  as  though 
he  had  been  born  a  hundred  years  back — looks  the  old  marquess 
to  perfection.  In  this  attention  to  dress  Mr.  Herbert's  picture  is 
very  praiseworthy ;  the   men   are  quite  at  home  in  their  quaint 

*  Or  more  properly  Goethe.  "  Goetz  von  Berlichingen ''  was  the  father  of 
the  Scottish  romances,  and  Scott  remained  constant  tQ  that  jnode,  while  tfas 
greater  wti?li  tried  a  thpii^ftpd  otbera. 


MAY    GAMBOLS  433 

coats  and  periwigs  of  James  II. 's  time ;  the  ladies  at  ease  in  their 
stiff  long-waisted  gowns,  their  fans,  and  their  queer  caps  and 
patches.  And  the  picture  is  pleasing  from  the  extreme  brightness 
and  cleanliness  of  the  painting.  All  looks  as  neat  and  fresh  as 
Sam  Pepys  when  he  turned  out  in  his  new  suit,  his  lady  in  her 
satin  and  brocade.  But  here  the  praise  must  stop.  The  great 
concourse  of  people  delineated,  the  bishops  and  the  jury,  the 
judges  and  the  sheriffs,  the  halberdiers  and  the  fine  ladies,  seem 
very  little  interested  in  the  transaction  in  which  they  are  engaged, 
and  look  as  if  they  were  assembled  rather  for  show  than  business. 
Nor,  indeed,  is  the  artist  much  in  fault.  Painters  have  not  fair- 
play  in  these  parade  pictures.  It  is  only  with  us  that  Eeform- 
banquets,  or  views  of  the  House  of  Lords  at  the  passing  of  the 
Slopperton  Railway  Bill,  or  Coronation  Processions,  obtain  favour ; 
in  which  vast  numbers  of  public  characters  are  grouped  unreaUy 
together,  and  politics  are  made  to  give  an  interest  to  art. 

Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  Sir  Thomas  More  and  his  Daughter 
watching  from  the  prisoner's  room  in  the  Tower  four  Monks  led 
away  to  Execution,"  is  not  the  most  elaborate,  perhaps,  but  the 
very  best  of  this  painter's  works.  It  is  full  of  grace,  and  sentiment, 
and  religious  unction.  You  see  that  the  painter's  heart  is  in  the 
scenes  which  he  represents.  The  countenances  of  the  two  figures 
are  finely  conceived  ;  the  sorrowful  anxious  beauty  of  the  daughter's 
face,  the  resigned  humihty  of  the  martyr  at  her  side,  and  the 
accessories  or  properties  of  the  pious  little  drama  are  cleverly  and 
poetically  introduced;  such  as  mystic  sentences  of  hope  and  trust 
inscribed  by  former  sufferers  on  the  walls,  the  prisoner's  rosary 
and  book  of  prayers  to  the  Virgin  that  lie  on  his  bed.  These 
types  and  emblems  of  the  main  story  are  not  obtruded,  but  serve 
to  increase  the  interest  of  the  action ;  just  as  you  hear  in  a  con- 
certed piece  of  music  a  single  instrument  playing  its  little  plaintive 
part  alone,  and  yet  belonging  to  the  whole. 

If  you  want  to  see  a  picture  where  costume  is  not  represented, 
behold  Mr.  Lauder's  "  Claverhouse  ordering  Morton  to  Execution." 
There  sits  Claverhouse  in  the  centre  in  a  Kean  wig  and  ringlets, 
such  as  was  never  worn  in  any  age  of  this  world,  except  at  the 
theatre  in  1816,  and  he  scowls  with  a  true  melodramatic  ferocity  ; 
and  he  lifts  a  signpost  of  a  finger  towards  Morton,  who  forthwith 
begins  to  writhe  and  struggle  into  an  attitude  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  subordinate,  cuirassed,  buff-coated  gentry.  Morton  is 
represented  in  tights,  slippers,  and  a  tunic ;  something  after  the 
fashion  of  Retzsch's  figures  in  "Faust"  (which  are  refinements  of 
costumes  worn  a  century  and  a  half  before  the  days  when  Charles 
disported  at  Tillietifdlem) ;  and  be,  tPO;  m«st  proceed  to  scowl  and 


4,34  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

frown  "with  a  flashing  eye  and  a  distended  nostril,"  as  they  say 
in  the  novels, — as  Gomersal  scowls  at  Widdicomb  before  the 
combat  between  those  two  chiefs  begins;  and  while  they  are 
measuring  each  other  according  to  the  stage  wont,  from  the  toe  of 
the  yellow  boot  up  to  the  tip  of  the  stage-wig.  There  is  a  tragedy 
heroine  in  Mr.  Lauder's  picture,  striking  her  attitude,  too,  to 
complete  the  scene.  It  is  entirely  unnatural,  theatrical,  of  the 
Davidgian,  nay,  Richardsonian  drama,  and  all  such  attempts  at 
effect  must  be  reprehended  by  the  stern  critic.  When  such  a  cool 
practitioner  as  Claverhouse  ordered  a  gentleman  to  be  shot,  he 
would  not  put  himself  into  an  attitude  :  when  such  a  quiet  gentle- 
man as  Morton  received  the  unpleasant  communication  in  the  midst 
of  a  company  of  grenadiers  who  must  overpower  him,  and  of  ladies 
to  whom  his  resistance  would  be  unpleasant,  he  would  act  like  a 
man  and  go  out  quietly,  not  stop  to  rant  and  fume  like  a  fellow  in 
a  booth.  I  believe  it  is  in  Mr.  Henningsen's  book  that  there  is  a 
story  of  Zumalacarreguy,  Don  Carlos's  Dundee,  who,  sitting  at  the 
table  with  a  Christino  prisoner,  smoking  cigars  and  playing  picquet 
very  quietly,  received  a  communication  which  he  handed  over  to 
the  Christino.  "  Your  people,"  says  he,  "  have  shot  one  of  my 
officers,  and  I  have  promised  reprisals ;  I  am  sorry  to  say,  my  dear 
general,  that  I  must  execute  you  in  twenty  minutes ! "  And  so 
the  two  gentlemen  finished  their  game  at  picquet,  and  parted  com- 
pany— the  one  to  inspect  his  lines,  the  other  for  the  courtyard  hard 
by,  where  a  file  of  grenadiers  was  waiting  to  receive  his  exceUeney 
— with  mutual  politeness  and  regret.  It  was  the  fortune  of  war. 
There  was  no  help  for  it ;  no  need  of  ranting  and  stamping,  which 
would  ill  become  any  person  of  good  bi'eeding. 

The  Scotch  artists  have  a  tragic  taste ;  and  we  should  men- 
tion with  especial  praise  Mr.  Duncan's  picture  with  the  agreeable 
epigraph,  "  She  set  the  bairn  on  the  ground  and  tied  up  his  head, 
and  straighted  his  body,  and  covered  him  with  her  plaid,  and  laid 
down  and  wept  over  him."  The  extract  is  from  Walker's  "  Life  of 
Peden ;  "  the  martyrdom  was  done  on  the  body  of  a  boy  by  one  of 
those  bloody  troopers  whom  we  have  seen  in  Mr.  Lauder's  picture 
carrying  off  poor  shrieking  Morton.  Mr.  Duncan's  picture  is  very 
fine, — dark,  rich,  and  deep  in  sentiment ;  the  woman  is  painted 
with  some  of  Rubens's  swelling  lines  (such  as  may  be  seen  in  some 
of  his  best  Magdalens),  and  with  their  rich  tones  of  grey.  If  a 
certain  extremely  heavy  Cupid  poising  in  the  air  by  a  miracle  be 
the  other  picture  of  Mr.  Duncan's,  it  can  be  only  said  that  his 
tragedy  is  better  than  his  lightsome  compositions — an  arrow  from 
yonder  lad  would  bruise  the  recipient  black  and  blue. 

Another  admirable  picture  of  a  Scotch  artist  is  427,  "  The 


MAY    GAMBOLS  435 

Highland  Lament,"  by  Alexander  Johnston.  It  is  a  shame  to  put 
such  a  picture  in  such  a  place.  It  hangs  on  the  ground  almost 
invisible,  while  dozens  of  tawdry  portraits  are  staring  at  you  on  the 
line.  Could  Mr.  Johnston's  picture  be  but  seen  properly,  its  great 
beauty  and  merit  would  not  fail  to  strike  hundreds  of  visitors  who 
pass  it  over  now.  A  Highland  piper  comes  running  forward,  play- 
ing some  wild  lament  on  his  dismal  instrument ;  the  women  follow 
after,  wailing  and  sad ;  the  mournful  procession  winds  over  a  dismal 
moor.  The  picture  is  as  clever  for  its  fine  treatment  and  colour, 
for  the  grace  and  action  of  the  figure,  as  it  is  curious  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  national  manners. 

In  speaking  of  the  Scotch  painters,  the  Wilkie-like  pictures  of 
Mr.  Fraser,  with  their  peculiar  smeary  manner,  their  richness  of 
tone,  and  their  pleasant  efi'ect  and  humour,  should  not  be  passed 
over ;  while  those  of  Mr.  Geddes  and  Sir  William  Allan  may  be 
omitted  with  perfect  propriety.  The  latter  presents  her  Majesty 
and  Prince  Albert  perched  on  a  rock;  the  former  has  a  figure 
from  AValter  Scott,  of  very  little  interest  to  any  but  the  parties 
concerned. 

Among  the  Irish  painters  we  remark  two  portraits  by  Mr. 
Crowley^  representing  Mrs.  Aikenhead,  superioress  of  the  Sisters 
of  Charity  in  Ireland,  who  gives  a  very  favourable  picture  of  the 
Society — for  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  an  abbess  more  comfortable, 
kind,  and  healthy-looking ;  and  a  portrait  of  Dr.  Munay,  Roman 
Catholic  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  not  a  good  picture  of  a  fine,  bene- 
volent, and  venerable  head.  We  do  not  know  whether  the  painter 
of  149,  "  An  Irish  Peasant  awaiting  her  Husband's  Eetum,"  Mr. 
Anthony,  is  an  Irishman  ;  but  it  is  a  pretty  sad  picture,  which  well 
characterises  the  poverty,  the  afi'ection,  and  the  wretchedness  of  the 
poor  Irish  cabin,  and  tells  sweetly  and  modestly  a  plaintive  story. 
The  largest  work  in  the  exhibition  is  from  the  pencil  of  an  Irish- 
man, Mr.  Leahy,  "Lady  Jane  Grey  praying  before  Execution." 
One  cannot  but  admire  the  courage  of  artists  who  paint  great  works 
upon  these  tragic  subjects ;  great  works  quite  unfitted  for  any 
private  room,  and  scarcely  suited  to  any  public  one.  But,  large  as 
it  is,  it  may  be  said  (without  any  playing  upon  words)  that  the 
work  gi-ows  upon  estimation.  The  painting  is  hard  and  incom- 
plete ;  but  the  principal  figure  excellent :  the  face  especially  is  finely 
painted,  and  full  of  great  beauty.  Also,  in  the  Irish  pictures  may 
be  included  Mr.  Solomon  Hart's  Persian  gentleman  smoking  a 
calahan,—a,  sly  hit  at  the  learned  Serjeant  member  for  Cork,  who 
has  often  done  the  same  thing. 

Mr.  Maclise's  little  scene  from  "  Undine  "  does  not  seem  to  us 
German  in  character,  as  some  of  the  critics  call  it,  because  it  is 


436  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

clear  and  hard  in  line.  What  German  artist  is  there  who  can  draw 
with  this  astonishing  vigour,  precision,  and  variety  of  attitude? 
The  picture  is  one  of  admirable  and  delightful  fancy.  The  swarms 
of  solemn  little  fairies  crowding  round  Undine  and  her  somewhat 
theatrical  lover  may  keep  a  spectator  for  hours  employed  in  pleasure 
and  wonder.  They  look  to  be  the  real  portraits  of  the  little  people, 
sketched  by  the  painter  in  some  visit  to  their  country.  There 
is,  especially,  on  a  branch  in  the  top  corner  of  the  picture,  a  con- 
versation going  on  between  a  fairy  and  a  squirrel  (who  is  a  fairy 
too),  which  must  have  been  taken  from  nature,  or  Mother  Bunch's 
delightful  super-nature.  How  awful  their  great  glassy  blue  eyes 
are  !  How  they  peer  out  from  under  glass,  and  out  of  flowers,  and 
from  twigs  and  branches,  and  swing  off  over  the  tree-top,  singing 
shrill  little  fairy  choruses !  We  must  have  the  Fairy  Tales  illus- 
trated by  this  gentleman,  that  is  clear ;  he  is  the  only  person,  except 
Tieck,  of  Dresden,  who  knows  anything  about  them. — ^Yes,  there  is 
some  one  else;  and  a  word f may  be  introduced  here  in  welcome  to 
the  admirable  young  designer,  whose  hand  has  lately  been  employed 
to  illustrate  the  columns  of  our  facetious  friend  (and  the  friend  of 
everybody)  Punch.  This  young  artist  (who  has  avowed  his  name, 
a  very  well-known  one,  that  of  Doyle)  has  poured  into  Punch's 
columns  a  series  of  drawings  quite  extraordinary  for  their  fancy, 
their  variety,  their  beauty,  and  fun.  It  is  the  true  genius  of  fairy- 
land, of  burlesque  which  never  loses  sight  of  beauty.  Friend  Punch's 
very  wrapper  is  quite  a  marvel  in  this  way,  at  which  we  can  never 
look  without  discovering  some  new  little  quip  of  humour  or  pleasant 
frolic  of  grace. 

And  if  we  have  had  reason  to  complain  of  Mr.  Leslie's  "  Comus  " 
as  deficient  in  poetry,  what  person  is  there  that  will  not  welcome 
"  Sancho,"  although  we  have  seen  him  before  almost  in  the  same 
attitude,  employed  in  the  same  way,  recounting  his  adventures  to 
the  kind  smiling  duchess,  as  she  sits  in  state  1  There  is  only  the 
sour  old  duenna,  who  refuses  to  be  amused,  and  nothing  has  ever 
amused  her  these  sixty  years.  But  the  ladies  are  all  charmed,  and 
tittering  with  one  another ;  the  black  slave  who  leans  against  the 
pillar  has  gone  off  in  an  honest  fit  of  downright  laughter.  Even 
the  little  dog,  the  wonderful  little  Blenheim,  by  the  lady's  side, 
would  laugh  if  she  could  (but,  alas  !  it  is  impossible),  as  the  other 
little  dog  is  said  to  have  done  on  the  singular  occasion  when  "  the 
cow  jumped  over  the  moon."*  The  glory  of  dulness  is  in  Sancho's 
face.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  man  in  the  world — no,  not  even  in 
the  House  of  Commons — so  stupid  as  that.    On  the  Whig  side  there 

*  "  Qualia  prospiciens  Catulus  ferit  sethera  risu 

Ipgaque  trans  lynse  cornua  Vevcoa  ?alit, "— liUCKETius, 


MAY   GAMBOLS  4,37 

is,  certainly,— but  no,  it  is  best  not  to  make  comparisons  which  fall 
short  of  the  mark.  This  is,  indeed,  the  Sancho  that  Cervantes 
drew. 

Although  the  editor  of  this  Magazine  had  made  a  solemn  con- 
dition with  the  writer  of  this  notice  that  no  pictures  taken  from 
the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  or  "  Gil  Bias  "  should,  by  any  favour  or 
pretence,  be  noticed  in  the  review  ;  yet,  as  the  great  picture  of  Mr. 
Mulready  compelled  the  infraction  of  the  rule,  rushing  through  our 
resolve  by  the  indomitable  force  of  genius,  we  must,  as  the  line  is 
broken,  present  other  Vicars,  Thomhills,  and  Olivias,  to  walk  in 
and  promenade  themselves  in  our  columns,  in  spite  of  the  vain 
placards  at  the  entrance,  "  Vicaes  op  Wakefield  not  admitted." 
In  the  first  place,  let  the  Eeverend  Doctor  Primrose  and  Miss 
Primrose  walk  up  in  Mr.  HoUius's  company.  The  Vicar  is  mildly 
expostulating  with  his  daughter  regarding  the  attentions  of  Squire 
Thornliill.  He  looks  mild,  too  mild ;  she  looks  ill-humoured,  very 
sulky.  Is  it  about  the  scolding,  or  the  Squire  ?  '  The  figures  are 
very  nicely  painted;  but  they  do  not  look  accustomed  (the  lady 
especially)  to  the  dresses  they  wear.  After  them  come  Mrs.  Prim- 
rose, the  Misses  and  the  young  Masters  Primrose,  presented  by 
Mr.  Frith  in  his  pretty  picture  (491).  Squire  Thornhill  sits  at  his 
ease,  and  recounts  his  town  adventures  to  the  ladies ;  the  beautiful 
Olivia  is  quite  lost  in  love  with  the  slim  red-coated  dandy;  her 
sister  is  listening  with  respect ;  but,  above  all,  the  old  lady  and 
children  hearken  with  wonder.  These  latter  are  charming  figures, 
as  indeed  are  all  in  the  picture.  As  for  Gil  Bias, — but  we  shall  be 
resolute  about  him.  Certain  Gil  Bias  there  are  in  the  exhibition 
eating  olla-podridas,  and  what  not.  Not  a  word,  however,  shall  be 
said  regarding  any  one  of  them. 

Among  the  figure-pieces  Mr.  Ward's  Lafleur  must  not  be  for- 
gotten, which  is  pleasant,  lively,  and  smartly  drawn  and  painted ; 
nor  Mr.  Gilbert's  "  Pear-tree  Well,"  which  contains  three  graceful 
classical  figures,  which  are  rich  in  efiiect  and  colour ;  nor  Mr. 
Maclnnes's  good  picture  of  Luther  listening  to  the  sacred  ballad 
(the  reformer  is  shut  up  in  the  octagon-room);  nor  a  picture  of 
Oliver  Goldsmith  on  his  rambles,  playing  the  flute  at  a  peasant's 
door,  in  which  the  colour  is  very  pretty;  the  character  of  the 
French  peasants  not  French  at  all,  and  the  poet's  figure  easy, 
correct,  and  well  drawn. 

Among  more  serious  subjects  may  be  mentioned  with  praise 
Mr.  Dyce's  two  fierce  figures,  representing  King  Joash  shooting 
the  arrow  of  deliverance,  which  if  the  critic  call  "  French,"  because 
they  are  well  and  carefully  drawn,  Mr.  Dyce  may  be  proud  of  being 
a  Frenchman.     Mr.  Lauder's   "Wise  and  Foolish  Virgins"  is  a 


438  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

fine  composition ;  the  colour  sombre  and  mysterious ;  some  of  the 
figures  extremely  graceful,  and  the  sentiment  of  the  picture  excel- 
lent. This  is  a  picture  which  would  infallibly  have  had  a  chance 
of  a  prize,  if  the  poor  dear  Art-Union  were  free  to  act. 

Mr.  Elmore's  "  Rienzi  addressing  the  People  "  is  one  of  the  very 
best  pictures  in  the  Gallery.  It  is  well  and  agreeably  coloured, 
bright,  pleasing,  and  airy.  A  group  of  people  are  gathered  round 
the  tribune,  who  addresses  them  among  Roman  ruins  under  a 
clear  blue  sky.  The  grouping  is  very  good  ;  the  figures  rich  and 
picturesque  in  attitude  and  costume.  There  is  a  group  in  front 
of  a  mother  and  child  who  are  thinking  of  anything  but  Rienzi 
and  liberty ;  who,  perhaps,  ought  not  to  be  so  prominent,  as 
they  take  away  from  the  purpose  of  the  picture,  but  who  are 
beautiful  wherever  they  are.  And  the  picture  is  further  to  be 
remarked  for  the  clear,  steady,  and  honest  painting  which  dis- 
tinguishes it. 

What  is  to  be  said  of  Mr.  Poole's  "  Moors  beleaguered  in 
Valencia "  1  A  clever  hideous  picture  in  tlie  very  worst  taste ; 
disease  and  desperation  characteristically  illustrated.  The  Spaniards 
beleaguer  the  town,  and  everybody  is  starving.  Mothers  with  dry 
breasts  unable  to  nourish  infants ;  old  men,  with  lean  ribs  and 
bloodshot  eyes,  moaning  on  the  pavement ;  brown  young  skeletons 
pacing  up  and  down  the  rampart,  some  raving,  all  desperate.  Such 
is  the  agreeable  theme  which  the  painter  has  taken  up.  It  is  worse 
than  last  year,  when  the  artist  only  painted  the  plague  of  London. 
Some  did  recover  from  that.  All  these  Moors  will  be  dead  before 
another  day,  and  the  vultures  will  fatten  on  their  lean  carcases, 
and  pick  out  their  red-hot  eyeballs.  Why  do  young  men  indulge 
in  these  horrors?  Young  poets  and  romancers  often  do  so,  and 
fancy  they  are  exhibiting  "  power  " ;  whereas  nothing  is  so  easy. 
Any  man  with  mere  instinct  can  succeed  in  the  brutal  in  art.  The 
coarse  fury  of  Zurbaran  and  Morales  is  as  far  below  the  sweet  and 
beneficent  calm  of  Murillo  as  a  butcher  is  beneath  a  hero.  Don't 
let  us  have  any  more  of  these  hideous  exhibitions — these  ghoul 
festivals.  It  may  be  remembered  that  Amina  in  the  "  Arabian 
Nights,"  who  liked  churchyard  suppers,  could  only  eat  a  grain 
of  rice  when  she  came  to  natural  food.  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
sly  satire  in  the  apologue  which  might  be  applied  to  many  (espe- 
cially French)  literary  and  pictorial  artists  of  the  convulsionary 
school. 

We  must  not  take  leave  of  the  compositions  without  mentioning 
Mr.  Landseer's  wonderful  "Shoeing"  and  "Stag";  the  latter  the 
most  poetical,  the  former  the  most  dexterous,  perhaps,  of  the  works 
of  this  accomplished  painter.    The  latter  picture,  at  a  little  distance, 


MAY    GAMBOLS  439 

expands  almost  into  the  size  of  nature.  The  enormous  stag  by  the 
side  of  a  great  blue  northern  lake  stalks  over  the  snow  down  to 
the  shore,  whither  his  mate  is  coming  through  the  water  to  join 
him.  Snowy  mountains  bend  round  the  lonely  landscape,  the  stars 
are  shining  out  keenly  in  the  deep  icy  blue  overhead ;  in  a  word, 
your  teeth  begin  to  chatter  as  you  look  at  the  picture,  and  it  can't 
properly  be  seen  without  a  greatcoat.  The  donkey  and  the  horse 
in  the  shoeing  picture  are  prodigious  imitations  of  nature;  the 
blacksmith  only  becomes  impalpable.  There  is  a  charming  portrait 
in  the  great  room  by  the  same  artist  in  which  the  same  defect  may 
be  remarked.  A  lady  is  represented  with  two  dogs  in  her  lap ;  the 
dogs  look  real ;  the  lady  a  thin  unsubstantial  vision  of  a  beautiful 
woman.     You  ought  to  see  the  landscape  through  her. 

Amongst  the  landscape  painters,  Mr.  Stanfield  has  really 
painted  this  year  better  than  any  former  year. — a  difficult  matter. 
The  pictures  are  admirable,  the  drawing  of  the  water  wonderful,  the 
look  of  freshness  and  breeze  and  motion  conveyed  with  delightful 
skill.  All  Mr.  Creswick's  pictures  will  be  seen  with  pleasure, 
especially  the  delicious  "  Summer  Evening " ;  the  most  airy  and 
clear,  and  also  the  most  poetical  of  his  landscapes.  The  fine 
"  Evening  Scene "  of  Danby  also  seems  to  have  the  extent  and 
splendour,  and  to  suggest  the  solemn  feelings  of  a  vast  mountain- 
scene  at  sunset.  The  admirers  of  Sir  Augustus  Calkott's  soft 
golden  landscapes  will  here  find  some  of  his  most  delightful  pieces. 
Mr.  Eoberts  has  painted  his  best  in  his  Nile  scene,  and  his  French 
architectural  pieces  are  of  scarce  inferior  merit.  Mr.  Lee,  Mr. 
Witherington,  and  Mr.  Leitch  have  contributed  works,  showing  all 
their  well-known  qualities  and  skill.  And  as  for  Mr.  Turner,  he 
has  out-prodigied  almost  all  former  prodigies.  He  has  made  a 
picture  with  real  rain,  behind  which  is  real  sunshine,  and  you 
expect  a  rainbow  every  minute.  Meanwhile,  there  comes  a  train 
down  upon  you,  really  moving  at  the  rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
and  which  the  reader  had  best  make  haste  to  see,  lest  it  should 
dash  out  of  the  picture,  and  be  away  up  Charing  Cross  through  the 
wall  opposite.  All  these  wonders  are  performed  with  means  not 
less  wonderful  than  the  effects  are.  The  rain,  in  the  astounding 
picture  called  "  Eain — Steam — Speed,"  is  composed  of  dabs  of  dirty 
putty  slapped  on  to  the  canvas  with  a  trowel ;  the  sunshine  scin- 
tillates out  of  very  thick  smeary  lumps  of  chrome  yellow.  The 
shadows  are  produced  by  cool  tones  of  crimson  lake,  and  quiet 
glazings  of  vermilion.  Although  the  fire  in  the  steam  engine  looJcs 
as  if  it  were  red,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  it  is  not  painted 
with  cobalt  and  pea-green.  And  as  for  the  manner  in  which  the 
"Speed"  is  done,  of  that  the  less  said  the  better, — only  it  is  a 


440  CEITICAL   REVIEWS 

positive  fact  that  there  is  a  steam-coach  going  fifty  miles  an  hour. 
The  world  has  never  seen  anything  like  this  picture. 

In  respect  of  the  portraits  of  the  exhibition,  if  Royal  Acade- 
micians will  take  the  word  of  the  Morning  Post,  the  Morning 
Chronicle,  the  Spectator,  and,  far  above  all,  of  Fraser's  Magazine, 
they  will  pause  a  little  before  they  hang  such  a  noble  portrait  as 
that  of  W.  Conyngham,  Esquire,  by  Samuel  Lawrence,  away  out  of 
sight,  while  some  of  their  own  paltry  canvases  meet  the  spectator 
nose  to  nose.  The  man  with  the  glove  of  Titian  in  the  Louvre 
has  evidently  inspired  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  his  picture  is  so  far  an 
imitation ;  but  what  then  ?  it  is  better  to  imitate  great  things  well 
than  to  imitate  a  simpering  barber's  dummy,  like  No.  10000,  let 
us  say,  or  to  perpetrate  yonder  horror, — weak,  but,  oh  !  how  heavy, 
smeared,  fiat,  pink  and  red,  grinning,  ill-drawn  portraits  (such  as 
Nos.  99999  and  99999'')  which  the  old  Academicians  perpetrate ! 
You  are  right  to  keep  the  best  picture  in  the  room  out  of  the  way, 
to  be  sure ;  it  would  sternly  frown  your  simpering  unfortunates 
out  of  countenance ;  but  let  us  have  at  least  a  chance  of  seeing  the 
good  pictures.  Have  one  room,  say,  for  the  Academicians,  and 
another  for  the  clever  artists.  Diminish  your  number  of  exhibited 
pictures  to  six,  if  you  like,  but  give  the  young  men  a  chance.  It 
is  pitiful  to  see  their  works  pushed  out  of  sight,  and  to  be  oflfered 
what  you  give  us  in  exchange. 

This  does  not  apply  to  all  the  esquires  who  paint  portraits ; 
but,  with  regard  to  the  names  of  the  delinquents,  it  is  best  to  be 
silent,  lest  a  showing  up  of  them  should  have  a  terrible  effect  on 
the  otherwise  worthy  men,  and  drive  them  to  an  untimely  despera- 
tion. So  I  shall  say  little  about  the  portraits,  mentioning  merely 
that  Mr.  Grant  has  one  or  two,  a  small  one  especially,  of  great 
beauty  and  ladylike  grace ;  and  one  very  bad  one,  such  as  that  of 
Lord  Forrester.  Mr.  Pickersgill  has  some  good  heads ;  the  little 
portrait  of  Mr.  Ainsworth  by  Mr.  Maclise  is  as  clever  and  like  as 
the  artist  knows  how  to  make  it.  Mr.  Middleton  has  some  female 
heads  especially  beautiful.  Mrs.  Carpenter  is  one  of  the  most 
manly  painters  in  the  exhibition ;  and  if  you  walk  into  the  minia- 
ture-room, you  may  look  at  the  delicious  little  gems  from  the  pencil 
of  Sir  William  Ross,  those  still  more  graceful  and  poetical  by  Mr. 
Thorburn,  and  the  delightful  coxcombries  of  Mr.  Ohalon.  I  have 
found  out  a  proper  task  for  that  gentleman,  and  hereby  propose 
that  he  should  illustrate  "  Coningsby." 

In  the  statue-room,  Mr.  Gibson's  classic  group  attracts  attention 
and  deserves  praise ;  and  the  busts  of  Parker,  Macdonald,  Behnes, 
and  other  well-known  portrait-sculptors,  have  all  their  usual  finish, 
skill,  and  charm. 


MAY    GAMBOLS  441 

At  the  Water-Oolour  Gallery  the  pleased  spectator  lingers  as 
usual  delighted,  surrounded  by  the  pleasantest  drawings  and  the 
most  genteel  company.  It  requires  no  small  courage  to  walk 
through  that  avenue  of  plush  breeches  with  which  the  lobby  is 
lined,  and  to  pass  two  files  of  whiskered  men  in  canes  and  huge 
calves,  who  contemptuously  regard  us  poor  fellows  with  Bluchers 
and  gingham  umbrellas.  But  these  passed,  you  are  in  the  best 
society.  Bishops,  I  have  remarked,  frequent  this  gallery  in  venerable 
numbers;  likewise  dignified  clergymen  with  rosettes;  Quakeresses, 
also,  in  dove-coloured  silks  meekly  changing  colour;  squires  and 
their  families  from  the  country;  and  it  is  a  fact,  that  you  never 
can  enter  the  Gallery  without  seeing  a  wonderfully  pretty  girl. 
This  fact  merits  to  be  generally  known,  and  is  alone  worth  the 
price  of  this  article. 

I  suspect  that  there  are  some  people  from  the  country  who 
admire  Mr.  Prout  still ;  those  fresh,  honest,  unalloyed  country 
appetites !  There  are  the  Prout  Nurembergs  and  Venices  still ; 
the  awnings,  the  water-posts,  and  the  red-capped  bargemen  drawn 
with  a  reed  pen ;  but  we  blasts  young  rouds  about  London  get 
tired  of  these  simple  dishes,  and  must  have  more  excitement. 
There,  too,  are  Mr.  Hill's  stags  with  pink  stomachs,  his  spinach 
pastures  and  mottled  farmhouses;  also  innumerable  windy  downs 
and  heaths  by  Mr.  Copley  Fielding : — in  the  which  breezy  flats  I 
have  so  often  wandered  before  with  bumt-sienna  ploughboys,  that 
the  walk  is  no  longer  tempting. 

Not  so,  however,  the  marine  pieces  of  Mr.  Bentley.  That 
gentleman,  to  our  thinking,  has  never  painted  so  well.  Witness 
his  "Indiaman  towed  up  the  Thames"  (53),  his  "Signalling 
the  Pilot"  (161),  and  his  admirable  view  of  "Mont  Saint 
Michel"  (127),  in  which  the  vessel  quite  dances  and  falls  on  the 
water.  He  deserves  to  divide  the  prize  with  Mr.  Stanfield  at  the 
Academy. 

All  the  works  of  a  clever  young  landscape-painter,  Mr.  G.  A. 
Fripp,  may  be  looked  at  with  pleasure ;  they  show  great  talent, 
no  small  dexterity,  and  genuine  enthusiastic  love  of  nature.  Mr. 
Alfred  Fripp,  a  figure-painter,  merits  likewise  very  much  praise ; 
his  works  are  not  complete  as  yet,  but  his  style  is  thoughtful, 
dramatic,  and  original. 

Mr.  Hunt's  dramas  of  one  or  two  characters  are  as  entertaining 
and  curious  as  ever.  His  "  Outcast "  is  amazingly  fine,  and  tragic 
in  character.  His  "Sick  Cigar-boy,"  a  wonderful  delineation  of 
nausea.  Look  at  the  picture  of  the  toilette,  in  which,  with  the 
parlour-tongs,  Betty,  the  housemaid,  is  curling  little  miss's  hair  : 
there  is  a  dish  of  yellow  soap  in  that  drawing,  and  an  old  comb 


442  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

and  brush,  the  fidelity  of  which  make  the  delicate  beholder  shudder. 
On  one  of  the  screens  there  are  some  "  bird's-nests,"  out  of  which 
I  am  surprised  no  spectator  has  yet  stolen  any  of  the  eggs — you 
have  but  to  stoop  down  and  take  them. 

Mr.  Taylor's  delightful  drawings  are  even  more  than  ordinarily 
clever.  His  "  Houseless  Wanderers "  is  worthy  of  Hogarth  in 
humour;  most  deliciously  coloured  and  treated.  "The  Gleaner" 
is  full  of  sunshine ;  the  larder  quite  a  curiosity,  as  showing  the 
ease,  truth,  and  dexterity  with  which  the  artist  washes  in  his 
flowing  delineations  from  nature.  In  his  dogs,  you  don't  know 
which  most  to  admire,  the  fidelity  with  which  the  animals  are 
painted,  or  the  ease  with  which  they  are  done. 

This  gift  of  facility  Mr.  Oattermole  also  possesses  to  an  amazing 
extent.  As  pieces  of  effect,  his  "  Porch  "  and  "  Rook-shooting  "  are 
as  wonderful  as  they  are  pleasing.  His  large  picture  of  "  Monks 
in  a  Refectory "  is  very  fine ;  rich,  original,  and  sober  in  colour ; 
excellent  in  sentiment  and  general  grouping ;  in  individual  attitude 
and  drawing  not  sufficiently  correct.  As  the  figures  are  much 
smaller  than  those  in  the  refectory,  these  faults  are  less  visible  in 
the  magnificent  "  Battle  for  the  Bridge,"  a  composition,  perhaps, 
the  most  complete  that  the  artist  has  yet  produced.  The  landscape 
is  painted  as  grandly  as  Salvator ;  the  sky  wonderfully  airy,  the 
sunshine  shining  through  the  glades  of  the  wood,  the  huge  trees 
rocking  and  swaying  as  the  breeze  rushes  by  them ;  the  battling 
figures  are  full  of  hurry,  fire,  and  tumult.  All  these  things  are 
rather  indicated  by  the  painter  than  defined  by  him ;  but  such 
hints  are  enough  from  such  a  genius.  The  charmed  and  captivated 
imagination  is  quite  ready  to  supply  what  else  is  wanting. 

Mr.  Frederick  Nash  has  some  unpretending,  homely,  exquisitely 
faithful  scenes  in  the  Rhine  country,  "  Boppart,"  "  Bacharach," 
&c.,  of  which  a  sojourner  in  those  charming  districts  will  always 
be  glad  to  have  a  reminiscence.  Mr.  Joseph  Nash  has  not  some 
of  the  cleverest  of  his  mannerisms,  nor  Mr.  Lake  Price  the  best  of 
his  smart,  dandified,  utterly  unnatural  exteriors.  By  far  the  best 
designs  of  this  kind  are  the  Windsor  and  Buckingham  Palace 
sketches  of  Mr.  Douglas  Morison,  executed  with  curious  fidelity  and 
skill.  There  is  the  dining-hall  in  Buckingham  Palace,  with  all  the 
portraits,  all  the  candles  in  all  the  chandeliers ;  the  China  gimcracks 
over  the  mantelpiece,  the  dinner-table  set  out,  the  napkins  folded 
mitrewise,  the  round  water-glasses,  the  sherry-glasses,  the  champagne 
ditto,  and  all  in  a  space  not  so  big  as  two  pages  of  this  Magazine. 
There  is  the  Queen's  own  chamber  at  Windsor,  her  Majesty's 
piano,  her  Royal  writing-table,  an  escritoire  with  pigeon-holes, 
where  the  august  papers  are  probably  kept;  and  very  curious, 


MAY    GAMBOLS  443 

clever,  and  ugly  all  these  pictures  of  furniture  are  too,  and  will  be 
a  model  for  the  avoidance  of  upholsterers  in  coming  ages. 

Mr.  John  William  Wright's  sweet  female  figures  must  not  be 
passed  over ;  nor  the  pleasant  Stothard-like  drawings  of  his  veteran 
namesake.  The  "Gipsies"  of  Mr.  Oakley  will  also  be  looked  at 
with  pleasure ;  and  this  gentleman  may  be  complimented  as  likely 
to  rival  the  Kichmonds  and  the  Chalons  "  in  another  place,"  where 
may  be  seen  a  very  good  full-length  portrait  drawn  by  him. 

The  exhibition  of  the  New  Society  of  Water-Colour  Painters 
has  grown  to  be  quite  as  handsome  and  agreeable  as  that  of  its 
mamma,  the  old  Society  in  PaU  Mall  East.  Those  who  remember 
this  little  band  of  painters,  to  whom  the  gates  of  the  elder  Gallery 
were  hopelessly  shut,  must  be  glad  to  see  the  progress  the  younger 
branch  has  made ;  and  we  have  every  reason  to  congratulate  our- 
selves that,  instead  of  one  pleasant  exhibition  annually,  the  amateur 
can  recreate  himself  now  with  two.  Many  of  the  pictures  here  are 
of  very  great  merit. 

Mr.  Warren's  Egyptian  pictures  are  clever,  and  only  need  to 
be  agreeable  where  he  takes  a  pretty  subject,  such  as  that  of  the 
"Egyptian  Lady"  (150);  his  work  is  pretty  sure  to  be  followed 
by  that  welcome  little  ticket  of  emerald  green  in  the  corner,  which 
announces  that  a  purchaser  has  made  his  appearance.  But  the  eye 
is  little  interested  by  views  of  yellow  deserts  and  sheikhs,  and 
woolly-headed  warriors  with  ugly  wooden  swords. 

And  yet  mere  taste,  grace,  and  beauty  won't  always  succeed ; 
witness  Mr.  Absolon's  drawings,  of  which  few — far  too  few — boast 
the  green  seal  and  which  are  one  and  aU  of  them  charming.  There 
IS  one  in  the  first  room  from  the  "  V-c-r  of  W-kef — Id  "  (we  are 
determined  not  to  write  that  name  again),  which  is  delightfully 
composed,  and  a  fresh,  happy  picture  of  a  country  fSte.  "  The 
Dartmoor  Turf-gatherers "  (87)  is  still  better ;  the  picture  is  full 
of  air,  grace,  pretty  drawing,  and  brilliant  colour,  and  yet  no  green 
seal.  "  A  Little  Sulky  " ;  "  The  Devonshire  Cottage-door  "  ;  "  The 
Widow  on  the  Stile " ;  "  The  Stocking-knitter " ;  are  all,  too, 
excellent  in  their  way,  and  bear  the  artist's  cachet  of  gentle  and 
amiable  grace.  But  the  drawings,  in  point  of  execution,  do  not  go 
far  enough ;  they  are  not  sufiiciently  bright  to  attract  the  eyes  of 
that  great  and  respectable  body  of  amateurs  who  love  no  end 
of  cobalt,  carmine,  stippling,  and  plenty  of  emerald  green  and 
vermilion;  they  are  not  made  out  sufficiently  in  Hne  to  rank  as 
pictures. 

Behold  how  Mr.  Corbould  can  work  when  he  likes — how  he  can 
work  you  off  the  carmine  stippling  \     In  his  large  piece,  "  The 


444  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Britons  deploring  the  Departure  of  the  Romans,"  there  is  much 
very  fine  and  extraordinary  cleverness  of  pencil.  Witness  the 
draperies  of  the  two  women,  which  are  painted  with  so  much  clever- 
ness and  beauty,  that,  indeed,  one  regrets  that  one  of  them  has  not 
got  a  little  drapery  more.  The  same  tender  regard  pervades  the 
bosom  while  looking  at  that  of  Joan  of  Arc,  "  While  engaged  in  the 
servile  oflSces  of  her  situation  as  a  menial  at  an  inn,  ruminating 
upon  the  distressing  state  of  France."  Her  "servile  situation" 
seems  to  be  that  of  an  ostler  at  the  establishment  in  question,  for 
she  is  leading  down  a  couple  of  animals  to  drink;  and  as  for  the 
"  distressing  state  of  France,"  it  ought  not,  surely,  to  affect  such  a 
fat  little  comfortable  simple-looking  undressed  body.  Bating  the 
figure  of  Joan,  who  looks  as  pretty  as  a  young  lady  out  of  the  last 
novel,  bating,  I  say,  baiting  Joan,  who  never  rode  horses,  depend 
on't,  in  that  genteel  way,  the  picture  is  exceedingly  skilful,  and 
much  better  in  colour  than  Mr.  Corbould's  former  works. 

Mr.  Wehnert's  great  drawing  is  a  failure,  but  an  honourable 
defeat.  It  shows  great  power  and  mastery  over  the  material  with 
which  he  works.  He  has  two  pretty  German  figures  in  the  fore- 
room :  "The  Innkeeper's  Daughter"  (38);  and  "Perdita  and 
Florizel"  (316).  Perhaps  he  is  the  author  of  the  pretty  arabesques 
with  which  the  Society  have  this  year  ornamented  their  list  of 
pictures ;  he  has  a  German  name,  and  English  artists  can  have  no 
need  to  be  copying  from  Diisseldorf's  embellishments  to  decorate 
the  catalogues. 

Mr.  Haghe's  great  drawing  of  the  "  Death  of  Zurbaran  "  is  not 
interesting  from  any  peculiar  fineness  of  expression  in  the  faces  of 
the  actors  who  figure  in  this  gloomy  scene ;  but  it  is  largely  and 
boldly  painted,  in  deep  sombre  washes  of  colours,  with  none  of  the 
niggling  prettinesses  to  which  artists  in  water-colours  seem  forced 
to  resort  in  order  to  bring  their  pictures  to  a  high  state  of  finish. 
Here  the  figures  and  the  draperies  look  as  if  they  were  laid  down 
at  once  with  a  bold  yet  careful  certainty  of  hand.  The  effect  of 
the  piece  is  very  fine,  the  figures  grandly  grouped.  Among  all  the 
water-colour  painters  we  know  of  none  who  can  wield  the  brush  like 
Mr.  Haghe,  with  his  skill,  his  breadth,  and  his  certainty. 

Mr.  Jenkins's  beautiful  female  figure  in  the  drawing  called 
"Love"  (123)  must  be  mentioned  with  especial  praise;  it  is 
charming  in  design,  colour,  and  sentiment.  Another  female  figure, 
"  The  Girl  at  the  Stile,"  by  the  same  artist,  has  not  equal  finish, 
roundness,  and  completeness,  but  the  same  sentiment  of  tender 
grace  and  beauty. 

Mr.  Bright's  landscape-drawings  are  exceedingly  clever,  but 
there  is  too  much  of  the  drawing-master  in  the  handling,  too  much 


MAY    GAMBOLS  445 

dash,  skurry,  sharp  cleverness  of  execution.  Him  Mr.  Jutsum 
follows  with  cleverness  not  quite  equal,  and  mannerism  still  greater. 
After  the  performance  of  which  the  eye  reposes  gratefully  upon 
some  pleasant  evening  scenes  by  Mr.  Duncan  (3,  10);  and  the 
delightful  "  Shady  Land  "  of  Mr.  Youngman.  Mr.  Boys's  pictures 
will  be  always  looked  at  and  admired  for  the  skill  and  correctness 
of  a  hand  which,  in  drawing,  is  not  inferior  to  that  of  Canaletto. 

As  for  Suifolk  Street,  that  delicious  retreat  may  or  may  not  be 
still  open.  I  have  been  there,  but  was  frightened  from  the  place 
by  the  sight  of  Haydon's  Napoleon,  with  his  vast  head,  his  large 
body,  and  his  little  legs,  staring  out  upon  the  Indigo  sea,  in  a  grass- 
green  coat.  Nervous  people  avoid  that  sight,  and  the  Emperor 
remains  in  Suffolk  Street  as  lonely  as  at  Saint  Helena. 


PICTURE  GOSSIP:  IN  A  LETTER  FROM 
MICHAEL  ANGELO   TITMARSH 

all'  illustrissimo  signoe,  il  mio  signoe  colendissimo, 
augtjsto  ha  aev:6,  pittoee  in  eoma 

I  AM  going  to  fulfil  the  promise,  my  dear  Augusto,  which  I 
uttered,  with  a  faltering  voice  and  streaming  eyes,  before  I 
stepped  into  the  jingling  old  courier's  vehicle,  which  was  to 
bear  me  from  Eome  to  Florence.  Can  I  forget  that  night — that 
parting^  Gaunter  stood  by  so  affected,  that  for  the  last  quarter  of 
an  hour  he  did  not  swear  once ;  Flake's  emotion  exhibited  itself  in 
audible  sobs  ;  Jellyson  said  nought,  but  thrust  a  bundle  of  Torlonia's 
four-baiocchi  cigars  into  the  hand  of  the  departing  friend ;  and  you 
yourself  were  so  deeply  agitated  by  the  event,  that  you  took  four 
glasses  of  absinthe  to  string  up  your  nerves  for  the  fatal  moment. 
Strange  vision  of  past  days  ! — for  vision  it  seems  to  me  now.  And 
have  I  been  in  Kome  really  and  truly  ?  Have  I  seen  the  great 
works  of  my  Christian  namesake  of  the  Buonarroti  family,  and  the 
light  arcades  of  the  Vatican?  Have  I  seen  the  glorious  Apollo, 
and  that  other  divine  fiddle-player  whom  Raphael  painted  ?  Yes — 
and  the  English  dandies  swaggering  on  the  Pincian  Hill !  Yes — 
and  have  eaten  woodcocks  and  drank  Orvieto  hard  by  the  huge 
broad-shouldered  Pantheon  Portico,  in  the  comfortable  parlours  of 
the  "  Falcone."  Do  you  recollect  that  speech  I  made  at  Bertini's 
in  proposing  the  health  of  the  Pope  of  Rome  on  Christmas-day  1 — 
do  you  remember  it  1,  I  don't.  But  his  Holiness,  no  doubt,  heard 
of  the  oration,  and  was  flattered  by  the  comphment  of  the  illustrious 
English  traveller. 

I  went  to  the  exhibition  of  the  Royal  Academy  lately,  and  all 
these  reminiscences  rushed  back  on  a  sudden  with  affecting  volu- 
bility ;  not  that  there  was  anything  in  or  out  of  the  gallery  which 
put  me  specially  in  mind  of  sumptuous  and  liberal  Rome ;  but  in 
the  great  room  was  a  picture  of  a  fellow  in  a  broad  Roman  hat,  in 
a  velvet  Roman  coat,  and  large  yellow  mustachios,  and  that  pro- 
digious scowl  which  young  artists  assume  when  sitting  for  their 


PICTURE    GOSSIP  447 

portraits — he  was  one  of  our  set  at  Rome ;  and  the  scenes  of  the 
winter  came  back  pathetically  to  my  mind,  and  all  the  friends  of 
that  season, — Orifice  and  his  sentimental  songs:  Father  Giraldo 
and  his  poodle,  and  MacBrick,  the  trump  of  bankers.  Hence  the 
determination  to  write  this  letter ;  but  the  hand  is  crabbed,  and  the 
postage  is  dear,  and  instead  of  despatching  it  by  the  mail,  I  shall 
send  it  to  you  by  means  of  the  printer,  knowing  well  that  Fraser's 
Magazine  is  eagerly  read  at  Rome,  and  not  (on  account  of  its 
morality)  excluded  in  the  Index  Uxpurgatorius. 

And  it  will  be  doubly  agreeable  to  me  to  write  to  you  regarding 
the  fine  arts  in  England,  because  I  know,  my  dear  Augusto,  that 
you  have  a  thorough  contempt  for  my  opinion — indeed,  for  that  of 
all  persons,  excepting,  of  course,  one  whose  name  is  already  written 
in  this  sentence.  Such,  however,  is  not  the  feeling  respecting 
my  critical  powers  in  this  country ;  here  they  know  the  merit  of 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  better,  and  they  say,  "He  paints  so 
badly,  that,  hang  it !  he  must  be  a  good  judge ; "  in  the  latter  part 
of  which  opinion,  of  course,  I  agree. 

You  should  have  seen  the  consternation  of  the  fellows  at  my 
arrival ! — of  our  dear  brethren  who  thought  I  was  safe  at  Rome  for 
the  season,  and  that  their  works,  exhibited  in  May,  would  be  spared 
the  dreadfid  ordeal  of  my  ferocious  eye.  When  I  entered  the  club- 
room  in  Saint  Martin's  Lane,  and  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy-and- 
water  like  a  bombshell,  you  should  have  seen  the  terror  of  some  oi 
the  artists  assembled  !  They  knew  that  the  frightfiil  projectile  just 
launched  into  their  club-room  must  burst  in  the  natural  course  of 
things.  Who  would  be  struck  down  by  the  explosion?  was  the 
thought  of  every  one.  Some  of  the  hypocrites  welcomed  me  meanly 
back,  some  of  the  timid  trembled,  some  of  the  savage  and  guilty 
muttered  curses  at  my  arrival.  You  should  have  seen  the  ferocious 
looks  of  Daggerly,  for  example,  as  he  scowled  at  me  from  the 
supper-table,  and  clutched  the  trenchant  weapon  with  which  he 
was  dissevering  his  toasted  cheese. 

From  the  period  of  my  arrival  until  that  of  the  opening  of 
the  various  galleries,  I  maintained  with  the  artists  every  proper 
aflfability,  but  still  was  not  too  familiar.  It  is  the  custom  of  their 
friends  before  their  pictures  are  sent  in  to  the  exhibitions,  to  visit  the 
painters'  works  at  their  private  studios,  and  there  encourage  them 
by  saying,  "Bravo,  Jones  !"  (I  don't  mean  Jones,  R.A.,  for  I  defy 
any  man  to  say  bravo  to  him,,  but  Jones  in  general).  "  Tomkins, 
this  is  your  greatest  work  ! "  "  Smith,  my  boy,  they  must  elect 
you  an  Associate  for  this ! " — and  so  forth.  These  harmless 
banalities  of  compliment  pass  between  the  painters  and  their 
friends  on   such  occasions.     I,  myself,   have   uttered   many  such 


448  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

civil  phrases  in  former  years  under  like  circumstances.  But  it  is 
dififerent  now.  Fame  has  its  privations  as  well  as  its  pleasures. 
The  friend  may  see  his  companions  in  private,  but  the  Judge 
must  not  pay  visits  to  his  clients.  I  stayed  away  from  the 
ateliers  of  all  the  artists  (at  least,  I  only  visited  one,  kindly  telling 
him  that  he  didn't  count  as  an  artist  at  all),  and  would  only  see 
their  pictures  in  the  public  galleries,  and  judge  them  in  the  fair 
race  with  their  neighbours.  This  announcement  and  conduct 
of  mine  filled  all  the  Berners  Street  and  Fitzroy  Square  district 
with  terror. 

As  I  am  writing  this  after  having  had  my  fill  of  their  works, 
so  publicly  exhibited  in  the  country,  at  a  distance  from  catalogues, 
my  only  book  of  reference  being  an  orchard  whereof  the  trees  are 
now  bursting  into  fuU  blossom, — it  is  probable  that  my  remarks 
will  be  rather  general  than  particular,  that  I  shall  only  discourse 
about  those  pictures  which  I  especially  remember,  or,  indeed,  upon 
any  other  point  suitable  to  my  honour  and  your  delectation. 

I  went  round  the  galleries  with  a  young  friend  of  mine,  who, 
like  yourself  at  present,  has  been  a  student  of  "High  Art"  at 
Rome.  He  had  been  a  pupil  of  Monsieur  Ingres,  at  Paris.  He 
could  draw  rude  figures  of  eight  feet  high  to  a  nicety,  and  had 
produced  many  heroic  compositions  of  that  pleasing  class  and  size, 
to  the  great  profit  of  the  paper-stretchers  both  in  Paris  and  Rome. 
He  came  back  firom  the  latter  place  a  year  since,  with  his  beard 
and  mustachios  of  course.  He  could  find  no  room  in  all  Newman 
Street  and  Soho  big  enough  to  hold  him  and  his  genius,  and  was 
turned  out  of  a  decent  house  because,  for  the  purposes  of  art,  he 
wished  to  batter  down  the  partition-wall  between  the  two  drawing- 
rooms  he  had.  His  great  cartoon  last  year  (whether  it  was 
"  Caractacus  before  Claudius,"  or  a  scene  from  the  "  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  I  won't  say)  failed  somehow.  He  was  a  good  deal 
cut  up  by  the  defeat,  and  went  into  the  country  to  his  relations, 
from  whom  he  returned  after  awhile,  with  his  mustachios  shaved, 
clean  linen,  and  other  signs  of  depression.  He  said  (with  a  hollow 
laugh)  he  should  not  commence  on  his  great  canvas  this  year, 
and  so  gave  up  the  completion  of  his  composition  of  "  Boadicea 
addressing  the  Iceni "  :  quite  a  novel  subject,  which,  with  that 
ingenuity  and  profound  reading  which  distinguish  his  brethren,  he 
had  determined  to  take  up. 

Well,  sir,  this  youth  and  I  went  to  the  exhibitions  together, 
and  I  watched  his  behaviour  before  the  pictures.  At  the  tragic, 
swaggering,  theatrical-historical  pictures,  he  yawned ;  before  some 
of  the  grand  flashy  landscapes,  he  stood  without  the  least  emotion  ; 
but  before  some  quiet  scenes  of  humour  or  pathos,  or  some  easy 


PICTURE    GOSSIP  449 

little  copy  of  nature,  the  youth  stood  in  pleased  contemplation,  the 
nails  of  his  highlows  seemed  to  be  screwed  into  the  floor  there,  and 
his  face  dimpled  over  with  grins. 

"These  little  pictures,"  said  he,  on  being  questioned,  "are 
worth  a  hundred  times  more  than  the  big  ones.  In  the  latter  you 
see  signs  of  ignorance  of  every  kind,  weakness  of  hand,  poverty  of 
invention,  carelessness  of  drawing,  lamentable  imbecility  of  thought. 
Their  heroism  is  borrowed  from  the  theatre,  their  sentiment  is  so 
maudlin  that  it  makes  you  sick.  I  see  no  symptoms  of  thought  or 
of  minds  strong  and  genuine  enough  to  cope  with  elevated  subjects. 
No  individuality,  no  novelty,  the  decencies  of  costume  "  (my  friend 
did  not  mean  that  the  figures  we  were  looking  at  were  naked,  like 
Mr.  Etty's,  but  that  they  were  dressed  out  of  all  historical  pro- 
priety) "are  disregarded;  the  people  are  striking  attitudes,  as  at 
the  -Coburg.  There  is  something  painful  to  me  in  this  naive 
exhibition  of  incompetency,  this  imbecility  that  is  so  unconscious 
of  its  own  failure.  If,  however,  the  aspiring  men  don't  succeed, 
the  inodest  do ;  and  what  they  have  really  seen  or  experienced, 
our  artists  can  depict  with  successful  accuracy  and  delightful  skill. 
Hence,"  says  he,  "I  would  sooner  have  So-and-so's  little  sketch, 
('A  Donkey  on  a  Common')  than  What-d'ye-oall-'em's  enormous 
picture  ('  Sir  Walter  Manny  and  the  Crusaders  discovering  Nova 
Scotia '),  and  prefer  yonder  unpretending  sketch,  '  Shrimp  Catchers, 
Morning '  (how  exquisitely  the  long  and  level  sands  are  touched 
ofif!  how  beautifully  the  morning  light  touches  the  countenances 
of  the  fishermen,  and  illumines  the  rosy  features  of  the  shrimps  !), 
to  yonder  pretentious  illustration  from  Spencer,  '  Sir  Botibol 
rescues  Una  from  Sir  Uglimore  in  the  Cave  of  the  Enchantress 
Ichthyosaura.' " 

I  am  only  mentioning  another's  opinion  of  these  pictures,  and 
would  not  of  course,  for  my  own  part,  wish  to  give  pain  by  pro- 
voking comparisons  that  must  be  disagreeable  to  some  persons. 
But  I  could  not  help  agreeing  with  my  young  friend  and  saying, 
"  Well,  then,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  only 
like  what  is  real,  and  natural,  and  unafiected — if  upon  such  works 
you  gaze  with  delight,  while  from  more  pretentious  performances 
you  turn  away  with  weariness,  why  the  deuce  must  you  be  in  the 
heroic  vein  1  Why  don't  you  do  what  you  like  1 "  The  young 
man  turned  round  on  the  iron  heel  of  his  highlows,  and  walked 
downstairs  clinking  them  sulkily. 

There  are  a  variety  of  classes  and  divisions  into  which  the 
works  of  our  geniuses  may  be  separated.  There  are  the  heroic 
pictures,  the  theatrical-heroic,  the  religious,  the  historical  senti- 
mental, the  historical-familiar,  the  namby-pamby,  and  so  forth. 

13  2  r 


450  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

Among  the  heroic  pictures  of  course  Mr.  Haydon's  ranks  the  first, 
its  size  and  pretensions  call  for  that  place.  It  roars  out  to  you  as  it 
were  with  a  Titanic  voice  from  among  all  the  competitors  to  public 
favour,  "  Come  and  look  at  me."  A  broad-shouldered,  swaggering, 
hulking  archangel,  with  those  rolling  eyes  and  distending  nostrils 
which  belong  to  the  species  of  sublime  caricature,  stands  scowling 
on  a  sphere  from  which  the  devil  is  just  descending  bound  earth- 
wards. Planets,  comets,  and  other  astronomical  phenomena,  roll 
and  blaze  round  the  pair  and  flame  in  the  new  blue  sky.  There  is 
something  burly  and  bold  in  this  resolute  genius  which  vrill  attack 
only  enormous  subjects,  which  will  deal  with  nothing  but  the  epic, 
something  respectable  even  in  the  defeats  of  such  characters.  I 
was  looking  the  other  day  at  Southampton  at  a  stout  gentleman  in 
a  green  coat  and  white  hat,  who  a  year  or  two  since  fully  believed 
that  he  could  walk  upon  the  water,  and  set  off  in  the  presence  of  a 
great  concourse  of  people  upon  his  supermarine  journey.  There  is 
no  need  to  tell  you  that  the  poor  fellow  got  a  wetting  and  sank 
amidst  the  jeers  of  all  his  beholders.  I  think  somehow  they  should 
not  have  laughed  at  that  honest  ducked  gentleman,  they  should 
have  respected  the  faith  and  simplicity  which  led  him  unhesitatingly 
to  venture  upon  that  watery  experiment ;  and  so,  instead  of  laugh- 
ing at  Haydon,  which  you  and  I  were  just  about  to  do,  let  us  check 
our  jocularity,  and  give  him  credit  for  his  great  earnestness  of 
purpose.  I  begin  to  find  the  world  growing  more  pathetic  daily, 
and  laugh  less  every  year  of  my  life.  Why  laugh  at  idle  hopes, 
or  vain  purposes,  or  utter  blundering  self-confidence  1  Let  us  be 
gentle  with  them  henceforth ;  who  knows  whether  there  may  not 
be  something  of  the  sort  chez  nous  ?  But  I  am  wandering  from 
Haydon  and  his  big  picture.  Let  us  hope  somebody  wiU  buy. 
Who,  I  cannot  tell ;  it  will  not  do  for  a  chapel ;  it  is  too  big  for 
a  house  ;  I  have  it — it  might  answer  to  hang  up  over  a  caravan  at 
a  fair,  if  a  travelling  orrery  were  exhibited  inside. 

This  may  be  sheer  impertinence  and  error,  the  picture  may  suit 
some  tastes — it  does  the  Times  for  instance,  which  pronounces  it 
to  be  a  noble  work  of  the  highest  art ;  whereas  the  Post  won't 
believe  a  bit,  and  passes  it  by  with  scorn.  What  a  comfort  it 
is  that  there  are  different  tastes  then,  and  that  almost  all  artists 
have  thus  a  chance  of  getting  a  livelihood  somehow !  There  is 
Martin,  for  another  instance,  with  his  brace  of  pictures  about 
Adam  and  Eve,  which  I  would  venture  to  place  in  the  theatrical- 
heroic  class.  One  looks  at  those  strange  pieces  and  wonders  how 
people  can  be  found  to  admire,  and  yet  they  do.  Grave  old  people, 
with  chains  and  seals,  look  dumbfoundered  into  those  vast  per- 
spectives, and  think  the  apex  of  the  sublime  is  reached  there.     In 


PICTURE    GOSSIP  451 

one  of  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  novels  there  is  a  passage  to  that  effect. 
I  forget  where,  but  there  is  a  new  edition  of  them  coming  out  in 
single  volumes,  and  I  am  positive  you  will  find  the  sentiment  some- 
where ;  they  come  up  to  his  conceptions  of  the  sublime,  they  answer 
to  his  ideas  of  beauty,  or  the  Beautiful  as  he  writes  it  with  a  large  B. 
He  is  himself  an  artist  and  a  man  of  genius.  What  right  have  we 
poor  devils  to  question  such  an  authority?  Do  you  recollect  how 
we  used  to  laugh  in  the  Capitol  at  the  Domenichino  Sibyl  which 
this  same  author  praises  so  enthusiastically  1  a  wooden,  pink-faced, 
goggle-eyed,  ogling  creature,  we  said  it  was,  with  no  more  beauty 
or  sentiment  than  a  wax  doll.  But  this  was  our  conceit,  dear 
Augusto.  On  subjects  of  art,  perhaps,  there  is  no  reasoning  after 
all :  or  who  can  tell  why  children  have  a  passion  for  lollipops,  and 
this  man  worships  beef  while  t'other  adores  mutton  t  To  the  child 
lollipops  may  be  the  truthful  and  beautiful,  and  why  should  not 
some  men  find  Martin's  pictures  as  much  to  their  taste  as  Milton  ? 

Another  instance  of  the  blessed  variety  of  tastes  may  be  men- 
tioned here  advantageously;  while,  as  you  have  seen,  the  Times 
awards  the  palm  to  Haydon,  and  Sir  Lytton  exalts  Martin  as  the 
greatest  painter  of  the  English  school,  the  Chronicle,  quite  as  well 
informed,  no  doubt,  says  that  Mr.  Eddis  is  the  great  genius  of  the 
present  season,  and  that  his  picture  of  Moses's  mother  parting 
with  him  before  leaving  him  in  the  bulrushes  is  a  great  and  noble 
composition. 

This  critic  must  have  a  taste  for  the  neat  and  agreeable,  that  is 
clear.  Mr.  Eddis's  picture  is  nicely  coloured  ;  the  figures  in  fine 
clean  draperies,  the  sky  a  bright  clean  colour ;  Moses's  mother  is  a 
handsome  woman  :  and  as  she  holds  her  child  to  her  breast  for  the 
last  time,  and  lifts  up  her  fine  eyes  to  heaven,  the  beholder  may  be 
reasonably  moved  by  a  decent  bourgeois  compassion ;  a  handsome 
woman  parting  from  her  child  is  always  an  object  of  proper  sym- 
pathy ;  but  as  for  the  greatness  of  the  picture  as  a  work  of  art, 
that  is  another  question  of  tastes  again.  This  picture  seemed  to 
me  to  be  essentially  a  prose  composition,  not  a  poetical  one.  It  tells 
you  no  more  than  you  can  see.  It  has  no  more  wonder  or  poetry 
about  it  than  a  police-report  or  a  newspaper  paragraph,  and  should 
be  placed,  as  I  take  it,  in  the  historic-sentimental  school,  which  is 
pretty  much  followed  in  England — nay,  as  close  as  possible  to  the 
namby-pamby  quarter. 

Of  the  latter  sort  there  are  some  illustrious  examples ;  and  as 
it  is  the  fashion  for  critics  to  award  prizes,  I  would  for  my  part 
cheerfully  award  the  prize  of  a  new  silver  teaspoon  to  Mr.  Redgrave, 
the  champion  of  suffering  female  innocence,  for  his  "  Governess." 
That  picture  is  more  decidedly  spoony  than,  perhaps,  any  other  of 


452  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

this  present  season :  and  the  subject  seems  to  be  a  favourite  with 
the  artist.  We  have  had  the  "Governess''  one  year  before,  or  a 
variation  of  her  under  the  name  of  the  "  Teacher,"  or  vice  versd. 
The  Teacher's  young  pupils  are  at  play  in  the  garden,  she  sits  sadly 
in  the  schoolroom ;  there  she  sits,  poor  dear ! — the  piano  is  open 
beside  her,  and  (oh,  harrowing  thought !  "  Home,  sweet  home  !  "  is 
open  in  the  music-book.  She  sits  and  thinks  of  that  dear  place, 
with  a  sheet  of  black-edged  note-paper  in  her  hand.  They  have 
brought  her  her  tea  and  bread  and  butter  on  a  tray.  She  has 
drunk  the  tea,  she  has  not  tasted  the  bread  and  butter.  There  is 
pathos  for  you !  there  is  art !  This  is,  indeed,  a  love  fpr  lollipops 
with  a  vengeance,  a  regular  babyhood  of  taste,  about  which  a  man 
with  a  manly  stomach  may  be  allowed  to  protest  a  little  peevishly, 
and  implore  the  public  to  give  up  such  puling  food. 

There  is  a  gentleman  in  the  Octagon  Room  who,  to  be  sure, 
runs  Mr.  Redgrave  rather  hard,  and  should  have  a  silver  papspoon 
at  any  rate,  if  the  teaspoon  is  irrevocably  awarded  to  his  rival. 
The  Octagon  Room  prize  is  a  picture  called  the  "  Arrival  of  the 
Overland  Mail."  A  lady  is  in  her  bedchamber,  a  portrait  of  her 
husband.  Major  Jones  (cherished  lord  of  that  bridal  apartment, 
with  its  drab-curtained  bed),  hangs  on  the  wainscot  in  the  distance, 
and  you  see  his  red  coat  and  mustachios  gleaming  there  between 
the  wardrobe  and  the  washhand-stand.  But  where  is  his  lady^ 
She  is  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  her  face  has  sunk  into  the 
feather-bed ;  her  hands  are  clasped  agonisingly  together ;  a  most 
tremendous  black-edged  letter  has  just  arrived  by  the  overland 
mail.  It  is  all  up  with  Jones.  Well,  let  us  hope  she  will  marry 
again,  and  get  over  her  grief  for  poor  J. 

Is  not  there  something  na/ive  and  simple  in  this  downright 
way  of  exciting  compassion  ?  I  saw  people  looking  at  this  pair  of 
pictures  evidently  with  yearning  hearts.  The  great  geniuses  who 
invented  them  have  not,  you  see,  toiled  in  vain.  They  can  com- 
mand the  sympathies  of  the  public,  they  have  gained  Art-Union 
prizes  let  us  hope,  as  well  as  those  humble  imaginary  ones  which  I 
have  just  awarded,  and  yet  my  heart  is  not  naturally  hard,  though 
it  refuses  to  be  moved  by  such  means  as  are  here  employed. 

If  the  simple  statement  of  a  death  is  to  harrow  up  the  feelings, 
or  to  claim  the  tributary  tear,  mon  Dieu  !  a  man  ought  to  howl 
every  morning  over  the  newspaper  obituary.  If  we  are  to  cry  for 
every  governess  who  leaves  home,  what  a  fund  of  pathos  the  Times 
advertisements  would  afford  daily;  we  might  weep  down  whole 
columns  of  close  type.  I  have  said  before  I  am  growing  more 
inclined  to  the  pathetic  daily,  but  let  us  in  the  name  of  goodness 
make  a  stand  somewhere,  or  the  namby-pamby  of  the  world  will 


PIOTUEE    GOSSIP  453 

become  unendurable;  and  we  shall  melt  away  in  a  deluge  of 
blubber.  This  drivelling  hysterical  sentimentality,  it  is  surely 
the  critic's  duty  to  grin  down,  to  shake  any  man  roughly  by  the 
shoulder  who  seems  dangerously  aflfected  by  it,  and,  not  sparing  his 
feelings  in  the  least,  tell  him  he  is  a  fool  for  his  pains,  to  hare  no 
more  respect  for  those  who  invent  it,  but  expose  their  error  with  all 
the  dowurightness  that  is  necessary. 

By  far  the  prettiest  of  the  maudlin  pictures  is  Mr.  Stone's 
"Premier  Pas."  It  is  that  old,  pretty,  rococo,  fantastic  Jenny  and 
Jessamy  couple,  whose  loves  the  painter  has  been  chronicling  any 
time  these  five  years,  and  whom  he  has  spied  out  at  various  wells, 
porches,  &c.  The  lad  is  making  love  with  all  his  might,  and  the 
maiden  is  in  a  pretty  confusion — her  heart  flutters,  and  she  only 
seems  to  spin.  She  drinks  in  the  warm  words  of  the  young  fellow 
with  a  pleasant  conviction  of  the  invincibility  of  her  charms.  He 
appeals  nervously,  and  tugs  at  a  pink  which  is  growing  up  the 
porch-side.  It  is  that  pink,  somehow,  which  has  saved  the  picture 
from  being  decidedly  namby-pamby.  There  is  something  new, 
fresh,  and  delicate  about  the  little  incident  of  the  flower.  It 
redeems  Jenny,  and  renders  that  young  prig  Jessamy  bearable. 
The  picture  is  very  nicely  painted,  according  to  the  careful  artist's 
wont.  The  neck  and  hands  of  the  girl  are  especially  pretty.  The 
lad's  face  is  effeminate  and  imbecile,  but  his  velveteen  breeches  are 
painted  with  great  vigour  and  strength. 

This  artist's  picture  of  the  "Queen  and  Ophelia"  is  in  a  much 
higher  walk  of  art.  There  may  be  doubts  about  Ophelia.  She  is 
too  pretty  to  my  taste.  Her  dress  (especially  the  black  bands 
round  her  arms)  too  elaborately  conspicuous  and  coquettish.  The 
Queen  is  a  noble  dramatic  head  and  attitude.  Ophelia  seems  to  be 
looking  at  us,  the  audience,  and  in  a  pretty  attitude  expressly  to 
captivate  us.  The  Queen  is  only  thinking  about  the  crazed  girl, 
and  Hamlet,  and  her  own  gloomy  affairs,  and  has  quite  forgotten 
her  own  noble  beauty  and  superb  presence.  The  colour  of  the 
picture  struck  me  as  quite  new,  sedate,  but  bright  and  very  agree- 
able; the  chequered  light  and  shadow  is  made  cleverly  to  aid  in 
forming  the  composition  ;  it  is  very  picturesque  and  good.  It  is  by 
far  the  best  of  Mr.  Stone's  works,  and  in  the  best  line.  Good  bye, 
Jenny  and  Jessamy ;  we  hope  never  to  see  you  again — no  more 
rococo  rustics,  no  more  namby-pamby :  the  man  who  can  paint 
the  Queen  of  "  Hamlet "  must  forsake  henceforth  such  fiddle-faddle 
company. 

By  the  way,  has  any  Shakspearian  commentator  ever  remarked 
how  fond  the  Queen  really  was  of  her  •second  husband,  the  excellent 
Claudius  ?     How  courteous  and  kind  the  latter  was  always  towards 


454.  CEITICAL    EEVIEWS 

her  ?  So  excellent  a  family-man  ought  to  be  pardoned  a  few  errors 
iu  consideration  of  his  admirable  behaviour  to  his  wife.  He  did 
go  a  little  far,  certainly,  but  then  it  was  to  possess  a  jewel  of  a 
woman. 

More  picture.s  indicating  a  fine  appreciation  of  the  tragic  senti- 
ment are  to  be  found  in  the  exhibition.  Among  them  may  be 
mentioned  specially  Mr.  Johnson's  picture  of  "Lord  Russell  taking 
the  Communion  in  Prison  before  Execution.''  The  story  is  finely 
told  here,  the  group  large  and  noble.  The  figure  of  the  kneeling 
wife,  who  looks  at  her  husband  meekly  engaged  in  the  last  sacred 
office,  is  very  good  indeed ;  and  the  little  episode  of  the  gaoler,  who 
looks  out  into  the  yard  indifferent,  seems  to  me  to  give  evidence 
of  a  true  dramatic  genius.  In  "  Hamlet,"  how  those  indifferent 
remarks  of  Guildenstern  and  Rosencrantz,  at  the  end,  bring  out  the 
main  figures  and  deepen  the  surrounding  gloom  of  the  tragedy  ! 

In  Mr.  Frith's  admirable  picture  of  the  "Good  Pastor,"  from 
Goldsmith,  there  is  some  sentiment  of  a  very  quiet,  refined,  Sir- 
Eoger-de-Coverley-like  sort — not  too  much  of  it — it  is  indicated 
rather  than  expressed.  "  Sentiment,  sir,"  Walker  of  the  "  Original " 
used  to  say — "sentiment,  sir,  is  like  garlic  in  made  dishes:  it 
should  be  felt  everywhere  and  seen  nowhere." 

Now,  I  won't  say  that  Mr.  Frith's  sentiment  is  like  garlic, 
or  provoke  any  other  savoury  comparison  regarding  it ;  but  say, 
in  a  word,  this  is  one  of  the  pictures  I  would  like  to  have  sent 
abroad  to  be  exhibited  at  a  European  congress  of  painters,  to  show 
what  an  Englisii  artist  can  do.  The  young  painter  seems  to  me 
to  have  had  a  thorough  comprehension  of  his  subject  and  his  own 
abilities.  And  what  a  rare  quality  is  this,  to  know  what  you  can 
do !  An  ass  will  go  and  take  the  grand  historic  walk,  while,  with 
lowly  wisdom,  Mr.  Frith  prefers  the  lowly  path  where  there  are 
plenty  of  flowers  growing,  and  children  pratthng  along  the  walks. 
This  is  the  sort  of  picture  that  is  good  to  paint  nowadays — kindly, 
beautiful,  inspiring  delicate  sympathies,  and  awakening  tender  good- 
humour.  It  is  a  comfort  to  have  such  a  companion  as  that  in  a 
study  to  look  up  at  when  your  eyes  are  tired  with  work,  and  to 
refresh  you  with  its  gentle  quiet  good-fellowship.  I  can  see  it 
now,  as  I  shut  my  own  eyes,  displayed  faithfully  on  the  camera 
obscura  of  the  brain — the  dear  old  parson  with  his  congregation 
of  old  and  young  clustered  round  him;  the  little  ones  plucking 
him  by  the  gown,  with  wondering  eyes,  half-roguery,  half-terror; 
the  smoke  is  curling  up  from  the  cottage  cliimneys  in  a  peaceful 
Sabbath-sort  of  way ;  the  three  village  quidnuncs  are  chattering 
together  at  the  churchyard  stile;  there's  a  poor  girl  seated  there 
on  a  stone,  who  has  been  crossed  in  love  evidently,  and  looks 


PICTUEE    GOSSIP  455 

anxiously  to  the  pafson  for  a  little  doubtful  consolation.  That's 
the  real  sort  of  sentiment — there's  no  need  of  a  great,  clumsy, 
black- edged  letter  to  placard  her  misery,  as  it  were,  after  Mr. 
Kedgrave's  fashion;  the  sentiment  is  only  the  more  sincere  for 
being  unobtrusive,  and  the  spectator  gives  his  compassion  the  more 
readily  because  the  unfortunate  object  makes  no  coarse  demands 
upon  his  pity. 

The  painting  of  this  picture  is  exceedingly  clever  and  dexterous. 
One  or  two  of  the  foremost  figures  are  painted  with  the  breadth 
and  .pearly  delicacy  of  Greuze.  The  three  village  politicians,  in 
the  background,  might  have  been  touched  by  Teniers,  so  neat, 
brisk,  and  sharp  is  the  execution  of  the  artist's  facile  brush. 

Mr.  Frost  (a  new  name,  I  think,  in  the  catalogue)  has  given 
us  a  picture  of  "  Sabrina,"  which  is  so  pretty  that  I  heartily  hope 
it  has  not  been  purchased  for  the  collection  from  "  Comus,"  which 
adorns  the  Buckingham  Palace  summer-house.  It  is  worthy  of  a 
better  place  and  price  than  our  Royal  patrons  appear  to  be  disposed 
to  give  for  the  works  of  English  artists.  What  victims  have  those 
poor  fellows  been  of  this  awful  patronage.  Great  has  been  the 
commotion  in  the  pictorial  world,  dear  Augusto,  regarding  the  fate 
of  those  frescoes  which  Royalty  was  pleased  to  order,  which  it  con- 
descended to  purchase  at  a  price  that  no  poor  amateur  would  have 
the  face  to  offer.  Think  of  the  greatest  patronage  in  the  world 
giving  forty  pounds  for  pictures  worth  four  hundred — condescending 
to  buy  works  from  humble  men  who  could  not  refuse,  and  paying 
for  them  below  their  value  !  Think  of  august  powers  and  princi- 
palities ordering  the  works  of  such  a  great  man  as  Etty  to  be  hacked 
out  of  the  palace  wall — that  was  a  slap  in  the  face  to  every  artist 
in  England ;  and  I  can  agree  with  the  conclusion  come  to  by  an 
indignant  poet  of  PmmcA's  band,  who  says,  for  his  part — 

"  I  will  not  toil  for  Queen  and  crown, 
If  princely  patrons  spurn  me  down  ; 
I  will  not  ask  for  Koyal  job — 
Let  my  Maecenas  be  A  SNOB  !  " 

This  is,  however,  a  delicate,  an  awful  subject,  over  which  loyal 
subjects  like  you  and  I  had  best  mourn  in  silence ;  but  the  fate  of 
Etty's  noble  picture  of  last  year  made  me  tremble  lest  Frost  should 
be  similarly  nipped :  and  I  hope  more  genuine  patronage  for  this 
promising  young  painter.  His  picture  is  like  a  mixture  of  very 
good  Hilton  and  Howard  raised  to  a  state  of  genius.  There  is 
sameness  in  the  heads,  but  great  grace  and  beauty — a  fine  sweeping 
movement  in  the  composition  of  the  beautiful  fairy  figures,  undu- 
lating gracefully  through  the  stream,  while  the  lilies  lie  gracefully 


456         .  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

overhead.  There  is  another  submarine  picture  of  "  Nymphs  cajoling 
Young  Hylas,"  which  contains  a  great  deal  of  very  clever  imitations 
of  Boucher. 

That  youthful  Goodall,  whose  early  attempts  promised  so  much, 
is  not  quite  realising  those  promises  I  think,  and  is  cajoled,  like 
Hylus  before  mentioned,  by  dangerous  beauty.  His  "  Connemara 
Girls  going  to  Market"  are  a  vast  deal  too  clean  and  pretty  for 
such  females.  They  laugh  and  simper  in  much  too  genteel  a  manner ; 
they  are  washing  such  pretty  white  feet  as  I  don't  think  are  common 
about  Leenane  or  Ballynahinch,  and  would  be  better  at  ease  in 
white  satin  slippers  than  trudging  up  Croaghpatrick.  There  is  a 
luxury  of  geographical  knowledge  for  you !  I  have  not  done  with 
it  yet.  Stop  till  we  come  to  Roberts's  "  View  of  Jerusalem,''  and 
Muller's  pictures  of  "  Rhodes,"  and  "  Xanthus,"  and  "  Telmessus." 
This  artist's  sketches  are  excellent ;  like  nature,  and  like  Decamps, 
that  best  of  painters  of  Oriental  life  and  colours.  In  the  pictures 
the  artist  forgets  the  brilliancy  of  colour  which  is  so  conspicuous  in 
his  sketches,  and  "  Telmessus  "  looks  as  grey  and  heavy  as  Dover 
in  March. 

Mr.  Pickersgill  (not  the  Academician,  by  any  means)  deserves 
great  praise  for  two  very  poetical  pieces  ;  one  from  Spenser,  I  think 
(Sir  Botibol  let  us  say,  as  before,  with  somebody  in  some  hag's 
cave) ;  another  called  the  "  Four  Ages,"  which  has  still  better  grace 
and  sentiment.  This  artist,  too,  is  evidently  one  of  the  disciples  of 
Hilton ;  and  another,  who  has  also,  as  it  seems  to  me,  studied  with 
advantage  that  graceful  and  agreeable  English  painter,  Mr.  Hook, 
whose  "  Song  of  the  Olden  Time  "  is  hung  up  in  the  Octagon  Closet, 
and  makes  a  sunshine  in  that  exceedingly  shady  place.  The  female 
figure  is  faulty,  but  charming  (many  charmers  have  their  little 
faults,  it  is  said) ;  the  old  bard  who  is  singing  the  song  of  the  olden 
time  a  most  venerable,  agreeable,  and  handsome  old  minstrel.  In 
Alnaschar-like  moods  a  man  fancies  himself  a  noble  patron,  and 
munificent  reward er  of  artists ;  in  which  case  I  should  like  to 
possess  myself  of  the  works  of  these  two  young  men,  and  give  them 

four  times  as  large  a  price  as  the  gave  for  pictures  five  times 

as  good  as  theirs. 

I  suppose  Mr.  Eastlake's  composition  from  "  Comus "  is  the 
contribution  in  which  he  has  been  mulcted,  in  company  with  his 
celebrated  brother  artists,  for  the  famous  Buckingham  Palace 
pavilion.  Working  for  nothing  is  very  well :  but  to  work  for  a 
good,  honest,  remunerating  price  is,  perhaps,  the  best  way,  after  all. 
I  can't  help  thinking  that  the  artist's  courage  has  failed  him  over 
his  "  Comus  "  picture.  Time  and  pains  he  has  given,  that  is  quite 
evident.     The  picture  is  prodigiously  laboured,  and  hatched,  and 


PICTURE   GOSSIP  457 

tickled  up  with  a  Chinese  minuteness;  but  there  is  a  woeful  lack 
of  vis  in  the  work.  That  poor  labourer  has  kept  his  promise,  has 
worked  the  given  number  of  hours ;  but  he  has  had  no  food  all  the 
while,  and  has  executed  his  job  in  a  somewhat  faint  manner.  This 
face  of  the  lady  is  pure  and  beautiful ;  but  we  have  seen  it  at  any- 
time these  ten  years,  with  its  red  transparent  shadows,  its  mouth 
in  which  butter  wouldn't  melt,  and  its  beautiful  brown-madder  hair. 
She  is  getting  rather  tedious,  that  sweet  irreproachable  creature, 
that  is  the  fact.  She  may  be  an  angel ;  but  sky-blue,  my  wicked 
senses  tell  me,  is  a  feeble  sort  of  drink,  and  men  require  stronger 
nourishment. 

Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  is  a  prim,  mystic,  cruciform  composition. 
_  The  lady  languishes  in  the  middle ;  an  angel  is  consoling  her,  and 
'  embracing  her  with  an  arm  out  of  joint ;  little  rows  of  cherubs 
stand  on  each  side  the  angels  and  the  lady, — wonderful  little 
children,  with  blue  or  brown  beady  eyes,  and  sweet  little  flossy 
curly  hair,  and  uo  muscles  or  bones,  as  becomes  such  supernatural 
beings,  no  doubt.  I  have  seen  similar  little  darlings  in  the  toy-shops 
in  the  Lowther  Arcade  for  a  shilling,  with  just  such  pink  cheeks 
and  round  eyes,  their  bodies  formed  out  of  cotton-wool,  and  their 
extremities  veiled  in  silver  paper.  Well ;  it  is  as  well,  perhaps, 
that  Etty's  jovial  nymphs  should  not  come  into  such  a  company. 
Good  Lord !  how  they  would  astonish  the  weak  nerves  of  Mr. 
Eastlake's  pre'eieuse  young  lady  ! 

Quite  unabashed  by  the  squeamishness  exhibited  in  the  highest 
quarter  (as  the  newspapers  call  it),  Mr.  Etty  goes  on  rejoicing  in 
his  old  fashion.  Perhaps  he  is  worse  than  ever  this  year,  and 
despises  nee  dulces  amores  nee  ehoreas,  because  certain  great 
personages  are  offended.  Perhaps,  this  year,  his  ladies  and  Cupids 
are  a  little  hasardes ;  his  Venuses  expand  more  than  ever  in  the 
line  of  Hottentot  beauty ;  his  drawing  and  colouring  are  still  more 
audacious  than  they  were ;  patches  of  red  shine  on  the  cheeks  of  his 
blowsy  nymphs  ;  his  idea  of  form  goes  to  the  verge  of  monstrosity. 
If  you  look  at  the  pictures  closely  (and,  considering  all  things,  it 
requires  some  courage  to  do  so),  the  forms  disappear  :  feet  and 
hands  are  scumbled  away,  and  distances  appear  to  be  dabs  and 
blotches  of  lakes,  and  brown  and  ultramarine.  It  must  be  con 
fessed  that  some  of  these  pictures  would  not  be  suitable  to  hang  up 
everywhere — in  a  young  ladies'  school,  for  instance.  But,  how  rich 
and  superb  is  the  colour !  Did  Titian  paint  better,  or  Kubens  as 
well  1  There  is  a  nymph  and  child  in  the  left  comer  of  the  Great 
Room,  sitting,  without  the  slightest  fear  of  catching  cold,  in  a  sort 
of  moonlight,  of  which  the  colour  appears  to  me  to  be  as  rich  and 
wonderful  as  Titian's  best — "  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  for  instance — 


458  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

and  better  than  Rubens's.  There  is  a  little  head  of  a  boy  in  a  blue 
dress  (for  once  in  a  way)  which  kills  every  picture  in  the  room,  out- 
stares  all  the  red-coated  generals,  out-blazes  Mrs.  Thwaites  and  her 
diamonds  (who  has  the  place  of  honour)  ;  and  has  that  unmistak- 
able, inestimable,  indescribable  mark  of  the  Great  painter  about  it, 
which  makes  the  soul  of  a  man  kindle  up  as  he  sees  it  and  owns 
that  there  is  Genius.  How  delightful  it  is  to  feel  that  shock,  and 
how  few  are  the  works  of  art  that  can  give  it  ! 

The  author  of  that  sibylline  book  of  mystic  rhymes,  the  un 
revealed  bard  of  the  "Fallacies  of  Hope,"  is  as  great  as  usual, 
vibrating  between  the  absurd  and  the  sublime,  until  the  eye  grows 
dazzled  in  watching  him,  and  can't  really  tell  in  what  region  he  is. 
If  Etty's  colour  is  wild  and  mysterious,  looking  here  as  if  smeared 
with  the  linger,  and  there  with  the  palette  knife,  what  can  be  said 
about  Turner'?  Go  up  and  look  at  one  of  his  pictures,  and  you 
laugh  at  yourself  and  at  him,  and  at  the  picture,  and  that  wonder- 
ful amateur  who  is  invariably  found  to  give  a  thousand  pounds  for 
it,  or  more — some  sum  wild,  prodigious,  unheard-of,  monstrous,  like 
the  picture  itself.  All  about  the  author  of  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope  " 
is  a  mysterious  extravaganza ;  price,  poem,  purchaser,  picture. 
Look  at  the  latter  for  a  little  time,  and  it  begins  to  affect  you  too, 
— to  mesmerise  you.  It  is  revealed  to  you ;  and,  as  it  is  said  in 
the  East,  the  magicians  make  children  see  the  sultauns,  carpet- 
bearers,  tents,  &c.,  in  a  spot  of  ink  in  their  hands  ;  so  the  magician, 
Joseph  Mallord,  makes  you  see  what  he  likes  on  a  board,  that  to 
the  first  view  is  merely  dabbed  over  with  occasional  streaks  of 
yellow,  and  flicked  here  and  there  with  vermilion.  The  vermilion 
blotches  become  little  boats  full  of  harpooners  and  gondolas  with  a 
deal  of  music  going  on  on  board.  That  is  not  a  smear  of  purple 
you  see  yonder,  but  a  beautiful  whale,  whose  tail  has  just  slapped  a 
half-dozen  whale-boats  into  perdition  ;  and  as  for  what  you  fancied 
to  be  a  few  zig-zag  lines  spattered  on  the  canvas  at  haphazard,  look  ! 
they  turn  out  to  be  a  ship  with  all  her  sails  ;  the  captain  and  his 
crew  are  clearly  visible  in  the  ship's  bows  :  and  you  may  disthictly 
see  the  oil-casks  getting  ready  under  the  superintendence  of  that 
man  with  the  red  whiskers  and  the  cast  in  his  eye ;  who  is,  of 
course,  the  chief  mate.  In  a  word,  I  say  that  Turner  is  a  great  and 
awful  mystery  to  me.  I  don't  like  to  contemplate  him  too  much, 
lest  I  should  actually  begin  to  believe  in  his  poetry  as  well  as  his 
paintings,  and  fancy  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope  "  to  be  one  of  the  finest 
poems  in  the  world. 

Now  Stanfield  has  no  mysticism  or  oracularity  about  him. 
You  can  see  what  he  means  at  once.  His  style  is  as  simple  and 
manly  as  a  seaman's  song.     One  of  the  most  dexterous,  he  is  also 


PICTURE    GOSSIP  459 

one  of  the  most  careful  of  painters.  Every  year  his  works  are  more 
elaborated,  and  you  are  surprised  to  find  a  progress  in  an  artist 
who  had  seemed  to  reach  his  acme  before.  His  battle  of  frigates 
this  year  is  a  brilliant  sparkling  pageant  of  naval  war ;  his  great 
picture  of  the  "Mole  of  Ancona,"  fresh,  healthy,  and  bright  as 
breeze  and  sea  can  make  it.  There  are  better  pieces  still  by  this 
painter,  to  my  mind;  one  in  the  first  room,  especially, — a  Dutch 
landscape,  with  a  warm  sunny  tone  upon  it,  worthy  of  Cuyp  and 
Callcott.  Who  is  G.  Stanfield,  an  exhibitor  and  evidently  a  pupil 
of,  the  Koyal  Academician  ?  Can  it  be  a  son  of  that  gent  ?  If  so, 
the  father  has  a  worthy  heir  to  his  name  and  honours.  G.  Stanfield's 
Dutch  picture  may  be  looked  at  by  the  side  of  his  father's. 

Roberts  has  also  distinguished  himself  and  advanced  in  skill, 
great  as  his  care  had  been  and  powerful  his  effects  before.  "  The 
Ruins  of  Karnac "  is  the  most  poetical  of  this  painter's  works,  I 
think.  A  vast  and  awful  scene  of  gloomy  Egyptian  ruin  !  the  sun 
lights  up  tremendous  lines  of  edifices,  which  were  only  parts  formerly 
of  the  enormous  city  of  the  hundred  gates ;  long  lines  of  camels 
come  over  the  reddening  desert,  and  camps  are  set  by  the  side  of 
the  glowing  pools.  This  is  a  good  picture  to  gaze  at,  and  to  fill 
your  eyes  and  thoughts  with  grandiose  ideas  of  Eastern  life. 

This  gentleman's  large  picture  of  "  Jerusalem  "  did  not  satisfy 
me  so  much.  It  is  yet  very  faithful ;  anybody  who  has  visited  this 
place  must  see  the  careful  fidelity  with  which  the  artist  has  mapped 
the  rocks  and  valleys,  and  laid  down  the  lines  of  the  buildings ;  but 
the  picture  has,  to  my  eyes,  too  green  and  trim  a  look ;  the  mosques 
and  houses  look  fresh  and  new,  instead  of  being  mouldering,  old, 
sun-baked  edifices  of  glaring  stone  rising  amidst  wretchedness  and 
ruin.  There  is  not,  to  my  mind,  that  sad  fatal  aspect,  which  the 
city  presents  from  whatever  quarter  you  view  it,  and  which  haunts 
a  man  who  has  seen  it  ever  after  with  an  impression  of  terror. 
Perhaps  in  the  spring  for  a  little  while,  at  which  season  the  sketch 
for  this  picture  was  painted,  the  country  round  about  may  look 
very  cheerful.  "When  we  saw  it  in  autumn,  the  mountains  that 
stand  round  about  Jerusalem  were  not  green,  but  ghastly  piles  of 
hot  rock,  patched  here  and  there  with  yellow  weedy  herbage.  A 
cactus  or  a  few  bleak  olive-trees  made  up  the  vegetation  of  the 
wretched  gloomy  landscape ;  whereas  in  Mr.  Roberts's  picture  the 
valley  of  Jehoshaphat  looks  like  a  glade  in  a  park,  and  the  hills,  up 
to  the  gates,  are  carpeted  with  verdure. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  Jerusalem,  here  may  be  mentioned  with 
praise  Mr.  Hart's  picture  of  a  Jewish  ceremony,  with  a  Hebrew 
name  I  have  forgotten.  This  piece  is  exceedingly  bright  and  pleas- 
ing in  colour,  odd  and  novel  as  a  representation  of  manners  and 


460  CRITICAL   EEVIEWS 

costume,  a  striking  and  agreeable  picture.  I  don't  think  as  much 
can  be  said  for  the  same  artist's  "  Sir  Thomas  More  going  to 
Execution."  Miss  More  is  crying  on  papa's  neck,  pa  looks  up  to 
heaven,  halberdiers  look  fierce,  &c.  :  all  the  regular  adjuncts  and 
property  of  pictorial  tragedy  are  here  brought  into  play.  But 
nobody  cares,  that  is  the  fact ;  and  one  fancies  the  designer  himself 
cannot  have  cared  much  for  the  orthodox  historical  group  whose 
misfortunes  he  was  depicting. 

These  pictures  are  like  boys'  hexameters  at  school.  Every  lad 
of  decent  parts  in  the  sixth  form  has  a  knack  of  turning  out  great 
quantities  of  respectable  verse,  without  blunders,  and  with  scarce 
any  mental  labour ;  but  these  verses  are  not  the  least  like  poetry, 
any  more  tlian  the  great  Academical  paintings  of  the  artists  are 
like  great  painting.  You  want  something  more  than  a  composition, 
and  a  set  of  costumes  and  figures  decently  posed  and  studied.  If 
these  were  all,  for  instance,  Mr.  Charles  Landseer's  picture  of 
"  Charles  I.  before  the  Battle  of  Edge  Hill "  would  be  a  good  work 
of  art.  Charles  stands  at  a  tree  before  the  inn-door,  officers  are 
round  about,  the  little  princes  are  playing  with  a  little  dog,  as 
becomes  their  youth  and  innocence,  rows  of  soldiers  appear  in  red 
coats,  nobody  seems  to  have  anything  particular  to  do,  except  the 
Royal  martyr,  who  is  looking  at  a  bone  of  ham  that  a  girl  out  of 
the  inn  has  hold  of 

Now  this  is  all  very  well,  but  you  want  something  more  than 
this  in  an  historic  picture,  which  should  have  its  parts,  characters, 
varieties,  and  climax  like  a  drama.  You  don't  want  the  Deus 
interdt  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  look  at  a  knuckle  of  ham ; 
and  here  is  a  j)iece  well  composed  and  (bating  a  little  want  of  life 
in  the  figures)  well  drawn,  brightly  and  pleasantly  painted,  as  all 
this  artist's  works  are,  all  the  parts  and  accessories  studied  and 
executed  with  care  and  skill,  and  yet  meaning  nothing — the  part  of 
Hamlet  omitted.  The  King  in  this  attitude  (with  the  baton  in  his 
hand,  simpering  at  the  bacon  aforesaid)  has  no  more  of  the  heroic 
in  him  than  the  pork  he  contemplates,  and  he  deserves  to  lose  every 
battle  he  fights.  I  prefer  the  artist's  other  still-life  pictures  to  this. 
He  has  a  couple  more,  professedly  so  called,  very  cleverly  executed 
and  capital  cabinet  pieces. 

Strange  to  say,  I  have  not  one  picture  to  remark  upon  taken 
from  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield."  Mr.  Ward  has  a  very  good 
Hogarthian  work,  with  some  little  extravagance  and  caricature, 
representing  Johnson  waiting  in  Lord  Chesterfield's  ante-chamber, 
among  a  crowd  of  hangers-on  and  petitioners,  who  are  sulky,  or 
yawning,  or  neglected,  while  a  pretty  Italian  singer  comes  out, 
having  evidently  had  a  very  satisfactory  interview  with  his  Lord- 


PICTUEE    GOSSIP  461 

ship,  and  who  (to  lose  no  time)  is  arranging  another  rendezvous 
with  another  admirer.  This  story  is  very  well,  coarsely,  and 
humorously  told,  and  is  as  racy  as  a  chapter  out  of  Smollett. 
There  is  a  yawning  chaplain,  whose  head  is  full  of  humour ;  and 
a  pathetic  episode  of  a  widow  and  pretty  child,  in  which  the  artist 
has  not  succeeded  so  well. 

There  is  great  delicacy  and  beauty  in  Mr.  Herbert's  picture 
of  "  Pope  Gregory  teaching  Children  to  Sing."  His  Holiness  lies 
on  his  sofa  languidly  beating  time  over  his  book.  He  does  not 
look  strong  enough  to  use  the  scourge  in  his  hands,  and  with  which 
the  painter  says  he  used  to  correct  his  little  choristers.  Two 
ghostly  aides-de-camp  in  the  shape  of  worn,  handsome,  shaven 
ascetic  friars,  stand  behind  the  pontiff  demurely;  and  all  the 
choristers  are  in  full  song,  with  their  mouths  as  wide  open  as  a 
nest  of  young  birds  when  the  mother  comes.  The  painter  seems 
to  me  to  have  acquired  the  true  spirit  of  the  middle-age  devotion. 
All  his  works  have  unction ;  and  the  prim,  subdued,  ascetic  face, 
which  forms  the  charm  and  mystery  of  the  missal-Uluminations, 
and  which  has  operated  to  convert  some  imaginative  minds  from 
the  new  to  the  old  faith. 

And,  by  way  of  a  wonder,  behold  a  devotional  picture  from 
Mr.  Edwin  Landseer,  "  A  Shepherd  Praying  at  a  Cross  in  the 
Fields."  I  suppose  the  Sabbath  church-bells  are  ringing  from 
the  city  far  away  in  the  plain.  Do  you  remember  the  beautiful 
hnes  of  Uhland  1 — 

"  Es  ist  der  Tag  des  Herrii : 
leh  bin  allein  auf  weitern  Flur, 
Noch  eine  Morgenglocke  nur, 
Und  Stille  nah  und  fern. 

Anbetend  knie  icb  hier, 
0  siisses  Graun,  gehehnes  Wehn, 
Als  knieeten  Viele  ungesehn 
Und  beteten  mit  mir." 

Here  is  a  noble  and  touching  pictorial  illustration  of  them — of 
Sabbath  repose  and  recueillement — an  almost  endless  flock  of  sheep 
lies  around  the  pious  pastor :  the  sun  shines  peacefully  over  the 
vast  fertile  plain ;  blue  mountains  keep  watch  in  the  distance ;  and 
the  sky  above  is  serenely  clear.  I  think  this  is  the  highest  flight 
of  poetry  the  painter  has  dared  to  take  yet.  The  numbers  and 
variety  of  attitude  and  expression  in  that  flock  of  sheep  quite 
startle  the  spectator  as  he  examines  them.  The  picture  is  a 
wonder  of  skill. 

How  richly  the  good  pictures  cluster  at  this  end  of  the  room ! 


462  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

There  is  a  little  Mulready,  of  -which  the  colour  blazes  out  like 
sapphires  and  rubies  ;  a  pair  of  Leslies — one  called  the  "  Heiress  " 
— one  a  scene  from  Moliere — both  delightful : — these  are  flanked 
by  the  magnificent  nymphs  of  Etty,  before  mentioned.  What 
school  of  art  in  Europe,  or  what  age,  can  show  better  painters 
than  these  in  their  various  lines'?  The  young  men  do  well,  but 
the  eldest  do  best  still.  No  wonder  the  English  pictures  are 
fetching  their  thousands  of  guineas  at  the  sales.  They  deserve 
these  great  prices  as  well  as  the  best  works  of  the  Hollanders. 

I  am  sure  that  three  such  pictures  as  Mr.  Webster's  "  Dame's 
School"  ought  to  entitle  the  proprietor  to  pay  the  income-tax. 
There  is  a  little  caricature  in  some  of  the  children's  faces ;  but 
the  schoolmistress  is  a  perfect  figure,  most  admirably  natural, 
humorous,  and  sentimental.  The  picture  is  beautifully  painted, 
full  of  air,  of  delightful  harmony  and  tone. 

There  are  works  by  Creswick  that  can  hardly  be  praised  too 
much.  One  particularly,  called  "  A  Place  to  be  Remembered," 
which  no  lover  of  pictures  can  see  and  forget.  Danby's  great 
"  Evening  Scene  "  has  portions  which  are  not  surpassed  by  Cuyp  or 
Claude ;  and  a  noble  landscape  of  Lee's,  among  several  others — a 
height  with  some  trees  and  a  great  expanse  of  country  beneath. 

From  the  fine  pictures  you  come  to  the  class  which  are  very 
nearly  being  fine  pictures.  In  this  I  would  enumerate  a  landscape 
or  two  by  Collins ;  Mr.  Leigh's  "  Polyphemus,"  of  which  the 
landscape  part  is  very  good,  and  only  the  figure  questionable ; 
and  let  us  say  Mr.  Elmore's  "  Origin  of  the  Guelf  and  Ghibelline 
Factions,"  which  contains  excellent  passages,  and  admirable  draw- 
ing and  dexterity,  but  fails  to  strike  as  a  whole  somehow.  There 
is  not  sufficient  purpose  in  it,  or  the  story  is  not  enough  to  interest, 
or,  though  the  parts  are  excellent,  the  whole  is  somewhere  deficient. 

There  is  very  little  comedy  in  the  exhibition,  most  of  the 
young  artists  tending  to  the  sentimental  rather  than  the  ludicrous. 
Leslie's  scene  from  Moliere  is  the  best  comedy.  Collins's  "  Fetching 
the  Doctor"  is  also  delightful  fun.  The  greatest  farce,  however, 
is  Chalon's  picture  with  an  Italian  title,  "  B.  Virgine  col,"  &c. 
Impudence  never  went  beyond  this.  The  infant's  hair  has  been 
curled  into  ringlets,  the  mother  sits  on  her  chair  with  painted 
cheeks  and  a  Haymarket  leer.  The  picture  might  serve  for  the 
oratory  of  an  opera-girl. 

Among  the  portraits,  Knight's  and  Watson  Gordon's  are  the 
best.  A  "Mr.  Pigeon"  by  the  former  hangs  in  the  place  of 
honour  usually  devoted  to  our  gracious  Prince,  and  is  a  fine  rich 
state  picture.  Even  better  are  those  by  Mr.  Watson  Gordon :  one 
representing  a  gentleman  in  black  silk  stockings  whose  name  has 


PICTURE    GOSSIP  463 

escaped  the  memory  of  your  humble  servant;  another,  a  fine 
portrait  of  Mr.  De  Quincey,  the  opium-eater.  Mr.  Lawrence's 
heads,  solemn  and  solidly  painted,  look  out  at  you  from  their 
frames,  though  they  be  ever  so  high  placed,  and  push  out  of  sight 
the  works  of  more  flimsy  but  successful  practitioners.  A  portrait 
of  great  power  and  richness  of  colour  is  that  of  Mr.  Lopez  by 
Linnell.  Mr.  Grant  is  a  favourite;  but  a  very  unsound  painter 
to  my  mind,  painting  like  a  brilliant  and  graceful  amateur  rather 
than  a  serious  artist.  But  there  is  a  quiet  refinement  and  beauty 
about  his  female  heads,  which  no  other  painter  can  perhaps  give, 
and  charms  in  spite  of  many  errors.  Is  it  Count  d'Orsay,  or  is  it 
Mr.  Ainsworth,  that  the  former  has  painted?  Two  peas  are  not 
more  ahke  than  these  two  illustrious  characters. 

In  the  miniature-room,  Mr.  Richmond's  drawings  are  of  so 
grand  and  noble  a  character,  that  they  fill  the  eye  as  much  as  full- 
length  canvases.  Nothing  can  be  finer  than  Mrs.  Fry  and  the 
grey-haired  lady  in  black  velvet.  There  is  a  certain  severe,  re- 
spectable, Exeter-Hall  look  about  most  of  this  artist's  pictures, 
that  the  observer  may  compare  with  the  Catholic  physiognomies  of 
Mr.  Herbert :  see  his  picture  of  Mr.  Pugin,  for  instance  :  it  tells 
of  chants  and  cathedrals,  as  Mr.  Richmond's  work  somehow  does 
of  Clapham  Common  and  the  May  Meetings.  The  genius  of 
Mayfair  fires  the  bosom  of  Chalon,  the  tea-party,  the  quadrille, 
the  hairdresser,  the  tailor,  and  the  flunkey.  All  Ross's  miniatures 
sparkle  with  his  wonderful  and  minute  skill ;  Carrick's  are  excellent; 
Thorburn's  almost  take  the  rank  of  historical  pictures.  In  his 
picture  of  two  sisters,  one  has  almost  the  most  beautiful  head  in  the 
world ;  and  his  picture  of  Prince  Albert,  clothed  in  red  and  leaning 
on  a  turquoise  sabre,  has  ennobled  that  fine  head,  and  given  His 
Royal  Highness's  pale  features  an  air  of  sunburnt  and  warlike 
vigour.  Miss  Corbaux,  too,  has  painted  one  of  the  loveliest  heads 
ever  seen.  Perhaps  this  is  the  pleasantest  room  of  the  whole,  for 
you  are  sure  to  meet  your  friends  here ;  kind  faces  smile  at  you 
from  the  ivory ;  and  features  of  fair  creatures,  oh  !  how 

Here  the  eccentric  author  breaks  into  a  rhapsody  of  thirteen 
pages  regarding  No.  2576,  Mrs.  Major  Blogg,  who  was  formerly 
Miss  Poddy  of  Cheltenham,  whom  it  appears  that  Michael  Angelo 
knew  and  admired.  The  feelings  of  the  Poddy  family  might  be 
hurt,  and  the  jealousy  of  Major  Blogg  aroused,  were  we  to  print 
Titmarsh's  rapturous  description  of  that  lady ;  nor,  indeed,  can  we 
give  him  any  further  space,  seeing  that  this  is  nearly  the  last  page 
of  the  Magazine.*  He  concludes  by  a  withering  denunciation  of 
*  Fraser'a  Magaiine. 


464  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

most  of  the  statues  in  the  vault  ■where  they  are  buried  ;  praising, 
however,  the  children,  Paul  and  Virginia,  the  head  of  Bayly's 
nymph,  and  M'Dowall's  boy.  He  remarks  the  honest  character 
of  the  Enghsh  countenance  as  exhibited  in  the  busts,  and  contrasts 
it  with  Louis  Philippe's  head  by  Jones,  on  whom,  both  as  a  sculptor 
and  a  singer,  he  bestows  great  praise.  He  indignantly  remonstrates 
■with  the  committee  for  putting  by  far  the  finest  female  bust  in  the 
room.  No.  14.34,  by  Powers  of  Florence,  in  a  situation  ■where  it 
cannot  be  seen  ;  and,  quitting  the  gallery  finally,  says  he  must  go 
before  he  leaves  town  and  give  one  more  look  at  Hunt's  "  Boy  at 
Prayers,"  in  the  Water-Colour  Exhibition  ■which  he  pronounces  to 
be  the  finest  serious  ■work  of  the  year. 


A  BROTHER  OF  THE  PRESS  ON  THE  HISTORY 
OF  A  LITERARY  MAN,  LAM  AN  BLANCH ARD, 
AND  THE  CHANGES  OF  THE  LITERARY 
PROFESSION 

m  A   LETTER   TO    THE   REVEREND    FRANCIS     SYLVESTER    AT    ROME, 
FROM   MICHAEL   ANGELO    TITMARSH,    ESQUIRE 

London  :  Feb.  20,  1846. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, — Our  good  friend  and  patron,  the  publisher 
of  this  Magazine,*  has  brought  me  your  message  from  Rome, 
and  your  demand  to  hear  news  from  the  other  great  city  of 
the  world.  As  the  forty  columns  of  the  Times  cannot  satisfy  your 
reverence's  craving,  and  the  details  of  the  real  great  revolution  of 
England  which  is  .actually  going  on  do  not  suflBciently  interest  you, 
I  send  you  a  page  or  two  of  random  speculations  upon  matters  con- 
nected with  the  literary  profession  :  they  were  suggested  by  reading 
the  works  and  the  biography  of  a  literary  friend  of  ours,  lately 
deceased,  and  for  whom  every  person  who  knew  him  had  the 
warmest  and  sincerest  regard.  And  no  wonder.  It  was  impossible 
to  help  trusting  a  man  so  thoroughly  generous  and  honest,  and 
loving  one  who  was  so  perfectly  gay,  gentle,  and  amiable. 

A  man  can't  enjoy  everything  in  the  world ;  but  what  delightful 
gifts  and  qualities  are  these  to  have  !  Not  having  known  Blanchard 
as  intimately  as  some  others  did,  yet,  I  take  it,  he  had  in  his  life 
as  much  pleasure  as  falls  to  most  men ;  the  kindest  friends,  the 
most  affectionate  family,  a  heart  to  enjoy  both ;  and  a  career  not 
undistinguished,  which  I  hold  to  be  the  smallest  matter  of  all.  But 
we  have  a  cowardly  dislike,  or  compassion  for,  the  fact  of  a  man 
dying  poor.  Such  a  one  is  rich,  bilious,  and  a  curmudgeon,  without 
heart  or  stomach  to  enjoy  his  money,  and  we  set  him  down  as 
respectable :  another  is  morose  or  passionate,  his  whole  view  of  life 
seen  blood-shot  through  passion,  or  jaundiced  through  moroseness : 
or  he  is  a  fool  who  can't  see,  or  feel,  or  enjoy  anything  at  all,  with 
no  ear  for  music,  no  eye  for  beauty,  no  heart  for  loye,  with  nothing 

f  Fraser's  Mm/a^inf, 
13,  ...  _^^ 


466  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

except  money :  we  meet  such  people  every  clay,  and  respect  them 
somehow.  That  donkey  browses  over  five  thousand  acres ;  that 
madman's  bankers  come  bowing  him  out  to  his  carriage.  You  feel 
secretly  pleased  at  shooting  over  the  acres,  or  driving  in  the  carriage. 
At  any  rate,  nobody  thinks  of  compassionating  their  owners.  We 
are  a  race  of  flunkeys,  and  keep  our  pity  for  the  poor. 

The  kind  and  distinguished  gentleman  who  has  written 
Blanchard's  Memoir  has,  it  seems  to  me,  couched  it  in  much  too 
despondent  a  strain.  The  lot  of  the  hero  of  the  little  story  was 
by  no  means  deplorable ;  and  there  is  not  the  least  call  at  present 
to  be  holding  up  literary  men  as  martyrs.  Even  that  prevailing 
sentiment  which  regrets  that  means  should  not  be  provided  for 
giving  them  leisure,  for  enabling  them  to  perfect  great  works  in 
retirement,  that  they  should  waste  away  their  strength  with  fugitive 
literature,  &c.,  I  hold  to  be  often  uncalled  for  and  dangerous.  I 
believe,  if  most  men  of  letters  were  to  be  pensioned,  I  am  sorry  to 
say  I  beheve  they  wouLln't  work  at  all ;  and  of  others,  that  the 
labour  which  is  to  answer  the  calls  of  the  day  is  the  one  quite  best 
suited  to  their  genius.  Suppose  Sir  Robert  Peel  were  to  write  to 
you,  and  enclosing  a  cheque  for  £20,000,  instruct  you  to  pension 
any  fifty  deserving  authors,  so  that  they  might  have  leisure  to 
retire  and  write  "  great "  works,  on  whom  would  you  fix  1 

People  in  the  big-book  interest,  too,  cry  out  against  the  fashion 
of  fugitive  literature,  and  no  wonder.     For  instance — 

.  The  Times  gave  an  extract  the  other  day  from  a  work  by  one 
Doctor  Carus,  physician  to  the  King  of  Saxony,  who  attended  his 
Royal  master  on  his  recent  visit  to  England,  and  has  written  a 
book  concerning  the  journey.  Among  other  London  lions,  the 
illustrious  traveller  condescended  to  visit  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  remarkable,  certainly,  of  metropolitan  roarers — the  -  Tunes 
printing-office ;  of  which  the  Doctor,  in  his  capacity  of  a  man  of 
science,  gives  an  exceedingly  bad,  stupid,  and  blundering  account. 

Carus  was  struck  with  "disgust,"  he  says,  at  the  prodigious 
size  of  the  paper,  and  at  the  thought  which  suggested  itself  to  his 
mind  from  this  enormity.  There  was  as  much  printed  every  day 
as  would  fill  a  thick  volume.  It  required  ten  years  of  life  to  a 
philosopher  to  write  a  volume.  The  issuing  of  these  daily  tomes 
was  unfair  upon  philosophers,  who  were  put  out  of  the  market ; 
and  unfair  on  the  public,  who  were  made  to  receive  (and,  worse 
still,  to  get  a  relish  for)  crude  daily  speculations,  and  frivolous 
ephemeral  news,  when  they  ought  to  be  fed  and  educated  upon 
stronger  and  simpler  diet. 

We  have  heard  this  outcry  a  hundred  times  from  the  bigwig 
body.     The  world  gives  up  a  lamentable  portion  of  its  time  tc 


LAMAN    BLANCHAKD  467 

fleeting  literature ;  autliors  who  might  be  occupied  upon  great 
works  fritter  away  their  lives  in  producing  endless  hasty  sketches. 
Kind,  wise,  and  good  Doctor  Arnold  deplored  the  fatal  sympathy 
which  the  ''  Pickwick  Papers  "  had  created  among  the  boys  of  his 
school ;  and  it  is  a  fact  that  Punch  is  as  regularly  read  among  the 
boys  at  Eton  as  the  Latin  Grammar. 

Arguing  for  liberty  of  conscience  against  any  authority,  however 
great — against  Doctor  Arnold  himself,  who  seems  to  me  to  be  the 
greatest,  wisest,  and  best  of  men,  that  has  appeared  for  eighteen 
hundred  years ;  let  us  take  a  stand  at  once,  and  ask,  why  should 
not  the  day  have  its  literature?  Why  should  not  authors  make 
light  sketches?  Why  should  not  the  public  be  amused  daily  or 
frequently  by  kindly  fictions  %  It  is  well  and  just  for  Arnold  to 
object.  Light  stories  of  Jingle  and  Tupman,  and  Sam  Weller  quips 
and  cranks,  must  have  come  with  but  a  bad  grace  before  that  pure 
and  lofty  soul.  The  trivial  and  familiar  are  out  of  place  there ;  the 
harmless  joker  must  walk  away  abashed  from  such  a  presence,  as 
he  would  be  silent  and  hushed  in  a  cathedral.  But  all  the  world 
is  not  made  of  that  angelic  stuff.  From  his  very  height  and 
sublimity  of  virtue  he  could  but  look  down  and  deplore  the  ways 
of  small  men  beneath  him.  I  mean,  seriously,  that  I  think  the 
man  was  of  so  august  and  sublime  a  nature,  that  he  was  not  a  fair 
judge  of  us,  or  of  the  ways  of  the  generality  of  mankind.  One  has 
seen  a  delicate  person  sicken  and  faint  at  the  smell  of  a  flower ; 
it  does  not  follow  that  the  flower  was  not  sweet  and  wholesome  in 
consequence ;  and  I  hold  that  laughing  and  honest  story-books  are 
good,  against  all  the  doctors. 

Laughing  is  not  the  highest  occupation  of  a  man,  very  certainly  , 
or  the  poryer  of  creating  it  the  height  of  genius.  I  am  not  going 
to  argue  for  that.  No  more  is  the  blacking  of  boots  the  greatest 
occupation.  But  it  is  done,  and  well  and  honestly,  by  persons 
ordained  to  that  calling  in  life,  who  arrogate  to  themselves  (if  they 
are  straightforward  and  Worthy  shoeblacks)  no  especial  rank  or 
privilege  on  account  of  their  calling;  and  not  considering  boot- 
brushing  the  greatest  effort  of  earthly  genius,  nevertheless  select 
their  Day  and  Martin,  or  Warren,  to  the  best  of  their  judgment ; 
polish  their  upper-leathers  as  well  as  they  can;  satisfy  their 
patrons  ;  and  earn  their  fair  wage. 

I  have  chosen  the  unpolite  shoeblack  comparison,  not  out  of 
disrespect  to  the  trade  of  literature ;  but  it  is  as  good  a  craft  as 
any  other  to  select.  In  some  way  or  other,  for  daily  bread  and 
hu-e,  almost  all  men  are  labouring  daily.  Without  necessity  they 
would  not  work  at  all,  or  very  little,  probably.  In  some  instances 
you  reap  Reputation  along  with  Profit  from  your  labour,  but  Bread, 


468  CRITICAL    EEVIEWS 

in  the  main,  is  the  incentive.  Do  not  let  us  try  to  blink  this  fact, 
or  imagine  that  the  men  of  the  press  are  working  for  their  honour 
and  glory,  or  go  onward  impelled  by  an  irresistible  afflatus  of 
genius.  If  only  men  of  genius  were  to  write.  Lord  help  us  !  how 
many  books  would  there  be?  How  many  people  are  there  eren 
capable  of  appreciating  genius?  Is  Mr.  Wakley's  or  Mr.  Hume's 
opinion  about  poetry  worth  much  ?  As  much  as  that  of  millions 
of  people  in  this  honest  stupid  empire ;  and  they  have  a  right  to 
have  books  supplied  for  them  as  well  as  the  most  polished  and 
accomplished  critics  have.  The  literary  man  gets  his  bread  by 
providing  goods  suited  to  the  consumption  of  these.  This  man  of 
letters  contributes  a  police-report ;  that,  an  article  containing  some 
downright  information  ;  this  one,  as  an  editor,  abuses  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  or  lauds  Lord  John  Russell,  or  vice  versd  ;  writing  to  a  certain 
class  who  coincide  in  his  views,  or  are  interested  by  the  question 
which  he  moots.  Tlie  literary  character,  let  us  hope  or  admit, 
writes  quite  honestly ;  but  no  man  supposes  he  would  work  per- 
petually but  for  money.  And  as  for  immortality,  it  is  quite  beside 
the  bargain.  Is  it  reasonable  to  look  for  it,  or  to  pretend  that  you 
are  actuated  by  a  desire  to  attain  it  1  Of  all  the  quill-drivers,  how 
many  have  ever  drawn  that  prodigious  prize  1  Is  it  fair  even  to 
ask  that  many  should?  Out  of  a  regard  for  poor  dear  posterity 
and  men  of  letters  to  come,  let  us  be  glad  that  the  great  immortality 
number  comes  up  so  rarely.  Mankind  would  have  no  time  other- 
wise, and  would  be  so  gorged  with  old  masterpieces,  that  they  could 
not  occupy  themselves  with  new,  and  future  literary  men  would 
have  no  chance  of  a  livelihood. 

To  do  your  work  honestly,  to  amuse  and  instruct  your  reader 
of  to-day,  to  die  when  your  time  comes,  and  go  hence  with  as  clean 
a  breast  as  may  be ;  may  these  be  all  yours  and  ours,  by  God's 
will.  Let  us  be  content  with  our  status  as  literary  craftsmen, 
telling  the  truth  as  far  as  may  be,  hitting  no  foul  blow,  condescend- 
ing to  no  servile  puffery,  filling  not  a  very  lofty,  but  a  manly  and 
honourable  part.  Nobody  says  that  Doctor  Locock  is  wasting  his 
time  because  ho  rolls  about  daily  in  his  carriage,  and  passes  hours 
with  the  nobility  and  gentry,  his  patients,  instead  of  being  in  his 
study  wrapt  up  in  transcendental  medical  meditation.  Nobody 
accuses  Sir  Fitzroy  Kelly  of  neglecting  his  genius  because  he  will 
take  anybody's  brief,  and  argue  it  in  court  for  money,  when  he 
might  sit  in  chambers  with  his  oak  sported,  and  give  up  his  soul 
to  investigations  of  the  nature,  history,  and  improvement  of  law. 
There  is  no  question  but  that  either  of  these  eminent  persons,  by 
profound  study,  might  increase  their  knowledge  in  certain  branches 
of  their  profession ;  but  in  the  meanwhile  the  praetiwl  part  must 


LAMAN    BLANCHAED  469 

go  on — causes .  come  on  for  hearing,  and  ladies  lie  in,  and  some  one 
must  be  there.  The  commodities  in  which  the  lawyer  and  the 
doctor  deal  are  absolutely  required  by  the  public,  and  liberally  paid 
for;  every  day,  too,  the  public  requires  more  literary  handicraft 
done;  the  practitioner  in  that  trade  gets  a  better  pay  and  place. 
In  another  century,  very  likely,  his  work  will  be  so  necessary  to 
the  people,  and  his  market  so  good,"  that  his  prices  will  double 
and  treble ;  his  social  rank  rise ;  he  will  be  getting  what  they  call 
"honours,"  and  dying  in  the  bosom  of  the  genteel.  Our  calling 
is  only  sneered  at  because  it  is  not  well  paid.  The  world  has  no 
other  criterion  for  respectability.  In  heaven's  name,  what  made 
people  talk  of  setting  up  a  statue  to  Sir  William  Follett  ?  What 
had  he  done?  He  had  made  £300,000.  What  has  George  IV. 
done  that  he,  too,  is  to  have  a  brazen  image?  He  was  an  exem- 
plar of  no  greatness,  no  good  quality,  no  duty  in  life;  but  a  type 
of  magnificence,  of  beautiful  coats,  carpets,  and  gigs,  turtle-soup, 
chandehers,  cream-coloured  horses,  and  delicious  Maraschino, — all 
these  good  things  he  expressed  and  represented :  and  the  world, 
respecting  them  beyond  all  others,  raised  statues  to  "the  first 
gentleman  in  Europe."  Directly  the  men  of  letters  get  rich,  they 
will  come  in  for  their  share  of  honour  too ;  and  a  future  writer  in 
this  miscellany  may  be  getting  ten  guineas  where  we  get  one,  and 
dancing  at  Buckingham  Palace  while  you  and  your  humble  servant, 
dear  Padre  Francesco,  are  glad  to  smoke  our  pipes  in  quiet  over  the 
sanded  floor  of  the  little  D . 

But  the  happy  hoTnme  de  lettres,  whom  I  imagine  in  futurity 
kicking  his  heels  vis-a-vis  to  a  duchess  in  some  fandango  at  the 
Court  of  her  Majesty's  grandchildren,  will  be  in  reality  no  better 
or  honester,  or  more  really  near  fame,  than  the  quill-driver  of  the 
present  day,  with  his  doubtful  position  and  small  gains.  Fame, 
that  guerdon  of  high  genius,  comes  quite  independent  of  Berkeley 
Square,  and  is  a  republican  institution.  Look  around  in  our  own 
day  among  the  holders  of  the  pen :  begin  (without  naming  names, 
for  that  is  odious)  and  count  on  your  fingers  those  whom  you  will 
back  in  the  race  for  immortality.     How  many  fingers  have  you  that 

are  left  untold  ?     It  is  an  invidious  question.     Alas !  dear  , 

and  dear  *  *,  and  dear  t  t,  you  who  think  you  are  safe,  there  is 
futurity,  and  limbo,  and  blackness  for  you,  beloved  friends  !  Cras 
ingens  iterabimus  cequor :  there's  no  use  denying  it,  or  shirking  the 
fact ;  in  we  must  go,  and  disappear  for  ever  and  ever. 

And  after  all,  what  is  this  Keputation,  the  cant  of  our  trade, 
the  goal  that  every  scribbling  penny-a-liner  demurely  pretends  that 
he  is  hunting  after?  Why  should  we  get  it?  Why  can't  we  do 
without  it  ?     We  only  fancy  we  want  it.     When  people  say  of  such 


470  CRITICAL   REVIEWS 

and  sucli  a  man  who  is  dead,  "  He  neglected  his  talents ;  he 
frittered  away  in  fugitive  publications  time  and  genius,  which  might 
have  led  to  the  production  of  a  great  work ; "  this  is  the  gist  of 
Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  kind  and  affecting  biographical  notice  of  our 
dear  friend  and  comrade  Laman  Blanchard,  who  passed  away  so 
melancholily  last  year. 

I  don't  know  anything  ihore  dissatisfactory  and  absurd  than 
that  insane  test  of  friendship  which  has  been  set  up  by  some 
literary  men — viz.,  admiration  of  their  works.  Say  that  this 
picture  is  bad,  or  that  poem  poor,  or  that  article  stupid,  and  there 
are  certain  authors  and  artists  among  us  who  set  you  down  as  an 
enemy  forthwith,  or  look  upon  you  as  a,  farior-frere.  Wliat  is  there 
in  common  with  the  friend  and  his  work  of  art?  T!ie  picture  or 
article  once  done  and  handed  over  to  the  public  is  the  latter's 
property,  not  the  author's,  and  to  be  estimated  according  to  its 
honest  value ;  and  so,  and  without  malice,  I  question  Sir  Bulwer 
Lytton's  statement  about  Blanchard — viz.,  that  he  would  have  been 
likely  to  produce  with  leisure,  and  under  favourable  circumstances, 
a  work  of  the  highest  class.  I  think  his  education  and  habits,  his 
quick  easy  manner,  his  sparkling  hidden  fun,  constant  tenderness, 
and  brilliant  good-humour  were  best  employed  as  they  were.  At 
any  rate  he  had  a  duty,  much  more  imperative  upon  him  than  the 
preparation  of  questionable  great  works, — to  get  his  family  their 
dinner.  A  man  must  be  a  very  Great  man,  indeed,  before  he  can 
neglect  this  precaution. 

His  three  volumes  of  essays,  pleasant  and  often  brilliant  as  they 
are,  give  no  idea  of  the  powers  of  the  author,  or  even  of  his  natural 
manner,  which,  as  I  think,  was  a  thousand  times  more  agreeable. 
He  was  like  the  good  little  child  in  the  fairy  tale,  his  mouth 
dropped  out  all  sorts  of  diamonds  and  rubies.  His  wit,  which  was 
always  playing  and  frisking  about  the  company,  had  the  wonderful 
knack  of  never  hurting  anybody.  He  had  the  most  singular  art  of 
discovering  good  qualities  in  people ;  in  discoursing  of  which  the 
kindly  little  fellow  used  to  glow  and  kindle  up,  and  emphasise  with 
the  most  charming  energy.  Good-natured  actions  of  others,  good 
jokes,  favourite  verses  of  friends,  he  would  bring  out  fondly,  when- 
ever they  met,  or  there  was  question  of  them ;  and  he  used  to  toss 
and  dandle  their  sayings  or  doings  about,  and  hand  them  round  to 
the  company,  as  the  delightful  Miss  Slowboy  does  the  baby  in  the 
last  Christmas  Book.  What  was  better  than  wit  in  his  talk  was, 
that  it  was  so  genial.  He  enjoyed  thoroughly,  and  chirped  over 
his  wine  with  a  good-humour  that  could  not  fail  to.be  infectious. 
His  own  hospitality  was  delightful :  there  was  something  about  it 
charmingly  brisk,  simple,  and  kindly.     How  he  used  to  laugh! 


LAMAN    BLANCHARD  471 

As  I  write  this,  what  a  nuraber  of  pleasant  hearty  scenes  come 
back !  One  can  hear  his  jolly,  clear  laughter ;  and  see  his  keen, 
kind,  beaming  Jew  face, — a  mixture  of  Mendelssohn  and  Yoltaire. 

Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  account  of  him  will  be  read  by  all  his 
friends  with  pleasure,  and  by  the  world  as  a  not  uncurious  specimen 
of  the  biography  of  a  literary  man.  The  memoir  savours  a  little 
too  much  of  the  funeral  oration.  It  might  have  been  a  little  more 
particular  and  familiar,  so  as  to  give  the  public  a  more  intimate 
acquaintance  with  one  of  the  lionestest  and  kindest  of  men  who  ever 
lived  by  pen ;  and  yet,  after  a  long  and  friendly  intercourse  with 
Blanchard,  I  believe  the  praises  Sir  Lytton  bestows  on  his  character 
are  by  no  means  exaggerated  :  it  is  only  the  style  in  which  they  are 
given,  which  is  a  little  too  funereally  encomiastic.  The  memoir 
begins  in  this  way,  a  pretty  and  touching  design  of  Mr.  Kenny 
Meadows  heading  the  biography  : — 

"To  most  of  those  who  have  mixed  generally  with  the  men 
who,  in  our  day,  have  chosen  literature  as  their  profession,  the 
name  of  Laman  Blanchard  brings  recollections  of  peculiar  tender- 
ness and  regret.  Amidst  a  career  which  the  keenness  of  anxious 
rivalry  renders  a  sharp  probation  to  the  temper  and  the  affections, 
often  yet  more  embittered  by  that  strife  of  party,  of  which,  in  a 
Eepresentative  Constitution,  few  men  of  letters  escape  the  eager 
passions  and  the  angry  prejudice — they  recall  the  memory  of  a 
(competitor,  without  envy;  a  partisan,  without  gall;  firm  as  the 
firmest  in  the  maintenance  of  his  own  opinions ;  but  gentle  as  the 
gentlest  in  the  judgment  he  passed  on  others. 

"  Who,  among  our  London  brotherhood  of  letters,  does  not  miss 
that  simple  cheerfulness — that  inborn  and  exquisite  urbanity — that 
childlike  readiness  to  be  pleased  with  all— that  happy  tendency 
to  panegyi-ise  every  merit,  and  to  be  lenient  to  every  fault  1  Who 
does  not  recall  that  acute  and  delicate  sensibility  —  so  easily 
wounded,  and  therefore  so  careful  not  to  wound — which  seemed 
to  infuse  a  certain  intellectual  fine  breeding,  of  forbearance  and 
sympathy,  into  every  society  where  it  insinuated  its  gentle  way? 
Who,  in  convivial  meetings,  does  not  miss,  and  will  not  miss  for 
ever,  the  sweetness  of  those  unpretending  talents — the  earnestness 
of  that  honesty  which  seemed  unconscious  it  was  worn  so  lightly — 
the  mild  influence  of  that  exuberant  kindness  which  softened  the 
acrimony  of  young  disputants,  and  reconciled  the  secret  animosities 
of  jealous  rivals  ?  Yet  few  men  had  experienced  more  to  sour  them 
than  Laman  Blanchard,  or  had  gone  more  resolutely  through  the 
author's  hardening  ordeal  of  narrow  circumstance,  of  daily  labour, 
and  of  that  disappointment  in  the  higher  aims  of  ambition,  which 


472  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

must  almost  inevitably  befall  those  who  retain  ideal  standards  of 
excellence,  to  be  reached  but  by  time  and  leisure,  and  who  are  yet 
condemned  to  draw  hourly  upon  unmatured  resources  for  the  prac- 
tical wants  of  life.  To  have  been  engaged  from  boyhood  in  such 
struggles,  and  to  have  preserved,  undiminished,  generous  admiration 
for  those  more  fortunate,  and  untiring  love  for  his  own  noble  yet 
thankless  calling;  and  this  with  a  constitution  singularly  finely 
strung,  and  with  all  the  nervous  irritability  which  usually  accom- 
panies the  indulgence  of  the  imagination ;  is  a  proof  of  the  rarest 
kind  of  strength,  depending  less  upon  a  power  purely  intellectual, 
than  upon  the  higher  and  more  beautiful  heroism  which  woman,  and 
such  men  alone  as  have  the  best  feelings  of  a  woman's  nature,  take 
from  instinctive  enthusiasm  lor  what  is  great,  and  uncalculating 
faith  in  what  is  good. 

"  It  is,  regarded  thus,  that  the  character  of  Laman  Blanchard 
assumes  an  interest  of  a  very  elevated  order.  He  was  a  choice  and 
worthy  example  of  the  professional  English  men  of  letters,  in  our 
day.  He  is  not  to  be  considered  in  the  light  of  the  man  of  daring 
and  turbulent  genius,  living  on  the  false  excitement  of  vehement 
calumny  and  uproarious  praise.  His  was  a  career  not  indeed  ob- 
scure, but  sufficiently  quiet  and  unnoticed  to  be  solaced  with  little 
of  the  pleasure  with  which,  in  aspirants  of  a  noisier  fame,  gratified 
and  not  ignoble  vanity  rewards  the  labour  and  stimulates  the  hope. 
For  more  than  twenty  years  he  toiled  on  through  the  most  fatiguing 
paths  of  literary  composition,  mostly  in  periodicals,  often  anony- 
mously ;  pleasing  and  lightly  instructing  thousands,  but  gaining 
none  of  the  prizes,  whether  of  weighty  reputation  or  popular  re- 
nown, which  more  fortunate  chances,  or  more  pretending  modes  of 
investing  talent,  have  given  in  our  day  to  men  of  half  his  merits." 

Not  a  feature  in  this  charming  character  is  flattered,  as  far  as 
I  know.  Did  the  subject  of  the  memoir  feel  disappointment  in  the 
higher  aims  of  ambition  "i  Was  his  career  not  solaced  with  pleasure  1 
Was  his  noble  calling  a  thankless  one?  I  have  said  before,  his 
calling  was  not  thankless  ;  his  career,  in  the  main,  pleasant ;  his 
disappointment,  if  he  had  one  of  the  higher  aims  of  ambition,  one 
that  might  not  uneasily  be  borne.  If  every  man  is  disappointed 
because  he  cannot  reach  supreme  excellence,  what  a  mad  misan- 
thropical world  ours  would  be  !  Why  should  men  of  letters  aim 
higher  than  they  can  hit,  or  be  "  disappointed  "  with  the  share  of 
brains  God  has  given  them?  Nor  can  you  say  a  man's  career  is 
unpleasant  who  was  so  heartily  liked  and  appreciated  as  Blanchard 
was,  by  all  persons  of  high  intellect,  or  low,  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.     He  had  to  bear  with  some,  but  not  unbearable  poverty. 


LAMAN    BLANCHARD  473 

At  home  he  had  everything  to  satisfy  his  affection :  abroad,  every 
sympathy  and  consideration  met  this  universally  esteemed,  good 
man.  Such  a  calling  as  his  is  not  thankless,  surely.  Away  with 
this  discontent  and  morbid  craving  for  renown  !  A  man  who  writes 
(Tennyson's)  "  Ulysses,"  or  "  Oomus,"  may  put  in  his  claim  for 
fame  if  you  will,  and  demand  and  deserve  it :  but  it  requires  no 
vast  power  of  intellect  to  write  most  sets  of  words,  and  have  them 
printed  in  a  book : — To  write  this  article,  for  instance,  or  the  last 
novel,  pamphlet,  book  of  travels.  Most  men  with  a  decent  educa- 
tion and  practice  of  the  pen,  could  go  and  do  the  like,  were  they 
so  professionally  urged.  Let  such  fall  into  the  rank  and  file,  and 
shoulder  their  weapons,  and  load,  and  fire  cheerfully.  An  every- 
day writer  has  no  more  right  to  repine  because  he  loses  the  great 
prizes,  and  can't  write  like  Shakspeare,  than  he  has  to  be  envious 
of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  or  Wellington,  or  King  Hudson,  or  Taglioni. 
Because  the  sun  shines  above,  is  a  man  to  warm  himself  and 
admire ;  or  to  despond  because  he  can't  in  his  person  flare  up  like 
the  sun?  I  don't  believe  that  Blanchard  was  by  any  means  an 
amateur  martyr,  but  was,  generally  speaking,  very  decently  satisfied 
with  his  condition. 

Here  is  the  account  of  his  early  history — a  curious  and  interest 
ing  one : — 

"  Samuel  Laman  Blanchard  was  born  of  respectable  parents  in 
the  middle  class  at  Great  Yarmouth,  on  the  15th  of  May,  1803. 
His  mother's  maiden  name  was  Mary  Laman.  She  married  first 
Mr.  Cowell,  at  Saint  John's  Church,  Bermondsey,  about  the  year 
1796 ;  he  died  in  the  following  year.  In  1799,  she  was  married 
again  to  Samuel  Blanchard,  by  whom  she  had  seven  children,  but 
only  one  son,  the  third  child,  christened  Samuel  Laman. 

"  In  1805  Mr.  Blanchard  (the  father)  appears  to  have  removed 
to  the  metropolis,  aud  to  have  settled  in  Southwark  as  a  painter 
and  glazier.  He  was  enabled  to  give  his  boy  a  good  education — an 
education,  indeed,  of  that  kind  which  could  not  but  unfit  young 
Laman  for  the  calling  of  his  father;  for  it  developed  the  abilities 
and  bestowed  the  learning,  which  may  be  said  to  lift  a  youth 
morally  out  of  trade,  and  to  refine  him  at  once  into  a  gentleman. 
At  six  years  old  he  was  entered  a  scholar  of  Saint  Olave's  School, 
then  under  the  direction  of  the  Reverend  Doctor  Blenkorm.  He 
became  the  head  Latin  scholar,  and  gained  the  chief  prize  in  each 
of  the  last  three  years  he  remained  at  the  academy.  When  he  left, 
it  was  the  wish  of  the  master  and  trustees  that  he  should  be  sent 
to  College,  one  boy  being  annually  selected  from  the  pupils,  to  be 
maintained  at  the  University,  for  the  freshman's  year,  free  of  ex- 


474  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

pense ;  for  the  charges  of  the  two  remaining  years  the  parents  were 
to  provide.  So  strong,  however,  were  the  hopes  of  the  master  for 
his  promising  pupil,  that  the  trustees  of  the  school  consented  to 
depart  from  their  ordinary  practice,  and  offered  to  defray  the  col- 
legiate expenses  for  two  years.  Unfortunately,  the  offer  was  not 
accepted.  No  wonder  that  poor  Laman  regretted  in  after  life  the 
loss  of  this  golden  opportunity.  The  advantages  of  a  University 
career  to  a  young  man  in  his  position,  with  talents  and  application, 
but  without  interest,  birth,  and  fortune,  are  incalculable.  The 
pecuniary  independence  afforded  by  the  scholarship  and  the  fellow- 
ship is  in  itself  no  despicable  prospect ;  but  the  benefits  which  dis- 
tinction, fairly  won  at  those  noble  and  unrivalled  institutions, 
confers,  are  the  greatest  where  least  obvious :  they  tend  usually  to 
bind  the  vagueness  of  youthful  ambition  to  the  secure  reliance  on 
some  professional  career,  in  which  they  smooth  the  difficulties  and 
abridge  the  novitiate.  Even  in  literature  a  College  education  not 
only  tends  to  refine  the  taste,  but  to  propitiate  the  public.  And  in 
all  the  many  walks  of  practical  and  public  life,  the  honours  gained 
at  the  University  never  fail  to  find  well-wishers  amongst  powerful 
contemporaries,  and  to  create  generous  interest  in  the  fortunes  of 
the  aspirant. 

"  But  my  poor  friend  was  not  destined  to  have  one  obstacle 
smoothed  away  from  his  weary  path.*  With  the  natural  refine- 
ment of  his  disposition,  and  the  fatal  cultivation  of  his  intellectual 
susceptibilities,  he  was  placed  at  once  in  a  situation  which  it  was 
impossible  that  he  could  fill  with  steadiness  and  zeal.  Fresh  from 
classical  studies,  and  his  emulation  warmed  by  early  praise  and 
schoolboy  triumph,  he  was  transferred  to  the  drudgery  of  a  desk 
in  the  office  of  Mr.  Charles  Pearson,  a  proctor  in  Doctors 
Commons.  The  result  was  inevitable ;  his  mind,  by  a  natural 
reaction,  betook  itself  to  the  pursuits  most  hostile  to  such  a  career. 
Before  this,  even  from  the  age  of  thirteen,  he  had  trifled  with  the 
Muses ;  he  now  conceived  in  good  earnest  the  more  perilous  passion 
for  the  stage. 

"  Barry  Cornwall's  '  Dramatic  Scenes '  were  published  about 
this  time — they  exercised  considerable  influence  over  the  taste  and 
aspirations  of  young  Blanchard — and  many  dramatic  sketches  of 
brilliant  promise,   bearing  his   initials,    S.   L.    B.,   appeared  in  a 

*  "The  elder  Blanchard  is  not  to  he  hlamed  for  voluntarily  depriving  his 
son  of  the  advantages  proffered  hy  the  liberal  trustees  of  Saint  Olave's ;  it 
appears  from  a  communication  by  Mr.  Keymer  (brother-in-law  to  Laman 
Blanchard) — that  the  circumstances  of  the  family  at  that  time  were  not  such 
as  to  meet  the  necessary  expenses  of  a  student — even  for  the  last  year  of  his 
residence  at  the  University." 


LAMAN    BLANCHARD  475 

periodical  work  existing  at  that  period  called  The  Drama.  In 
them,  though  the  conception  and  general  treatment  are  borrowed 
from  Barry  Cornwall,  the  style  and  rhythm  are  rather  modelled  on 
the  peculiarities  of  Byron.  Their  promise  is  not  the  less  for  the 
imitation  they  betray.  The  very  characteristic  of  genius  is  to  be 
imitative — first  of  authors,  then  of  nature.  Books  lead  us  to  fancy 
feelings  that  are  not  yet  genuine.  Experience  is  necessary  to  record 
those  which  colour  our  own  existence :  and  the  style  only  becomes 
original  in  proportion  as  the  sentiment  it  expresses  is  sincere. 
More  touching,  therefore,  than  these  'Dramatic  Sketches,'  was  a 
lyrical  effusion  on  the  death  of  Sidney  Ireland,  a  young  friend  to 
whom  he  was  warmly  attached,  and  over  whose  memory,  for  years 
afterwards,  he  often  shed  tears.  He  named  his  eldest  son  after 
that  early  friend.  At  this  period,  Mr.  Douglas  Jerrold  had  written 
three  volumes  of  Moral  Philosophy,  and  Mr.  Buekstone,  the  cele- 
brated comedian,  volunteered  to  copy  the  work  for  the  juvenile 
moralist.  On  arriving  at  any  passage  that  struck  his  fancy, 
Mr.  Buekstone  communicated  his  delight  to  his  friend  Blanchard, 
and  the  emulation  thus  excited  tended  more  and  more  to  sharpen 
the  poet's  distaste  to  all  avocations  incompatible  with  literature. 
Anxious,  in  the  first  instance,  to  escape  from  dependence  on  his 
father  (who  was  now  urgent  that  he  should  leave  the  proctor's  desk 
for  the  still  more  ungenial  mechanism  of  the  paternal  trade),  he 
meditated  the  best  of  all  preparatives  to  dramatic  excellence ;  viz.,  a 
practical  acquaintance  with  the  stage  itself :  he  resolved  to  become 
an  actor.  Few  indeed  are  they  in  this  country  who  have  ever  suc- 
ceeded eminently  in  the  literature  of  the  stage,  who  have  not  either 
trod  its  boards,  or  lived  habitually  in  its  atmosphere.  Blanchard 
obtained  an  interview  with  Mr.  Henry  Johnston,  the  actor,  and 
recited,  in  his  presence,  passages  from  Glover's  'Leonidas.'  He 
read  admirably — his  elocution  was  faultless — his  feeling  exquisite ; 
Mr.  Johnston  was  delighted  with  his  powers,  but  he  had  experience 
and  wisdom  to  cool  his  professional  enthusiasm,  and  he  earnestly 
advised  the  aspirant  not  to  think  of  the  stage.  He  drew  such  a 
picture  of  the  hazards  of  success — the  obstacles  to  a  position — the 
precariousness  even  of  a  subsistence,  that  the  poor  boy's  heart  sunk 
within  him.  He  was  about  to  resign  himself  to  obscurity  and  trade, 
when  he  suddenly  fell  in  with  the  manager  of  the  Margate  Theatre ; 
this  gentleman  proposed  to  enrol  him  in  his  own  troop,  and  the 
proposal  was  eagerly  accepted,  in  spite  of  the  warnings  of  Mr. 
Henry  Johnston.  'A  week,'  says  Mr.  Buekstone  (to  whom  I  am 
indebted  for  these  particulars,  and  whose  words  I  now  quote), 
'was  sufficient  to  disgust  him  with  the  beggary  and  drudgery  of 
the  country  player's   life ;   and   as  there  were  no   "  Harlequins " 


476  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

steaming  it  from  Margate  to  London  Bridge  at  that  day,  he  per- 
formed his  journey  back  on  foot,  having,  on  reaching  Rochester,  but 
his  last  shilling — the  poet's  veritable  last  shilling — in  his  pocket. 

"  'At  that  time  a  circumstance  occurred,  which  my  poor  friend's 
fate  has  naturally  brought  to  my  recollection.  He  came  to  me  late 
one  evening,  in  a  state  of  great  excitement ;  informed  me  that  his 
father  had  turned  him  out  of  doors ;  that  he  was  utterly  hopeless 
and  wretched,  and  was  resolved  to  destroy  himself.  I  used  my  best 
endeavours  to  console  him,  to  lead  his  thoughts  to  the  future,  and 
hope  in  what  chance  and  perseverance  might  eifect  for  him.  Our 
discourse  took  a  livelier  turn ;  and  after  making  up  a  bed  on  a  sofa 
in  my  own  room,  I  retired  to  rest.  I  soon  slept  soundly,  but  was 
awakened  by  hearing  a  footstep  descending  the  stairs.  I  looked 
towards  the  sofa,  and  discovered  he  had  left  it ;  I  heard  the  street 
door  close ;  I  instantly  hurried  on  my  clothes,  and  followed  him ; 
I  called  to  him,  but  received  no  answer ;  I  ran  till  I  saw  him  in 
the  distance  also  running ;  I  again  called  his  name ;  I  implored 
him  to  stop,  but  he  would  not  answer  me.  Still  continuing  his 
pace,  I  became  alarmed,  and  doubled  my  speed.  I  came  up  with 
him  near  to  Westminster  Bridge ;  he  was  hurrying  to  the  steps 
leading  to  the  river ;  I  seized  him ;  he  threatened  to  strike  me  if  I 
did  not  release  him ;  I  called  for  the  watch ;  I  entreated  him  to 
return  ;  he  became  more  pacified,  but  still  seemed  anxious  to  escape 
from  me.  By  entreaties ;  by  every  means  of  persuasion  I  could 
think  of;  by  threats  to  call  for  help ;  I  succeeded  in  taking  him 
back.  The  next  day  he  was  more  composed,  but  I  believe  rarely 
resided  with  his  father  after  that  time.  Necessity  compelled  him 
to  do  something  for  a  livelihood,  and  in  time  he  became  a  reader  in 
the  office  of  the  Messrs.  Bayliss,  in  Fleet  Street.  By  that  employ, 
joined  to  frequent  contributions  to  the  Monthly  Magazine,  at  that 
time  published  by  them,  he  obtained  a  tolerable  competence. 

"  '  Blanohard  and  Jerrold  had  serious  thoughts  of  joining  Lord 
Byron  in  Greece ;  they  were  to  become  warriors,  and  assist  the 
poet  in  the  liberation  of  the  classic  land.  Many  a  nightly  wander- 
ing found  them  discussing  their  project.  In  the  midst  of  one  of 
these  discussions  they  were  caught  in  a  shower  of  rain,  and  sought 
shelter  under  a  gateway.  The  rain  continued ;  when  their  patience 
becoming  exhausted,  Blanchard,  buttoning  up  his  coat,  exclaimed, 
"  Come  on,  Jerrold  !  what  use  shall  we  be  to  the  Greeks  if  we 
stand  up  for  a  shower  of  rain  % "  So  they  walked  home  and  were 
heroically  wet  through.' " 

It  would  have  been  worth  while  to  tell  this  tale  more  fully ; 
not  to  envelop  the  chief  personage  in  fine  words,  as  statuaries  do 


LAMAN    BLANCHARD  477 

their  sitters  in  Roman  togas,  and,  making  them  assume  the  heroic- 
conventional  look,  take  away  from  them  that  infinitely  more  in- 
teresting one  which  Nature  gave  them.  It  would  have  been  well 
if  we  could  have  had  this  stirring  little  story  in  detail.  The  young 
fellow,  forced  to  the  proctor's  desk,  quite  angry  with  the  drudgery, 
theatre-stricken,  poetry-stricken,  writing  dramatic  sketches  in  Barry 
Cornwall's  manner,  spouting  "Leonidas"  before  a  manager,  driven 
away  starving  from  home,  and,  penniless  and  fuU  of  romance,  court- 
ing his  beautiful  young  wife.  "  Gome  on,  Jen-old  !  what  use  shall 
we  he  to  the  Greeks  if  we  stand  up  for  a  shower  of  rain  1 "  How 
the  native  humour  breaks  out  of  the  man  !  Those  who  knew  them 
can  fancy  the  effect  of  such  a  pair  of  warriors  steering  the  Greek 
fire-ships,  or  manning  the  breach  at  Missolonghi.  Then  there  comes 
that  pathetic  little  outbreak  of  despair,  when  the  poor  young  fellow 
is  nearly  giving  up ;  his  father  banishes  him,  no  one  will  buy  his 
poetry,  he  has  no  chance  on  his  darling  theatre,  no  chance  of  the 
wife  that  he  is  longing  for.  Why  not  finish  with  life  at  once? 
He  has  read  "Werter,"  and  can  imderstand  suicide.  "None,"  he 
says,  in  a  sonnet — 

**None,  not  the  hoariest  sage,  may  tell  of  all 
The  strong  heart  struggles  with  before  it  fall." 

If  Respectability  wanted  to  point  a  moral,  isn't  there  one  here  ? 
Eschew  poetry,  avoid  the  theatre,  stick  to  your  business,  do  not 
read  Grerman  novels,  do  not  marry  at  twenty.  All  these  injunctions 
seem  to  hang  naturally  on  the  stray. 

And  yet  the  young  poet  marries  at  twenty,  in  the  teeth  of 
poverty  and  experience;  labours  away,  not  unsuccessfully,  puts 
Pegasus  into  harness,  rises  in  social  rank  and  public  estimation, 
brings  up  happOy  round  him  an  affectionate  family,  gets  for  himself 
a  circle  of  the  warmest  friends,  and  thus  carries  on  for  twenty  years, 
when  a  providential  calamity  visits  him  and  the  poor  wife  almost 
together,  and  removes  them  both. 

In  the  beginning  of  1844,  Mrs.  Blanchard,  his  affectionate 
wife  and  the  excellent  mother  of  his  children,  was  attacked  with 
paralysis,  which  impaired  her  mind  and  terminated  fatally  at  the 
end  of  the  year.  Her  husband  was  constantly  with  her,  occupied 
by  her  side,  whilsti  watching  her  distressing  malady,  in  his  daily 
task  of  literary  business.  Her  illness  had  the  severest  effect  upon 
him.  He,  too,  was  attacked  with  partial  paralysis  and  congestion 
of  the  brain,  during  which  firstr  seizure  his  wife  died.  The  rest  of 
the  story  was  told  in  all  the  newspapers  of  the  beginning  of  last 
year.  Rallying  partially  from  his  fever  at  times,  a  sudden  catas- 
trophe overwhelmed  him.     On  the  night  of  the  14th  February,  in 


478  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

a  gust  of  delirium,  having  his  little  boy  in  bed  by  his  side,  and 
having  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  but  a  short  time  before,  he  sprang 
out  of  bed  iu  the  absence  of  his  nurse  (whom  he  had  besought  not 
to  leave  him),  and  made  away  with  himself  with  a  razor.  He  was 
no  more  guilty  in  his  death  than  a  man  who  is  murdered  by  a 
madman,  or  who  dies  of  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel.  In  his  last 
prayer  he  asked  to  be  forgiven,  as  he  in  his  whole  heart  forgave 
others ;  and  not  to  be  led  into  that  irresistible  temptation  under 
which  it  pleased  Heaven  that  the  poor  wandering  spirit  should 
succumb. 

At  the  very  moment  of  his  death  his  friends  were  making  the 
kindest  and  most  generous  exertions  in  his  behalf.  Such  a  noble, 
loving,  and  generous  creature  is  never  without  such.  The  world, 
it  is  pleasant  to  think,  is  always  a  good  and  gentle  world  to  the 
gentle  and  good,  and  reflects  the  benevolence  with  which  they 
regard  it.  This  memoir  contains  an  affecting  letter  from  the  poor 
fellow  himself,  which  indicates  Sir  Edward  Bulwer's  admirable  and 
delicate  generosity  towards  him.  "  I  bless  and  thank  you  always," 
writes  the  kindly  and  affectionate  soul,  to  another  excellent  friend, 
Mr.  Forster.  There  were  other  friends,  such  as  Mr.  Fonblanque, 
Mr.  Ainsworth,  with  whom  he  was  connected  in  literary  labour, 
who  were  not  less  eager  to  serve  and  befriend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dead,  a  number  of  other  persons  came  forward 
to  provide  means  for  the  maintenance  of  his  orphan  family.  Messrs. 
Chapman  &  Hall  took  one  son  into  their  publishing-house,  another 
was  provided  in  a  merchant's  house  in  the  city,  the  other  is  of  an 
age  and  has  the  talents  to  follow  and  succeed  in  his  father's  pro- 
fession. Mr.  Colburn  and  Mr.  Ainsworth  gave  up  their  copyrights 
of  his  Essays,  which  are  now  printed  in  three  handsome  volumes, 
for  the  benefit  of  his  children. 

Out  of  Blanchard's  life  (except  from  the  melancholy  end,  which 
is  quite  apart  from  it)  there  is  surely  no  ground  for  drawing  charges 
against  the  pubho  of  neglecting  literature.  His  career,  untimely 
concluded,  is  in  the  main  a  successful  one.  In  truth,  I  don't  see 
how  the  aid  or  interposition  of  Government  could  in  any  way  have 
greatly  beneiited  him,  or  how  it  was  even  called  upon  to  do  so.  It 
does  not  follow  that  a  man  would  produce  a  great  work  even  if  he 
had  leisure.  Squire  Shakspeare  of  Stratford,  with  his  lands  and 
rents,  and  his  arms  over  his  porch,  was  not  the  working  Shakspeare ; 
and  indolence  (or  contemplation,  if  you  like)  is  no  unusual  quality 
in  the  hterary  man.  Of  all  the  squires  who  have  had  acres  and 
rents,  all  the  holders  of  lucky  easy  Government  places,  how  many 
have  written  books,  and  of  what  wortli  are  they  "i  There  are  some 
persons  whom  Government,  having  a  want  of,  employs  and  pays — 


LAMAN    BLANCHAED  479 

barristers,  diplomatists,  soldiers,  and  the  like;  but  it  doesn't  want 
poetry,  and  can  do  without  tragedies.  Let  men  of  letters  stand  for 
themselves.  Every  day  enlarges  their  market,  and  multiplies  their 
clients.  The  most  skilful  and  successful  among  the  cultivators  of 
light  literature  have  such  a  hold  upon  the  public  feelings,  and 
awaken  such  a  sympathy,  as  men  of  the  class  never  enjoyed  until 
now :  men  of  science  and  learning,  who  aim  at  other  distinction, 
get  it ;  and  in  spite  of  Dr.  Carus's  disgust,  I  believe  there  was 
never  a  time  when  so  much  of  the  practically  useful  was  written 
and  read,  and  every  branch  of  book-making  pursued,  with  an 
interest  so  eager. 

But  I  must  conclude.  My  letter  has  swelled  beyond  the  proper 
size  of  letters,  and  you  are  craving  for  news  :  have  you  not  to-day's 
Times'  battle  of  Ferozeshah  ?     Farewell.  M.  A.  T. 


JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OF  LIFE 
AND  CHARACTER* 


WE,  who  can  recall  the  consulship  of  Plancus,  and  quite 
respectable  old  fogeyfied  times,  remember  amongst  other 
amusements  which  we  had  as  children  the  pictures  at 
which  we  were  permitted  to  look.  There  was  Boydell's  Shakspeare, 
black  and  ghastly  gallery  of  murky  Opies,  glum  Northcotes,  strad- 
dling Fuselis !  there  were  Lear,  Oberon,  Hamlet,  with  starting 
muscles,  rolling  eyeballs,  and  long  pointing  quivering  fingers ;  there 
was  little  Prince  Arthur  (Northcote)  crying,  in  white  satin,  and 
bidding  good  Hubert  not  put  out  his  eyes;  there  was  Hubert 
crying ;  there  was  little  Rutland  being  run  through  the  poor  little 
body  by  bloody  Clifford ;  there  was  Cardinal  Beaufort  (Reynolds) 
gnashing  his  teeth,  and  grinning  and  howling  demoniacally  on  his 
deathbed  (a  picture  frightful  to  the  present  day) ;  there  was  Lady 
Hamilton  (Romney)  waving  a  torch,  and  dancing  before  a  black 
background, — a  melancholy  museum  indeed.  Snrirke's  dehghtful 
"Seven  Ages"  only  fitfully  relieved  its  general  gloom.  We  did 
not  like  to  inspect  it  unless  the  elders  were  present,  and  plenty  of 
lights  and  company  were  in  the  room. 

Cheerful  relatives  used  to  treat  us  to  Miss  Linwood's.  Let  the 
children  of  the  present  generation  thank  their  stars  that  tragedy 
is  put  out  of  their  way.  Miss  Linwood's  was  worsted-work.  Your 
grandmother  or  grandaunts  took  you  there,  and  said  the  pictures 
were  admirable.  You  saw  "  The  Woodman  "  in  worsted,  with  his 
axe  and  dog,  trampling  through  the  snow ;  the  snow  bitter  cold  to 
look  at,  the  woodman's  pipe  wonderful :  a  gloomy  piece,  that  made 
you  shudder.  There  were  large  dingy  pictures  of  woollen  martyrs, 
and  scowling  warriors  with  limbs  strongly  knitted ;  there  was 
especially,  at  the  end  of  a  black  passage,  a  den  of  lions,  that  would 
frighten  any  boy  not  born  in  Africa,  or  Exeter  'Change,  and  accus- 
tomed to  them. 

Another  exhibition  used  to  be  West's  Gallery,  where  the  pleasing 

*  Reprinted  from  the  Qiiarterly  Beview,  No.  191,  Deo.  1854,  by  permission 
of  Mr.  John  Murray. 


PICTURES    OP    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER    481 

figures  of  Lazarus  in  his  grave-clothes,  and  Death  on  the  pale  horse, 
used  to  impress  us  children.  The  tombs  of  Westminster  Abbey,  the 
vaults  at  St.  Paul's,  the  men  in  armour  at  the  Tower,  frowning 
ferociously  out  of  their  helmets,  and  wielding  their  dreadful  swords ; 
that  superhuman  Queen  Elizabeth  at  the  end  of  the  room,  a  livid 
sovereign  with  glass  eyes,  a  ruff,  and  a  dirty  satin  petticoat,  riding 
a  horse  covered  with  steel :  who  does  not  remember  these  sights  in 
London  in  the  consulship  of  Plancus?  and  the  waxwork  in  Fleet 
Street,  not  like  that  of  Madame  Tussaud's,  whose  chamber  of  death 
is  gay  and  brilliant;  but  a  nice  old  gloomy  waxwork,'  full  of 
murderers ;  and  as  a  chief  attraction,  the  Dead  Baby  and  the 
Princess  Charlotte  lying  in  state  1 

Our  story-books  had  no  pictures  in  them  for  the  most  part. 
"Frank"  (dear  old  Frank!)  had  none;  nor  the  "Parent's 
Assistant " ;  nor  the  "  Evenings  at  Home  "  ;  nor  our  copy  of  the 
"  Ami  des  Enfans " :  there  were  a  few  just  at  the  end  of  the 
Spelling-Book ;  besides  the  allegory  at  the  beginning,  of  Education 
leading  up  Youth  to  the  temple  of  Industry,  where  Dr.  Dilworth 
and  Professor  Walkinghame  stood  with  crowns  of  laurel.  There 
were,  we  say,  just  a  few  pictures  at  the  end  of  the  Spelling-Book, 
little  oval  grey  woodcuts  of  Bewick's,  mostly  of  the  Wolf  and 
the  Lamb,  the  Dog  and  the  Shadow,  and  Brown,  Jones,  and 
Robinson  with  long  ringlets  and  little  tights ;  but  for  pictures,  so 
to  speak,  what  had  we?  The  rough  old  woodblocks  in  the  old 
harlequin-backed  fairy-books  had  served  hundreds  of  years ;  before 
our  Plancus,  in  the  time  of  Prisons  Plancus — in  Queen  Anne's  time, 
who  knows  1  We  were  flogged  at  school ;  we  were  fifty  boys  in  our 
boarding-house,  and  had  to  wash  in  a  leaden  trough,  under  a  cistern, 
with  lumps  of  fat  yellow  soap  floating  about  in  the  ice  and  water. 
Are  our  sons  ever  flogged?  Have  they  not  dressing-rooms,  hair- 
oil,  hip-baths,  and  Baden  towels'?  And  what  picture-books  the 
young  villains  have !  What  have  these  children  dtme  that  they 
should  be  so  much  happier  than  we  were  ? 

We  had  the  "  Arabian  Nights  "  and  Walter  Scott,  to  be  sure. 
Smirke's  illustrations  to  the  former  are  very  fine.  We  did  not 
know  how  good  they  were  then  ;  but  we  doubt  whether  we  did  not 
prefer  the  little  old  "  Miniature  Library  Nights  "  with  frentispieces 
by  Uwins ;  for  these  books  the  pictures  don't  count.  Every  boy 
of  imagination  does  his  own  pictures  to  Scott  and  the  "  Arabian 
Nights  "  best. 

Of  funny  pictures  there  were  none  especially  intended  for  us 

children.      There   was   Rowlandson's    "Doctor  Syntax":   Doctor 

Syntax,  in  a  fuzz-wig,  on  a  horse  with  legs  like  sausages,  riding 

races,  making  love,  frolicking  with  rosy  exuberant  damsels.     Those 

13  2  H 


482  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

pictures  were  very  funny,  and  that  aquatinting  and  the  gay- 
coloured  plates  very  pleasant  to  witness ;  but  if  we  could  not 
read  the  poem  in  those  days,  could  we  digest  it  in  this  1  NeYer- 
theless,  apart  from  the  text  which  we  could  not  master,  we 
remember  Doctor  Syntax  pleasantly,  like  those  cheerful  painted 
hieroglyphics  in  the  Nineveh  Court  at  Sydenham.  What  matter 
for  the  arrow-head,  illegible  stuff?  give  us  the  placid  grinning 
kings,  twanging  their  jolly  bows  over  their  rident  horses,  wound- 
ing those  good-humoured  enemies,  who  tumble  gaily  off  the  towers, 
or  drown,  smiling,  in  the  dimpling  waters,  amidst  the  anerithmon 
gelasma  of  the  fish. 

After  Doctor  Syntax,  the  apparition  of  Corinthian  Tom,  Jerry 
Hawthorn,  and  the  facetious  Bob  Logic  must  be  recorded — a 
wondrous  history  indeed  theirs  was  !  When  the  future  student  of 
our  manners  comes  to  look  over  the  pictures  and  the  writing  of 
these  queer  volumes,  what  will  he  think  of  our  society,  customs, 
and  language  in  the  consulship  of  Plancus  ?  "  Corinthian,"  it 
appears,  was  the  phrase  applied  to  men  of  fashion  and  ton  in 
Plancus's  time  :  they  were  the  brilliant  predecessors  of  the  "  swell  " 
of  the  present  period — brilliant,  but  somewhat  barbarous,  it  must 
be  confessed.  The  Corinthians  were  in  the  habit  of  drinking  a 
great  deal  too  much  in  Tom  Cribb's  parlour :  they  used  to  go  and 
see  "life"  in  the  gin-shops;  of  nights,  walking  home  (as  well  as 
they  could),  they  used  to  knock  down  "  Charleys,"  poor  harmless 
old  watchmen  with  lanterns,  guardians  of  the  streets  of  Rome, 
Planco  Consule.  They  perpetrated  a  vast  deal  of  boxing;  they 
put  on  the  "mufflers"  in  Jackson's  rooms;  they  "sported  their 
prads "  in  the  Ring  in  the  Park ;  they  attended  cock-fights,  and 
were  enlightened  patrons  of  dogs  and  destroyers  of  rats.  Besides 
these  sports,  the  delassemens  of  gentlemen  mixing  with  the  people, 
our  patricians,  of  course,  occasionally  enjoyed  the  society  of  their 
own  class.  What  a  wonderful  picture  that  used  to  be  of  Corinthian 
Tom  dancing  with  Corinthian  Kate  at  Almack's  !  What  a  pro- 
digious dress  Kate  wore  !  With  what  graceful  abandon  the  pair 
flung  their  arms  about  as  they  swept  through  the  mazy  quadrille, 
with  all  the  noblemen  standing  round  in  their  stars  and  uniforms  ! 
You  may  still,  doubtless,  see  the  pictures  at  the  British  Museum, 
or  find  the  volumes  in  the  corner  of  some  old  country-house  library. 
You  are  led  to  suppose  that  the  English  aristocracy  of  1820  did 
dance  and  caper  in  that  way,  and  box  and  drink  at  Tom  Cribb's, 
and  knock  down  watchmen ;  and  the  children  of  to-day,  turning 
to  their  elders,  may  say,  "  Grandmamma,  did  you  wear  such  a 
dress  as  that  when  you  danced  at  Almack's?  There  was  very 
little  of  it.  Grandmamma.     Did  Grandpapa  kill  many  watchmen 


PICTURES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER    483 

when  he  was  a  young  man,  and  frequent  thieves'  gin-shops,  cock- 
fights, and  the  ring,  before  you  married  him  1  Did  he  use  to 
talk  the  extraordinary  slang  and  jargon  which  is  printed  in  this 
book  ?  He  is  very  much  changed.  He  seems  a  gentlemanly  old 
boy  enough  now." 

In  the  above-named  consulate,  when  we  had  grandfathers  alive, 
there  would  be  in  the  old  gentleman's  library  in  the  country  two 
or  three  old  mottled  portfolios,  or  great  swollen  scrap-books  of 
blue  paper,  full  of  the  comic  prints  of  grandpapa's  time,  ere 
Plancus  ever  had  the  fasces  borne  before  him.  These  prints  were 
signed  Gilray,  Bunbury,  Rowlandson,  Woodward,  and  some  actually 
George  Cruikshank — for  George  is  a  veteran  now,  and  he  took 
the  etching  needle  in  hand  as  a  child.  He  caricatured  "  Boney," 
borrowing  not  a  little  from  Gilray  in  his  first  puerile  efforts.  He 
drew  Louis  XVIII.  trying  on  Boney's  boots.  Before  the  century 
was  actually  in  its  teens  we  believe  that  George  Cruikshank  was 
amusing  the  public. 

In  those  great  coloured  prints  in  our  grandfathers'  portfolios  in 
the  library,  and  in  some  other  apartments  of  the  house,  where  the 
caricatures  used  to  be  pasted  in  those  days,  we  found  things  quite 
beyond  our  comprehension.  Boney  was  represented  as  a  fierce 
dwarf,  with  goggle  eyes,  a  huge  laced  hat  and  tricoloured  plume, 
a  crooked  sabre  reeking  with  blood :  a  little  demon  revelling  in 
lust,  murder,  massacre.  John  Bull  was  shown  kicking  him  a  good 
deal :  indeed  he  was  prodigiously  kicked  all  through  that  series  of 
pictures ;  by  Sidney  Smith  and  our  brave  allies  the  gallant  Turks  : 
by  the  excellent  and  patriotic  Spaniards ;  by  the  amiable  and 
indignant  Russians, — all  nations  had  boots  at  the  service  of  poor 
Master  Boney.  How  Pitt  used  to  defy  him  !  How  good  old 
George,  King  of  Brobdingnag,  laughed  at  Gulliver-Bon ey,  sailing 
about  in  his  tank  to  make  sport  for  their  Majesties !  This  little 
fiend,  this  beggar's  brat,  cowardly,  murderous,  and  atheistic  as  he 
was  (we  remember,  in  those  old  portfolios,  pictures  representing 
Boney  and  his  family  in  rags,  gnawing  raw  bones  in  a  Gorsican 
hut ;  Boney  murdering  the  sick  at  Jaffa ;  Boney  with  a  hookah 
and  a  large  turban,  having  adopted  the  Turkish  religion,  &c.) — 
this  Corsican  monster,  nevertheless,  had  some  devoted  friends  in 
England,  according  to  the  Gilray  chronicle, — a  set  of  villains  who 
loved  atheism,  tyranny,  plunder,  and  wickedness  in  general,  like 
their  French  friend.  In  the  pictures  these  men  were  all  represented 
as  dwarfs,  like  their  ally.  The  miscreants  got  into  power  at  one 
time,  and,  if  wc  remember  right,  were  called  the  Broad-backed 
Administration.  One  with  shaggy  eyebrows  and  a  bristly  beard, 
the  hirsute  ringleader  of  the  rascals,  was,  it  appears,  called  Charles 


484  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

James  Fox;  another  miscreant,  with  a  blotched  countenance,  was 
a  certain  Sheridan  ;  other  imps  were  hight  Erskine,  Norfolk  (Jockey 
of),  Moira,  Henry  Petty.  As  in  our  childish  innocence  we  used  to 
look  at  these  demons,  now  sprawling  and  tipsy  in  their  cups ;  now 
scaling  heaven,  from  which  the  angelic  Pitt  hurled  them  down ; 
now  cursing  the  light  (their  atrocious  ringleader  Fox  was  repre- 
sented with  hairy  cloven  feet,  and  a  tail  and  horns) ;  now  kissing 
Boney's  boot,  but  inevitably  discomfited  by  Pitt  and  the  other  good 
angels  :  we  hated  these  vicious  wretches,  as  good  children  should : 
we  were  on  the  side  of  Virtue  and  Pitt  and  Grandpapa.  But  if  our 
sisters  wanted  to  look  at  the  portfolios,  the  good  old  grandfather 
used  to  hesitate.  There  were  some  prints  among  them  very  odd 
indeed ;  some  that  girls  could  not  understand ;  some  that  boys, 
indeed,  had  best  not  see.  We  swiftly  turn  over  those  prohibited 
pages.  How  many  of  them  there  were  in  the  wild,  coarse,  reckless, 
ribald,  generous  book  of  old  English  humour  ! 

How  savage  the  satire  was — how  fierce  the  assault — what 
garbage  hurled  at  opponents — what  foul  blows  were  hit — what 
language  of  Billingsgate  flung !  Fancy  a  party  in  a  country-house 
now  looking  over  Woodward's  facetiae  or  some  of  the  Gilray  comi- 
calities, or  the  slatternly  Saturnalia  of  Rowlandson !  Whilst  we 
live  we  must  laugh,  and  have  folks  to  make  us  laugh.  We  cannot 
afford  to  lose  Satyr  with  his  pipe  and  (Jances  and  gambols.  But  we 
have  washed,  combed,  clothed,  and  taught  the  rogue  good  manners  : 
or  rather,  let  us  say,  he  has  learned  them  himself;  for  he  is  of 
nature  soft  and  kindly,  and  he  has  put  aside  his  mad  pranks  and 
tipsy  habits ;  and,  frolicksome  always,  has  become  gentle  and  harm- 
less, smitten  into  shame  by  the  pure  presence  of  our  women  and  the 
sweet  confiding  smiles  of  our  children.  Among  the  veterans,  the 
old  pictorial  satirists,  we  have  mentioned  the  famous  name  of  one 
humorous  designer  who  is  still  alive  and  at  work.  Did  we  not 
see,  by  his  own  hand,  his  own  portrait  of  his  own  famous  face,  and 
whiskers,  in  the  Illustrated  London  News  the  other  day  ?  There 
was  a  print  in  that  paper  of  an  assemblage  of  Teetotallers  in 
"Sadler's  Wells  Theatre,"  and  we  straightway  recognised  the  old 
Roman  hand — the  old  Roman's  of  the  time  of  Plancus — George 
Cruikshank's.  There  were  the  old  bonnets  and  droll  faces  and 
shoes,  and  short  trousers,  and  figures  of  1820  sure  enough.  And 
there  was  George  (who  has  taken  to  the  water-doctrine,  as  all  the 
world  knows)  handing  some  teetotalleresses  over  a  plank  to  the 
table  where  the  pledge  was  being  administered.  How  often  has 
George  drawn  that  picture  of  Cruikshank !  Where  haven't  we 
seen  it "!  How  fine  it  was,  facing  the  effigy  of  Mr.  Ainsworth  in 
Ainsworth's  Magazine  when   George   illustrated   that    periodical ! 


PICTURES    OF    LIFE   AND    CHARACTER    485 

How  grand  and  severe  he  stands  in  that  design  in  G.  O.'s  "  Omnibus," 
where  he  represents  himself  tonged  like  St.  Dunstan,  and  tweaking 
a  wretch  of  a  publisher  by  the  nose !  The  collectors  of  George's 
etchings — oh  the  charming  etchings  ! — oh  the  dear  old  "  German 
Popular  Tales"  ! — the  capital  "Points  of  Humour" — the  delightful 
"Phrenology"  and  "Scrap-books,"  of  the  good  time,  our  time — 
Planeus's  in  fact ! — the  collectors  of  the  Georgian  etchings,  we  say, 
have  at  least  a  hundred  pictures  of  the  artist.  Why,  we  remember 
him  in  his  favourite  Hessian  boots  in  "Tom  and  Jerry"  itself;  and 
in  woodcuts  as  far  back  as  the  Queen's  trial.  He  has  rather 
deserted  satire  and  comedy  of  late  years,  having  turned  his  attention 
to  the  serious,  and  warlike,  and  sublime.  Having  confessed  our  age 
and  prejudices,  we  prefer  the  comic  and  fanciful  to  the  historic, 
romantic,  and  at  present  didactic  George.  May  respect,  and  length 
of  days,  and  comfortable  repose  attend  the  brave,  honest,  kindly, 
pure-minded  artist,  humorist,  moralist  !  It  was  he  first  who 
brought  English  pictorial  humour  and  children  acquainted.  Our 
young  people  and  their  fathers  and  mothers  owe  him  many  a 
pleasant  hour  and  harmless  laugh.  Is  there  no  way  in  which  the 
country  could  acknowledge  the  long  services  and  brave  career  of 
such  a  friend  and  benefactor  ? 

Since  George's  time  humour  has  been  converted.  Oomus  and 
his  wicked  satyrs  and  leering  fauns  have  disappeared,  and  fled  into 
the  lowest  haunts ;  and  Comus's  lady  (if  she  had  a  taste  for  humour, 
which  may  be  doubted)  might  take  up  our  funny  picture-books 
without  the  slightest  precautionary  squeamishness.  What  can  be 
purer  than  the  charming  fancies  of  Richard  Doyle?  In  all  Mr. 
Punch's  huge  galleries  can't  we  walk  as  safely  as  through  Miss 
Pinkerton's  schoolrooms  ?  And  as  we  look  at  Mr.  Punch's  pictures, 
at  the  Illustrated  News  pictures,  at  all  the  pictures  in  the  book- 
shop windows  at  this  Christmas  season,  as  oldsters,  we  feel  a  certain 
pang  of  envy  against  the  youngsters — they  are  too  well  off.  Why 
hadn't  we  picture-books  ?  Why  were  we  flogged  so  ?  A  plague  on 
the  lictors  and  their  rods  in  the  time  of  Plancus  ! 

And  now,  after  this  rambling  preface,  we  are  arrived  at  the 
subject  in  hand — Mr.  John  Leech  and  his  "  Pictures  of  Life  and 
Character,"  in  the  collection  of  Mr.  Punch.  This  book  is  better 
than  plum-cake  at  Christmas.  It  is  an  enduring  plum-cake,  which 
you  may  eat  and  which  you  may  slice  and  deliver  to  your  friends ; 
and  to  which,  having  cut  it,  you  may  come  again  and  welcome,  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end.  In  the  frontispiece  you  see  Mr.  Punch 
examining  the  pictures  in  his  gallery —  a  portly,  well-dressed,  middle- 
aged,  respectable  gentleman,  in  a  white  neckcloth,  and  a  polite 
evening  costume — smiling  in  a  very  bland  and  agreeable  manner 


486  CKITIOAL    REVIEWS 

upon  one  of  his  pleasant  drawings,  taken  out  of  one  of  his  hand- 
some portfolios.  Mr.  Punch  has  very  good  reason  to  smile  at  the 
■work  and  be  satisfied  with  the  artist.  Mr.  Leech,  his  chief  con- 
tributor, and  some  kindred  humorists,  with  pencil  and  pen  have 
served  Mr.  Punch  admirably.  Time  was,  if  we  remember  Mr.  P.'s 
history  rightly,  that  he  did  not  wear  silk  stockings  nor  well-made 
clothes  (the  little  dorsal  irregularity  in  his  figure  is  almost  an 
ornament  now,  so  excellent  a  tailor  has  he).  He  was  of  humble 
beginnings.  It  is  said  he  kept  a  ragged  little  booth,  which  he  put 
up  at  corners  of  streets ;  associated  with  beadles,  policemen,  his  own 
ugly  wife  (whom  he  treated  most  scandalously),  and  persons  in  a 
low  station  of  life  ;  earning  a  precarious  livelihood  by  the  cracking 
of  wild  jokes,  the  singing  of  ribald  songs,  and  half-pence  extorted 
from  passers-by.  He  is  the  Satyric  genius  we  spoke  of  anon :  he 
cracks  his  jokes  still,  for  satire  must  live ;  but  he  is  combed,  washed, 
neatly  clothed,  and  perfectly  presentable.  He  goes  into  the  very 
best  company ;  he  keeps  a  stud  at  Melton ;  he  has  a  moor  in 
Scotland  ;  he  rides  in  the  Park ;  has  his  stall  at  the  Opera ;  is 
constantly  dining  out  at  clubs  and  in  private  society ;  and  goes 
every  night  in  the  season  to  balls  and  parties,  where  you  see  the 
most  beautiful  women  possible.  He  is  welcomed  amongst  his  new 
friends  the  great ;  though,  like  the  good  old  English  gentleman  of 
the  song,  he  does  not  forget  the  small.  He  pats  the  heads  of  street 
boys  and  girls ;  relishes  the  jokes  of  Jack  the  costermonger  and  Bob 
the  dustman ;  good-naturedly  spies  out  Molly  the  cook  flirting  with 
policeman  X,  or  Mary  the  nursemaid  as  she  listens  to  the  fascinating 
guardsman.  He  used  rather  to  laugh  at  guardsmen,  "  plungers," 
and  other  military  men ;  and  was  until  latter  days  very  contemp- 
tuous in  his  behaviour  towards  Frenchmen.  He  has  a  natural 
antipathy  to  pomp,  and  swagger,  and  fierce  demeanour.  But  now 
that  the  guardsmen  are  gone  to  war,  and  the  dandies  of  "  The  Rag  " 
— dandies  no  more — are  battling  like  heroes  at  Balaklava  and 
Inkerraann  *  by  the  side  of  their  heroic  allies,  Mr.  Punch's  laughter 
is  changed  to  hearty  respect  and  enthusiasm.  It  is  not  against 
courage  and  honour  he  wars  :  but  this  great  moralist — must  it  be 
owned  ? — has  some  popular  British  prejudices,  and  these  led  him  in 
peace  time  to  laugh  at  soldiers  and  Frenchmen.  If  those  hulking 
footmen  who  accompanied  the  carriages  to  the  opening  of  Parliament 
the  other  day,  would  form  a  plush  brigade,  wear  only  gunpowder  in 
their  hair,  and  strike  with  their  great  canes  on  the  enemy,  Mr. 
Punch  would  leave  off  laughing  at  Jeames,  who  meanwhile  re- 
mains among  us,  to  all  outward  appearance  regardless  of  satire, 
and  calmly  consuming  his  five  meals  per  diem.     Against  lawyers, 

*  This  was  written  in  1854. 


PICTUEES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER     487 

beadles,  bishops  and  clergy,  and  authorities,  Mr.  Punch  is  still  rather 
bitter.  At  the  time  of  the  Papal  aggression  he  was  prodigiously- 
angry  ;  and  one  of  the  chief  misfortunes  which  happened  to  him  at 
that  period  was  that,  through  the  violent  opinions  which  he  expressed 
regarding  the  Roman  Catholic  hierarchy,  he  lost  the  invaluable 
services,  the  graceful  pencil,  the  harmless  wit,  the  charming  fancy 
of  Mr.  Doyle.  Another  member  of  Mr.  Punch's  cabinet,  the 
biographer  of  Jeames,  the  author  of  the  "  Snob  Papers,"  resigned 
his  functions  on  account  of  Mr.  Punch's  assaults  upon  the  present 
Emperor  of  the  French  nation,  whose  anger  Jeames  thought  it  was 
unpatriotic  to  arouse.  Mr.  Punch  parted  with  these  contributors : 
he  filled  their  places  with  others  as  good.  The  boys  at  the  railroad 
stations  cried  Punch  just  as  cheerily,  and  sold  just  as  many  numbers, 
after  these  events  as  before. 

There  is  no  blinking  the  fact  that  in  Mr.  Punch's  cabinet  John 
Leech  is  the  right-hand  man.  Fancy  a  number  of  Punch  with- 
out Leech's  pictures  !  What  would  you  give  for  it  ■?  The  learned 
gentlemen  who  write  the  work  must  feel  that,  without  him,  it 
were  as  well  left  alone.  Look  at  the  rivals  whom  the  popularity 
of  Punch  has  brought  into  the  field ;  the  direct  imitators  of  Mr. 
Leech's  manner — the  artists  with  a  manner  of  their  own — how 
inferior  their  pencils  are  to  his  in  humour,  in  depicting  the  public 
manners,  in  arresting,  amusing  the  nation.  The  truth,  the  strength, 
the  free  vigour,  the  kind  humour,  the  John  Bull  pluck  and  spirit 
of  that  hand  are  approached  by  no  competitor.  With  what 
dexterity  he  draws  a  horse,  a  woman,  a  child  !  He  feels  them  all, 
so  to  speak,  like  a  man.  What  plump  young  beauties  those  are 
with  which  Mr.  Punch's  chief  contributor  supplies  the  old  gentle- 
man's pictorial  harem !  What  famous  thews  and  sinews  Mr. 
Punch's  horses  have,  and  how  Briggs,  on  the  back  of  them, 
scampers  across  country !  You  see  youth,  strength,  enjoyment, 
manliness  in  those  drawings,  and  in  none  more  so,  to  our  thinking, 
than  in  the  hundred  pictures  of  children  which  this  artist  loves  to 
design.  Like  a  brave,  hearty,  good-natured  Briton,  he  becomes 
quite  soft  and  tender  with  the  little  creatures,  pats  gently  their 
little  golden  heads,  and  watches  with  unfailing  pleasure -their  ways, 
their  sports,  their  jokes,  laughter,  caresses.  Enfans  terribles  come 
home  from  Eton ;  young  Miss  practising  her  first  flirtation ;  poor 
little  ragged  Polly  making  dirt-pies  in  the  gutter,  or  staggering 
under  the  weight  of  Jacky,  her  nurse-child,  who  is  as  big  as  herself 
— all  these  little  ones,  patrician  and  plebeian,  meet  with  kindness 
from  this  kind  heart,  and  are  watched  with  curious  nicety  by  this 
amiable  observer. 

We  remember,  in  one  of  those  ancient  Gilray  portfolios,  a  print 


488  CRITICAL    REVIEWS 

which  used  to  cause  a  sort  of  terror  in  us  youthful  spectators,  and 
in  which  the  Prince  of  Wales  (his  Royal  Highness  was  a  Foxite 
then)  was  represented  as  sitting  alone  in  a  magnificent  hall  after  a 
voluptuous  meal,  and  using  a  great  steel  fork  in  the  guise  of  a  tooth- 
pick. Fancy  the  first  young  gentleman  living  employing  such  a 
weapon  in  such  a  way  !  The  most  elegant  Prince  of  Europe  engaged 
with  a  two-pronged  iron  fork — the  heir  of  Britannia  with  a  bident ! 
The  man  of  genius  who  drew  that  picture  saw  little  of  the  society 
which  he  satirised  and  amused.  Gilray  watched  pubhc  characters 
as  they  walked  by  the  shop  in  St.  James's  Street,  or  passed  through 
the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons.  His  studio  was  a  garret,  or 
little  better;  his  place  of  amusement  a  tavern-parlour,  where  his 
club  held  its  nightly  sittings  over  their  pipes  and  sanded  floor. 
You  could  not  have  society  represented  by  men  to  whom  it  was  not 
familiar.  When  Gavami  came  to  England  a  few  years  since — one 
of  the  wittiest  of  men,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  dexterous  of 
draughtsmen — he  published  a  book  of  "  Les  Anglais,"  and  his 
Anglais  were  all  Frenchmen.  The  eye,  so  keen  and  so  long  prac- 
tised to  observe  Parisian  life,  could  not  perceive  English  character. 
A  social  painter  must  be  of  the  world  which  he  depicts,  and 
native  to  the  manners  which  he  portrays. 

Now,  any  one  who  looks  over  Mr.  Leech's  portfolio  must  see 
that  the  social  pictures  which  he  gives  us  are  authentic.  What 
comfortable  little  drawing-rooms  and  dining-rooms,  what  snug 
libraries  we  enter;  what  fine  young-gentlemanly  wags  they  are, 
those  beautiful  little  dandies  who  wake  up  gouty  old  grandpapa  to 
ring  the  bell ;  who  decline  amit's  pudding  and  custards,  saying  that 
they  will  reserve  themselves  for  an  anchovy  toast  with  the  claret ; 
who  talk  together  in  ball-room  doors,  where  Fred  whispers  Charley 
— pointing  to  a  dear  little  partner  seven  years  old — "My  dear 
Charley,  she  has  very  much  gone  off';  you  should  have  seen  that 
girl  last  season ! "  Look  well  at  everything  appertaining  to  the 
economy  of  the  famous  Mr.  Briggs  :  how  snug,  quiet,  appropriate 
all  the  appointments  are  !  What  a  comfortable,  neat,  clean,  middle- 
class  house  Briggs's  is  (in  the  Bayswater  suburb  of  London,  we 
should  guess  from  the  sketches  of  the  surrounding  scenery) !  What 
a  good  stable  he  has,  with  a  loose-box  for  those  celebrated  hunters 
which  he  rides  !  How  pleasant,  clean,  and  warm  his  breakfast- 
table  looks !  What  a  trim  little  maid  brings  in  the  top-boots  which 
horrify  Mrs.  B.  !  What  a  snug  dressing-room  he  has,  complete  in 
all  its  appointments,  and  in  which  he  appears  trying  on  the 
delightful  hunting-cap  which  Mrs.  Briggs  flings  into  the  fire  !  How 
cosy  all  the  Briggs  party  seem  in  their  dining-room  :  Briggs  reading 
a  Treatise  on  Dog-breaking  by  a  lamp ;  Mamma  and  Grannie  with 


PICTURES    OF    LIFE   AND    CHARACTER     489 

their  respective  needleworks ;  the  children  clustering  round  a  great 
book  of  prints — a  great  book  of  prints  such  as  this  before  us,  which 
at  this  season  must  make  thousands  of  children  happy  by  as  many 
firesides  !  The  inner  life  of  all  these  people  is  represented  :  Leech 
draws  them  as  naturally  as  Teniers  depicts  Dutch  boors,  or  Morland 
pigs  and  stables.  It  is  your  house  and  mine :  we  are  looking  at 
everybody's  family  circle.  Our  boys  coming  from  school  give  them- 
selves such  airs,  the  young  scapegraces !  our  girls,  going  to  parties, 
are  so  tricked  out  by  fond  mammas — a  social  history  of  London  in 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century.  As  such,  future  students — 
lucky  they  to  have  a  book  so  pleasant — will  regard  these  pages : 
even  the  mutations  of  fashion  they  may  follow  here  if  they  be  so 
inclined.  Mr.  Leech  has  as  fine  an  eye  for  tailory  and  millinery  as 
for  horse-flesh.  How  they  change  those  cloaks  and  bonnets.  How 
we  have  to  pay  milliners'  bills  from  year  to  year !  Where  are  those 
prodigious  ch3,telaines  of  1850  which  no  lady  could  be  without? 
Where  those  charming  waistcoats,  those  "stunning"  waistcoats, 
which  our  young  girls  used  to  wear  a  few  brief  seasons  back,  and 
whic'h  cause  'Gus,  in  the  sweet  little  sketch  of  "  La  Mode,"  to  ask 
Ellen  for  her  tailor's  address?  'Gus  is  a  young  warrior  by  this 
time,  very  likely  facing  the  enemy  at  Inkermann ;  and  pretty  Ellen, 
and  that  love  of  a  sister  of  hers,  are  married  and  happy,  let  us 
hope,  superintending  one  of  those  dehglitful  nursery  scenes  which 
our  artist  depicts  with  such  tender  humour.  Fortunate  artist, 
indeed  !  You  see  he  must  have  been  bred  at  a  good  public  school ; 
that  he  has  ridden  many  a  good  horse  in  his  day ;  paid,  no  doubt, 
out  of  his  own  purse  for  the  originals  of  some  of  those  lovely  caps 
and  bonnets ;  and  watched  paternally  the  ways,  smiles,  frolics,  and 
slumbers  of  his  favourite  little  people. 

As  you  look  at  the  drawings,  secrets  come  out  of  them, — 
private  jokes,  as  it  were,  imparted  to  you  by  the  author  for  your 
special  delectation.  How  remarkably,  for  instance,  has  Mr. 
Leech  observed  the  hair-dressers  of  the  present  age !  Look  at 
"Mr.  Tongs,"  whom  that  hideous  old  bald  woman,  who  ties  on 
her  bonnet  at  the  glass,  informs  that  "she  has  used  the  whole 
bottle  of  Balm  of  California,  but  her  hair  comes  off  yet."  You 
can  see  the  bear's-grease  not  only  on  Tongs'  head  but  on  his  hands, 
which  he  is  clapping  clammily  together.  Remark  him  who  is 
telling  his  client  "  there  is  cholera  in  the  hair " ;  and  that  lucky 
rogue  whom  the  young  lady  bids  to  cut  off  "  a  long  thick  piece  " — 
for  somebody,  doubtless.  All  these  men  are  diff'erent,  and  delight- 
frilly  natural  and  absurd.  Why  should  hair-dressing  be  an  absurd 
profession  1 

The  amateur  will  remark  what  an  excellent  part  hands  play  in 


^go  CRITICAL   REVIEWS 

Mr.  Leech's  pieces;  his  admirable  actors  use  them  with  perfect 
naturahiess.  Look  at  Betty,  putting  the  urn  down;  at  cook, 
laying  her  hands  on  the  kitchen  table,  whilst  her  policeman 
grumbles  at  the  cold  meat.  They  are  cook's  and  housemaid's 
hands  without  mistake,  and  not  without  a  certain  beauty  too. 
The  bald  old  lady,  who  is  tying  her  bonnet  at  Tongs',  has  hands 
which  you  see  are  trembling.  Watch  the  fingers  of  the  two 
old  harridans  who  are  talking  scandal :  for  what  long  years  past 
they  have  pointed  out  holes  in  their  neighbours'  dresses  and  mud 
on  their  flounces.  "  Here's  a  go !  I've  lost  my  diamond  ring." 
As  the  dustman  utters  this  pathetic  cry,  and  looks  at  his  hand, 
you  burst  out  laughing.  These  are  among  the  little  points  of 
humour.  One  could  indicate  hundreds  of  such  as  one  turns  over 
the  pleasant  pages. 

There  is  a  little  snob  or  gent,  whom  we  all  of  us  know,  who 
wears  little  tufts  on  his  little  chin,  outrageous  pins  and  panta- 
loons, smokes  cigars  on  tobacconists'  counters,  sucks  his  cane  in 
the  streets,  struts  about  with  Mrs.  Snob  and  the  baby  (Mrs.  S. 
an  immense  woman,  whom  Snob  nevertheless  bullies),  who  is 
a  favourite  abomination  of  Leech,  and  pursued  by  that  savage 
humorist  into  a  thousand  of  his  haunts.  There  he  is,  choosing 
waistcoats  at  the  tailor's — such  waistcoats  !  Yonder  he  is  giving 
a  shilling  to  the  sweeper  who  calls  him  "Capting";  now  he  is 
offering  a  paletot  to  a  liuge  giant  who  is  going  out  in  the  rain. 
They  don't  know  their  own  pictures,  very  likely ;  if  they  did, 
they  would  have  a  meeting,  and  thirty  or  forty  of  them  would  be 
deputed  to  tlirash  Mr.  Leech.  One  feels  a  pity  for  the  poor  little 
bucks.  In  a  minute  or  two,  when  we  close  this  discourse  and 
walk  the  streets,  we  shall  see  a  dozen  such. 

Ere  we  shut  the  desk  up,  just  one  word  to  point  out  to  the 
unwary  specially  to  note  the  backgrounds  of  landscapes  in  Leech's 
drawings — homely  drawings  of  moor  and  wood,  and  seashore  and 
London  street — the  scenes  of  his  little  dramas.  They  are  as 
excellently  true  to  nature  as  the  actors  themselves ;  our  respect 
for  the  genius  and  humour  which  invented  both  increases  as  we 
look  and  look  again  at  the  designs.  May  we  have  more  of  them  ; 
more  pleasant  Christmas  volumes,  over  which  we  and  our  children 
can  laugh  together.  Can  we  have  too  much  of  truth,  and  fun, 
and  beauty,  and  kindness  t 


TALES 


TALES 


THE   PROFESSOR 

A   TALE   OF   SENTIMENT 
"  Why,  then,  the  World's  mine  oyster." 

CHAPTER   I 

I  HAVE  often  remarked  that,  among  other  ornaments  and 
curiosities,  Hackney  contains  more  ladies'  schoob  than  are  to 
be  found  in  almost  any  other  village,  or  indeed  city,  in  Europe. 
In  every  green  rustic  lane,  to  every  tall  old-fashioned  house  there 
is  an  iron  gate,  an  ensign  of  blue  and  gold,  and  a  large  brass  plate, 
proclaiming  that  a  ladies'  seminary  is  established  upon  the  premises. 
On  one  of  these  plates  is  written — (or  rather  was, — for  the  pathetic 
occurrence  which  I  have  to  relate  took  place  many  years  ago) — on 
one  of  these  plates,  I  say,  was  engraven  the  following  inscription  : — 

"BULGAEIA  HOUSE. 
Seminary  for  Young  Ladies  from  three  to  twenty. 

BY   THE   MISSES   PIDGE. 

(Please  wipe  your  shoes.)  " 

The  Misses  Pidge  took  a  limited  number  of  young  ladies  (as 
limited,  in  fact,  or  as  large  as  the  public  chose),  and  instructed 
them  in  those  branches  of  elegant  and  useful  learning  which  make 
the  British  female  so  superior  to  all  other  shes.  The  younger  ones 
learned  the  principles  of  back-stitch,  cross-stitch,  bob-stitch.  Doctor 
Watts's  Hymns,  and  "  In  my  Cottage  near  a  Wood."  The  elder 
pupils  diverged  at  once  from  stitching  and  samplers  :  they  played 
like  Thalberg,  and  pirouetted  like  Taglioni ;  they  learned  geography. 


494  TALES 

geology,  mythology,  entomology,  modern  history,  and  simple  equar 
tions  (Miss  Z.  Pidge) ;  they  obtained  a  complete  knowledge  of  the 
French,  German,  and  Italian  tongues,  not  including  English,  taught 
by  Miss  Pidge ;  Poonah  painting  and  tambour  (Miss  E.  Pidge) ; 
Brice's  questions  and  elocution  (Miss  F.  Pidge) ;  and,  to  crown  all, 
dancing  and  gymnastics  (which  had  a  very  flourishing  look  in  the 
Pidge  prospectus,  and  were  printed  in  German  text),  dancing  and 
GYMNASTICS,  WO  Say,  by  Professor  Dandolo.  The  names  of  other 
professors  and  assistants  followed  in  modester  type. 

Although  the  Signer's  name  was  decidedly  foreign,  so  English 
was  his  appearance,  and  so  entirely  did  he  disguise  his  accent,  that 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  of  what  place  he  was  a  native,  if  not  of 
London,  and  of  the  very  heart  of  it ;  for  he  had  caught  completely 
the  peculiarities  which  distinguish  the  so-called  cockney  part  of  the 
City,  and  obliterated  his  h's  and  doubled  his  v's,  as  if  he  had  been 
for  all  his  life  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bow  bells.  Signer  Dandolo 
was  a  stout  gentleman  of  five  feet  nine,  with  amazing  expanse  of 
mouth,  chest,  and  whiskers,  which  latter  were  of  a  red  hue. 

I  cannot  tell  how  this  individual  first  received  an  introduction 
to  the  academy  of  the  Misses  Pidge,  and  established  himself  there. 
Rumours  say  that  Miss  Zela  Pidge  at  a  Hackney  ball  first  met 
him,  and  thus  the  intimacy  arose  :  but,  since  the  circumstances  took 
place  which  I  am  about  to  relate,  that  young  lady  declares  that  she 
was  not  the  person  who  brought  him  to  Bulgaria  House, — nothing 
but  the  infatuation  and  entreaties  of  Mrs.  Alderman  Grampus  could 
ever  have  induced  her  to  receive  him.  The  reader  will  gather  from 
this,  that  Dandolo's  after-conduct  at  Miss  Pidge's  was  not  satis- 
factory, nor  was  it ;  and  may  every  mistress  of  such  an  establish- 
ment remember  that  confidence  can  be  sometimes  misplaced ;  that 
friendship  is  frequently  but  another  name  for  villainy. 

But  to  our  story.  The  stalwart  and  active  Dandolo  delighted 
for  some  time  the  young  ladies  at  Miss  Pidge's  by  the  agility  which 
he  displayed  in  the  dance,  as  well  as  the  strength  and  manliness  of 
his  form,  as  exhibited  in  the  new  amusement  which  he  taught.  In 
a  very  short  time.  Miss  Binx,  a  stout  young  lady  of  seventeen,  who 
had  never  until  his  appearance  walked  half  a  mile  without  pufiing 
like  an  apoplectic  Lord  Mayor,  could  dance  the  cachuca,  swarm 
up  a  pole  with  the  agility  of  a  cat,  and  hold  out  a  chair  for  three 
minutes  without  winking.  Miss  Jacobs  could  very  nearly  climb 
through  a  ladder  (Jacob's  ladder,  he  profanely  called  it) ;  and  Miss 
Bole  ring  such  changes  upon  the  dumb-bells  as  might  have  been 
heard  at  Edmonton,  if  the  bells  could  have  spoken.  But  the  most 
promising  pupil  of  Professor  Dandolo,  as  indeed  the  fairest  young 
creature  in  the  establishment  of  Bulgaria  House,  was  Miss  Adeliza 


THE    PEOFESSOR  495 

Grampus,  daughter  of  the  alderman  whose  name  we  have  mentioned. 
The  pride  of  her  mother,  the  idol  of  her  opulent  father,  Adeliza 
Grampus  was  in  her  nineteenth  year.  Eyes  have  often  been 
described ;  but  it  would  require  bluer  ink  than  ours  to  depict  the 
orbs  of  Adeliza.  The  snow  when  it  first  falls  in  Cheapside  is  not 
whiter  than  her  neck, — when  it  has  been  for  some  days  upon  the 
ground,  trampled  by  dustmen  and  jarvies,  trodden  down  by  sweeps 
and  gentlemen  going  to  business,  not  blacker  than  her  hair.  Slim 
as  the  Monument  on  Fish  Street  Hill,  her  form  was  slender  and 
tall :  but  it  is  needless  to  recapitulate  her  charms,  and  difiicult 
indeed  to  describe  them.  Let  the  reader  think  of  his  first  love, 
and  fancy  Adeliza.  Dandolo,  who  was  employed  to  instruct  her, 
saw  her,  and  fancied  her  too,  as  many  a  fellow  of  his  inflammable 
temperament  would  have  done  in  his  place. 

There  are  few  situations  in  life  which  can  be  so  improved  by 
an  enterprising  mind  as  that  of  a  dancing-master, — I  mean  in  a 
tender  or  amatory  point  of  view.  The  dancing-master  has  over  the 
back,  the  hands,  the  feet  and  shoulders  of  his  pupils  an  absolute 
command ;  and,  being  by  nature  endowed  with  so  much  authority, 
can  speedily  spread  his  way  from  the  limbs  to  the  rest  of  the  body, 
and  to  the  mind  inclusive.  "  Toes  a  little  more  out,  Miss  Adeliza" 
cries  he,  with  the  tenderest  air  in  the  world :  "  back  a  little  more 
straight,"  and  he  gently  seizes  her  hand,  he  raises  it  considerably 
above  the  level  of  her  ear,  he  places  the  tips  of  his  left-)iand  fingers 
gently  upon  the  young  lady's  spine,  and  in  this  seducing  attitude 
gazes  tenderly  into  her  eyes  !  I  say  that  no  woman  at  any  age 
can  stand  this  attitude  and  this  look,  especially  when  darted  from 
such  eyes  as  those  of  Dandolo.  On  tlie  two  fii-st  occasions  when 
the  adventurer  attempted  this  audacious  manoeuvre,  his  victim 
blushed  only,  and  trembled;  on  the  third,  she  dropped  her  full 
eyelids  and  turned  ghastly  pale.  "  A  glass  of  water,"  cried  Adeliza, 
"or  I  faint."  The  danchig-master  hastened  eagerly  away  to  pro- 
cure the  desired  beverage,  and,  as  he  put  it  to  her  lips,  whispered 
thrillingly  in  her  ear,  "  Thine,  thine  for  ever,  Adeliza  ! " 

Miss  Grampus  sank  back  in  the  arras  of  Miss  Binx,  but  not 
before  her  raptured  lover  saw  her  eyes  turning  towards  the  ceiling, 
and  her  clammy  lips  whispering  the  name  of  "  Dandolo." 

When  Madame  Sohroeder,  in  the  opera  of  "FideHo,"  cries, 
"Nichts,  nichts,  mein  Florestan,"  it  is  as  nothing  compared  to  the 
tenderness  with  which  Miss  Grampus  uttered  that  soft  name. 

"  Dandolo  ! "  would  she  repeat  to  her  confidante,  Miss  Binx ; 
"the  name  was  beautiful  and  glorious  in  the  olden  days;  five 
hundred  years  since,  a  myriad  of  voices  shouted  it  in  Venice,  when 
one  who  bore  it  came  forward  to  wed  the  soa^-the  doge's  byide ! 


4,96  TALES 

the  blue  Adriatic  !  the  boundless  and  eternal  main  !  The  frightened 
Turk  shrank  palsied  at  the  sound ;  it  was  louder  than  the  loudest 
of  the  cannon,  or  the  stormy  screaming  of  the  tempest !  Dandolo  ! 
How  many  brave  hearts  beat  to  hear  that  name  !  how  many  bright 
swords  flashed  forth  at  that  resistless  war-cry  !  Oh,  Binx  !  "  would 
Adeliza  continue,  fondly  pressing  the  arm  of  that  young  lady,  "is 
it  not  passing  strange  that  one  of  that  mighty  ducal  race  should 
have  lived  to  this  day,  and  lived  to  love  me  ?  But  I,  too,"  Adeliza 
would  add  archly,  "  am,  as  you  know,  a  daughter  of  the  sea." 

The  fact  was,  that  the  father  of  Miss  Adeliza  Grampus  was  a 
shell-fishmonger,  which  induced  the  young  lady  to  describe  herself 
as  a  daughter  of  Ocean.  She  received  her  romantic  name  from  her 
mother,  after  reading  Miss  Swipes's  celebrated  novel  of  "  Toby  of 
Warsaw  " ;  and  had  been  fed  from  her  youth  upwards  with  so  much 
similar  literary  ware,  that  her  little  mind  had  gone  distracted. 
Her  father  had  sent  her  from  home  at  fifteen,  because  she  had 
fallen  in  love  with  the  young  man  who  opened  natives  in  the  shop, 
and  had  vowed  to  slay  herself  with  the  oyster-knife ;  at  Miss 
Pidge's  her  sentiment  had  not  deserted  her;  she  knew  all  Miss 
Landon  by  heart,  had  a  lock  of  Mr.  Thomas  Moore's  hair  or  wig, 
and  read  more  novels  and  poetry  than  ever.  And  thus  the  red- 
haired  dancing-master  became  in  her  eyes  a  Venetian  nobleman, 
with  wliom  it  was  her  pride  and  pleasure  to  fall  in  love. 

Being  a  parlour-boarder  at  Miss  Pidge's  seminary  (a  privilege 
which  was  acquired  by  paying  five  annual  guineas  extra).  Miss 
Grampus  was  permitted  certain  liberties  which  were  not  accorded 
to  scholars  of  the  ordinary  description.  She  and  Miss  Binx  occa- 
sionally strolled  into  the  village  by  themselves ;  they  visited  the 
library  unattended ;  they  went  upon  little  messages  for  the  Misses 
Pidge  ;  they  walked  to  church  alone,  either  before  or  after  the  long 
row  of  young  virgins  who  streamed  out  on  every  Sabbath  day  from 
between  the  filigree  iron  railings  of  Bulgaria  House.  It  is  my 
painful  duty  to  state,  that  on  several  of  these  exclusive  walks  they 
were  followed,  or  met,  by  the  insidious  and  attentive  teacher  of 
gymnastics. 

Soon  Miss  Binx  would  lag  behind,  and — shall  I  own  it  ? — would 
make  up  for  the  lost  society  of  her  female  friend  by  the  company  of 
a  man,  a  friend  of  the  Professor,  mysterious  and  agreeable  as  him- 
self. May  the  mistresses  of  all  the  estabhshments  for  young  ladies 
in  this  kingdom,  or  queendom  rather,  peruse  this,  and  reflect  how 
dangerous  it  is  for  young  ladies  of  any  age — ay,  even  for  parlour 
boarders — to  go  out  alone  !  In  the  present  instance  Miss  Grampus 
enjoyed  a  more  than  ordinary  liberty,  it  is  true :  when  the  elder 
Miss  Pidge  would  remonstrate,  Miss  Zela  would  anxiously  yield  to 


THE    PROFESSOR  497 

her  request;  and  why? — the  reason  may  be  gathered  from  the 
following  conversation  which  passed  between  the  infatuated  girl 
and  the  wily  maiire-de-danse. 

"  How,  Roderick,"  would  Adeliza  say,  "  how,  in  the  days  of 
our  first  acquaintance,  did  it  chance  that  you  always  addressed 
yourself  to  that  odious  Zela  Pidge,  and  never  deigned  to  breathe  a 
syllable  to  me  1 " 

"  My  lips  didn't  speak  to  you,  Addly  "  (for  to  such  a  pitch  of 
familiarity  had  they  arrived),  "  but  my  heyes  did." 

Adeliza  was  not  astonished  by  the  peculiarity  of  his  pronun- 
ciation, for,  to  say  truth,  it  was  that  commonly  adopted  in  her 
native  home  and  circle.  "And  mine,"  said  she  tenderly,  "they 
followed  when  yours  were  not  fixed  upon  them,  for  then  I  dared  not 
look  upwards.  And  though  all  on  account  of  Miss  Pidge  you  could 
not  hear  the  accents  of  my  voice,  you  might  have  heard  the  beatings 
of  my  heart ! " 

"  I  did,  I  did,"  gasped  Roderick ;  "  I  'eard  them  haudibly.  I 
never  spoke  to  you  then,  for  I  feared  to  waken  that  foul  fiend 
sispicion.  I  wished  to  henter  your  seminary,  to  be  continually 
near  you,  to  make  you  love  me ;  therefore  I  wooed  the  easy  and 
foolish  Miss  Pidge,  therefore  I  took  upon  me  the  disguise  of — ha  ! 
ha! — of  a  dancing-master."  (And  the  young  man's  countenance 
assumed  a  grim  and  demoniac  smile.)  "  Yes ;  I  degraded  my  name 
and  my  birthright — I  wore  these  ignoble  trappings,  and  all  for  the 
love  of  thee,  my  Adeliza  !  "  Here  Signor  Dandolo  would  have  knelt 
down,  but  the  road  was  muddy ;  and,  his  trousers  being  of  nankeen, 
his  gallant  purpose  was  frustrated. 

But  the  story  must  out,  for  the  conversation  above  narrated  has 
betrayed  to  the  intelligent  reader  a  considerable  part  of  it.  The 
fact  is,  as  we  have  said,  that  Miss  Zela  Pidge,  dancing  at  the 
Hackney  assembly,  was  introduced  to  this  man ;  that  he  had  no 
profession — no  means  even  of  subsistence ;  that  he  saw  enough  of 
this  lady  to  be  aware  that  he  could  make  her  useful  to  his  purpose ; 
and  he  who  had  been,  we  believe  it  in  our  conscience,  nn  better 
than  a  travelling  moimtebank  or  harlequin,  appeared  at  Bulgaria 
House  in  the  character  of  a  professor  of  gymnastics.  The  gover- 
ness, in  the  first  instance,  entertained  for  him  just  such  a  penchant 
as  the  pupil  afterwards  felt :  the  latter  discovered  the  weakness  of 
her  mistress,  and  hence  arose  Miss  Pidge's  indulgence,  and  Miss 
Grampus's  fatal  passion. 

"  Mysterious  being  !  "  continued  Adeliza,  resuming  the  conversa- 
tion which  has  been  broken  by  the  above  explanatory  hints,  "  how  did 
I  learn  to  love  thee  ?  Who  art  thou  ? — ^what  dire  fate  has  brought 
thee  hither  iu  this  lowly  guise  to  win  the  heart  of  Adeliza  1 " 


498  TALES 

"Hadeliza,"  cried  he,  "you  say  well;  /  am  not  ivhat  I  seem. 
I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  am  ;  a  tale  of  horror,  of  crime,  forbids 
the  dreadful  confession  !  But  dark  as  I  am,  and  wretched,  nay, 
wicked  and  desperate,  I  love  thee,  Hadeliza — love  thee  with  the 
rapturous  devotion  of  purer  days — the  tenderness  of  happier  times  ! 
I  am  sad  now,  and  fallen,  lady  ;  suffice  it  that  I  once  was  happy, 
ay,  respectable." 

Adeliza's  cheek  grew  deadly  pale,  her  step  faltered,  and  she 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  had  she  not  been  restrained  by 
the  strong  arm  of  her  lover.  "  I  know  not,"  said  she,  as  she  clung 
timidly  to  his  neck, — 

"  I  know  not,  I  hask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  art, 
I  know  tliat  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  hart." 

''Gilt  in  my  heart,"  said  Dandola,  "gilt  in  the  heart  of 
Roderick  1  No,  never ! "  and  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and  on 
her  bonnet,  her  veil,  her  gloves,  nay,  on  her  very  cheeks,  he  im- 
printed a  thousand  maddening  kisses.  "  But  say,  my  sweet  one," 
continued  he,  "who  art  thou?  I  know  you  as  yet  only  by  your 
lovely  baptismal  name,  and  your  other  name  of  Grampus." 

Adeliza  looked  down  and  blushed.  "  My  parents  are  lowly," 
she  said. 

"  But  how,  then,  came  you  at  such  a  seminary  1 "  said  he ; 
"  twenty  pound  a  quarter,  extras  and  washing  not  included." 

"  They  are  humble,  but  wealthy." 

"Ha!  who  is  your  father?" 

"  An  alderman  of  yon  metropolis." 

"  An  alderman  !  and  what  is  his  profession  1 " 

"  I  blush  to  tell :  he  is — an,  oi/stermonger." 

"  AN  OYSTERMONGER  !  "  "screamed  Roderick,  in  the  largest 
capitals.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  this  is  too  much  !  "  and  he  dropped 
Adeliza's  hand,  and  never  spoke  to  her  during  the  rest  of  her  walk. 
They  moved  moodily  on  for  some  time.  Miss  Binx  and  the  other 
young  man  marching  astonished  in  the  rear.  At  length  they  came 
within  sight  of  the  seminary.  "  Here  is  Bulgaria  House,"  cried  the 
maiden  steadily  ;  "  Roderick,  we  must  part !  "  The  effort  was  too 
much  for  her  ;  siie  flung  herself  hysterically  into  his  arms. 

But,  oh,  horror !  a  scream  was  heard  from  Miss  Binx,  who 
was  seen  scuttling  at  double-quick  time  towards  the  schoolhouse. 
Her  young  man  had  bolted  completely ;  and  close  at  the  side  of 
the  lovely,  though  imprudent  couple,  stood  the  angry — and  justly 
angry — Miss  Zela  Pidge  ! 

"Oh,  Ferdinand,"  said  she,  "is  it  thus  you  deceive  me?  Did 
I  bring  you  to  Bulgaria  House  for  tliis  ?-^did  I  give  you  money 


THE    PROFESSOR  499 

to  buy  clothes  for  this,  that  you  should  go  by  false  names,  and 
make  love  to  that  saucy,  slammerkin,  sentimental  Miss  Grampus  ? 
Ferdinand,  Ferdinand,"  cried  she,  "is  this  true?  can  I  credit  my 
eyes?" 

"  D your  eyes  ! "  said  the  Signer  angrily,  as  he  darted 

at  her  a  withering  look,  and  retired  down  the  street.  His  curses 
might  be  heard  long  after  he  had  passed.  He  never  appeared  more 
at  Bulgaria  House,  for  he  received  his  dismissal  the  next  day. 

That  night  all  the  front  windows  of  the  Miss  Pidges'  seminary 
were  smashed  to  shivers. 

On  the  following  Thursday,  two  places  were  taken  in  the  coach 
to  town.  On  the  back  seat  sate  the  usher;  on  the  front,  the 
wasted  and  miserable  Adeliza  Grampus. 


CHAPTER  II 

BUT  the  matter  did  not  end  here.  Miss  Grampus's  departure 
elicited  from  her  a  disclosure  of  several  circumstances  which, 
we  must  say,  in  no  degi'ee  increased  the  reputation  of  Miss 
Zela  Pidge.  The  discoveries  whicli  she  made  were  so  awkward, 
the  tale  of  crime  and  licentiousness  revealed  by  her  so  deeply 
injurious  to  the  character  of  the  establishment,  that  the  pupils 
emigrated  from  it  in  scores.  Miss  Binx  retired  to  lier  friends  at 
Wandsworth,  Miss  .Jacobs  to  her  lelatious  in  Houndsditch,  and 
other  young  ladies,  not  mentioned  in  this  history,  to  other  and 
more  moral  schools  ;  so  that  absolutely,  at  the  end  of  a  single  half- 
year,  such  had  been  the  scandal  of  the  story,  the  Misses  Pidge 
were  left  with  only  two  pupils — Miss  Dibble,  the  articled  young 
lady,  and  Miss  Bole,  the  .^Tocer's  daughter,  who  came  in  exchange 
for  tea,  candles,  and  other  requisites  supplied  to  the  establishment 
by  her  father. 

"  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  "  cried  Zela  passionately,  as  she  trod 
the  echoing  and  melancholy  schoolroom ;  "  he  told  me  that  none 
ever  prospered  who  loved  him — that  every  flower  was  blighted  upon 
which  he  shone  !  Ferdinand  !  Ferdinand,  you  have  caused  ruin 
there  1 "  (pointing  to  the  empty  cupboards  and  forms) ;  "  but  what 
is  that  to  the  blacker  niin  here  ?  "  and  the  poor  creature  slapped 
her  heart,  and  the  big  tears  rolled  down  her  chin,  and  so  into 
her  tucker. 


500  TALES 

A  very  very  few  weeks  after  this,  the  plate  on  Bulgaria  House 
was  removed  for  ever.  That  mansion  is  now  designated  "  Moscow 
Hall,  by  Mr.  Swishtail  and  assistants  :  " — ihe  bankrupt  and  fugitive 
Misses  Pidge  have  fled,  Heaven  knows  whither  !  for  the  steamers  to 
Boulogne  cost  more  than  five  shillings  in  those  days. 

Alderman  G-rampus,  as  may  be  imagined,  did  not  receive  his 
daughter  with  any  extraordinary  degree  of  courtesy.  "  He  was  as 
grumpy,"  Mrs.  G.  remarked,  "  on  the  occasion  as  a  sow  with  the 
measles."  But  had  he  not  reason?  A  lovely  daughter  who  had 
neglected  her  education,  forgotten  her  morals  for  the  second  time, 
and  fallen  almost  a  prey  to  villains  !  Miss  Grampus  for  some 
months  was  kept  in  close  confinement,  nor  ever  suflered  to  stir, 
except  occasionally  to  Bunhill  Row  for  air,  and  to  church  for 
devotion.  Still,  though  she  knew  him  to  be  false, — though  she 
knew  that  under  a  different,  perhaps  a  prettier  name,  he  had  offered 
the  same  vows  to  another — she  could  not  but  think  of  Roderick. 

That  Professor  (as  well — too  well — he  may  be  called !)  knew 
too  well  her  father's  name  and  reputation  to  experience  any  diffi- 
culty in  finding  his  abode.  It  was,  as  every  City  man  knows,  in 
Oheapside ;  and  thither  Dandolo  constantly  bent  his  steps ;  but 
though  he  marched  unceasingly  about  the  mansion,  he  never 
(mysteriously)  would  pass  it.  He  watched  Adeliza  walking,  he 
followed  her  to  church ;  and  many  and  many  a  time  as  she  jostled 
out  at  the  gate  of  the  Artillery-ground  or  the  beadle-flanked  portal 
of  Bow,  a  tender  hand  would  meet  hers,  an  active  foot  would  press 
upon  hers,  a  billet  discreetly  delivered  was  as  adroitly  seized,  to 
hide  in  the  recesses  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  or  to  nestle  in  the 
fragrance  of  her  bosom  !  Love  !  Love  !  how  ingenious  thou  art ! 
thou  canst  make  a  ladder  of  a  silken  thread,  or  a  weapon  of  a 
straw ;  thou  peerest  like  sunlight  into  a  dungeon  ;  thou  scalest,  like 
forlorn  hope,  a  castle  wall ;  the  keep  is  taken  !  — the  foemau  has 
fled  ! — the  banner  of  love  floats  triumphantly  over  the  corpses  of 
the  slain  !  * 

Thus,  though  denied  the  comfort  of  personal  intercourse, 
Adeliza  and  her  lover  maintained  a  frequent  and  tender  correspond- 
ence. Nine  times  at  least  in  a  week,  she,  by  bribing  her  maid- 
servant, managed  to  convey  letters  to  the  Professor,  to  which  he 
at  rarer  iutervals,  tliough  with  equal  warmth,  replied. 

"  Why,''  said  the  young  lady  in  the  course  of  this  correspond- 
ence,  "why  when  I  cast  my  eyes  upon   my  Roderick,   do  I  see 

*  We  cannot  explain  this  last  passage  ;  but  it  is  so  beautiful  that  the  reader 
will  pardon  the  omission  of  sense,  which  the  author  certainly  could  have  put 
in  if  he  liked. 


THE    PROFESSOR  501 

him  so  woefully  changed  in  outward  guise?  He  wears  not  the 
dress  which  formerly  adorned  him.  Is  he  poor  ? — is  he  in  disguise  ? 
—do  debts  oppress  him,  or  traitors  track  him  for  his  blood?  Oh 
that  my  arms  might  shield  him  !— Oh  that  my  purse  might  aid 
him  !     It  is  the  fondest  wish  of  Adeliza  G. 

"  P.S.— Aware  of  your  fondness  for  shell-fish,  Susan  will  leave 
a  barrel  of  oysters  at  the  Swan  with  Two  Necks,  directed  to  you, 
as  per  desire.  Ad.  G. 

"  P.S. — Are  you  partial  to  kippered  salmon  ?  The  girl  brings 
three  pounds  of  it  wrapped  in  a  silken  handkerchief  'Tis  marked 
with  the  hair  of  Adeliza. 

"P.S.—I  break  open  my  note  to  say  that  you  will  find  in  it  a 
small  pot  of  anchovy  paste  ;  may  it  prove  acceptable.  Heigho  !  I 
would  that  I  could  accompany  it.  A.  G." 

It  may  be  imagined,  from  the  text  of  this  note,  that  Adeliza 
had  profited  not  a  little  by  the  perusal  of  Miss  Swipes's  novels ; 
and  it  also  gives  a  pretty  clear  notion  of  the  condition  of  her  lover. 
When  that  gentleman  was  a  professor  at  Bulgaria  House,  his 
costume  had  strictly  accorded  with  his  pretensions.  He  wore  a 
black  German  coat  loaded  with  frogs  and  silk  trimming,  a  white 
broad-brimmed  beaver,  hessians,  and  nankeen  tights.  His  costume 
at  present  was  singularly  changed  for  the  worse ;  a  rough  brown 
frock-coat  dangled  down  to  the  calves  of  his  brawny  legs,  where 
hkewise  ended  a  pair  of  greasy  shepherd's-plaid  trousers ;  a  dubious 
red  waistcoat,  a  blue  or  bird's-eye  neckerchief,  and  bluchers  (or 
half-boots),  remarkable  for  thickness  and  for  mud,  completed  his 
attire.  But  he  looked  superior  to  his  fortune ;  he  wore  his  grey 
hat  very  much  on  one  ear;  he  incessantly  tugged  at  his  smoky 
shirt-collar,  and  walked  jingling  the  halfpence  (when  he  had  any) 
in  his  pocket.  He  was,  in  fact,  no  better  than  an  adventurer,  and 
the  innocent  Adeliza  was  his  prey. 

Though  the  Professor  read  the  first  part  of  this  letter  with  hope 
and  pleasure,  it  may  be  supposed  that  the  three  postscripts  were  still 
more  welcome  to  him — in  fact,  he  literally  did  what  is  often  done 
in  novels,  he  devoured  them  ;  and  Adeliza,  on  receiving  a  note  from 
him  the  next  day,  after  she  had  eagerly  broken  the  seal,  and  with 
panting  bosom  and  flashing  eye  glanced  over  the  contents — Adeliza, 
we  say,  was  not  altogether  pleased  when  she  read  the  following  : — 

"Your  goodness,  dearest,  passes  belief;  but  never  did  poor 
fellow  need  it  more  than  your  miserable  faithful  Roderick.     Yes  !  I 


502  TALES 

am  poor — I  am  tracked  by  hell-hounds — I  am  changed  in  looks, 
and  dress,  and  happiness — in  all  but  love  for  thee  ! 

"  Hear  my  tale  !  I  come  of  a  noble  Italian  family — the  noblest, 
ay,  in  Venice.  We  were  free  once,  and  rich,  and  happy ;  but  the 
Prussian  autograph  has  planted  his  banner  on  our  towers — the 
talents  of  his  haughty  heagle  have  seized  our  wealth,  and  con- 
sigued  most  of  our  race  to  dungeons.  I  am  not  a  prisoner,  only  an 
exile.  A  mother,  a  bed-ridden  grandmother,  and  five  darling  sisters 
escaped  with  me  from  Venice,  and  now  share  my  poverty  and  my 
home.  But  I  have  wrestled  with  misfortune  in  vain ;  I  have 
struggled  with  want,  till  want  has  overcome  me.     Adeliza,  I  want 

BREAD ! 

"  The  kippered  salmon  was  very  good,  the  anchovies  admirable. 
But,  oh,  my  love  !  how  thirsty  they  make  those  who  have  no  means 
of  slaking  thirst !  My  poor  grandmother  lies  delirious  in  her  bed, 
and  cries  in  vain  for  drink.  Alas  !  our  water  is  cut  off ;  I  have 
none  to  give  her.  The  oysters  was  capital.  Bless  thee,  bless  thee  ! 
angel  of  bounty !  Have  you  any  more  sich,  and  a  few  srimps  1 
My  sisters  are  very  fond  of  them. 

"  Half-a^crown  would  oblige.  But  thou  art  too  good  to  me 
already,  and  I  blush  to  ask  thee  for  more.  Adieu,  Adeliza. — The 
wretched  but  faithful,  Eodeeick  Ferdinand 

(3Sth  Count  of  Dandolo). 
"  Bell  Yard  :  June  — ." 

A  shade  of  dissatisfaction,  we  say,  clouded  Adeliza's  fair  features 
as  she  perused  this  note ;  and  yet  there  was  nothing  in  it  which  the 
tenderest  lover  might  not  write.  But  the  shrimps,  the  half-crown, 
the  horrid  picture  of  squalid  poverty  presented  by  the  Count, 
sickened  her  young  heart ;  the  innate  delicacy  of  the  woman  revolted 
at  the  thought  of  all  this  misery. 

But  better  thoughts  succeeded  :  her  breast  heaved  as  she  read 
and  re-read  the  singular  passage  concerning  the  Prussian  autograph, 
who  had  planted  his  standard  at  Venice.  "  I  knew  it ! "  she  cried, 
"  I  knew  it !  — he  is  of  noble  race !  Oh  Koderick,  I  will  perish, 
but  I  will  help  thee  ! " 

Alas !  she  was  not  well  enough  acquainted  with  history  to 
perceive  that  the  Prussian  autograph  had  nothing  to  do  with  Venice, 
and  had  forgotten  altogether  that  she  herself  had  coined  the  story 
which  this  adventurer  returned  to  her. 

But  a  diificulty  presented  itself  to  Adeliza's  mind.  Her  lover 
asked  for  money — where  was  she  to  find  it?  The  next  day  the 
till  of  the  shop  was  empty,  and  a  weeping  apprentice  dragged  before 
the  Lord  Mayor.     It  is  true  that  no  signs  of  the  money  were  found 


THE    PROFESSOR  503 

upon  him ;  it  is  true  that  he  protested  his  innocence ;  but  he  was 
dismissed  the  alderman's  service,  and  passed  a  month  at  Bridewell 
because  Adeliza  Grampus  had  a  needy  lover. 

"Dearest,"  she  wrote,  "will  three-and-twenty  ancL-^evenpence 
suffice  ?  'Tis  all  I  have :  take  it,  and-  with  it  the  f^hdest  wishi 
of  your  Adeliza.  .-^  T 

"  A  sudden  thought !  Our  apprentice  is  dismissed.  My  father 
dines  abroad ;  I  shall  be  in  the  retail  establishment  all  the  njght, 
alone.  A.  G." 

No  sooner  had  the  Professor  received  this  note  than  his  mind 
was  made  up.  "I  will  see  her,"  he  said;  "I  will  enter  that 
accursed  shop."     He  did,  and  to  his  ruin. 

That  night  Mrs.  Grampus  and  her  daughter  took  possession  of 
the  bar  or  counter,  in  the  place  which  Adeliza  called  the  retail 
establishment,  and  which  is  commonly  denominated  the  shop.  Mrs. 
Grampus  herself  operated  with  the  oyster-knife,  and  served  the 
Milton  morsels  to  the  customers.  Age  had  not  diminished  her 
skill,  nor  had  wealth  rendered  her  too  proud  to  resume  at  need 
a  profession  which  she  had  followed  in  early  days.  Adeliza  flew 
gracefully  to  and  fro  with  the  rolls,  the  vinegar-bottle  with  per- 
forated cork,  and  the  little  pats  of  butter.  A  little  boy  ran  back- 
wards and  forwards  to  the  "Blue  Lion"  over  the  way,  for  the  pots 
of  porter,  or  for  the  brandy  and  water,  which  some  gentlemen  take 
after  the  play. 

Midnight  arrived.  Miss  Grampus  was  looking  through  the 
window,  and  contrasting  the  gleaming  gas  which  shone  upon  the 
ruby  lobsters  with  the  calm  moon  which  lightened  up  the  Poultry, 
and  threw  a  halo  round  the  Royal  Exchange.  She  was  lost  in 
maiden  meditation,  when  her  eye  fell  upon  a  pane  of  glass  in  her 
own  window :  squeezed  against  this,  iiat  and  white,  was  the  nose 
of  a  man ! — that  man  was  Roderick  Dandolo  !  He  seemed  to  be 
gazing  at  the  lobsters  more  intensely  than  at  Adeliza ;  he  had  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  was  whistling  "  Jim  Crow."  * 

Miss  Grampus  felt  sick  with  joy  :  she  staggered  to  the  counter, 
and  almost  fainted.  The  Professor  concluded  his  melody,  and 
entered  at  once  into  the  shop.  He  pretended  to  have  no  knowledge 
of  Miss  Grampus,  but  ahorded  the  two  ladies  with  easy  elegance 
and  irresistible  good-humour. 

"Good  evening,  ma'am,"  said  he,  bowing  profoundly  to  the 

*  I  know  this  is  an  anachronism  ;  but  I  only  mean  that  he  was  performing 
one  of  the  popular  melodies  of  the  time. — M,  A.  T. 


504  TALES 

elder  lady.  "  What  a  precious  hot  evening  to  be  sure ! — hot, 
ma'am,  and  hungry,  as  they  say.  I  could  not  resist  them  lobsters, 
'specially  when  I  saw  the  lady  behind  'em." 

At  this  gallant  speech  Mrs.  Grampus  blushed,  or  looked  as  if 
she  would  blush,  and  said — 

"  Law,  sir  ! " 

"  Law,  indeed,  ma'am,"  playfully  continued  the  Professor : 
"  you're  a  precious  deal  better  than  law — you're  divinity,  ma'am ; 
and  this,  I  presume,  is  your  sister  ? " 

He  pointed  to  Adeliza  as  he  spoke,  who,  pale  and  mute,  stood 
fainting  against  a  heap  of  ginger-beer  bottles.  The  old  la<ly  was 
quite  won  by  this  stale  compliment. 

"My  daughter,  sir,"  she  said.  "Addly,  lay  a  cloth  for  the 
gentleman.  Do  you  take  hoysters,  sir,  hor  lobsters?  Both  is 
very  fine." 

"Why,  ma'am,"  said  he,  *'to  say  truth,  I  have  come  forty 
miles  since  dinner,  and  don't  care  if  I  have  a  little  of  both.  I'll 
begin,  if  you  please,  with  that  there  (Lord  bless  its  claws,  they're 
as  red  as  your  lips  !),  and  we'll  astonish  a  few  of  the  natives  after- 
wards, by  your  leave." 

Mrs.  Grampus  was  delighted  with  the  manners  and  the  appetite 
of  the  stranger.  She  proceeded  forthwith  to  bisect  the  lobster, 
while  the  Professor,  in  a  ddgagd  manner,  his  cane  over  his  shoulder, 
and  a  cheerful  whistle  upon  his  lips,  entered  the  little  parlour,  and 
took  possession  of  a  box  and  a  table. 

He  was  no  sooner  seated  than,  from  a  scuffle,  a  giggle,  and  a 
smack,  Mrs.  Grampus  was  induced  to  suspect  that  something  went 
wrong  in  the  oyster-room. 

"  Hadeliza  !  "  cried  slie ;  and  that  young  woman  returned  blush 
ing  now  like  a  rose,  who  had  been  as  pale  before  as  a  lily. 

Mrs.  G.  herself  took  in  the  lobster,  bidding  her  daughter  sternly 
to  stay  in  the  shop.  She  approached  the  stranger  with  an  angry 
air,  and  laid  the  lobster  before  him. 

"  For  shame,  sir  !  "  said  she  solemnly ;  but  all  of  a  sudden  she 
began  to  giggle  like  her  daughter,  and  her  speech  ended  with  an 
"  Have  done  now  !  " 

We  were  not  behind  the  curtain,  and  cannot  of  course  say  what 
took  place ;  but  it  is  evident  that  the  Professor  was  a  general  lover 
of  the  sex. 

Mrs.  Grampus  returned  to  the  shop,  rubbing  her  lips  with  her 
fat  arms,  and  restored  to  perfect  good-humour.  The  little  errand- 
boy  was  despatched  over  the  way  for  a  bottle  of  Guinness  and  a 
glass  of  brandy  and  water. 

"  Hot  with  ! "  shouted  a  manly  voice  from  the  eating-room, 


THE    PEOFESSOR 


505 


and  Adeliza  was  pained  to  think  that  in  her  presence  her  lover 
could  eat  so  well. 

He  ate  indeed  as  if  he  had  'never  eaten  before  :  here  is  the  bill 
as  written  by  Mrs.  Grampus  herself : — 


£.  s.  d. 

"  Two  lobsters  at  3s.  6d. 

7  0 

Salit 

1  3 

2  Bottils  Doubling  Stott      . 

2  4 

11  Doz.  Best  natifs     . 

7  4 

U  Pads  of  Botter 

1  2 

4  Glasses  B.  &  W.      . 

4  0 

Bredd  (love  &  |)        . 

1  2 

Brakitch  of  tumler      . 

1  6 

'  To  Swinuel  Grampus, 
"At  the  Mermaid  in  Cheapside. 


1     5  9 


"  Shell-fish  in  all  varieties.     N.B. — A  great  saving  in  taking  a 
quantity." 


"A  saving  in  taking  a  qiuintity,''  said  the  stranger  archly. 
"  Why,  ma'am,  you  ought  to  let  me  off  very  cheap ; "  and  the 
Professor,  the  potboy,  Adeliza,  and  her  mamma,  grinned  equally 
at  this  pleasantry. 

"However,  never  mind  the  pay,  missis,''  continued  he;  "we 
an't  a-going  to  quarrel  about  that.  Hadd  another  glass  of  brandy 
and  water  to  the  bill,  and  bring  it  me,  when  it  shall  be  as  I 
am  now." 

"Law,  sir,"  simpered  Mrs.  Grampus,  "how's  that?" 

"Reseated,  ma'am,  to  be  sure,"  replied  he,  as  he  sank  back 
upon  the  table.  The  old  lady  went  laughing  away,  pleased  with 
her  merry  and  facetious  customer ;  the  little  boy  picked  up  the 
oyster-shells,  of  which  a  mighty  pyramid  was  formed  at  the 
Professor's  feet. 

"Here,  Sammy,"  cried  out  shrill  Mrs.  Grampus  from  the  shop, 
"go  over  to  the  'Blue  Lion'  and  get  the  gentleman  his  glass  :  but 
no,  you  are  better  where  you  are,  pickin'  up  them  shells.  Go  you, 
Hadeliza;  it  is  but  across  the  way." 

Adeliza  went  with  a  very  bad  grace  ;  she  had  hoped  to  exchange 
at  least  a  few  words  with  him  her  soul  adored ;  and  her  mother's 
jealousy  prevented  the  completion  of  her  wish. 

She  had  scarcely  gone  when  Mr.  Grampus  entered  from  his 
dinner-party.     But,  though  fond  of  pleasure,  he  was  equally  faithful 


506  TALES 

to  business :  without  a  word  he  hung  up  his  brass-bvittoned  coat, 
put  on  his  hairy  cap,  and  stuck  his  sleeves  through  his  apron. 

As  Mrs.  Grampus  was  tying  it  (an  office  which  this  faithful 
lady  regularly  performed),  he  asked  her  what  business  had  occurred 
during  his  absence. 

"  Not  so  bad,"  said  she ;  "  two  pound  ten  to-night,  besides  one 
pound  eight  to  receive,"  and  she  handed  Mr.  Grampus  the  bill. 

"  How  many  are  there  on  'em  ? "  said  that  gentleman,  smiling, 
as  his  eye  gladly  glanced  over  the  items  of  the  account. 

"  Why,  that's  the  best  of  all :  how  many  do  you  think  ? " 

"  If  four  did  it,"  said  Mr.  Grampus,  "  they  wouldn't  have  done 
badly  neither." 

"What  do  you  think  of  one?"  cried  Mrs.  G.,  laughing,  "and  he 
an't  done  yet.  Haddy  is  gone  to  fetch  him  another  glass  of  brandy 
and  water." 

Mr.  Grampus  looked  very  much  alarmed.  "  Only  one,  and  you 
say  he  an't  paid  1 " 

"  No,"  said  the  lady. 

Mr.  Grampus  seized  the  bill,  and  rushed  wildly  into  the  dining- 
room  :  the  little  boy  was  picking  up  the  oyster-sheUs  still,  there 
were  so  many  of  them ;  the  Professor  was  seated  on  the  table, 
laughing  as  if  drunk,  and  picking  his  teeth  with  his  fork. 

Grampus,  shaking  in  every  .joint,  held  out  the  bill :  a  horrid 
thought  crossed  him ;  he  had  seen  that  face  before  ! 

The  Professor  kicked  sneeringly  into  the  air  the  idle  piece  of 
paper,  and  swung  his  legs  recklessly  to  and  fro. 

"What  a  flat  you  are,"  shouted  he,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "to 
think  I'm  a-goin'  to  pay  !     Pay  !     I  never  pay — I'm  Dando  !  " 

The  people  in  the  other  boxes  crowded  forward  to  see  the  cele- 
brated stranger ;  the  little  boy  grinned  as  he  dropped  two  hundred 
and  forty-four  oyster-shells,  and  Mr.  Grampus  rushed  madly  into 
his  front  shop,  shrieking  for  a  watchman. 

As  he  ran,  he  stumbled  over  something  on  the  floor — a  woman 
and  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  lay  there  extended.  Like  Tar- 
quinia  reversed,  Elijah  Grampus  was  trampling  over  the  lifeless 
body  of  Adeliza. 

Why  enlarge  upon  the  miserable  theme?  The  confiding  girl, 
in  returning  with  the  grog  from  the  "  Blue  Lion,"  had  arrived  at 
the  shop  only  in  time  to  hear  the  fatal  name  of  Dando.  She  saw 
him,  tipsy  and  triumphant,  bestriding  the  festal  table,  and  yelling 
with  horrid  laughter !     The  truth  flashed  upon  her — she  fell ! 

Lost  to  worldly  cares  in  contemplating  the  sorrows  of  their 
idolised  child,  her  parents  forgot  all  else  beside.  Mrs.  G.  held 
the  vinegar-cruet  to  her  nostrils ;  her  husband  brought  the  soda- 


THE   PEOFESSOR  507 

water  fountain  to  play  upon  her ;  it  restored  her  to  life,  hut  not 
to  sense.  When  Adeliza  Grampus  rose  from  that  trance,  she  was 
a  MANIAC  ! 

But  what  became  of  the  deceiver  ?  The  gormandising  ruffian, 
the  lying  renegade,  the  fiend  in  human  shape,  escaped  in  the  midst 
of  this  scene  of  desolation.  He  walked  unconcerned  through  the 
shop,  his  hat  cocked  on  one  side  as  before,  swaggering  as  before, 
whistling  as  before  :  far  in  the  moonlight  might  you  see  his  figure ; 
long,  long  in  the  night-silence  rang  his  demoniac  melody  of  "  Jim 
Crow"! 

When  Samuel  the  boy  cleaned  out  the  shop  in  the  morning,  and 
made  the  inventory  of  the  goods,  a  silver  fork,  a  plated  ditto,  a 
dish,  and  a  pewter-pot  were  found  to  be  wanting.  Ingenuity  will 
not  be  long  in  guessing  the  name  of  the  thief. 

Gentles,  my  tale  is  told.  If  it  may  have  deterred  one  soul 
from  vice,  my  end  is  fuUy  answered :  if  it  may  have  taught  to 
schoolmistresses  carefulness,  to  pupils  circumspection,  to  youth  the 
folly  of  sickly  sentiment,  the  pain  of  bitter  deception  ;  to  manhood 
the  crime,  the  meanness  of  gluttony,  the  vice  which  it  occasions, 
and  the  wicked  passions  it  fosters ;  if  these,  or  any  of  these,  have 
been  taught  by  the  above  tale,  the  writer  seeks  for  no  other  reward. 

Note. — Please  send  the  proceeds  as  requested  per  letter ;  the 
bearer  being  directed  not  to  give  up  the  manuscript  without. 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST 


FOR  some  time  after  the  fatal  accident  which  deprived  her  of  her 
husband,  Mrs.  Bluebeard  was,  as  may  be  imagined,  in  a  state 
of  profound  grief.  . 

There  was  not  a  widow  in  all  the  country  who  went  to  such  an 
expense  for  black  bombazeen.  She  had  her  beautiful  hair  confined 
in  crimped  caps,  and  her  weepers  came  over  her  elbows.  Of  course 
she  saw  no  company  except  her  sister  Anne  (whose  company  was 
anything  but  pleasant  to  the  widow) ;  as  for  her  brothers,  their 
odious  mess-table  manners  had  always  been  disagreeable  to  her. 
What  did  she  care  for  jokes  about  the  major,  or  scandal  concerning 
the  Scotch  surgeon  of  the  regiment  ?  If  they  drank  their  wine  out 
of  black  bottles  or  crystal,  what  did  it  matter  to  her  ?  Their  stories 
of  the  stable,  the  parade,  and  the  last  run  with  the  hounds,  were 
perfectly  odious  to  her ;  besides,  she  could  not  bear  their  impertinent 
mustachios  and  filthy  habit  of  smoking  cigars. 

They  were  always  wild  vulgar  young  men  at  the  best ;  but  now, 
oh  !  their  presence  to  her  delicate  soul  was  horror  !  How  could  she 
bear  to  look  on  them  after  what  had  occurred  ?  She  thought  of  the 
best  of  husbands  ruthlessly  cut  down  by  their  cruel  heavy  cavalry 
sabres  ;  the  kind  friend,  the  generous  landlord,  the  spotless  justice 
of  peace,  in  whose  family  differences  these  rude  cornets  of  dragoons 
had  dared  to  interfere,  whose  venerable  blue  hairs  they  had  dragged 
down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave  ! 

She  put  up  a  most  splendid  monument  to  her  departed  lord  over 
the  family  vault  of  the  Bluebeards.  The  rector,  Doctor  Sly,  who 
had  been  Mr.  Bluebeard's  tutor  at  college,  wrote  an  epitaph  in  the 
most  pompous  yet  pathetic  Latin  : — "  Siste,  viator  !  moerens  conjux, 
heu  !  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari  quam  tui  meminisse ; " 
in  a  word,  everything  that  is  usually  said  in  epitaphs.  A  bust  of 
the  departed  saint,  with  Virtue  mourning  over  it,  stood  over  the 
epitaph,  surrounded  by  medallions  of  his  wives,  and  one  of  these 
medallions  had  as  yet  no  name  in  it,  nor  (the  epitaph  said)  could 
the  widow  ever  be  consoled  until  her  own  name  was  inscribed  there. 
"For  then  I  shall  be  with  him.     In  oslo  "quies,**^'shew(Jljld  say, 


BLUEBEARD'S    GHOST  509 

throwing  up  her  fine  eyes  to  heaven,  and  q\.  oting  the  enormous  words 
of  the  hatchment  which  was  put  up  in  the  church  and  over  Blue- 
beard's hall,  where  the  butler,  the  housekeeper,  the  footman,  the  house- 
maid, and  scullions  were  all  in  the  profoundest  mourning.  The  keeper 
went  out  to  shoot  birds  in  a  crape  band ;  nay,  the  very  scarecrows  in 
the  orchard  and  fruit-garden  were  ordered  to  be  dressed  in  black. 

Sister  Anne  was  the  only  person  who  refused  to  wear  black. 
Mrs.  Bluebeard  would  have  parted  with  her,  but  she  had  no  other 
female  relative.  Her  father,  it  may  be  remembered  by  readers  of 
the  former  part  of  her  Memoirs,  had  married  again  ;  and  the  mother- 
in-law  and  Mrs.  Bluebeard,  as  usual,  hated  each  other  furiously. 
Mrs.  Shacabac  had  come  to  the  hall  on  a  visit  of  condolence ;  but 
the  widow  was  so  rude  to  her  on  the  second  day  of  the  visit  that 
the  stepmother  quitted  the  house  in  a  fury.  As  for  the  Bluebeards, 
of  course  they  hated  the  widow.  Had  not  Mr.  Bluebeard  settled 
every  shilling  upon  her?  and,  having  no  children  by  his  former 
marriage,  her  property,  as  I  leave  you  to  fancy,  was  pretty  hand- 
some. So  sister  Anne  was  the  only  female  relative  whom  Mrs. 
Bluebeard  would  keep  near  her,  and,  as  we  all  know,  a  woman 
must  have  a  female  relative  under  any  circumstances  of  pain,  or 
pleasure,  or  profit — when  she  is  married,  or  when  she  is  in  a  delicate 
situation.     But  let  us  continue  our  story. 

"  I  will  never  wear  mourning  for  that  odious  wretch,  sister  ! " 
Anne  would  cry. 

"  I  will  trouble  you,  Miss  Anne,  not  to  use  such  words  in  my 
presence  regarding  the  best  of  husbands,  or  to  quit  the  room  at 
once  !  "  the  widow  would  answer. 

"  I'm  sure  it's  no  great  pleasure  to  sit  in  it.  I  wonder  you  don't 
make  use  of  the  closet,  sister,  where  the  other  Mrs.  Bluebeards  are." 

"  Impertinence  !  they  were  all  embalmed  by  Monsieur  Gannal. 
How  dare  you  report  the  monstrous  calumnies  regarding  the  best 
of  men  %  Take  down  the  family  Bible  and  read  what  my  blessed 
saint  says  of  his  wives — read  it  written  in  his  own  hand  : — 

" '  Friday,  June  20. — Married  my  beloved  wife,  Anna  Maria 
Scrogginsia. 

"  '  Saturday,  August  1. — A  bereaved  Iiusband  has  scarcely 
strength  to  write  down  in  this  chronicle  tliat  the  dearest  of  wives, 
Anna  Maria  Scrogginsia,  expired  this  day  of  sore  throat.' 

"  There  !  cau  anything  be  more  convincing  than  that  1  Read 
again : — 

^^' Tuesday,  Sept.   1. — This  day  I  led  to  the  hymeneal  altar 


510  TALES 

my  soul's  blessing,  Louisa  Matilda  Hopkinson.      May  this  angel 
supply  the  place  of  her  I  have  lost ! 

"  '  Wednesday,  October  5. — Oh,  heavens  !  pity  the  distractioa 
of  a  wretch  who  is  obliged  to  record  the  ruin  of  his  dearest  hopes 
and  affections !  This  day  my  adored  Louisa  Matilda  Hopkinson 
gave  up  the  ghost !  A  complaint  of  the  head  and  shoulders  was 
the  sudden  cause  of  the  event  which  has  rendered  the  unhappy 
subscriber  the  most  miserable  of  men.  Bluebeaed.' 

"Every  one  of  the  women  are  calendared  in  this  delightful, 
this  pathetic,  this  truly  virtuous  and  tender  way ;  and  can  you 
suppose  that  a  man  who  wrote  such  sentiments  could  be  a 
mwrderer,  miss  ] " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  did  not  hill  them,  then  ? " 
said  Anne. 

"  Gracious  goodness,  Anne,  kill  them  !  they  died  all  as  naturally 
as  I  hope  you  will.  My  blessed  husband  was  an  angel  of  good- 
ness and  kindness  to  them.  Was  it  his  fault  that  the  doctors 
could  not  cure  their  maladies  ■?  No,  that  it  wasn't !  and  when 
they  died  the  inconsolable  husband  had  their  bodies  embalmed, 
in  order  that  on  this  side  of  the  grave  he  might  never  part 
from  them." 

"  And  why  did  he  take  you  up  in  the  tower,  pray  1  and  why 
did  you  send  me  in  such  a  hurry  to  the  leads  ?  and  why  did  he 
sharpen  his  Jong  knife,  and  roar  out  to  you  to  come  down  ? " 

"  Merely  to  punish  me  for  my  cm-iosity — the  dear,  good,  kind, 
excellent  creature  ! "  sobbed  the  widow,  overpowered  with  affec- 
tionate recollections  of  her  lord's  attentions  to  her. 

"  I  wish,"  said  sister  Anne  sulkily,  "  that  I  had  not  been  in 
such  a  hurry  in  summoning  my  brothers." 

"  Ah  1  "  screamed  Mrs.  Bluebeard,  with  a  harrowing  scream, 
"don't — don't  recall  that  horrid  fatal  day,  miss  !  If  you  had  not 
misled  your  brothers,  my  poor  dear  darling  Bluebeard  would  stiU 
be  in  life,  still — still  the  soul's  joy  of  his  bereaved  Fatima  !  " 

Whether  it  is  that  all  wives  adore  husbands  when  the  latter 
are  no  more,  or  whether  it  is  that  Fatima's  version  of  the  story 
is  really  the  correct  one,  and  that  the  common  impression  against 
Bluebeard  is  an  odious  prejudice,  and  that  he  no  more  murdered 
his  wives  than  you  and  I  have,  remains  yet  to  be  proved,  and, 
indeed,  does  not  much  matter  for  the  understanding  of  the  rest  of 
Mrs.  B.'s  adventures.  And  though  people  will  say  that  Bluebeard's 
settlement  of  his  whole  fortune  on  his  wife,  in  event  of  survivorship, 
was  a  mere  act  of  absurd  mystification,  seeing  that  he  was  fully 
determined  to  cut  her  head  off  after  the  honeymoon,  yet  the  best 


BLUEBEARD'S    GHOST  5U 

test  of  his  real  intentions  is  the  profound  grief  which  the  ■widow- 
manifested  for  his  death,  and  the  fact  that  he  left  her  mighty  well 
to  do  in  the  world. 

If  any  one  were  to  leave  you  or  me  a  fortune,  my  dear  friend, 
would  we  be  too  anxious  to  rake  up  the  how  and  the  why? 
Pooh !  pooh  !  we  would  take  it  and  make  no  bones  about  it,  and 
Mrs.  Bluebeard  did  likewise.  Her  husband's  family,  it  is  true, 
argued  the  point  with  her,  and  said,  "  Madam,  you  must  perceive 
that  Mr.  Bluebeard  never  intended  the  fortune  for  you,  as  it  was 
his  fixed  intention  to  chop  off  your  head  !  it  is  clear  that  he  meant 
to  leave  his  money  to  his  blood  relations,  therefore  you  ought  in 
equity  to  hand  it  over."  But  she  sent  them  all  off  with  a  flea  in 
their  ears,  as  the  saying  is,  and  said,  "  Your  argument  may  be  a 
very  good  one,  but  I  will,  if  you  please,  keep  the  money."  And 
she  ordered  the  mourning  as  we  have  before  shown,  and  indulged 
in  grief,  and  exalted  everywhere  the  character  of  the  deceased.  If 
any  one  would  but  leave  me  a  fortune,  what  a  funeral  and  what  a 
character  I  would  give  him  ! 

Bluebeard  Hall  is  situated,  as  we  all  very  well  know,  in  a 
remote  country  district,  and,  although  a  fine  residence,  is  remark- 
ably gloomy  and  lonely.  To  the  widow's  susceptible  mind,  after 
the  death  of  her  darling  husband,  the  place  became  intolerable. 
The  walk,  the  lawn,  the  fountain,  the  green  glades  of  park  over 
which  frisked  the  dappled  deer,  all — all  recalled  the  memory  of 
her  beloved.  It  was  but  yesterday  that,  as  they  roamed  through 
the  park  in  the  calm  summer  evening,  her  Bluebeard  pointed  out 
to  the  keeper  the  fat  buck  he  was  to  kill.  "  Ah  !  "  said  the  widow, 
with  tears  in  her  fine  eyes,  "the  artless  stag  was  shot  down,  the 
haunch  was  cut  and  roasted,  the  jelly  had  been  prepared  from  the 
currant-bushes  in  the  garden  that  he  loved,  but  my  Bluebeard 
never  ate  of  the  venison  !  Look,  Anna  sweet,  pass  we  the  old  oak 
hall ;  'tis  hung  with  trophies  won  by  him  in  the  chase,  with  pictures 
of  the  noble  race  of  Bluebeard !  Look !  by  the  fireplace  there  is 
the  gig-whip,  his  riding-whip,  the  spud  with  which  you  know  he 
used  to  dig  the  weeds  out  of  the  terrace-walk ;  in  that  drawer  are  his 
spurs,  his  whistle,  his  visiting-cards,  with  his  dear  dear  name  engraven 
upon  them  !  There  are  the  bits  of  string  that  he  used  to  cut  off  the 
parcels  and  keep  because  string  was  always  useful ;  his  button-hook, 
and  there  is  the  peg  on  which  he  used  to  hang  his  h — h — hat  !  " 

Uncontrollable  emotions,  bursts  of  passionate  tears,  would 
follow  these  tender  reminiscences  of  the  widow ;  and  the  long  and 
short  of  the  matter  was,  that  she  was  determined  to  give  up  Blue- 
beard HaU  and  live  elsewhere ;  her  love  for  the  memory  of  the 
deceased,  she  said,  rendered  the  place  too  wretched. 


51S  TALES 

Of  course  an  envious  and  sneering  world  said  that  she  was 
tired  of  the  country  and  wanted  to  marry  again ;  but  she  little 
heeded  its  taunts,  and  Anne,  who  hated  her  stepmother  and  could 
not  live  at  home,  was  fain  to  accompany  her  sister  to  the  town 
where  the  Bluebeards  have  had  for  many  years  a  very  large,  genteel, 
old-fashioned  house.  So  she  went  to  the  town-house,  where  they 
lived  and  quarrelled  pretty  much  as  usual ;  and  though  Anne  often 
threatened  to  leave  her  and  go  to  a  boarding-house,  of  which  there 
were  plenty  in  the  place,  yet  after  all  to  live  with  her  sister,  and 
drive  out  in  the  carriage  with  the  footman  and  coachman  in  mourn- 
ing, and  the  lozenge  on  the  panels,  with  the  Bluebeard  and  Shacabac 
arms  quartered  on  it,  was  far  more  respectable,  and  so  the  lovely 
sisters  continued  to  dwell  together. 

For  a  lady  under  Mrs.  Bluebeard's  circumstances,  the  town 
house  had  other  and  peculiar  advantages.  Besides  being  an  ex- 
ceedingly spacious  and  dismal  brick  building,  with  a  dismal  iron 
railing  in  front,  and  long  dismal  thin  windows  with  little  panes  of 
glass,  it  looked  out  into  the  churchyard  where,  time  out  of  mind, 
between  two  yew-trees,  one  of  which  is  cut  into  the  form  of  a 
peacock,  while  the  other  represents  a  dumb-waiter — it  looked  into 
the  churchyard  where  the  monument  of  the  late  Bluebeard  was 
placed  over  the  family  vault.  It  was  the  first  thing  the  widow 
saw  from  her  bedroom  window  in  the  morning,  and  'twas  sweet  to 
watch  at  night  from  the  parlour  the  pallid  moonlight  lighting  up 
the  bust  of  the  departed,  and  Virtue  throwing  great  black  shadows 
athwart  it.  Polyanthuses,  rhododendra,  ranunculuses,  and  other 
flowers  with  the  largest  naines  and  of  the  most  delightful  odours, 
were  planted  within  the  little  iron  railing  that  enclosed  the  last 
resting-place  of  tlie  Bluebeards ;  and  the  beadle  was  instructed  to 
half-kill  any  little  boys  who  might  be  caught  plucking  these  sweet 
testimonies  of  a  wife's  affection. 

Over  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room  hung  a  full-length  of  Mr. 
Bluebeard,  by  Tioklegill,  R.A.,  in  a  militia  uniform,  frowning  down 
upon  the  knives  and  forks  and  silver  trays.  Over  the  mantelpiece 
he  was  represented  in  a  hunting  costume  on  his  favourite  horse ; 
there  was  a  sticking-plaster  silhouette  of  him  in  the  widow's  bed- 
room, and  a  miniature  in  the  drawing-room,  where  he  was  drawn  in  a 
gown  of  black  and  gold,  holding  a  gold-tasselled  trencher-cap  with 
one  hand,  and  with  the  other  pointing  to  a  diagram  of  Pons  Asinorum. 
This  likeness  was  taken  when  he  was  a  fellow-commoner  at 
Saint  John's  College,  Cambridge,  and  before  the  growth  of  that 
blue  beard  which  was  the  ornament  of  his  manhood,  and  a  part  of 
which  now  formed  a  beautiful  blue  neck-chain  for  his  bereaved  wife. 


BLUEBEAED'S    GHOST  513 

Sister  Anne  said  the  town  house  was  even  more  dismal  than 
the  country-house,  for  there  was  pure  air  at  the  Hall,  and  it  was 
pleasanter  to  look  out  on  a  park  than  on  a  churchyard,  however 
fine  the  monuments  might  be.  But  the  widow  said  she  was  a 
light-minded  hussy,  and  persisted  as  usual  in  her  lamentations  and 
mourning.  The  only  male  whom  she  would  admit  within  her  doors 
was  the  parson  of  the  parish,  who  read  sermons  to  her ;  and,  as  his 
reverence  was  at  least  seventy  years  old,  Anne,  though  she  might 
he  ever  so  much  minded  to  fall  in  love,  had  no  opportunity  to 
indulge  her  inclination ;  and  the  townspeople,  scandalous  as  they 
might  be,  could  not  find  a  word  to  say  against  the  liaison  of  the 
venerable  man  and  the  heart-stricken  widow. 

All  other  company  she  resolutely  refiised.  When  the  players 
were  in  the  town,  the  poor  manager,  who  came  to  beg  her  to 
bespeak  a  comedy,  was  thrust  out  of  the  gates  by  the  big  butler. 
Though  there  were  balls,  card-parties,  and  assemblies.  Widow  Blue- 
beard would  never  subscribe  to  one  of  them ;  and  even  the  oflicers, 
those  all-conquering  heroes  who  make  such  ravages  in  ladies'  hearts, 
and  to  whom  all  ladies'  doors  are  commonly  open,  could  never  get 
an  entry  into  the  widow's  house.  Captain  Whiskerfield  strutted 
for  three  weeks  up  and  down  before  her  house,  and  had  not  the 
least  eflfect  upon  her.  Captain  O'Grady  (of  an  Irish  regiment) 
attempted  to  bribe  the  servants,  and  one  night  actually  scaled  the 
garden  wall ;  but  all  that  he  got  was  his  foot  in  a  man-trap,  not  to 
mention  being  dreadfully  scarified  by  the  broken  glass ;  and  so  he 
never  made  love  any  more.  Finally,  Captain  Blackbeard,  whose 
whiskers  vied  in  magnitude  with  those  of  the  deceased  Bluebeard 
himself,  although  he  attended  church  regularly  every  week — he  who 
had  not  darkened  the  doors  of  a  church  for  ten  years  before — even 
Captain  Blackbeard  got  nothing  by  his  piety ;  and  the  widow  never 
once  took  her  eyes  off  her  book  to  look  at  him.  The  barracks  were 
in  despair;  and  Captain  Whiskerfield's  tailor,  who  had  supplied 
him  with  new  clothes  in  order  to  win  the  widow's  heart,  ended  by 
clapping  the  Captain  into  gaol. 

His  reverence  the  parson  highly  applauded  the  widow's  conduct 
to  theoflicers;  but,  being  himself  rather  of  a  social  turn,  and  fond  of  a 
good  dinner  and  a  bottle,  he  represented  to  the  lovely  mourner  that 
she  should  endeavour  to  divert  her  grief  by  a  little  respectable  society, 
and  recommended  that  she  should  from  time  to  time  entertain  a  few 
grave  and  sober  persons  whom  he  would  present  to  her.  As  Doctor 
Sly  had  an  unbounded  influence  over  the  fair  mourner,  she  acceded 
to  his  desires ;  and  accordingly  he  introduced  to  her  house  some  of 
the  most  venerable  and  worthy  of  his  acquaintance, — all  married 
people,  however,  so  that  the  widow  should  not  take  the  least  alarm. 
13  2k 


514.  TALES 

It  happened  that  the  Doctor  had  a  nephew,  who  was  a  lawyer 
in  London,  and  this  gentleman  came  dutifully  in  the  long  vacation 
to  pay  a  visit  to  his  reverend  uncle.  "  He  is  none  of  your  royster- 
ing  dashing  young  fellows,"  said  his  reverence;  "he  is  the  delight 
of  his  mamma  and  sisters ;  he  never  drinks  anything  stronger  than 
tea ;  he  never  missed  church  thrice  a  Sunday  for  these  twenty 
years ;  and  I  hope,  my  dear  and  amiable  madam,  that  you  will  not 
object  to  receive  this  pattern  of  young  men  for  the  sake  of  your 
most  devoted  friend,  his  uncle." 

The  widow  consented  to  receive  Mr.  Sly.  He  was  not  a  hand- 
some man  certainly.  "But  what  does  that  matter?"  said  tlie 
Doctor ;  "  he  is  good,  and  virtue  is  better  than  all  the  beauty  of  all 
the  dragoons  in  the  Queen's  service." 

Mr.  Sly  came  there  to  dinner,  and  he  came  to  tea;  and  he 
drove  out  with  the  widow  in  the  carriage  with  the  lozenge  on  it ; 
and  at  church  he  handed  the  psalm-book;  and,  in  short,  he  paid 
her  every  attention  which  could  be  expected  from  so  polite  a  young 
gentleman. 

At  this  the  town  began  to  talk,  as  people  in  towns  will.  "  The 
Doctor  kept  all  bachelors  out  of  the  widow's  house,"  said  they,  "  in 
order  that  that  ugly  nephew  of  his  may  have  the  field  entirely  to 
himself"  These  speeches  were  of  course  heard  by  sister  Anne,  and 
the  little  minx  was  not  a  little  glad  to  take  advantage  of  them,  in 
order  to  induce  her  sister  to  see  some  more  cheerful  company.  The 
fact  is,  the  young  hussy  loved  a  dance  or  a  game  at  cards  much 
more  than  a  humdrum  conversation  over  a  tea-table ;  and  so  she 
plied  her  sister  day  and  night  with  hints  as  to  the  propriety  of 
opening  her  house,  receiving  the  gentry  of  the  county,  and  spend- 
ing her  fortune. 

To  this  point  the  widow  at  length,  though  with  many  sighs  and 
vast  unwillingness,  acceded ;  and  she  went  so  far  as  to  order  a  very 
becoming  half-mourning,  in  which  all  the  world  declared  she  looked 
charming.  "  I  carry,"  said  she,  "  my  blessed  Bluebeard  in  my 
heart, — that  is  in  the  deepest  mourning  for  him,  and  when  the 
heart  grieves  there  is  no  need  of  outward  show." 

So  she  issued  cards  for  a  little  quiet  tea  and  supper,  and  several 
of  the  best  families  in  the  town  and  neighbourhood  attended  her 
entertainment.  It  was  followed  by  another  and  another ;  and  at 
last  Captain  Blackbeard  was  actually  introduced,  though,  of  course, 
he  came  in  plain  clothes. 

Doctor  Sly  and  his  nephew  never  could  abide  the  Captain. 
"  They  had  heard  some  queer  stories,"  they  said,  "  about  proceed- 
ings in  barracks.  Who  was  it  that  drank  three  bottles  at  a  sitting  % 
who  had  a  mare  that  ran  for  the  plate  ?  and  why  was  it  that  Dolly 


BLUEBEARD'S    GHOST  515 

Ooddlins  left  the  town  so  suddenly  T'  Mr.  Sly  turned  up  the 
■whites  of  his  eyes  as  his  uncle  asked  these  questions,  and  sighed 
for  the  wickedness  of  the  world.  But  for  all  that  he  was  delighted, 
especially  at  the  anger  which  the  widow  manifested  when  the  Dolly 
Ooddlins  affair  was  hinted  at.  She  was  furious,  and  vowed  she 
would  never  see  the  wretch  again.  The  lawyer  and  his  uncle  were 
charmed.  0  short-sighted  lawyer  and  parson,  do  you  think  Mrs. 
Bluebeard  would  have  been  so  angry  if  she  had  not  been  jealous  ? — 

do  you  think  she  would  have  been  jealous  if  she  had  not had 

not  what  1  She  protested  that  she  no  more  cared  for  the  Captain 
than  she  did  for  one  of  her  footmen ;  but  the  next  time  he  called 
she  would  not  condescend  to  say  a  word  to  him. 

"  My  dearest  Miss  Anne,"  said  the  Captain,  as  he  met  her  in 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  (she  was  herself  dancing  with  Ensign  Trippet), 
"  what  is  the  matter  with  your  lovely  sister  ?  " 

"Dolly  Coddlins  is  the  matter,"  said  Miss  Anne.  "Mr.  Sly 
has  told  all ; "  and  she  was  down  the  middle  in  a  twinkling. 

The  Captain  blushed  so  at  this  monstrous  insinuation  that 
any  one  could  see  how  incorrect  it  was.  He  made  innumerable 
blunders  in  the  dance,  and  was  all  the  time  casting  such  ferocious 
glances  at  Mr.  Sly  (who  did  not  dance,  but  sate  by  the  widow  and 
ate  ices),  that  his  partner  thought  he  was  mad,  and  that  Mr.  Sly 
became  very  uneasy. 

When  the  dance  was  over,  he  came  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
widow,  and,  in  so  doing,  somehow  trod  so  violently  on  Mr.  Sly's 
foot  that  that  gentleman  screamed  with  pain,  and  presently  went 
home.  But  though  he  was  gone  the  widow  was  not  a  whit  more 
gracious  to  Captain  Blackboard.  She  requested  Mr.  Trippet  to 
order  her  carriage  that  night,  and  went  home  without  uttering  one 
single  word  to  Captain  Blackbeard. 

The  next  morning,  and  with  a  face  of  preternatural  longitude, 
the  Reverend  Doctor  Sly  paid  a  visit  to  the  widow.  "  The  wicked- 
ness and  bloodthirstiness  of  the  world,"  said  he,  "increase  every 
day.  0  my  dear  madam,  what  monsters  do  we  meet  in  it — what 
wretches,  what  assassins,  are  allowed  to  go  abroad !  Would  you 
believe  it,  that  this  morning,  as  my  nephew  was  taking  his  peaceful 
morning  meal,  one  of  the  ruffians  from  the  barracks  presented  him- 
self with  a  challenge  from  Captain  Blackbeard  1 " 

"  Is  he  hurt  ? "  screamed  the  widow. 

"No,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  Frederick  is  not  hurt.  And 
oh,  what  a  joy  it  will  be  to  him  to  think  you  have  that  tender 
solicitude  for  his  welfare  !  " 

"  You  know  I  have  always  had  the  highest  respect  for  him," 
said  the  widow ;  who,  when  she  screamed,  was  in  truth  thinking 


5l6  TALES 

of  somebody  else.  But  the  Doctor  did  not  choose  to  interpret  her 
thoughts  in  that  way,  and  gave  all  the  benefit  of  them  to  his 
nephew. 

"That  anxiety,  dearest  madam,  which  you  express  for  him 
emboldens  me,  encourages  me,  authorises  me,  to  press  a  point  on 
you  which  I  am  sure  must  have  entered  your  thoughts  ere  now. 
The  dear  youth  in  whom  you  have  shown  such  an  interest  lives 
but  for  you !  Yes,  fair  lady,  start  not  at  hearing  that  his  sole 
aflfections  are  yours ;  and  with  what  pride  shall  I  carry  to  him 
back  the  news  that  he  is  not  indifferent  to  you  ! " 

"  Are  they  going  to  fight  ] "  continued  the  lady,  in  a  breathless 
state  of  alarm.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  dearest  Doctor,  prevent  the 
horrid  horrid  meeting.  Send  for  a  magistrate's  warrant ;  do  any- 
thing; but  do  not  suffer  those  misguided  young  men  to  cut  each 
other's  throats  ! " 

"  Fairest  lady,  I  fly  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  and  went  back  to  lunch 
quite  delighted  with  the  evident  partiality  Mrs.  Bluebeard  showed 
for  his  nephew.  And  Mrs.  Bluebeard,  not  content  with  exhorting 
him  to  prevent  the  duel,  rushed  to  Mr.  Pound,  the  magistrate, 
informed  him  of  the  facts,  got  out  warrants  against  both  Mr.  Sly 
and  the  Captain,  and  would  have  put  them  into  execution ;  but  it 
was  discovered  that  the  former  gentleman  had  abruptly  left  town, 
so  that  the  constable  could  not  lay  hold  of  him. 

It  somehow,  however,  came  to  be  generally  known  that  the 
widow  Bluebeard  had  declared  herself  in  favour  of  Mr.  Sly,  the 
lawyer ;  that  she  had  fainted  when  told  her  lover  was  about  to 
fight  a  duel ;  finally,  that  she  had  accepted  him,  and  would  marry 
him  as  soon  as  the  quarrel  between  him  and  the  Captain  was 
settled.  Doctor  Sly,  when  applied  to,  hummed  and  ha'd,  and 
would  give  no  direct  answer ;  hut  h^  denied  nothing,  and  looked  so 
knowing,  that  all  the  world  was  certain  of  the  fact ;  and  the  county 
paper  next  week  stated  : — 

"  We  understand  that  the  lovely  and  wealthy  Mrs.  Bl — b — rd  is 
about  once  more  to  enter  the  bands  of  wedlock  with  our  distin- 
guished townsman,  Frederick  S — y,  Esquire,  of  the  Middle  Temple, 
London.  The  learned  gentleman  left  town  in  consequence  of  a 
dispute  with  a  gallant  son  of  Mars  which  was  likely  to  have  led  to 
warlike  results,  had  not  a  magistrate's  warrant  intervened,  when 
thB  Captain  was  bound  over  to  keep  the  peace." 

In  fact,  as  soon  as  the  Captain  was  so  bound  over,  Mr.  Sly  came 
back,  stating  that  he  had  quitted  the  town  not  to  avoid  a  duel, — ■ 
far  from  it,  but  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  magistrates,  and  give 


BLUEBEAED'S    GHOST  517 

the  Captain  every  facility.  Re  had  taken  out  no  warrant;  he 
had  been  perfectly  ready  to  meet  the  Captain ;  if  others  had  been 
more  prudent,  it  was  not  his  fault.  So  he  held  up  his  head,  and 
cocked  his  hat  with  the  most  determined  air ;  and  all  the  lawyers' 
clerks  in  the  place  were  quite  proud  of  their  hero. 

As  for  Captain  Blackbeard,  his  rage  and  indignation  may  be 
imagined ;  a  wife  robbed  from  him,  his  honour  put  in  question  by 
an  odious,  lanky,  squinting  lawyer !  He  fell  ill  of  a  fever  incon- 
tinently ;  and  the  surgeon  was  obliged  to  take  a  quantity  of  blood 
from  him,  ten  times  the  amount  of  which  he  swore  he  would  have 
out  of  the  veins  of  the  atrocious  Sly. 

The  announcement  in  the  Mercury,  however,  filled  the  widow 
with  almost  equal  indignation.  "  The  widow  of  the  gallant  Blue- 
beard," she  said,  "marry  an  odious  wretch  who  lives  in  dingy 
chambers  in  the  Middle  Temple!  Send  for  Doctor  Sly."  The 
Doctor  came ;  she  rated  him  soundly,  asked  him  how  he  dared  set 
abroad  such  calumnies  concerning  her;  ordered  him  to  send  his 
nephew  back  to  London  at  once ;  and,  as  he  valued  her  esteem,  as  he 
valued  the  next  presentation  to  a .  fat  living  which  lay  in  her  gift, 
to  contradict  everywhere,  and  in  the  fullest  terms,  the  wicked  report 
concerning  her. 

"  My  dearest  madam,"  said  the  Doctor,  pulling  his  longest  face, 
"  you  shall  be  obeyed.  The  poor  lad  shall  be  acquainted  with  the 
fatal  change  in  your  sentiments  !  " 

"  Change  in  my  sentiments,  Doctor  Sly  !  " 

"  With  the  destruction  of  his  hopes,  rather  let  me  say ;  and 
Heaven  grant  that  the  dear  boy  have  strength  to  bear  up  against 
the  misfortune  which  comes  so  suddenly  upon  him  ! " 

The  next  day  sister  Anne  came  with  a  face  full  of  care  to  Mrs. 
Bluebeard.     "  Oh  that  unhappy  lover  of  yours  !  "  said  she. 

"  Is  the  Captain  unwell  % "  exclaimed  the  widow. 

"  No,  it  is  the  other,"  answered  sister  Anne.  "  Poor,  poor  Mr. 
Sly !  He  made  a  will  leaving  you  all,  except  five  pounds  a  year 
to  his  laundress :  he  made  his  will,  locked  his  door,  took  heart- 
rending leave  of  his  uncle  at  night,  and  this  morning  was  found 
hanging  at  his  bed-post  when  Sambo,  the  black  servant,  took  him 
up  his  water  to  shave.  'Let  me  be  buried,'  he  said,  'with  the 
pincushion  she  gave  me  and  the  locket  containing  her  hair.'-  Did 
you  give  him  a  pincushion,  sister  %  did  you  give  him  a  locket  with 
your  hair  % " 

"  It  was  only  sUver-gUt ! "  sobbed  the  widow ;  "  and  now,  oh 
heavens  !  I  have  killed  him  ! "  The  heart-rending  nature  of  her 
sobs  may  be  imagined;  but  they  were  abruptly  interrupted  by 
her  sister. 


518  TALES 

"  Killed  him  ? — no  such  thing  !  Sambo  cut  him  down  when  he 
was  as  black  in  the  face  as  the  honest  negro  himself.  He  came 
down  to  breakfast,  and  I  leave  you  to  fancy  what  a  touching 
meeting  took  place  between  the  nephew  and  uncle." 

"  So  much  love  !  "  thought  the  widow.  "  What  a  pity  he 
squints  so !     If  he  would  but  get  his  eyes  put  straight,  I  might 

perhaps "     She  did  not  iinish  the  sentence  :  ladies  often  leave 

this  sort  of  sentence  in  a  sweet  confusion. 

But  hearing  some  news  regarding  Captain  Blackbeard,  whose 
illness  and  blood-letting  were  described  to  her  most  pathetically, 
as  well  as  accurately,  by  the  Scotch  surgeon  of  the  regiment,  her 
feelings  of  compassion  towards  the  lawyer  cooled  somewhat ;  and 
when  Doctor  Sly  called  to  know  if  she  would  condescend  to  meet 
the  unhappy  youth,  she  said,  in  rather  a  distrait  manner,  that  she 
wished  him  every  happiness ;  that  she  had  the  highest  regard  and 
respect  for  him ;  that  she  besought  him  not  to  think  any  more  of 
committing  the  dreadful  crime  which  would  have  made  her  unhappy 
for  ever ;  but  that  she  thought,  for  the  sake  of  both  parties,  they 
had  better  not  meet  until  Mr.  Sly's  feelings  had  grown  somewhat 
more  calm. 

"  Poor  fellow !  poor  fellow  ! "  said  the  Doctor,  "  may  he  be 
enabled  to  bear  his  frightful  calamity  !  I  have  taken  away  his 
razors  from  him,  and  Sambo,  my  man,  never  lets  him  out  of 
his  sight." 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Bluebeard  thought  of  sending  a  friendly 
message  to  Doctor  Sly's,  asking  for  news  of  the  health  of  his 
nephew ;  but,  as  she  was  giving  her  orders  on  that  subject  to 
John  Thomas,  the  footman,  it  happened  that  the  Captain  arrived, 
and  so  Thomas  was  sent  downstairs  again.  And  the  Captain 
looked  so  delightfully  interesting  with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  and  his 
beautiful  black  whiskers  curling  round  a  face  which  was  paler  than 
usual,  that  at  the  end  of  two  hours  the  widow  forgot  the  message 
altogether,  and,  indeed,  I  believe,  asked  the  Captain  whether  he 
would  not  stop  and  dine.  Ensign  Trippet  came,  too,  and  the 
party  was  very  pleasant ;  and  the  military  gentlemen  laughed 
hugely  at  the  idea  of  the  lawyer  having  been  cut  off  the  bed-post 
by  the  black  servant,  and  were  so  witty  on  the  subject,  that  the 
widow  ended  by  half  believing  that  the  bed-post  and  hanging  scheme 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Sly  was  only  a  feint — a  trick  to  win  her  heart. 
Though  this,  to  be  sure,  was  not  agreed  to  by  the  lady  without  a 
pang,  for  entre  nous,  to  hang  oneself  for  a  lady  is  no  small  com- 
pliment to  her  attractions,  and,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Bluebeard  was  rather 
disappointed  at  the  notion  that  the  hanging  was  not  a  bond  fide 
strangulation. 


BLUEBEAED'S    GHOST  519 

However,  presently  her  nerves  were  excited  again;  and  she 
was  consoled  or  horrified,  as  the  case  may  be  (the  reader  must 
settle  the  point  according  to  his  ideas  and  knowledge  of  woman- 
kind)— she  was  at  any  rate  dreadfully  excited  by  the  receipt  of  a 
billet  in  the  well-known  clerk-like  hand  of  Mr.  Sly.    It  ran  thus  : — 

"  I  saw  you  through  your  dining-room  windows.  You  were 
hobnobbing  with  Captain  Blackbeard.  You  looked  rosy  and  well. 
You  smiled.     You  drank  oflF  the  champagne  at  a  single  draught. 

"I  can  bear  it  no  more.  Live  on,  smile  on,  and  be  happy. 
My  ghost  shall  repine,  perhaps,  at  your  happiness  with  another — 
but  in  life  I  should  go  mad  were  I  to  witness  it. 

"  It  is  best  that  I  should  be  gone. 

"  When  you  receive  this,  teU  my  uncle  to  drag  the  fish-pond  at 
the  end  of  Bachelor's  Acre.  His  black  servant  Sambo  accompanies 
me,  it  is  true.  But  Sambo  shall  perish  with  me  should  his  obstinacy 
venture  to  restrain  me  from  my  purpose.  I  know  the  poor  fellow's 
honesty  well,  but  I  also  know  my  own  despair. 

"  Sambo  will  leave  a  wife  and  seven  children.  Be  kind  to 
those  orphan  mulattoes  for  the  sake  of  Feederick." 

The  widow  gave  a  dreadful  shriek,  and  interrupted  the  two 
Captains,  who  were  each  just  in  the  act  of  swallowing  a  bumper  of 
claret.     "  Fly — fly — save  him,"  she  screamed ;  "  save  him,  monsters, 

ere  it  is  too  late  !      Drowned  ! — Frederick  ! — Bachelor's  Wa " 

Syncope  took  place,  and  the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  interrupted. 

Deucedly  disappointed  at  being  obliged  to  give  up  their  wine, 
the  two  heroes  seized  their  cocked-hats,  and  went  towards  the  spot 
which  the  widow  in  her  wild  exclamations  of  despair  had  sufiiciently 
designated. 

Trippet  was  for  running  to  the  fish-pond  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles 
an  hour.  "  Take  it  easy,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Captain  Blackbeard ; 
"  running  is  unwholesome  after  dinner.  And  if  that  squinting 
scoundrel  of  a  lawyer  does  drown  himself,  I  shan't  sleep  any  the 
worse."  So  the  two  gentlemen  walked  very  leisurely  on  towards 
the  Bachelor's  Walk ;  and,  indeed,  seeing  on  their  way  thither 
Major  Macabaw  looking  out  of  the  window  at  his  quarters  and 
smoking  a  cigar,  they  went  upstairs  to  consult  the  Major,  as  also  a 
bottle  of  Schiedam  he  had. 

"  They  come  not ! "  said  the  widow,  when  restored  to  herself. 
"  Oh,  heavens  !  grant  that  Frederick  is  safe  !  Sister  Anne,  go  up 
to  the  leads  and  look  if  anybody  is  coming."  And  up,  accordingly, 
to  the  garrets  sister  Anne  mounted.  "  Do  you  see  anybody  coming, 
sister  Anne  ? " 


520  TALES 

"I  see  Doctor  Drench's  little  boy,"  said  sister  Anne;  "he  is 
leaving  a  pill  and  draught  at  Miss  Molly  Grub's." 

"  Dearest  sister  Anne,  don't  you  see  any  one  coming  ? "  shouted 
the  widow  once  again. 

"  I  see  a  flock  of  dust, — no  !  a  cloud  of  sheep.  Pshaw  !  I  see 
the  London  coach  coming  in.  There  are  three  outsides,  and  the 
guard  has  flung  a  parcel  to  Mrs.  Jenkins's  maid." 

"  Distraction  !     Look  once  more,  sister  Anne." 

"  I  see  a  crowd — a  shutter — a  shutter  with  a  man  on  it — a 
beadle — forty  little  boys — Gracious  goodness  !  what  can  it  be  1 "  and 
downstairs  tumbled  sister  Anne,  and  was  looking  out  of  the  parlour- 
window  by  her  sister's  side,  when  the  crowd  she  had  perceived  from 
the  garret  passed  close  by  them. 

At  the  head  walked  the  beadle,  slashing  about  at  the  little 
boys. 

Two  scores  of  these  followed  and  surrounded 

A  SHUTTER  carried  by  four  men. 

On  the  shutter  lay  Frederick  !  He  was  ghastly  pale ;  his  hair 
was  draggled  over  his  face  ]  his  clothes  stuck  tight  to  him  on  account 
of  the  wet ;  streams  of  water  gurgled  down  the  shutter  sides.  But 
he  was  not  dead  !  He  turned  one  eye  round  towards  the  window 
where  Mrs.  Bluebeard  sat,  and  gave  her  a  look  which  she  never  could 
forget. 

Sambo  brought  up  the  rear  of  the  procession.  He  was  quite 
wet  through ;  and,  if  anything  would  have  put  his  hair  out  of  cUrl, 
his  ducking  would  have  done  so.  But,  as  he  was  not  a  gentleman, 
he  was  allowed  to  walk  home  on  foot,  and,  as  he  passed  the  widow's 
window,  he  gave  her  one  dreadful  glance- with  his  goggling  black 
eyes,  and  moved  on  pointing  with  his  hands  to  tlie  shutter. 

John  Thomas,  the  footman,  was  instantly  despatched  to  Doctor 
Sly's  to  have  news  of  the  patient.  There  was  no  shilly-shallying 
now.  He  came  back  in  half-an-hour  to  say  that  Mr.  Frederick 
flung  himself  into  Bachelor's  Acre  fish-pond  with  Sambo,  had  been 
dragged  out  with  difficulty,  had  been  put  to  bed,  and  had  a  pint  of 
white  wine  whey,  and  was  pretty  comfortable.  "  Thank  Heaven ! " 
said  the  widow,  and  gave  John  Thomas  a  seven-shilling  piece,  and 
sat  down  with  a  lightened  heart  to  tea.  "  What  a  heart !  "  said  she 
to  sister  Anne.     "  And,  oh,  what  a  pity  it  is  that  he  squints  !  " 

Here  the  two  Captains  arrived.  They  had  not  been  to  the 
Bachelor's  Walk  ;  they  had  remained  at  Major  Macabaw's  consulting 
the  Schiedam.  They  had  made  up  their  minds  what  to  say.  "Hang 
the  fellow  !  he  will  never  have  the  pluck  to  drown  himself,"  said 
Captain  Blackbeard.     "  Let  us  argue  on  that,  as  we  may  safely." 

"  My  sweet  lady,"  said  he,  accordingly,  "  we  have  had  the  pond 


BLUEBEARD'S    GHOST  521 

dragged.  No  Mr.  Sly.  And  the  fisherman  who  keeps  the  punt 
assures  us  that  he  has  not  been  there  all  day." 

"  Audacious  falsehood  !  "  said  the  widow,  her  eyes  flashing  fire. 
"Go,  heartless  man  !  who  dares  to  trifle  thus  with  the  feelings  of  a 
respectable  and  unprotected  woman.  Go,  sir,  you're  only  fit  for  the 
love  of  a — Dolly — Coddlins  !  "  She  pronounced  the  Coddlins  with 
a  withering  sarcasm  that  struck  the  Captain  aghast ;  and  sailing 
out  of  the  room,  she  left  lier  tea  untasted,  and  did  not  wish  either 
of  the  military  gentlemen  good-night. 

But,  gentles,  an  ye  know  the  delicate  fibre  of  woman's  heart, 
ye  will  not  in  very  sooth  believe  that  such  events  as  those  we  have 
described — such  tempests  of  passion — fierce  winds  of  woe — blinding 
lightnings  of  tremendous  joy  and  tremendous  grief — could  pass  over 
one  frail  flower  and  leave  it  all  unscathed.  No  !  Grief  kills  as 
joy  doth.  Doth  not  the  scorching  sun  nip  the  rose-bud  as  well  as 
the  bitter  wind  ?     As  Mrs.  Sigourney  sweetly  sings — 

"  Ah !  tbe  heart  is  a  soft  and  a  delicate  thing  ; 
Ah !  the  heart  is  a  lute  with  a  thrilling  string ; 
A  spirit  that  floats  on  a  gossamer's  wing !  " 

Such  was  Fatima's  heart.  In  a  word,  the  preceding  events  had 
a  powerful  efiect  upon  her  nervous  system,  and  she  was  ordered 
much  quiet  and  sal-volatile  by  her  skilful  medical  attendant. 
Doctor  Glauber. 

To  be  so  ardently,  passionately  loved  as  she  was,  to  know  that 
Frederick  had  twice  plunged  into  death  from  attachment  to  her, 
was  to  awaken  in  her  bosom  "  a  thrilling  string  "  indeed  !  Could 
she  witness  such  attachment,  and  not  be  touched  by  it  ?  She  was 
touched  by  it — she  was  influenced  by  the  virtues,  by  the  passion, 
by  the  misfortunes  of  Frederick ;  but  then  he  was  so  abominably 
ugly  that  she  could  not — she  could  not  consent  to  become  his  bride  ! 

She  told  Doctor  Sly  so.  "  I  respect  and  esteem  your  nephew," 
said  she;  "but  my  resolve  is  made.  I  will  continue  faithful  to 
that  blessed  saint,  whose  monument  is  ever  before  my  eyes "  (she 
pointed  to  the  churchyard  as  she  spoke).  "Leave  this  poor  tor- 
tured heart  in  quiet.  It  has  already  suffered  more  than  most 
hearts  could  bear.  I  will  repose  under  the  shadow  of  that  tomb 
uBtil  I  am  called  to  rest  within  it — to  rest  by  the  side  of  my 
Bluebeard ! " 

The  ranunculuses,  rhododendra,  and  polyanthuses,  which  orna- 
mented that  mausoleum,  had  somehow  been  suffered  to  run  greatly 
to  seed  during  the  last  few  months,  and  it  was  with  no  slight  self- 
accusation  that  she  acknowledged  this  fact  on  visiting  the  "garden 
of  the  grave,"  as  she  called  it ;  and  she  scolded  the  beadle  soundly 


522  TALES 

for  neglecting  his  duty  towards  it.  He  promised  obedience  for  the 
future,  dug  out  all  the  weeds  that  were  creeping  round  the  family 
vault,  and  (having  charge  of  the  key)  entered  that  awful  place,  and 
swept  and  dusted  the  melancholy  contents  of  the  tomb. 

Next  morning  the  widow  came  down  to  breakfast  looking  very 
pale.  She  had  passed  a  bad  night ;  she  had  had  awful  dreams ; 
she  had  heard  a  voice  call  her  thrice  at  midnight.  "  Pooh !  my 
dear;  it's  only  nervousness,"  said  sceptical  sister  Anne. 

Here  John  Thomas  the  footman  entered,  and  said  the  beadle 
was  in  the  hall,  looking  in  a  very  strange  way.  He  had  been  about 
the  house  since  daybreak,  and  insisted  on  seeing  Mrs.  Bluebeard. 
"  Let  him  enter,"  said  that  lady,  prepared  for  some  great  mystery. 
The  beadle  came ;  he  was  pale  as  death ;  his  hair  was  dishevelled, 
and  his  cocked-hat  out  of  order.  "  What  have  you  to  say  ?  "  said 
the  lady,  trembling. 

Before  beginning,  he  fell  down  on  his  knees. 

"  Yesterday,"  said  he,  "  according  to  your  Ladyship's  orders,  I 
dug  up  the  flower-beds  of  the  family  vault — dusted  the  vault 
and  the — the  coffins  "  (added  he,  trembling)  "  inside.  Me  and 
John  Sexton  did  it  together,  and  polished  up  the  plate  quite 
beautiful." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  allude  to  it,"  cried  the  widow, 
turning  pale. 

"  Well,  my  Lady,  I  locked  the  door,  came  away,  and  found 
in  my  hurry — for  I  wanted  to  beat  two  little  boys  what  was 
playing  at  marbles  on  Alderman  Paunch's  monyment — I  found, 
my  Lady,  I'd  forgot  my  cane.  I  couldn't  get  John  Sexton  to  go 
back  with  me  till  this  morning,  and  I  didn't  like  to  go  alone,  and 
so  we  went  this  morning,  and  what  do  you  think  I  found?  I 
found  his  honour's  coffin  turned  round,  and  the  cane  broke  in  two. 
Here's  the  cane  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  screamed  the  widow,  "  take  it  away — take  it  away  ! " 

"Well,  what  does  this  prove,"  said  sister  Anne,  "but  that 
somebody  moved  the  coffin,  and  broke  the  cane  1 " 

"  Somebody  !  who's  somebody  ?"  said  the  beadle,  staring  round 
about  him.  And  all  of  a  sudden  he  started  back  with  a  tremendous 
roar,  that  made  the  ladies  scream,  and  all  the  glasses  on  the  side- 
board jingle,  and  cried,  "  That's  the  vian  I" 

He  pointed  to  the  portrait  of  Bluebeard,  which  stood  over  the 
jingling  glasses  on  the  sideboard.  "That's  the  man  I  saw  last 
night  walking  round  the  vault,  as  I'm  a  living  sinner.  I  saw  him 
a-walking  round  and  round,  and,  when  I  went  up  to  speak  to  him, 
I'm  blessed  if  he  didn't  go  in  at  the  iron  gate,  which  opened  afore 
him  like — like  winking,  and  then  in  at  the  vault  door,  which  I'd 


BLUEBEARD'S    GHOST  523 

double-locked,   my   Lady,   and   bolted   inside,   I'll   take   ray    oath 
on  it ! " 

"  Perhaps  you  had  given  him  the  key  ? "  suggested  sister  Anne. 

"It's  never  been  out  of  my  pocket.  Here  it  is,"  cried  the 
beadle,  "  I'll  have  no  more  to  do  with  it ; "  and  he  flung  down  the 
ponderous  key,  amidst  another  scream  from  widow  Bluebeard. 

"  At  what  hour  did  you  see  him  1 "  gasped  she. 

"  At  twelve  o'clock,  of  course." 

"  It  must  have  been  at  that  very  hour,"  said  she,  "  I  heard  the 
voice." 

"  What  voice  ? "  said  Anne. 

"  A  voice  that  called  '  Fatima  !  Fatima  !  Fatima  ! '  three  times 
as  plain  as  ever  voice  did." 

"  It  didn't  speak  to  me,"  said  the  beadle  ;  "  it  only  nodded  its 
head  and  wagged  its  head  and  beard." 

"  w — w — was  it  a  bl — ue  beard  ?  "  said  the  widow. 

"  Powder-blue,  ma'am,  as  I've  a  soul  to  save  ! " 

Doctor  Drench  was  of  course  instantly  sent  for.  But  what  are 
the  medicaments  of  the  apothecary  in  a  case  where  the  grave  gives 
up  its  dead  ?  Doctor  Sly  arrived,  and  he  offered  ghostly — ah  !  too 
ghostly — consolation.  He  said  he  beheved  in  them.  His  own 
grandmother  had  appeared  to  his  grandfather  several  times  before 
he  married  again.  He  could  not  doubt  that  supernatural  agencies 
were  possible,  even  frequent. 

"Suppose  he  were  to  appear  to  me  alone,"  ejaculated  the 
widow,  "  I  should  die  of  fright." 

The  Doctor  looked  particularly  arch.  "  The  best  way  in  these 
cases,  my  dear  madam,"  said  he—"  the  best  way  for  unprotected 
ladies  is  to  get  a  husband.  I  never  heard  of  a  first  husband's  ghost 
appearing  to  a  woman  and  her  second  husband  in  my  life.  In  all 
history  there  is  no  account  of  one." 

"Ah  !  why  should  I  be  afraid  of  seeing  my  Bluebeard  again?" 
said  the  widow ;  and  the  Doctor  retired  quite  pleased,  for  the  lady 
was  evidently  thinking  of  a  second  husband. 

"  The  Captain  would  be  a  better  protector  for  me  certainly  than 
Mr.  Sly,"  thought  the  lady,  with  a  sigh;  "but  Mr.  Sly  will 
certainly  kill  himself,  and  will  the  Captain  be  a  match  for  two 
ghosts?  Sly  will  kill  himself;  but  ah!  the  Captain  won't;"  and 
the  widow  thought  with  pangs  of  bitter  mortification  of  Dolly 
Coddlins.  How,  how  should  these  distracting  circumstances  be 
brought  to  an  end  1 

She  retired  to  rest  that  night  not  without  a  tremor— to  bed, 
but  not  to  sleep.  At  midnight  a  voice  was  heard  in  her  room 
crying  "  Fatima !  Fatima  !  Fatima  !  "  in  awful  accents.     The  doors 


524  TALES 

banged  to  and  fro,  the  bells  began  to  ring,  the  maids  went  up  and 
down  stairs  skurrying  and  screaming,  and  gave  warning  in  a  body. 
John  Thomas,  as  pale  as  death,  declared  that  he  found  Bluebeard's 
yeomanry  sword,  that  hung  in  the  hall,  drawn  and  on  the  ground ; 
and  the  sticking-plaster  miniature  in  Mr.  Bluebeard's  bedroom  was 
found  turned  topsy-turvy  ! 

"It  is  some  trick,"  said  the  obstinate  and  incredulous  sister 
Anne.  "  To-night  I  will  come  and  sleep  with  you,  sister ; "  and 
the  night  came,  and  the  sisters  retired  together. 

'Twas  a  wild  night.  The  wind  howling  without  went  crash- 
ing through  the  old  trees  of  the  old  rookery  round  about  the  old 
church.  The  long  bedroom  windows  went  thump — thumping ;  the 
moon  could  be  seen  through  them  lighting  up  the  graves  with  their 
ghastly  shadows  ;  the  yew-tree,  cut  into  the  shape  of  a  bird,  looked 
particularly  dreadful,  and  bent  and  swayed  as  if  it  would  peck 
something  off  that  other  yew-tree  which  was  of  the  shape  of  a 
dumb-waiter.  The  bells  at  midnight  began  to  ring  as  usual,  the 
doors  clapped,  jingle — ;jiiigle  down  came  a  suit  of  armour  in  the 
hall,  and  a  voice  came  and  cried,  "  Fatima  !  Fatima  !  Fatima  !  look, 
look,  look ;  the  tomb,  the  tomb,  the  tomb  !  " 

She  looked.  The  vault  door  was  open ;  and  there  in  the 
moonlight  stood  Bluebeard,  exactly  as  he  was  represented  in  the 
picture  in  his  yeomanry  dress,  his  face  frightfully  pale  and  his 
great  blue  beard  curling  over  his  chest,  as  awful  as  Mr.  Muntz's. 

Sister  Anne  saw  the  vision  as  well  as  Fatima.  We  shall 
spare  the  account  of  their  terrors  and  screams.  Strange  to  say, 
John  Thomas,  who  slept  in  the  attic  above  his  mistress's  bedroom, 
declared  he  was  on  the  watch  all  night  and  had  seen  nothing  in 
the  churchyard,  and  heard  no  sort  of  voices  in  the  house. 

And  now  the  question  came.  What  could  the  ghost  want  by 
appearing?  "Is  there  anything,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  and 
perplexed  Fatima,  "  that  he  would  have  me  do  ?  It  is  well  to  say 
'now,  now,  now,'  and  to  show  himself;  but  what  is  it  that  makes 
my  blessed  husband  so  uneasy  in  his  gravel"  And  all  parties 
consulted  agreed  that  it  was  a  very  sensible  question. 

John  Thomas,  the  footman,  whose  excessive  terror  at  the 
appearance  of  the  ghost  had  procured  him  his  mistress's  confidence, 
advised  Mr.  Screw,  the  butler,  who  communicated  with  Mrs. 
Baggs,  the  housekeeper,  who  condescended  to  impart  her  obser- 
vations to  Mrs.  Bustle,  the  lady's-maid — John  Thomas,  I  say, 
decidedly  advised  that  my  Lady  should  consult  a  cunning  man. 
There  was  such  a  man  in  town ;  he  had  prophesied  who  should 
marry  his  (John  Thomas's)  cousin ;  he  had  cured  Farmer  Horn's 
cattle,  which  were  evidently  bewitched ;  he  could  raise  ghosts,  and 


BLUEBEARD'S    GHOST  525 

make  them  speak,  and  he  therefore  was  the  very  person  to  be 
consulted  in  the  present  juncture. 

"  What  nonsense  is  this  you  have  been  talking  to  the  maids, 
John  Thomas,  about  the  conjurer  who  lives  in — in " 

"In  Hangman's  Lane,  ma'am,  where  the  old  gibbet  used  to 
stand,"  replied  John,  who  was  bringing  in  the  muffins.  "  It's  no 
nonsense,  my  Lady.  Every  word  as  that  man  says  comes  true, 
and  he  knows  everything." 

"  I  desire  you  will  not  frighten  the  girls  in  the  servants'  hall 
with  any  of  those  silly  stories,"  said  the  widow ;  and  the  meaning 
of  this  speech  may,  of  course,  at  once  be  guessed.  It  was  that 
the  widow  meant  to  consult  the  conjurer  that  very  night.  Sister 
Anne  said  that  she  would  never,  under  such  circumstances,  desert 
her  dear  Fatima.  John  Thomas  was  summoned  to  attend  the 
ladies  with  a  dark  lantern,  and  forth  they  set  on  their  perilous 
visit  to  the  conjurer  at  his  dreadful  abode  in  Hangman's  Lane. 


What  took  place  at  that  frightful  interview  has  never  been 
entirely  known.  But  there  was  no  disturbance  in  the  house  on 
tie  night  after.  The  bells  slept  quietly,  the  doors  did  not  bang 
in  the  least,  twelve  o'clock  struck  and  no  ghost  appeared  in  the 
churchyard,  and  the  whole  family  had  a  quiet  night.  The  widow 
attributed  this  to  a  sprig  of  rosemary  which  the  wizard  gave  her, 
and  a  horseshoe  which  she  flung  into  the  garden  round  the  family 
vault,  and  which  would  keep  any  ghost  quiet. 

It  happened  the  next  day  that,  going  to  her  milliner's,  sister 
Anne  met  a  gentleman  who  has  been  before  mentioned  in  this 
story,  Ensign  Trippet  by  name ;  and,  indeed,  if  the  truth  must 
be  known,  it  somehow  happened  that  she  met  the  Ensign  some- 
where every  day  of  the  week. 

"  What  news  of  the  ghost,  my  dearest  Miss  Shacabac  % "  said 
he  (you  may  guess  on  what  terms  the  two  young  people  were  by 
the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Trippet  addressed  the  lady) ;  "  has 
Bluebeard's  ghost  frightened  your  sister  into  any  more  fits,  or  set 
the  bells  a-ringing  1 " 

Sister  Anne,  with  a  very  grave  air,  told  him  that  he  must 
not  joke  on  so  awful  a  subject ;  that  the  ghost  had  been  laid  for 
awhile ;  that  a  cunning  man  had  told  her  sister  things  so  wonderful 
that  any  man  must  believe  in  them ;  that,  among  other  things, 
he  had  shown  to  Fatima  her  future  husband. 

"  Had,"  said  the  Ensign,  "  he  black  whiskers  and  a  red  coat  1 " 

"  No,"  answered  Anne,  with  a  sigh,  "  he  had  red  whiskers  and 
a  black  coat." 


526  TALES 

"  It  can't  be  that  rascal  Sly  ! "  cried  the  Ensign.  But  Anne 
only  sighed  more  deeply,  and  would  not  answer  yes  or  no.  "  You 
may  tell  the  poor  Captain,"  she  said,  "  there  is  no  hope  for  him, 
and  all  he  has  left  is  to  hang  himself." 

"He  shall  cut  the  throat  of  Sly  first,  though,"  replied  Mr. 
Trippet  fiercely.  But  Anne  said  things  were  not  decided  as 
yet.  Fatima  was  exceedingly  restive  and  unwilling  to  acquiesce 
in  the  idea  of  being  married  to  Mr.  Sly ;  she  had  asked  for  further 
authority.  The  wizard  said  he  could  bring  her  own  husband  from 
the  grave  to  point  out  her  second  bridegroom,  who  shall  be,  can  be, 
must  be,  no  other  than  Frederick  Sly. 

"  It's  a  trick,"  said  the  Ensign.  But  Anne  was  too  much 
frightened  by  the  preceding  evening's  occurrences  to  say  so. 
"To-night,"  she  said,  "the  grave  will  tell  all."  And  she  left 
Ensign  Trippet  in  a  very  solemn  and  affecting  way. 


At  midnight  three  figures  were  seen  to  issue  from  widow  Blue- 
beard's house  and  pass  through  the  churchyard  turnstile  and  so 
away  among  the  graves. 

"  To  call  up  a  ghost  is  bad  enough,"  said  the  wizard ;  "  to 
make  him  speak  is  awful.  I  recommend  you,  ma'am,  to  beware, 
for  such  curiosity  has  been  fatal  to  many.  There  was  one  Arabian 
necromancer  of  my  acquaintance  who  tried  to  make  a  ghost  speak, 
and  was  torn  in  pieces  on  the  spot.  There  was  another  person  who 
did  hear  a  ghost  speak  certainly,  but  came  away  from  the  inter- 
view deaf  and  dumb.     There  was  another " 

"Never  mind,"  says  Mrs.  Bluebeard,  all  her  old  curiosity  aroused, 
"  see  him  and  hear  him  I  will.  Haven't  I  seen  him  and  heard 
him,  too,  already  *!    When  he's  audible  and  visible,  then's  the  time." 

"  But  when  you  heard  him,"  said  the  necromancer,  "  he  was 
invisible,  and  when  you  saw  him  he  was  inaudible ;  so  make  up 
your  mind  what  you  wUl  ask  him,  for  ghosts  will  stand  no  shilly- 
shallying. I  knew  a  stuttering  man  who  was  flung  down  by  a 
ghost,  and " 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  said  Fatima,  interrupting  him. 

"  To  ask  him  what  husband  you  shall  take,"  whispered  Anne. 

Fatima  only  turned  red,  and  sister  Anne  squeezed  her  hand  ; 
they  passed  into  the  graveyard  in  silence. 

There  was  no  moon ;  the  night  was  pitch-dark.  They  threaded 
their  way  through  the  graves,  stumbling  over  them  here  and  there. 
An  owl  was  toowhooing  from  the  church  tower,  a  dog  was  howling 
somewhere,  a  cock  began  to  crow,  as  they  will  sometimes  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night.. 


BLUEBEAED'S    GHOST  527 

"Make  haste,"  said  the  wizard.  "Decide  whether  you  will 
go  on  or  not." 

"  Let  us  go  back,  sister,"  said  Anne. 

"I  will  go  on,"  said  Fatima.  "I  should  die  if  I  gave  it  up, 
I  feel  I  should." 

"  Here's  the  gate ;  kneel  down,"  said  the  wizard.  The  women 
knelt  down. 

"  Will  you  see  your  first  husband  or  your  second  husband  1 " 

"  I  will  see  Bluebeard  first,"  said  the  widow ;  "  I  shall  know 
then  whether  this  be  a  mockery,  or  you  have  the  power  you 
pretend  to." 

At  this  the  wizard  uttered  an  incantation,  so  frightful  and  of 
such  incomprehensible  words,  that  it  is  impossible  for  any  mortal 
to  repeat  them.  And  at  the  end  of  what  seemed  to  be  a  versicle 
of  his  chant  he  called  "  Bluebeard !  "  There  was  no  noise  but 
the  moaning  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  and  toowhooing  of  the  owl 
in  the  tower. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  verse  he  paused  again  and  called 
"  Bluebeard  !  "  The  cock  began  to  crow,  the  dog  began  to  howl, 
a  watchman  in  the  town  began  to  cry  out  the  hour,  and  there  came 
fi'om  the  vault  within  a  hoUow  groan,  and  a  dreadful  voice  said, 
"Who  wants  mel" 

Kneeling  in  front  of  the  tomb,  the  necromancer  began  the 
third  verse :  as  he  spoke,  the  former  phenomena  were  still  to  be 
remarked.  As  he  continued,  a  number  of  ghosts  rose  from  their 
graves  and  advanced  round  the  kneeling  figures  in  a  circle.  As 
he  concluded,  with  a  loud  bang  the  door  of  the  vault  flew  open, 
and  there  in  blue  light  stood  Bluebeard  in  his  blue  uniform,  waving 
his  blue  sword  and  flashing  his  blue  eyes  round  about ! 

"Speak  now,  or  you  are  lost,"  said  the  necromancer  to  Fatima. 
But,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  had  not  a  word  to  say. 
Sister  Anne,  too,  was  dumb  with  terror.  And,  as  the  awful 
figure  advanced  towards  them  as  they  were  kneeling,  the  sister 
thought  all  was  over  with  them,  and  Fatima  once  more  had  occa- 
sion to  repent  her  fatal  curiosity. 

The  figure  advanced,  saying,  in  dreadful  accents,  "  Fatima ! 
Fatima !  Fatima !  wherefore  am  I  called  from  my  grave  ? "  when 
all  of  a  sudden  down  dropped  his  sword,  down  the  ghost  of  Blue- 
beard went  on  his  knees,  and,  clasping  his  hands  together,  roared 
out,  "  Mercy,  mercy  !  "  as  loud  as  man  could  roar. 

Six  other  ghosts  stood  round  the  kneeling  group.  "Why  do 
you  call  me  from  the  tomb  1 "  said  the  first ;  "  Who  dares  disturb 
my  grave  ? "  said  the  second ;  "  Seize  him  and  away  with  him  ! " 
cried  the   third.     "  Murder,    mercy ! "   still  roared   the   ghost  of 


528  TALES 

Bluebeard,  as  the  white-robed  spirits  advanced  and  caught  hold 
of  him. 

"  It's  only  Tom  Trippet,''  said  a  voice  at  Anne's  ear. 

"  And  your  very  humble  servant,"  said  a  voice  well  known  to 
Mrs.  Bluebeard ;  and  they  helped  the  ladies  to  rise,  while  the  other 
ghosts  seized  Bluebeard.  The  necromancer  took  to  his  heels  and 
got  oif;  he  was  found  to  be  no  other  than  Mr.  Claptrap,  the 
manager  of  the  theatre. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  ghost  of  Bluebeard  could  recover 
from  the  fainting  fit  into  which  he  had  been  plunged  when  seized 
by  the  opposition  ghosts  in  white ;  and  while  they  were  ducking 
him  at  the  pump  his  blue  beard  came  off,  and  he  was  discovered 
to  be — who  do  you  think  1  Why,  Mr.  Sly,  to  be  sure ;  and  it 
appears  that  John  Thomas,  the  footman,  had  lent  him  the  uniform, 
and  had  clapped  the  doors,  and  rung  the  bells,  and  spoken  down 
the  chimney ;  and  it  was  Mr.  Claptrap  who  gave  Mr.  Sly  the  blue 
fire  and  the  theatre  gong,  and  he  went  to  London  next  morning 
by  the  coach ;  and,  as  it  was  discovered  that  the  story  concerning 
Miss  Ooddlins  was  a  shameful  calumny,  why,  of  course,  the  widow 
married  Captain  Blackbeard.  Doctor  Sly  married  them,  and  has 
always  declared  that  he  knew  nothing  of  his  nephew's  doings,  and 
wondered  that  he  has  not  tried  to  commit  suicide  since  his  last 
disappointment. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trippet  are  likewise  living  happily  together,  and 
this,  I  am  given  to  understand,  is  the  ultimate  fate  of  a  family  in 
whom  we  were  all  very  much  interested  in  early  life. 

You  wiU  say  that  the  story  is  not  probable.  Psha  !  Isn't  it 
written  in  a  book  ?  and  is  it  a  whit  less  probable  than  the  first 
part  of  the  tale  1 


VAEIOUS  ESSAYS,   LETTERS, 
SKETCHES,  ETC. 


YAEIOUS   ESSAYS,   LETTEES, 
SKETCHES,   ETC. 

TIMBUGTOO 

To  the  Editor  of  "  The  Snob." 

SIR, — Though  your  name  be  "  Snob,"  I  trust  you  will  not  refuse 
this  tiny  "  Poem  of  a  Gownsman,"  which  was  unluckily  not 
finished  on  the  day  appointed  for  delivery  of  the  several  copies 
of  verses  on  Timbuctoo.  I  thought.  Sir,  it  would  be  a  pity  that 
such  a  poem  should  be  lost  to  the  world ;  and  conceiving  The  Snob 
to  be  the  most  widely  circulated  periodical  in  Europe,  I  have  taken 
the  liberty  of  submitting  it  for  insertion  or  approbation. — I  am.  Sir, 
yours,  &c.  &c.  &c.  T. 

Timbuctoo.* 

The  situation.     In  Africa  (a  quarter  of  the  world) 

Men's  skins  are  black,  their  hair  is  crisp  and  curl'd ; 
And  somewhere  there,  unknown  to  public  view, 
A  mighty  city  lies,  called  Timbuctoo. 

Line  1  and  2.     See  Guthrie's  Geography. 

The  site  of  Timbuctoo  is  doubtful ;  the  Author  has  neatly  expressed 
this  in  the  Poem,  at  the  same  time  giving  us  some  slight  hints  relative 
to  its  situation. 

*  This  parody  probably  represents  Mr.  Thackeray's  first  appearance  in  print. 
In  the  year  1829,  when  only  eighteen  years  of  age,  he  was  chiefly  concerned  in 
starting  a  short-lived  Cambridge  undergraduate  magazine  entitled  The  Snob. 
He  is  believed  to  have  been  responsible  for  a  considerable  proportion  of  the 
contents,  which  are  not  of  any  particular  merit,  but  with  tlie  exception  of  this 
parody  of  a  Cambridge  Prize  Poem  (on  the  subject,  as  will  be  remembered,  for 
which  Tennyson  gained  the  Chancellor's  Medal),  it  is  not  possible  to  be  certain 
which  contributions  were  from  his  pen,  though  there  are  several  epigrammatic 
verses  and  some  letters  full  of  misspelling  and  Malapropiams,  from  Dorothea 
Julia  Ramsbottom,  which  are  almost  unmistakably  his. 


532        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 


The  natural 
history. 


The  lion  hunt. 


Their  lives 
at  home. 

Abroad. 

Heilections  on 
the  foregoing. 


There  stalks  the  tiger,  there  the  lion  roars 
Who  sometimes  eats  the  luckless  blackamoors ; 
All  that  he  leaves  of  them  the  monster  throws 
To  jackals,  vultures,  dogs,  cats,  kites,  and  crows. 
His  hunger  thus  the  forest  monarch  gluts. 
And  then  lies  down  'neath  trees  called  cocoa  nuts. 

Quick  issue  out,  with  musket,  torch,  and  brand. 
The  sturdy  blackamoors,  a  dusky  band  ! 
The  beast  is  found, — pop  goes  the  musketoons, — 
The  lion  falls,  covered  with  horrid  wounds. 

At  home  their  lives  in  pleasure  always  flow, 
But  many  have  a  different  lot  to  know ! 
They're  often  caught,  and  sold  as  slaves,  alas ! 
Thus  men  from  highest  joy  to  sorrow  pass. 
Yet  though  thy  monarchs  and  thy  nobles  boil 
Rack  and  molasses  in  Jamaica's  isle  ! 
Desolate  Afric  !  thou  art  lovely  yet ! ! 
One  heart  yet  beats  which  ne'er  shall  thee  forget. 
What  though  thy  maidens  are  a  blackish  brown, 
Does  virtue  dwell  in  whiter  breasts  alone  ? 


Line  5.     So  Horace. — leonum  arida  nntrix. 

Line  8.     Thus  Apollo  eXdipia  revxe  Kvveiraiv 

Oloivoiai  re  Trdat, 

Line  5-10.  How  skilfully  introduced  are  the  animal  and  vegetable 
productions  of  Africa !  It  is  worthy  to  remark  the  various  garments 
in  which  the  Poet  hath  clothed  the  Lion.  He  is  called  1st,  the  Lion ; 
2nd,  the  Monster  (for  he  is  very  large) ;  and  3rd,  the  Forest  Monarch, 
which  he  undoubtedly  is. 

Line  11-14.  The  Author  confesses  himself  under  peculiar  obligations 
to  Denham's  and  Clapperton's  Travels,  as  they  suggested  to  him  the 
spirited  description  contained  in  these  lines. 

Line  13.  "  Pop  goes  the  musketoons."  A  learned  friend  suggested 
"Bang,"  as  a  stronger  expression  ;  but,  as  African  gunpowder  is  notori- 
ously bad,  the  Author  thought  "  Fop  "  the  better  word. 

Line  15-18.  A  concise  but  affecting  description  is  here  given  of  the 
domestic  habits  of  the  people, — the  infamous  manner  in  which  they  are 
entrapped  and  sold  as  slaves  is  described, — and  the  whole  ends  with  an 
appropriate  moral  sentiment.  The  Poem  might  here  finish,  but  the 
spirit  of  the  bard  penetrates  the  veil  of  futurity,  and  from  it  cuts  off 
a  bright  piece  for  the  hitherto  unfortunate  Africans,  as  the  following 
beautiful  lines  amply  exemplify. 

It  may  perhaps  be  remarked  that  the  Author  has  here  "  changed  his 
hand ; "  he  answers  that  it  was  his  intention  so  to  do.  Before  it  was 
his  endeavour  to  be  elegant  and  concise,  it  is  now  his  wish  to  be 
enthusiastic  and  magnificent.  He  trusts  the  Header  will  perceive  the 
aptness  with  which  he  hath  changed  his  style  :  when  he  narrated  facts 
he  was  calm,  when  he  enters  on  prophecy  he  is  fervid. 


TIMBUCTOO  533 

Oh  "no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no  !  26 

It  shall  not,  must  not,  cannot,  e'er  be  so. 

The  day  shall  come  when  Albion's  self  shall  feel 

Stern  Afric's  wrath,  and  writhe  'neath  Afric's  steel. 

I  see  her  tribes  the  hill  of  glory  mount, 

And  sell  their  sugars  on  their  own  account ;  so 

While  round  her  throne  the  prostrate  nations  come, 

Sue  for  her  rice,  and  barter  for  her  rum.  32 

The  enthusiasm  which  he  feels  is  beautifully  expressed  in  lines  25, 
26.  He  thinks  he  has  very  successfully  imitated  in  the  last  six  lines 
the  best  manner  of  Mr.  Pope,  and  in  lines  19-26  the  pathetic  elegance 
of  the  Author  of  Australasia  and  Athens. 

The  Author  cannot  conclude  without  declaring  that  his  aim  in 
writing  this  Poem  will  be  fully  accomplished,  if  he  can  infuse  in  the 
breasts  of  Englishmen  a  sense  of  the  danger  in  which  they  lie.  Yes — 
Africa!  If  he  can  awaken  one  particle  of  sympathy  for  thy  sorrows, 
of  love  for  thy  land,  of  admiration  for  thy  virtue,  he  shall  sink  into  the 
grave  with  the  proud  consciousness  that  he  has  raised  esteem,  where 
before  there  was  contempt,  and  has  kindled  the  flame  of  hope,  on  the 
smouldering  ashes  of  Despair  I 


READING  A    POEM 


Part  I. 

LOED  Daudlet,  the  Earl  of  Bagwig's  eldest  son,  a  worshipper  of  the  Muses  ;  in 

a  dressing-gown,  with  his  shirt  collars  turned  down. 
Mr.  Bogle,  the  celebrated  Publisher ;  in  a  publisher's  costume  of  deep  black. 
Mk.  Bludyer,  an  English  gentleman  of  the  press,  editor  of  the  Weekly  Bravo  ; 

green  coat,  red  velvet  waistcoat,  dirty  blue  satin  cravat,  dirty  trousers, 

dirty  boots.* 
Me.  Dishwash,  an  English  gentleman  of  the  press,  editor  of  the  Castalian 

Magazine  ;  very  neat,  in  black,  and  a  diamond  pin. 
Mr.  Yellowplush,  my  lord's  body  servant ;  in  an  elegant  livery. 

Voices  without.     The  door  bell.     Nicholas,  my  lord's  tiger. 

The  scene  is  Lord  Dandtey's  drawing-room  in  the  Afbany. 


THE  door  bell  (timidly).  Ting,  ting. 
Yellowplush  (in  an  armchair  before  thejire,  reading 
the  "Morning  Post"). — "  Yesterday,  at  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square,  by  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Lawn,  the  Lord  John  Fitzwhiskers, 
to  Amelia  Frances  Annabel,  the  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter 
of  Samuel  Botts,  Esq.,  of  Portland  Place.  After  an  elegant  dejeune 
at  Lord  Tufton's  mansion,  in  Cavendish  Square,  the  happy  pair  set 
off " 

The  door  bell.     Ring,  ting,  ting. 

Yellowplush. — Where's  that  hidle  Nicholas?  The  bell's  been 
going  it  these  ten  minutes,  and  distubbing  me  at  my  studies. — 
"  The  happy  pair  set  off  for  a  tour  on  the  continent,  and  intend, 
we  hear,  to  pass  the  carivan — no,  the  carnival  at  Naples."  And 
a  pretty  junny  they'll  have  of  it  !  Winter — iniondations  at  Lyons ; 
four  mortial  days  on  board  the  steamboat  !  I've  been  the  trip 
myself,  and  was  half  froze  on  the  rumble.  Luckily,  Mademsell 
L^ocadie,  my  lady's  maid,  was  with  me,  and  so  we  kep  warm, 
but 

*  This  actor  should  smell  very  much  of  stale  smoke,  and  need  not  shave  for 
two  or  three  days  before  performing  the  part. 


READING    A    POEM  535 

The  door  bell.     Eing-aring-ring-ring. 

Yellowplush  {in  a  voice  of  thunder). — Nicholas,  you  lazy 
young  raggymuflBan  !  do  you  hear  the  bell  1  Do  you  want  to  wake 
my  lord  ] 

Nicholas  {without). — This  way,  sir,  if  you  please. 

DiSHWASH  {entering). — Thank  you,  Nicholas  ;  I  am  afraid  I 
disturbed  you.  Never  mind,  I've  not  been  there  long.  Thank 
you.  Just  put  my  galoshes  to  the  fire,  will  you,  like  a  good  lad  ? 
for  it's  bad  wet  weather. 

Yellowplush. — 0  !  it's  only  one  of  them  lettery  chaps ;  I 
wonder  how  my  lord  can  have  to  do  with  such.  Let  us  go  on  with 
the  news. — "  On  Thursday,  Mr.  F.  Hogawn,  of  Peckham  Rye, 
to  Mary  Jane,  daughter  of  John  Rudge,  Esq.,  of  the  saine  place." 
Why  can  they  put  such  stuff  in  a  genteel  newspaper  ■? — Is  that  you, 
Mr.  Dishwash  ?  Pray,  do  you  come  by  appointment  ?  My  lord 
ain't  up  yet,  but  you  may  as  weU  set  down.  There's  yesterday's 
paper  somewhere  about. 

Dishwash. — Thank  you,  Yellowplush  :  and  how  goes  it,  my 
fine  fellow  ;  any  more  memoirs,  ey  ?  Send  me  the  proofs^  my  boy, 
and  you  shan't  want  for  a  good  word,  you  know. 

Yellowplush  {pacified). — Thank  you,  in  return ;  and  here's 
to-day's  Post.  I've  quite  done  with  it ;  indeed  my  lord  has  kep 
me  here  this  half  hour  a  poring  over  it.  I  took  him  his  pens,  ink, 
and  chocklate  at  eleven ;  and  I  b'lieve  he's  cumposing  something  in 
his  warm  bath. 

Dishwash. — Up  late,  I  suppose?  There  were  three  great 
parties,  I  know,  last  night. 

Yellowplttsh  {aside). — How  the  juice  should  he  know  ? 

Dishwash. — Where  was  he,  now  ?  Come,  tell  me.  Was  it  at 
Lord  Doldrum's,  or  at  the  Duke's?  Lady  Smigsmag  had  a  small 
conversazione,  and  very  select,  too,  where  I  had  the  honour  to  pass 
the  evening,  and  all  the  world  was  on  the  look-out  for  the  famous 
Lord  Daudley,  who  had  promised  to  come  and  read  us  some  of 
his  poems. 

Yellowplush.  —  His  poems  !  —  his  gammin.  Since  Lord 
Byrom's  time,  cuss  me  if  the  whole  aristoxy  has  not  gone  poetry- 
mad,  and  writes  away  like  so  many  common  press  men.  What  the 
juice  do  they  write  for  ? — they  can't  do  it  half  so  well  as  the  reglar 
hacks  at  the  business. 

Dishwash. — 0,  you  flatter  us,  Yellowplush,  that  you  do. 

Yellowplush. — I  say  they  can't  do  it  as  well ;  and  why  do 
they  go  on?  They  don't  want  money,  as  you  and  I  do,  Mr. 
Whatsyoumame — Mr.  Dishwash.  I  suppose  you  only  write  for 
money,  do  you  ?     If  you  were  a  gentleman,  now — confess,  would 


536        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

you  ever  put  pen  to  paper  ?  I  wouldn't,  I  know  ; — but  there's  my 
lord's  bell,  and  so  you  can  just  look  over  the  junnel  till  I  return. 
We  made  a  pretty  good  speech  in  the  House  of  Commins,  last  night, 
as  you  will  see.  \_JExit. 

DisHWASH. — Vulgar,  low-bred  upstart !  That  creature  now 
has  all  the  vices  of  the  aristocracy,  without  their  virtues.  He  has 
no  idea  of  the  merit,  the  dignity  of  a  man  of  letters,  and  talks  of 
our  divine  calling  as  a  trade,  and  dares  to  treat  me,  a  poet  and  a 
man  of  letters,  on  a  footing  of  equality.  Ah,  for  the  time  when 
men  of  our  profession  shall  take  their  rank  with  the  foremost  in 
the  land,  and  the  great  republic  of  genius  shall  be  established.  I 
feel  it  in  my"  heart — the  world  demands  a  republic ; — genius  will 
never  prosper  without  it  !  All  men  are  equal, — and  we,  above  all, 
ought  to  be  the  equals  of  the  highest ;  and  here  am  I  spoken  to, 
familiarly,  by  a  lacquey  !     I,  who  am — 

Bludyer  (who  has  entered  with  his  hat  on  during  Dishwash's 
speech,  and  slaps  the  latter  on  the  shoulder). — You  are  very  little 
better.  Confess,  now,  old  buck,  wasn't  your  father  a  washerwoman, 
and  your  mother  a  linendraper's  clerk  ? 

DiSHWASH. — No  !     It's  a  calumny,  Bludyer, — abase  falsehood. 

Bludvee. — Well,  then,  what  are  they  ? 

DiSHWASH  (sulkily). — What's  that  to  you  ? 

Bludyek. — There,  now,  you  great  noodle,  you.  You  calumniate 
your  own  parents  more  than  any  one  else  does,  by  being  ashamed  of 
their  calling,  whatever  it  may  be.  Be  a  man,  now,  and  don't  affect 
this  extra  gentility,  which  all  the  world  laughs  at.  Be  a  man,  and 
act  like  me !  Do  you  suppose  /  care  who  knows  my  birth  and 
parentage  1  No,  hang  it ;  anybody  may  have  the  history  of  Jack 
Bludyer.  ITe  doesn't  go  sneaking  and  cringing  to  tea-parties ; — 
he's  no  milksop.  Jack  Bludyer,  I  tell  you,  can  drink  seven  bottles 
of  claret  at  a  setting,  and  twice  as  many  glasses  of  whisky-and- 
water.  _  I've  no  pride,  and  no  humility,  neither — I  don't  care  to 
own  it.  I  back  myself,  look  you,  Dishwash,  and  don't  give  the 
wall  to  the  first  man  in  Europe. 

DiSHWASH. — I  wonder  what  brings  you  here,  then,  my  good 
fellow? 

Bludyer. — The  same  thing  that  brings  you — interest,  my  fine 
fellow,  and  worthy  Dishwash  :  not  friendship.  I  don't  care  a  straw 
for  any  man  alive  ;  no  more  do  you,  although  you  are  so  sentimental. 
I  think  you  a  fool  about  many  matters — don't  think  you  such  a 
fool  as  to  admire  Daudley's  poems. 

DiSHWASH  (looking  round  timidly). — He,  he,  he !  Why, 
between  ourselves,  they  are  not  first-rate ;  and  entre  nous.  I  know 
who  wrote  the  best  part  of  them.     There's  not  a  single  passage  in 


READING   A   POEM  537 

the  "Death-knell;  or,  the  Lay  to  Laura,"  that's  worth  reading; 
but,  between  ourselves,  I  wrote  it.  Don't  peach,  now; — don't 
betray  me. 

Bludyee. — Betray  you?  "There's  not  a  single  passage  in 
the  '  Death-knell ;  or,  the  Lay  to  Laura,'  that's  worth  twopence ; — 
but  /wrote  it."  You — you've  as  much  strength  as  milk-and-water, 
and  as  much  originality  as  a  looking-glass.  You  write  poetry,  in- 
deed !  You  don't  drink  a  bottle  of  wine  in  a  year.  Hang  me  if 
I  believe  you  were  ever  drunk  in  your  life  ! 

DisHWASH. — I  don't  profess  to  believe,  my  good  sir,  that 
drunkenness  is  an  essential  poetic  qualification,  or  that  Helicon 
is  gin-and-water — he,  he !  and  if  you  ever  read  my  little  book  of 
"  Violets,"  you  might  have  found  that  out. 

Bludyee. — Violets  be  hanged !  I  say  juniper  berries.  Give 
me  a  good,  vigorous  style,  and  none  of  your  namby-pamby  milk- 
and-water.  Do  you  ever  read  my  paper?  If  you  want  to  see 
what  power  is,  look  at  that. 

DiSHWASH. — Indeed.     The  fact  is,  I  never  do  read  it. 

Bludyee. — Well,  you're  right,  you're  right.  I  never  read 
anything  but  what  I  am  forced  to  read,  especially  if  it's  written 
by  my  friends.  I  like  to  think  well  of  them,  Dishwash,  and 
always  considered  you  a  clever  fellow,  tiU  I  read  that  absurd  ode 
of  yours  about  a  heliotrope. 

Dishwash. — It's  quite  as  good  as  your  ballad  in  last  Sunday's 
Bravo;  and  my  poor  article  in  the  Castalian  is,  I  am  sure,  as 
strong  as  yours. 

Bludyee. — Oh,  you  have  read  the  Bravo,  have  you  ?  What 
a  fool  I  am,  Dishwash, — a  great,  raw,  silly  fool.  Upon  my  word 
and  honour,  I  believed  you  what  you  said ;  but  it  will  be  a  lesson 
to  me,  and  I  won't,  my  boy,  do  so  again. 

Dishwash. — Insufferable  coarseness  !     How  goes  the  Bravo, ' 
Bludyer? 

Bludyee. — We're  at  3500.  I  don't  ask  you  to  credit  my 
word,  but  look  at  the  stamps. 

Dishwash. — Your  advertisements  pretty  good  ? 

Bludyee. — For  six  months  they  made  a  conspiracy  against  us 
in  the  Row ;  but  we  beat  'em.  You  of  the  Castalian,  I  know,  go 
on  the  puffing  plan  :  we  are  a  new  paper,  and  take  the  tomahawking 
line.  I  tell  you,  sir,  we've  beat  the  booksellers,  and  they  are  all 
flocking  to  us.  Last  week  I  attacked  a  new  book  of  Pogle's  so 
severely — a  very  good  book,  too,  it  was — very  well  and  carefully 
done,  by  a  scholar  and  a  clever  man.  Well,  sir,  I  belaboured  the 
book  so,  that  Fogle  came  down  to  our  place  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
and  a  whole  bundle  of  advertisements,  and  cried  "  Peccavi."     The 


538        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

abuse  of  that  book  will  be  worth  £300  a  year  to  the  Bravo.  But 
what  is  gratitude  ?  If  I,  who  have  done  our  proprietors  that 
service,  get  a  five-pound-note  for  my  share,  it  is  all  I  can  look  for. 
What  rascals  publishers  are,  hey,  Dishwash?  Are  we  to  be  kept 
here  for  ever  %     How  long  have  you  been  waiting  ? 

DiSHWASH. — Why,  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  or  may  be  longer. 

Bludyee. — That's  the  way  with  you  all.  You  cringe  to  these 
aristocrats.  Curse  them ;  take  them  by  the  horns,  and  be  a  man. 
You  have  waited  an  hour :  see,  now,  how  Daudley  will  admit  me. 
(Me.  Bludyee  kicks  against  the  panels  of  Loed  Daudley's  bed- 
room, and  shouts) — Hallo  !  Daudley — Lord  Daudley,  don't  keep 
me  here  all  day  !  I've  got  some  proofs  of  the  Bravo  to  read  to  you, 
and  can't  wait. 

Yellowplush  {putting  his  nose  out). — You  can't  come  m,  my 
lord's  in  his  bath. 

Bludyee  {through  the  door). — Well,  I'm  off,  then;  and  by 
Jupiter,  my  lord,  look  to  yourself. 

Yellowplush. — My  lord  says  that,  if  you  don't  mind  seeing 
him  in  his  dishybeel,  you  may  come  in  to  him,  Mr.  Bludyer. 

Bludyee  {to  Dishwash).  —  There,  spooney  !  didn't  I  tell 
you  so  ? 

Dishwash.  —  Use  a  little  more  gentlemanly  language,  Mr. 
Bludyer,  if  you  please. 

Bludyee. — Gentlemanly  language  ?  Hang  it,  sir,  do  you  mean 
I'm  no  gentleman  1     Say  so  again,  and  I'll  pull  your  nose. 

Yellowplush. — My  lord's  waiting,  Mr.  Bludyer. 

[They  go  in. 

Dishwash. — I  wonder  whether  he  would  pull  my  nose,  now — • 
the  great  coarse,  vulgar,  gin-drinking  monster !  It  is  those  men 
who  are  a  disgrace  to  our  profession  ;  and,  with  all  his  affectation 
of  independence  and  bluntness,  I  know  that  man  to  be  as  servile  a 
sycophant  as  crawls.  Oh,  for  a  little  honesty  in  this  world ;  and 
oh  that  the  man  of  letters  would  understand  the  dignity  of  his 
pro 

Nicholas  {witho'at). — M"r.  Bogle  ! 

Enter  Mr.  Bogle. 

Bogle. — My  appointment's  at  eleven,  and  tell  his  lordship  I 
must  see  his  lordship  soon,  if  he  can  make  it  convenient.  I've 
fourteen  other  calls  to  make  on  the  tip-top  people  of  the  town.  Ha  ! 
Dish.,  how  are  you  ?  I've  fourteen  other  calls — fourteen  volumes  of 
poems,  by  fourteen  dukes,  duchesses,  and  so  on,  down  to  baronets  ; 
but  they're  common,  now,  Dish.,  quite  common.     Why,  sir,  a  few 


READING   A   POEM  539 

years  ago  I  could  sell  an  edition  with  a  baronet's  name  to  it ;  and 
now  the  public  won't  have  anything  under  an  earl.  Fact,  upon 
honour ! — And  how  goes  on  the  Castilian,  hey,  Dishwash  ? 

'DisswA&n.—Castsdian,  Mr.  Bogle— he,  he  !  You  sell  books, 
but  you  don't  read  them,  I  fancy  ? 

Bogle. — No  more  I  do,  my  boy — no  such  fool ;  I  keep  a  man 
to  read  them,  one  of  your  fellows. 

Dishwash  {sneeringly). — 0  yes — Diddle;  I  know  your  man 
well  enough. 

Bogle.— Well,  sir!  I  pay  Mr.  Diddle  three  hundred  a-year, 
and  you  don't  fancy  I  would  be  such  a  flat  as  to  read  my  books 
when  I  have  a  man  of  his  experience  in  my  establishment.  Have 
you  anything  to  say  against  Mr.  Diddle,  sir  ? 

Dishwash. — Not  a  syllable ;  he  is  not  exactly  a  genius- — he, 
he ! — but  I  believe  he  is  a  very  estimable  man. 

Bogle. — Well,  I  tell  you,  then,  that  he  has  a  great  deal  to  say 
against  you.  Your  magazine  is  not  strong  enough  in  its  language, 
sir.  Our  books  have  not  their  fair  chance,  sir.  You  gave  Pogle's 
house  three  columns  last  week,  and  us  only  two.  I'll  withdraw  my 
advertisements  if  this  kind  of  game  continues,  and  carry  them  over 
to  the  Aperian. 

Dishwash. — The  Pierian  !  why,  our  sale  is  double  theirs. 

BoGLB. — I  don't  care  !  I'll  have  my  books  properly  reviewed ;  or 
else,  I'll  withdraw  my  ads.  Four  hundred  a-year,  Mr.  Dishwash ; 
take  'em  or  leave  'em,  as  you  like,  sir.  But  my  house  is  not  going 
to  be  sacrificed  for  Fogle's.     No,  no. 

Dishwash. — My  dear  good  sir,  what  in  conscience  can  you 
want  now?  I  said  that  Lady  Laura  Lippet's  "Gleanings  of 
Fantasy  "  were  gorgeous  lucubrations  of  divine  intellect,  and  that 
the  young  poetess  had  decked  her  brow  with  that  immortal  wreath 
which  Sappho  bore  of  yore.  I  said  that  no  novelist  since  the  days 
of  Walter  Scott  had  ever  produced  so  divine  a  composition  as 
Countess  Swanquil's  "  Amarantha."  I  said  that  Lord  Cutthrust's 
account  of  the  military  operations  at  Wormwood  Scrubs  was  written 
with  the  iron  pen  of  a  Tacitus. 

Bogle. — I  believe  you,  it  was  written  well.  Diddle  himself 
wrote  the  whole  book. 

Dishwash. — And  because  Fogle's  house  published  a  remarkable 
work,  really  now  a  remarkable  history,  that  must  have  taken  the 
author  ten  years  of  labour — 

Bogle. — Don't  remarkable  history  me,  sir.  You  praise  all 
Fogle's  books.  Hark  ye,  Dishwash,  you  praise  so  much  and  so 
profusely,  that  no  one  cares  a  straw  for  your  opinions.  You  must 
abuse,  sir;  look  at  Bludyer,  now — the  Bravo' s  the  paper  for  my 


540        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

money.  See  what  he  says  about  that  famous  history  that  you  talk 
of — {takes  out  a  paper  and  reads). — "  Senseless  trash  ;  stupid 
donkey ;  absurd  ignoramus ;  disgusting  twaddle  ! "  and  disposes  of 
the  whole  in  a  few  lines — that's  the  way  to  crush  a  book,  sir. 

Dish  WASH. — Well,  well,  I  will  abuse  some  poor  devil  to  please 
you.  But  you  know  if  I  am  severe  on  one  house,  I  must  be  so  on 
another.     I  can't  praise  all  your  books  and  abuse  all  Fogle's. 

Bogle. — Of  course  not,  of  course  not ;  fair's  the  word,  and  I'll 
give  you  a  list  now  of  some  of  my  books  which  you  may  attack  to 
your  heart's  content.  Here — here's  a  history,  two  poems,  a  volume 
of  travels,  and  an  Essay  on  Population. 

DisHWASH. — He,  he,  he !  I  suppose  you  publish  these  books 
on  the  author's  account,  hey  % 

Bogle. — Get  along,  you  sly  dog.  What !  you  know  that,  do 
you  %  You  don't  suppose  I  am  such  a  fool  as  to  cry  out  against  my 
own  property.     No,  no,  leave  Tom  Bogle  alone. 

Dish  WASH. — ^Well,  I  suppose  you  are  here  about  Lord  Daudley's 
new  volume. 

Bogle. — "Passion-Flowers!"  there's  a  title!  there's  no  man 
in  England  can  invent  a  title  like  my  friend  Diddle.  "Passion- 
Flowers,  by  the  Lord  Daudley,  with  twenty  illustrations  on  steel ; " 
let  my  lord  put  his  name  to  it,  and  I'd  make  my  fortune,  sir.  It's 
nothing ;  he  can  get  anybody  to  do  the  book ;  you  could  knock  it 
off  yourself,  Mr.  Dishwash,  in  a  month,  for  I've  heard  Diddle  say 
that  you've  a  real  talent  that  way. 

Dishwash.  —  Did  he  now,  really  %  that  Diddle's  a  clever 
fellow. 

Bogle  (musing). — Twenty  plates — red  velvet  binding — four 
thousand.  Yes,  I  could .  give  my  lord  eight  hundred  pounds  for 
that  book.  I'll  give  it  him  for  his  name ;  I  don't  want  him  to 
write  a  word  of  it. 

Dishwash. — No,  no,  of  course  ;  you  and  I  know  that  it  must 
be  done  by  one  of  us.  Well,  now,  suppose,  under  the  rose,  that  I 
undertake  the  work  % 

Bogle. — Well,  I  have  no  objection ;  I  told  you  what  Diddle 
said. 

Dishwash. — And  about  the  terms,  ay,  Bogle? 

Bogle. — Why,  though  there  are  half-a  dozen  men  about  my 
place  who  could  turn  out  the  work  famously,  yet  I  should  like  to 
employ  you,  as  Diddle  says  you  are  a  clever  man.  My  terms  shall 
be  liberal.  Yes — let  me  see,  I'll  give  you,  for  seventy  short  poems, 
mere  trifles,  you  know 

Dishwash. — A  short  poem  often  requires  a  deal  of  labour, 
Mr.   Bogle.     Look  at  my  "Violets";  now,   there's  a  sonnet   in 


READING   A    POEM  541 

that  book  dedicated  to  Lady  Titterton,  whom  Sultan  Mahmoiid  fell 
in  love  with,  which  took  me  six  weeks'  time.  You  Trvust  remember 
it ;  it  runs  so  : — 

"  As  'tis  his  usage  in  the  summer  daily, 
Impelled  by  fifty  Moslemitish  oars, 
With  orescent  banners  floating  at  the  mast, 
And  loyal  cannon  shouting  from  the  shores, 
The  great  Commander  of  the  Faithful  past 
Towards  his  pleasure-house  at  Soujout  Kal4 
Why  turns  the  imperial  cheek  so  ashy  paly  ? "  .  .  . 

Bogle. — 0,  never  mind  your  verses.  You  literary  men  are 
always  talking  of  your  shop  ;  nothing  is  so  vulgar,  my  good  fellow, 
and  so  listen  to  me.  Will  you  write  the  "  Passion-Flowers,"  or 
wUl  you  not  ?  If  you  choose  to  do  me  seventy-two  sets  of  verses 
(the  time  is  your  look  out,  you  know,  not  mine),  I'll  give  you  six- 
and-thirty  guineas. 

DiSHWASH. — Six-and-thirty  guineas  ! 

Bogle. — In  bills  at  one,  two,  and  three  years.  There  are  my 
terms, — take  'em  or  leave  'em. 

Yellowplush  {entering). — Gentlemen,  My  Lord  ! 

LoED  Daudley  and  Bludyee  enter. 

Daudley. — Charles,  get  some  soda-water  for  Mr.  Bludyer. 

Bludyee. — And  some  sherry,  Charles.  I  was  as  drunk  as  a 
lord  last  night. 

Daudley. — Bludyer,  you  compliment  the  aristocracy 

DiSHWASH. — Ha,  ha,  ha  !  very  good,  isn't  it.  Bogle ' 

Bogle. — Is  if!     0  yes  !  ha,  ha,  ha  !  capital ! 

Bludyee. — Not  so  bad,  Daudley  :  for  a  lord  you  are  really  a 
clever  fellow.  I  don't  say  it  to  flatter  you — no,  hang  me  !  I  flatter 
nobody,  and  hate  the  aristocracy ;  but  you  are  a  clever  fellow. 

DiSHWASH. — It  is  a  comfort  to  have  Mr.  Bludyer's  word  for  it, 
at  any  rate ;  he,  he  ! 

Bludyee. — Well,  sir,  are  you  going  to  doubt  Mr.  Bludyer's 
word  ?  Give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  that  your  remark  is  confoundedly 
impertinent ! 

Yellowplush  {going  out). — Oh,  these  lettery  people?  What 
infurnal  corseness  and  wulgarity  ! 

Daudley. — Come,  come — no  quarrelling.  You  fellows  of  the 
what's-his-name,  you  know — what  we  used  to  say  at  Oxon,  you 
know,  of  the  genus  irritabile,  hay  ?  Bludy,  you  must  be  a  little 
more  placable ;  and,  Washy,  your  language  was  a  little  too  strong. 


542        VAEIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

Hay,  Bogle,  you  understand  1  I  call  these  two  fellows  Bludy  and 
Washy ;  and  as  for  Dishwash,  if  I  don't  call  him  Washy,  I'll  call 
him  Dishy,  hay  ? 

Bogle. — Capital !  capital !  You'll  kill  me  with  laughing ; — 
and  I  want  to  talk  to  your  lordship  about  the  "  Passion-Flower " 
business. 

Datjdley. — Your  rival  bookseller,  Mr.  Fogle,  has  been  with  me 
already  about  the  book. 

Bogle. — What!  with  my  title?  The  scoundrel!  My  lord, 
it's  a  felony.  You  are  not  going  to  lend  yourself  to  such  a  trans- 
action, I  am  sure.  Fogle  publish  the  "  Passion-Flo wers  !  "  I'll 
prosecute  the  unprincipled  ruffian ;  I  will,  as  sm-e  as  my  name's 
Bo 

Daudley. — To  a  goose.  Fogle  is  not  going  to  publish  a  book 
called  "  Passion-Flowers  " ;  but  he  has  a  project  of  a  little  work, 
bound  in  blue  velvet,  containing  twenty-two  illustrations  on  steel, 
written  by  the  Lord  D'Audley,  and  called  "  The  Primavera." 

Bogle. — The  what  ?  It's  a  forgery  all  the  same.  I'll  prosecute 
him — by  all  the  gods,  I  will ! 

Daudley. — Well,  well,  we  have  come  to  no  bargains.  Entre 
nous,  you  publishers  are  deuced  stingy  fellows. 

DisHWASH. — He,  he,  he  ! 

Bludyee. — Haw,  haw,  haw  !     Had  you  there,  old  Bogle  ! 

Daudley. — And  that  rascal  only  offers  me  six  hundred  pounds. 

Bogle. — I'll  give  six-and-fifty. 

Daudley. — No  go. 

Bogle. — Seven  hundred,  then  ? 

Daudley. — Won't  do. 

Bogle. — Well,  make  it  eight  hundred,  and  ruin  me  at  once. 

Daudley. — Mr.  Bogle,  my  worthy  man,  my  terms  are  a  thousand 
pounds.  A  thousand  pounds,  look  you,  or  curse  me  if  you  get  a 
single  "  Passion-Flower  "  out  of  George  Daudley. 

Yellowplush  {entering). — Mr.  Fogle,  my  lord,  the  publisher. 

Bogle.— What  ? 

Yellowplush. — Mr.  Fogle,  my  lord,  according  to  appointment, 
he  says.     Shall  I  show  him  in  ? 

Daudley. — Yes,  you  may  as  well.  Yes,  certainly. — (Aside.) — 
Egad,  he's  come  just  at  the  proper  moment  1 

Bogle. — Stop,  my  lord  ;  pray,  stop  one  minute.  That  ruffian 
follows  me  like  my  shadow.  Show  him  into  the  study.  For 
heaven's  sake,  let  me  say  a  word. 

Daudley— Show  Mr.  Fogle  into  the  study,  Charles.  (JSxit 
Yellowplush.)  Well,  now,  my  worthy  man,  what  have  you 
to  say  ? 


READING   A    POEM  543 

Bogle. — Well,  then,  my  lord,  just  to  keep  your  name  upon  my 
lists,  I'll  make  the  money  nine  hundred. 

Daudley. — Sir,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you  that  your  offer  is 
impertinent. — Charles ! 

Bogle  (drawing  out  a  paper). — Very  good,  then ;  here's  the 
agreement.  Sign  this :  a  thousand  pounds ;  the  MSS.  to  be  de- 
livered in  three  months ;  half  the  money  on  delivery ;  the  rest  in 
bills,  at  three  and  six  months.  Will  that  suit  you  ? — No  ?  Say 
two  hundred  pounds  down.     Here's  the  money. 

Daudley. — Egad,  this  will  do  !  Here,  I'll  sign  it,  and  let  our 
two  friends  here  be  witnesses. 

Bogle. — But,  my  lord,  a  word  with  you — about — about  the 
writing  of  the  poems.  Will  you  do  them,  or  shall  we  ?  There  is  a 
capital  hand  in  our  house,  who  could  knock  them  off  in  a  month. 

Daudley. — Upon  my  word,  this  surpasses  everything  I  ever 
knew.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  an  impostor,  Mr.  Bogle?  Take 
your  money,  and  your  infernal  agreement,  and  your  impertinent 
self,  out  of  the  room. 

Bogle. — A  million  pardons,  my  dear,  dear,  dear,  dear  lord;  I 
wouldn't  offend  your  lordship  for  the  world.  Come,  come,  let  us 
sign.  You  will  sign  1.  Here,  where  the  wafer  is.  I've  made  my 
clerk  copy  out  the  agreement ;  one  copy  for  me  and  one  for  your 
lordship.  There,  there's  my  name — "  Henry  Bogle."  And  here 
are  the  notes,  of  which  your  lordship  will  just  acknowledge  the 
receipt.  Please,  gents,  to  witness  this  here  understanding  between 
his  lordship  and  me. 

DiSHWASH  (signs). — "Percy  Dishwash."  )  Of  course  you  give 

Bludyee. —  "  John  Bludyer."      J  us  a  dinner.  Bogle  1 

Bogle. — Oh,  certainly,  some  day.  Bless  my  soid  !  twelve 
o'clock,  and  I  an  appointment  with  Lady  Mantrap  at  half-past 
eleven  !  Good-bye,  my  lord,  my  dear  lord. — Good-bye,  Dish. — 
Bludyer,  you  owe  me  ten  pounds,  remember,  and  our  magazine 
wants  your  article  very  much.  Good-bye,  good-bye,  good-b — . 
(Here  the  door  shuts  upon  Me.  Bogle.) 

Dishwash. — Well,  the  bargain  is  not  a  bad  one.  Do  you 
know,  my  lord,  that  Bogle  had  the  conscience  to  offer  me  six-and- 
thirty  guineas  for  the  book,  which  will  bring  you  a  thousand  ? 

Daudley. — Very  possibly,  my  good  fellow ;  but  the  name's 
everything.  I  have  not  the  vanity  to  suppose  that  I  can  write 
much  better  than  you,  or  Bludyer,  here. 

Dishwash. — Oh,  my  lord  !  my  lord  ! 

Daudley. — No,  indeed ;  really,  now,  I  don't  think  so.  But 
if  the  public  chooses  to  buy  Lord  Daudley's  verses,  and  not  to 
care — 


544        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

DiSHWASH. — For  poor,  humble  Percy  Dishwash,  heigho  !  you 
were  in  the  right  to  make  the  best  bargain  you  can,  as  I  should  be 
the  last  to  deny. 

(Mb.  Yellowplush  here  enters  with  Me.  Bludyer's  soda 
water.) 

Soda  water— P-f-f-f-f-f-f— op  whizz.     (Me.  Bludyee  drinks.) 

DiSHWASH. — But  where  is  Pogle  all  this  while  ?  you  should  have 
had  him  in  and  pitted  him  against  his  rival. 

Daudley  (archly).— Ask  Charles. — Charles,  you  rogue,  why 
do  you  keep  Mr.  Fogle  waiting  1 

Yellowplush.  —  Mr.  Fogle's  mora  inwentus,  my  lord.  —  He 
never  was  there  at  all,  gentlemen ;  it  was  only  a  de  ruse  of  mine, 
which  I  hope  your  lordship  will  igscuse,  but  happening  to  be  at  the 
door — 

Bludyee. — And  happening  to  be  listening  ! 

Yellowplush. — Well,  sir  !  I  confess  I  was  listening — in  my 
lord's  interest,  in  course ;  and  I  am  sure  my  stepping  in  at  that 
moment  caused. Mr.  Bogle  to  sign  the  agreement.  My  lord  won't 
forget  it,  I  trust,  and  cumsider  that,  without  that  sackimstans,  he 
mightn't  have  made  near  such  a  good  barging. — 

[Uxit  Yellovstlush. 

Daudley. — No,  I  won't  forget  it,  you  may  be  sure,  Master 
Charles.  And,  egad  !  as  soon  as  I  have  paid  the  fellow  his  wages, 
I'll  send  him  off.  He's  a  great  deal  too  clever  for  me ;  the  rogue 
writes,  gentlemen,  would  you  believe  it?  and  has  just  had  the 
impudence  to  republish  his  works. 

DiSHWASH. — Never  mind  him,  my  dear  lord ;  but  do  now  let 
us  hear  some  of  yours.  What  were  you  meditating  this  morning  ? 
Confess  now — some  delightful  poem  I  am  sure. 


Part  II. 

DAUDLEY. — Well,  then,  if  you  must  know  the  truth,  I  was 
scribbling  a  little  something ;  just  a  trifling  thought  that 
came  into  my  brain  this  morning,  as  I  was  looking  out  at 
the  mignonette-pot  in  my  bedroom  window.  You  know  it  was  Lady 
Blanche  Bluenose  that  gave  it  me,  and  I  promised  her  a  little  copy 
of  verses  in  return.  "  Well,"  says  I,  thinking  over  my  bargain  with 
that  fellow  Bogle,  "as  I  have  agreed  to  write  something  about 
flowers,  my  little  poem  for  Lady  Blanche's  album  will  answer  for 
my  volume  too,  and  so  I  shall  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone."  That's 
the  very  thing  I  said ;  not  bad,  was  it  'i 


EEADING    A    POEM  545 

Bludyee. — Not  bad?  devilish  good,  by  the  immortal  Jove. 
Hang  me,  my  lord,  but  you're  a  regular  Joe  Miller. 

DiSHWASH. — Really  now.  Lord  Daadley,  you  should  write  a 
comic  novel.     Something  in  the  Dickens  style. 

Daudley. — I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  did ;  I've  thought  of  it, 
Dishwash,  often.  The  "  New  Novel  of  Low  Life,  by  Lord  Daudley," 
hay  ?  forty  illustrations  by  Whiz  ;  it  wouldn't  sound  badly.  But, 
to  return  to  the  "  Passion-Flowers." 

Dishwash. — We  are  all  ear. 

Bludyer. — Not  all  ear,  Dish. ;  a  good  deal  of  you  is 
nose. 

Daudley. — Mr.  Bludyer,  for  Heaven's  sake,  a  truce  to  these 
personalities,  if  you  have  a  mind  to  listen  to  me.  I  told  you  I  was 
thinking  in  bed  this  morning  about  Lady  Blanche's  present,  and  the 
poem  I  had  promised  her.  "  Egad  ! "  says  I,  starting  up  in  bed, 
and  iUnging  my  green  velvet  night-cap  very  nearly  out  of  window, 
"  why  should  I  not  write  about  that  flower-pot  t " 

Bludyee. — And  a  dev'lish  good  idea,  too. 

Dishwash. — {Aside. — Toad-eater.)  O!  leave  Lord  Daudley 
alone  for  ideas. 

Daudley. — Well,  sir,  I  instantly  rung  my  body-fellow,  Charles, 
had  my  bath,  ordered  my  chocolate,  and,  with  the  water  exactly  at 
ninety-two,  began  my  poem. 

Bludyee. — 0  !  you  practise  the  hot-water  stimulus,  do  you, 
my  lord  ?  And  so  do  I ;  but  I  always  have  mine  at  Fahrenheit ; 
boiling,  my  lord,  as  near  as  possible. 

Daudley. — Gad  now  !  you  don't  say  so  1 

Bludyee. — Boiling,  yes,  with  a  glass  of  brandy  in  it — do 
you  take  ?  Once,  when  I  wrote  for  the  Whigs — you  know  I  am 
Radical  now — I  wrote  eight-and-thirty  stanzas  at  a  sitting.  And 
how  do  you  think  I  did  it?  By  nineteen  glasses  of  brandy-and- 
water.  That's  your  true  Castalian,  ay,  Dishwash  ?  But,  I  beg 
pardon  for  interrupting  you  in  your  account  of  your  brilliant  idea  ; 
tell  us  more  about  the  "  Flower-pot,''  my  lord. 

Dishwash. — The  verses,  the  verses,  my  lord,  by  all  means — 
positively  now,  I'm  dying  to  know  them. 

Daudley. — 0,  ah  !  the  verses — yes — that  is — why,  egad,  I've 
not  written  down  any  yet,  but  I  have  them  here  in  my  brain — all 
the  ideas  at  least,  and  that's  the  chief  thing. 

Bludyee. — Why,  I  don't  know ;  I  don't  think  it's  of  any  use 
to  have  ideas,  or  too  many  of  them,  in  a  set  of  verses. 

Daudley. — ^You  are  satirical,  you  rogue  Bludyer,  you— dev'lish 
satirical,  by  Jove.  But  the  fact  is,  I  can't  help  having  ideas,  and 
a  deuced  many  of  them,  too.  My  first  idea  was  to  say,  that  that 
13  2  m 


546        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

hvunWe  flower-pot  of  mignonette  was  more  precious  to  me  than, 
egad  !  all  the  flowers  in  a  conservatory. 

Bludyee. — Very  good  and  ingenious. 

DiSHWASH. — Very  pretty  and  pastoral ;  and  how,  my  lord, 
did  you  begin  ? 

Daudlby. — Why,  I  begin — quite  modestly  you  know, — 

"  My  little  humble  flower-pot " — 

and  there,  egad  !  I  stuck  fast— for  my  bell  began  a  cursed  ringing, 
and  presently  this  monster  of  a  Bludyer  came  and  kicked  down  my 
dressing-room  door  almost,  and  drove  poetry  out  of  my  head.  So 
as  you  served  me  so,  why,  gentlemen,  you  must  help  me  in  my  ode. 
I  want  to  say  how  it  looks  out  into  Piccadilly,  you  know,  and  on 
St.  James's  Church,  and  all  that. 

Bludyee. — Excuse  me,  that  will  never  do;  say  it  looks  out 
on  your  park  in  Yorkshire.  Mrs.  Grange,  the  pastry-cook's  window, 
looks  into  Piccadilly  just  as  well  as  your  lordship's.  You  must 
have  something  more  aristocratic. 

Daudley. — Egad  !  yes,  not  bad.  Well,  it  shall  look  into  my 
park  at  Daudley.  I  thought  so  myself;  do  you  like  the  idea,  ay, 
gentlemen?  You  do  like  it,  I  thought  you  would.  Well,  then, 
my  flower-pot  stands  in  a  window,  and  the  window  is  in  a  tower, 
and  the  tower  is  in  Daudley  park,  and  I  begin — 

My  little  humble  flower-pot. 
My  little  hum 

DiSHWASH. — Upon  my  turret  flaunting  free, — flaunting  free  ! 
there's  an  expression  ! — there's  a  kind  of  laisser  aller  about  it. 
Bludyee. — 

My  little  humble  flower-pot, 

Upon  my  turret  flaunting  free. 
Thou  art  more  loved  by  me  I  wot, 

Than  all  the  sweets  of  Araby. 

Daudley. — Stop,  stop  ! — by  Gad,  the  very  thing  I  was  going 
to  say ;  I  thought  of  "  I  wot "  and  "  Araby,"  at  once,  only  Bludyer 
interrupted  me.  It  wasn't  a  bad  notion,  was  it  ?  (Reads)  Hum, 
hiim — "  flower  jooi — flaunting /ree — by  me,  1  wot — Aisif/i/."  Well, 
I've  done  for  that  idea,  at  any  rate, — now  let's  see  for  another. 

Bludyee. — Done  with  that,  already  1  Good  heavens^  Daudley, 
you  had  need  be  a  lord,  and  a  rich  one,  to  fling  about  your  wealth 
in  that  careless  kind  of  way, — a  commoner  can't  afford  to  be  so 
prodigal ;  and,  if  you  will  take  my  advice  in  the  making  of  poems 


EEADING   A    POEM  547 

— whenever  you  get  an  idea,  make  a  point  of  repeating  it  two  or 
three  times,  thus  : — 

Not  all  the  sweets  of  Eastern  bower 

Datjdlby. — Egad,  the  very  words  out  of  my  own  mouth — ■ 

(writes)  "  Eastern  bower  " 

Bltjdyee, — 

Are  half  so  dearly  prized  by  me. 
As  is  the  little  gentle  flower 

Daudley. — 

"  Pot,  in  my  turret  flaunting  free. " 

That's  the  thing. 

DiSHWASH. — Why,  no,  my  dear  lord,  if  I  might  advise,  it's 
well  to  repeat  the  same  sentiment  two  or  three  times  over,  as  Mr. 
Bludyer  says.  In  one  of  Sir  Edward's  tragedies,  I  counted  the  same 
simile  fourteen  times,  but  at  intervals  of  two  or  three  pages,  or  so. 
Suppose,  now,  instead  of  your  admirable  line- 

Bludyee. — Which  divides  the  pot  from  the  flower,  you  see. 

DiSHWASH. — We  say — 

As  is  the  little  gentle  flower, 

The  mignonette,  that  blooms  in  thee  ! 

Daudley. — Bravo  ! — eight  lines  already.  Egad,  gentlemen, 
I'm  in  the  vein. 

Bludyee. — There's  nothing  like  backing  your  luck  in  these 
cases,  my  lord,  and  so  let  us  throw  in  another  stanza — 

My  little  dewy  moss-grown  vase, 

Forth  from  its  turret  looks  and  sees. 
Wide  stretched  around  the  park  and  chase, 

The  dappled  deer  beneath  the  trees. 

Ha!  what  do  you  say  to  that?  There's  nothing  like  the  use  of 
venison  in  a  poem — it  has  a  liberal  air ;  now  let's  give  them  a  little 
mutton.  I  presume  you  feed  sheep  in  your  park.  Lord  Daudley,  as 
well  as  deer  ? 

Daudley. — 0  yes,  'gad  !  and  cows  too — hundreds  of  them. 

Bludyee. — 

Beside  the  river  bask  the  kine, 

The  sheep  go  browsing  o'er  the  sward  ; 

And  kine,  and  sheep,  and  deer  are  mine. 
And  all  the  park  calls  Daudley  lord. 


548        VARIOUS   ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

Daudley. — It  doesn't,  my  dear  fellow — egad,  I  wish  it  did — 
but  till  my  father's  death,  you  know 

DiSHWASH. — Bagwig  is  a  sad  unromantic  name  for  a  poem. 

Daudley. — Well,  well — I'U  yield  to  my  friends,  and  sacrifice 
my  own  convictions.  I'U  say  Daudley,  then,  and  not  Bagwig. 
And,  Dishwash,  you  may  say  everywhere,  that  in  my  poem  of  the 
"Flower-pot,"  you  suggested  that  alteration.  (Writes)— " And  all 
the  park  calls  Daudley  lord." 

Bludyee. — 

Safe  sheltered  in  thy  turret  nook. 

My  gentle  flower-pot,  'tis  thine 
Upon  this  peaceful  scene  to  look, 

The  lordship  of  my  ancient  line ! 
Rich  are  my  lands,  and  wide  they  range 

Daudley  (who  writes  always  as  Bludyee  dictates). — "  Rich 
are  my  lands,  and  wide  they  range." — Egad !  they're  devilishly 
mortgaged  though,  Master  Bludyer;  but  I  won't  say  anything 
about  that. 

Dishwash. — Bravo  !     Capital ! 

Bludyee. — • 

Eich  are  my  lands,  and  wide  they  range, 

And  yet  do  I  esteem  them  not, 
And  lightly  would  my  lordships  change 

Against  my  little  flower-pot. 

Dishwash.— Whew ! 

Daudley. — Come,  come,  Bludyer,  that's  too  much. 

Bludyee. — Not  a  whit,  as  you  shall  see. — 

By  wide  estates  I  set  no  store. 

No  store  on  sparkling  coronet ; 
The  poet's  heart  can  value  more 

This  fragrant  plant  of  mignonette. 
And,  as  he  fondly  thinks  of  her- 

Who  once  the  little  treasure  owned. 
The  lover  may  the  gift  prefer 

To  mines  of  gold  and  diamond. 

Isn't  that,  now,  perfectly  satisfactory'!     You  are  a  lover,  and  your 
mistress's  gift  is  more  precious  to  you  than  Potosi;  a  poet  (and 

that  you  know  you  are),  and  a  little  flower  provokes  in  you 

Dishwash. — Hopes,  feelings,  passionate  aspirations,  thoughts 
that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears.  Holy  memories  of  bygone 
times,  pure  as  the  innocent  dew  that  twinkles  on  the  cup  of  the 
flower  ;  fragrant,  mysterious,  stealing  on  the  senses  as — as 


HEADING    A    POEM  549 

Daudley.— Exactly  so.  You  are  perfectly  right,  egad ;  though 
I  never  thought  that  I  had  those  feelings  before. 

DiSHWASH. — 0,  it's  astonishing  how  the  merest  trifle  serves  to 
awaken  the  vastest  thoughts :  and,  in  such  a  way,  my  hint  might 
aid  your  lordship.     Suppose  we  continue  : — 

My  mild  and  winsome  flower-pot ! 

Bludyee    {aside). — Mild   and   winsome  !    there's   affectation ! 
but  let  the  epithets  pass,  they're  good  enough  for  a  lord. 
DiSHWASH  (continuing) — 

My  mild  and  winsome  flower-pot, 

Aa — let  me  see — as  on  thy  dewy  buds  I  gaze, 
I  think  how  different  is  my  lot, 

Unto  my  sire's  in  ancient  days. 
Where  softly  droops  my  bonny  flower. 

My  free  and  feathery  mignonette, 
Upon  its  lofty,  ancient  tower, 

The  banner  of  my  race  was  set. 

Daudley. — "  Eace  was  set."  Bravo  !  we're  getting  on,— hay, 
Bludyer  ■?  But  you  are  no  hand  at  an  impromptu,  like  Dishwash 
and  myself;  he's  quite  beaten,  I  declare,  and  has  not  another 
rhyme  for  the  dear  life. 

Bludyee. — Not  another  rhyme  !  my  dear  lord,  a  dozen ;  as 
thus : — 

Where  peaceful  roam  the  kine  and  sheep, 

Were  men-at-arms  with  bow  and  bill ; 
Where  blooms  my  flower  upon  the  keep, 

A  warder  blew  his  clarion  shrill. 

And  now  for  the  moral : — 

Dark  memories  of  blood  and  crime 

Away  !  the  poet  loves  you  not. 
Ah  me  !  the  chieftains  of  that  time 

Had  never  seen  a  flower-pot !  * 

Daudley. — Bravo,  bravissimo  !  six  stanzas,  by  the  immortal 
gods !  Upon  my  word,  you  were  right,  Bludyer,  and  I  was  in  the 
vein.  Why,  this  will  fill  a  couple  of  pages,  and  we  may  get  the 
"  Passion-Flowers  "  out  in  a  month.  Come  and  see  me  often,  my 
lads,  hay  1  and,  egad !  yes,  I'll  read  you  some  more  poems. 

DiSHWASH. — Two  o'clock,  heaven  bless  me !  my  lord,  I  really 

*  A  poem  very  much  of  this  sort,  from  which  the  writer  confesses  he  has 
borrowed  the  idea  and  all  the  principal  epithets,  such  as  "free  and  feathery," 
"mild  and  winsome,"  &c.,  is  to  be  found  in  the  "Keepsake,"  nor  is  it  by  any 
means  the  worst  ditty  in  the  collection. 


550        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

must  be  off  to  my  ofl&ce,  for  I  have  several  columns  of  the  Castalian 
to  get  ready  before  night.  As  I  shall  be  very  much  pressed  for 
time  and  copy,  might  I  ask,  as  the  greatest  favour  in  the  world, 
permission  to  insert  into  the  paper  a  part  of  that  charming  little 
poem  which  you  have  just  done  us  the  favour  to  read  to  us  1 

Daudlby. — Well,  I  don't  mind,  my  good  fellow.  You  will 
say,  of  course,  that  it  is  from  Lord  Daudley's  forthcoming  volume 
of  "  Passion-Flowers  " ;  and,  I  am  sure,  will  add  something,  some- 
thing good-natured,  you  know,  in  your  way,  about  the  projected  book. 

DiSHWASH. — 0,  certainly,  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  Fare- 
well, my  dear  lord,  I  must  tear  myself  away,  though  I  could  stay 
and  listen  to  your  poetry  for  hours  ;  there  is  nothing  more  delightful 
than  to  sit  by  a  great  artist,  and  watch  the  progress  of  his  work. 
Grood-bye,  good-bye.  Don't  ring,  I  shall  find  the  way  easily  my- 
self, and  I  hope  you  will  not  be  on  any  ceremony  with  me. 

Daudley. — Good-bye,  Dish  wash.  And,  I  say,  come  in  some- 
times of  a  morning,  hlie  a  worthy  fellow  as  you  are,  and  perhaps  I 
may  read  to  you  some  more  of  my  compositions.  {Exit  Dishwash, 
bowing  profusely.) — A  good  useful  creature  that,  ay,  Bludyer^  but 
no  power,  no  readiness,  no  vis.  The  fellow  scarcely  helped  us  with 
a  line  or  a  rhyme  in  my  poem. 

Bludyee. — A  good-natured  milksop  of  a  creature,  and  very 
useful,  as  you  say.  He  will  give  you  a  famous  puff  in  the  Castalian, 
be  sure. 

Daudley. — As  you  will,  I  am  certain,  in  the  Bravo. 

Bludyee. — Perhaps,  perhaps ;  but  we  are,  as  you  are  aware, 
in  the  satirical  vein,  and  I  don't  know  whether  our  proprietors  will 
allow  me  to  be  complimentary  even  to  my  own — I  mean,  to  your 
works.  However,  between  ourselves,  there  is  a  way  of  mollifying 
them. 

Daudley. — As  how  ? 

Bludyer. — ^By  a  bribe,  to  be  sure.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my 
lord,  suppose  you  send  through  me  a  five  pound  note  to  be  laid 
out  in  paragraphs  in  the  Bravo  ;  I  will  take  care  to  write  them  all 
myself,  and  that  they  shall  be  well  worth  the  money. 

Daudley. — Nonsense !  you  do  not  mean  that  your  people  at 
the  Bravo  are  so  unprincipled  as  that  ? 

Bludyee. — Unprincipled?  the  word  is  rather  strong,  my  lord  : 
but  do  exactly  as  you  please.  Nobody  forces  you  to  advertise  with 
us ;  only  do  not,  for  the  future,  ask  me  to  assist  at  the  reading  of 
your  poems  any  more,  that's  all. 

Daudley. — {Aside. — Unconscionable  scoundrel!)  Come,  come, 
Bludyer,  here's  the  five  pound  note;  you  are  very  welcome  to 
take  it 


READING   A    POEM  551 

Bludyee. — To  my  proprietors,  of  course.  You  do  not  fancy  it 
.  is  for  me  1 

Daudley. — Not  in  the  least  degree ;  pray  take  it  and  lay  it 
out  for  me. 

Bludyeu. — Entre  nous,  I  wish  it  were  for  me ;  for,  between 
ourselves,  I  am  sadly  pressed  for  money ;  and  if  you  could,  out  of 
our  friend  Bogle's  heap,  lend  me  five  pounds  for  myself — indeed, 
now,  you  would  be  conferring  a  very  great  obligation  upon  me.  I 
will  pay  you,  you  know,  upon  my  honour  as  a  gentleman. 

Daudley. — Not  a  word  more  ;  here  is  the  money,  and  pray  pay 
me  or  not,  as  it  suits  you. 

Bludyer. — Thank  you,  Daudley ;  the  turn  shall  not  be  lost, 
depend  upon  it ;  and  if  ever  you  are  in  want  of  a  friend  in  the 
press,  count  upon  Jack  Bludyer,  and  no  mistake.  {Exit  Bltjdyee, 
with  his  hat  very  much  on  one  side.) 

Enter  Yellowplush. 

Datjdley. — WeU,  Charles,  you  scoimdrel,  you  are  a  literary 
man,  and  know  the  diflficulty  of  composition. 

Charles. — I  b'leave  you,  my  lord. 

Daudley. — Well,  sir,  what  do  you  think  of  my  having  written 
a  poem  of  fifty  lines,  while  those  fellows  were  here  all  the  time 
chattering  and  talking  to  me  ? 

Charles. — Is  it  posbil  1 

Daudley. — Possible?  Egad,  you  shall  hear  it; — just  listen. 
{Beads) — 

"The  Song  op  the  Flower-pot." 

{The  '  Flower-pot '  was  presented  to  the  writer  hy  the 
Lady  Blanche  Bluenose.) 

"  My  little  gentle  flower-pot, 

Upon  my  turret  flaunting  free " 

\As  his  lordship  is  reading  his  poem,  the  cwrtain  drops.  The 
Castalian  Magazine  of  the  next  week  contains  a  flaming  puff  upon 
Lord  Daudley's  "  Passion-Flowers  "  ;  but  the  Weekly  Bravo  has  a 
furious  attack  upon  the  work,  because  Lord  Daudley  refused  to 
advance  a  third  £,b  note  to  the  celebrated  Bludyer.  After  the 
critique,  his  lordship  advances  the  £5  note.  And,  at  a  great  public 
dinner,  where  my  Lord  Daudley  is  called  upon  to  speak  to  a  toast, 
he  discourses  upon  the  well-known  sentiment — The  Independence 
OF  the  Press  !      It  is  like  the  air  we  breathe  r  without 

IT   WE   DIE.] 


A  ST.  PHILIP'S  BAY  AT  PARIS 


Part  I 

WHEN  the  Champs  Elys^es  were  last  decorated,  it  was  for 
that  grand  serio-comic  melodramatic  spectacle  of  December 
15th,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  bones  of  Napoleon  were 
restored  to  us.  Here  is  May,  and  the  men.  are  again  busy  with 
shows,  and  lamps,  and  trophies.  To-day,  we  are  hailing  the  birthday 
of  the  King ;  to-morrow,  we  rejoice  at  the  christening  of  a  young 
prince,  whom  three  cardinals  attended  to  the  font,  and  for  whom 
has  been  provided  a  certain  quantity  of  fluid  from  the  river  of 
Jordan.  Upon  King  Louis  Philippe — upon  St.  Philippe,  his  patron 
(the  elder  branch  have  monopolised  St.  Louis) — upon  the  Count  of 
Paris — upon  the  city  of  the  same  name,  and  the  fools  dwelling  in 
it  who  have  gratified  the  young  papdevourer  with  the  present  of  a 
fine  sword  that,  pray  Heaven,  he  may  never  use — upon  the  French 
custom  of  giving  fStes  ;  viz.,  upon  the  fete  at  the  entry  of  the  Queen 
of  Louis  XIV.,  whom  he  treated  so  well,  upon  the  fetes  of  Louis  XV., 
upon  the  grand  fgtes  of  Louis  XVI.,  of  the  federation,  of  Robespierre 
and  the  Supreme  Being,  of  Buonaparte,  Napoleon,  Louis  XVIII., 
Napoleon  again,  and  the  Champ  de  Mai,  then  Louis  XVIII.  once 
more,  of  Charles's  fetes,  of  Louis  Philippe's  fetes — of  all  these  it 
would  be  pretty  easy  to  make  jokes,  and  speak  wholesome  moralities  : 
but  what  is  the  use  ?  Come  what  will,  these  people  wiU  have  their 
poles,  their  drums,  their  squibs  and  fireworks,  and  their  other  means 
of  sunshiny  recreation. 

And  quite  right  too.  If  men  are  to  be  amused,  they  may  just 
as  well  take  a  bad  reason  for  amusing  themselves  as  a  good  one  :  nay, 
a  bad  one  is  a  good  one.  If  I  say  to  you,  "  I  feel  myself  excessively 
happy,  because  it  is  the  King's  birthday  ;  and,  because  I  am  happy, 
I  intend  to  climb  up  a  pole,  to  eat  a  certain  quantity  of  gingerbread, 
to  play  at  pitch -and-toss  for  macaroons,  or  at  jack-in-the-box  for  a 
given  period," — you  have  no  right  to  ask  me  either — 

1.  Why  I  am  happy  on  account  of  the  King'! 

2.  Or,  why  I  am  happier  on  his  pseudo  birthday  than  on  any 
other  day  in  the  year  1 


A    ST.    PHILIP'S    DAY    AT    PARIS  553 

3.  Or,  why,  because  I  am  happy,  it  is  necessary  that  fellow- 
creatures  should  get  up  greased  poles  1 

4.  Or,  why,  as  I  can  fill  niy  belly  with  gingerbread  every  day 
of  the  week,  it  is  necessary  that,  on  this  particular  day,  I  should 
eat  that  condiment,  play  at  pitch -and- toss,  jack-in-the-box,  &c.  ? 

All  these  are  points  wholly  impertinent,  and  I  should  consider 
a  man  grossly  flippant  and  conceited  who  proved  them.  If  men 
are  happy,  why  the  deuce  need  we  inquire  why  or  how  1  Nature 
has  supplied  them  with  a  variety  of  mysterious  ways  for  being 
happy ;  they  extract  pleasure  from  substances  where  one  would 
never  have  thought  that  it  lurked — viz.,  some  men  from  reading 
Parliamentary  debates ;  some  from  swinging  on  gates,  or  butterfly 
chasing ;  some,  on  the  contrary,  from  political  economy,  from  the 
study  of  the  law,  from  the  leading  articles  of  the  Times  newspaper ; 
or  from  many  other  things  equally  strange.  Newton,  lying  under 
a  tree,  had  his  nose  tickled  by  an  apple — Bottom,  sprawling  on 
Titania's  lap,  had  his  deliciously  excited  by  a  straw;  and  the 
spirit  of  each,  inspired  by  the  circumstance,  went  off  straight  to 
his  own  heaven,  soaring  into  a  height  of  blissful  considerations, 
which  it  never  could  have  reached  but  for  the  aid  of  the  pippin  or 
the  straw.  Give  a  man,  then,  his  pleasure  where  he  finds  it.  A 
milHon  bushels  of  Kibstons  might  have  tumbled  from  trees  and 
smashed  my  nose  to  a  jelly,  without  my  discovering  the  doctrine 
of  gravitation  :  and  the  fairies  have  scratched  and  tickled  me  all 
Midsummer  through,  without  causing  the  ravishing  delight  felt 
by  the  honest  weaver.  There  are  secrets  in  every  man's  pleasure : 
let  us  respect  them  even  without  knowing  them.  I  saw  a  man 
to-day,  in  the  Champs  Elysfes — a  large,  fat  man,  with  ear-rings 
and  immense  shirt-collar — a  grandfather  at  least — walking  placidly 
in  the  sunshine,  sucking  a  stick  of  barley-sugar.  He  had  sucked 
it  in  a  beautiful  conical  way,  and  was  examining  its  amber  apex, 
glistening  between  bis  eye  and  the  orb  of  day.  He  was  showing 
his  loyalty,  in  a  word,  to  his  King,  and  manifesting  his  joy,  his 
reverential  joy,  at  the  christening  of  the  Count  de  Paris.  And 
why  not  ? 

That  same  day  other  men  were  showing  their  loyal  hilariousness 
in  Dther  ways,  viz.  : — 

All  the  dignitaries  of  the  state,  the  church,  law,  &c.,  made 
speeches  in  their  best  clothes,  according  to  their  several  degrees. 

All  the  ambassadors  put  on  their  cordons,  placques,  crachats, 
and  white  breeches ;  and  one  of  their  body,  in  the  name  of  this 
sympathising  society,  made  an  oration.  At  night  tlieir  hotels 
covered  themselves  over  with  pieces  of  cork  and  fat,  in  which  wicks 
joyfully  blazed. 


554        VAEIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

Five  hundred  soldiers  scaled  the  summit  of  the  Arc  of  the 
Etoile,  and  fired  a  shot  of  squibs  out  of  their  guns.  Artillerymen 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  arch,  and  their  pieces  propelled  many 
roaring  rounds  of  gunpowder  and  wadding  to  hail  the  happy 
anniversary. 

Perhaps  I  thought  the  fat,  silent,  sunshiny  man,  calmly  sucking 
his  sugar-stick,  the  most  sincerely  happy  and  loyal  of  them  all; 
for  as  for  the  guns  and  the  ambassadors,  it  is  their  business  to 
shout,  and  they  are  loaded,  wadded,  greased,  and  polished  for  the 
purpose.  But  let  us  take  things  as  we  find  them  :  let  us,  contented 
with  effects,  not  be  too  squeamish  and  curious  about  the  causes. 
Here  is  the  sun  shining,  the  heaven  faultlessly  blue,  the  leaves 
bright,  the  fountains  playing,  and  five  hundred  thousand  people 
happy.  What  can  one  want  more  1  If  people  had  but  the  means, 
it  would  be  a  blessing  to  have  eighteen-score-and-five  kings'  birthdays 
in  the  year. 

I  have  always  had  an  objection  to  guns  in  theatrical  pieces,  for 
they  make  a  sad  noise  and  roaring,  cause  the  eyes  to  wink,  and  the 
head  to  ache,  among  men  not  nurtured  in  the  uncomfortable  lap  of 
BeUona.  And  as  at  theatres,  where  the  heroes  are  supposed  to 
drink  champagne,  they  are  provided  with  a  cool  and  wholesome 
bottle  of  soda-water,  that  all  the  pit  takes  to  be  real  moet ;  so  it 
has  long  been  my  wish  that  some  mild  kind  of  gun  should  be 
invented,  going  off  with  a  pop,  just  for  ceremony's  sake,  but  never 
roaring  out  a  great  fierce  bang,  as  they  will  do  in  stage  pieces, 
whether  performed  at  St.  Stephen's  theatre,  the  Cobourg,  or  else- 
where. 

Bang,  bung,  bom,  boom  !  there  they  go,  and  all  the  breakfast 
things  begin  to  clatter.  I  don't  care  to  own  that  I  feel  nervous  at 
hearing  them ;  each  roar  gives  one  a  slight  epigastric  thump ;  one 
aflfects  to  be  at  his  ease,  but  waits  all  the  time  most  anxiously  for 
the  succeeding  boom ;  you  play  with  your  egg  during  the  time,  and 
make  believe  to  read  the  newspaper,  but  in  reality  you  enjoy 
neither.  While  the  guns  were  at  their  work  this  morning,  I  pre- 
tended to  read  Sir  Robert  Peel's  and  Lord  John's  speeches,  but 
declare,  at  the  end  of  the  time,  I  did  not  understand  or  remember 
a  single  word  of  them.  There  it  is  !  those  two  matchless  pieces  of 
eloquence  lost  to  a  man,  because  the  guns  must,  forsooth,  celebrate 
the  birthday  of  Louis  Philippe.  Inter  arma  silent,  &c.  0,  brazen- 
throated  war  !  shut  those  brazen  yelling  jaws  of  thine,  and  let  honest 
politicians  talk  in  quiet.  But  what  is  the  use  of  wishing  and 
ejaculating  1  Wherever  we  go  Miles  takes  the  wall  of  us ;  and, 
accordingly,  the  first  thing  we  heard  of  the  fete  this  morning  was 
the  guns  ;  and  the  first  thing  we  saw  of  it,  the  great,  stalwart,  jack- 


A    ST.    PHILIP'S    DAY    AT    PARIS  555 

booted,  brazen-heluieted  gendarme,  trotting  his  heavy  Meoklenbourg 
horse  down  the  avenues  of  the  Champs  Elys^es,  and  standing  at 
every  corner  of  every  street  leading  thither. 

Having  passed  the  gendarmes  (and  may  the  time  come  when  the 
Parisians,  like  ourselves,  may  iind  one  in  every  street,  not  to  watch 
their  politicians,  but  their  pockets  !),  we  come  immediately  upon  the 
Champs  Elys^es,  where  the  fete  is  in  the  very  act  of  going  on.  The 
trees  are  lined  with  beggars  of  various  queer  descriptions ;  old  men 
with  wonderful  beards,  and  looking  old  enough  to  have  seen  Louis 
XIV.  pass  down  the  road  on  his  way  to  Versailles.  A  great 
wanderer  about  the  town  knows  most  of  the  beggars  who  exercise 
their  trade  in  it ;  but  these  mysterious  men  come  from  their  dens 
and  haunts  in  the  provinces — perhaps  from  foreign  lands,  across 
Alp  or  Pyrenee,  attracted  hither  by  the  news  of  the  great  festival. 
The  tales  of  beggars  in  story-books  are  always  marvellous  and 
pleasant  in  the  romances  of  chivalry.  In  the  Spanish  novels,  in  the 
old  English  comedies,  what  a  jolly,  easy  life  do  they  lead ! — what 
good  scraps  of  songs  do  they  sing ! — how  full  are  they  of  bitter 
Diogenio  jokes,  and  moral  comparisons  of  their  state  and  that  of 
kings,  great  personages,  &c.  !  I  saw  tlie  other  day,  a  hump-back 
beggar  boy  lying  in  the  sun,  and  counting  his  day's  gains ;  he  had, 
for  a  certainty,  forty  penny-pieces  in  his  hand — but,  whenever  any 
one  passed,  interrupted  his  arithmetic  to  ask,  in  a  whining  voice, 
for  some  more  coppers.  Yonder  is  an  old,  wooden-legged  Orpheus, 
reclining  against  a  tree  and  singing  a  most  doleful  ditty  about  a 
poor  blind  man  who  lost  his  dog.  He  sings  so  atrociously,  that  it 
is  your  bounden  duty  to  give  him  a  penny.  He  has  at  his  feet,  or 
foot,  a  little  carpet,  covered  all  over,  pardi,  with  larger  and  smaller 
copper  coins.  Ah !  why  are  not  princes  christened  every  day  1 
That  honest  wooden-legged  man  would  make  a  fortune  in  that  case, 
and  nobody  be  the  poorer.  Who  is  ever  the  poorer  for  giving  away 
pence  to  beggars  ? 

Yonder  is  the  very  finest  of  the  mendicant  order  I  ever  saw. 
His  face  is  faultlessly  beautiful ;  he  has  old  bland,  blind  venerable 
eyes ;  a  little  green  velvet  skull-cap  covers  a  part  of  his  head,  under 
which  fall  thick  flakes  of  snow-white  hair ;  upon  his  old  bosom 
reposes  a  beard — the  wool  of  the  Cashmere  goat  is  not  whiter  or 
finer.  He  has  a  little  bird-organ — a  little  old  bird-organ,  that  pipes 
feeble  tunes.  That  organ  must  be  many,  many  centuries  old ; 
mayhap  invented  in  those  very  days  when  fair  Cecilia  took  her 
patent  out,  and  angels  hushed  the  flutter  of  their  wings,  and 
listened  to  her  piping.  Say,  old  man — sightless  old  man  !  thine 
eyes  are  calm  and  bright, — blue  limpid  lakes  which  do  reflect  the 
sun,  and  yet  are  cool !     0,  ancient  organ-man,  when  were  thine 


556        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

eyes  lit  up  with  natural  fires  1  Perhaps  the  blazing  sand  of  Damiet 
— fire  against  fire,  did  scorch  their  lustre  out,  where  good  Saint 
Louis  led  his  red-cross  knights,  and  being  conquered,  led  them  back 
again.  Perhaps  fierce  Bajazet,  dread  Ilderim  (what  time  the  rash 
Burgundian  Nevers,  with  Eu,  de  Bar,  TrimouUle,  and  de  la  Marche, 
Coucy,  and  Boucicault,  the  pride  of  France,  laid  down  their  arms 
before  the  conquering  Turk,  upon  the  meadows  of  Nicopolis),  put 
out  the  beacons  of  this  old  man's  eyes.  A  gallant  warrior  then, 
and  blithe  and  young,  with  pennoned  lance,  shouting  his  battle-cry, 
and  ever  foremost  in  the  press  of  war. 

This  would  make  our  old  man,  at  least,  five  hundred  and 
seventy  years  old ;  perhaps  he  is  not  so  much — perhaps  he  is  only 
Louis  XIX.  in  disguise,  come  from  Prague  to  visit  his  capital.  We 
have  in  history  hundreds  of  such  examples.  In  the  "  History  of 
Beggars  Bush,"  who,  I  pray  you,  is  the  old  bearded  beggar  Claus, 
but  a  rightful  Duke  of  Gueldres  ?  In  the  still  more  authentic  story 
of  "  The  Duchess  Penelope  and  her  Suitors,"  who  was  the  beggar 
that  came  and  saw  the  knights  carousing,  but  Duke  Ulysses,  for- 
sooth ?  Psha ! — a  fig  for  such  rambling  nonsense ;  drop  a  penny 
into  the  old  man's  tray,  and  pass  on.  Very  likely,  if  he  get  enough 
of  them,  he  will  fuddle  himself  to-night ;  and  so  he,  too,  will 
rejoice,  after  his  fashion,  on  the  King's  birthday. 

A  point  that  must  strike  an  Englishman  naturally,  is  this. 
Under  the  trees  there  are  many  scores  of  comfortable  booths — 
barrels  of  wine  advantageously  placed,  legs  of  mutton,*  and 
sausages  gazing  upon  the  passer-by  with  friendly  eyes ;  and  yet, 
though  it  is  three  o'clock,  nobody  eats.  The  French  are  not  a 
gormandising  nation ;  at  this  hour,  and  with  such  a  sun  over  our 
heads,  in  an  English  fair,  many  thousand  dozens  of  bottled  porter 
would  have  frothed  down  British  throats,  and  cart-loads  of  beef, 
separated  into  the  most  attenuated  slices,  have  disappeared  for 
ever !  But  here,  nobody  eats.  I  had  the  curiosity  to  count  in  a 
dozen  booths ; — in  one  there  was  an  elderly  lady  with  three  boys, 
in  a  school  uniform;  in  others,  a  few  fellows  in  blouses — a  few 
couples  of  soldiers,  with  a  little  small  beer  before  them.  But  it  is, 
evidently,  sad  work  for  the  boothmen,  and  let  us  hope  the  Govern- 
ment gives  the  honest  people  some  subvention,  to  make  them  amends 
for  the  painful  sobriety  of  the  nation. 

On  the  other  hand,  gambling  goes  on  at  a  frightful  rate.  Look, 
there  is  the  celebrated  Polish  game,  with  the  hooks ; — there  is  a 
table  with  fifty  hooks,  all  numbered,  and  a  ring,  swinging  by  a 
cord,  at  a  short  distance.  It  is  a  penny  a  throw.  He  who  places 
the  ring  on  the  hook  marked  50,  thrice  running,  wins  a  watch  ;  but 

*  Everybody  knows  the  eye  of  a  leg  of  mutton. 


A   ST.    PHILIP'S    DAY    AT    PAEIS  557 

this  was  never  known  since  the  memory  of  man.  If  you  hit  number 
20,  you  have  twenty  macaroons  ;  if  3,  three  macaroons,  and  so  on. 
Will  it  be  believed,  that  sometimes  one  does  not  hit  any  hook  at 
alii  I  had  six  pennyworth  of  throws,  and  came  off  with  nine 
macaroons — and  very  nasty  macaroons  too !  Now,  if  I  had  laid 
out  a  penny  in  the  regular  way  of  barter,  I  might  have  had  twelve 
macaroons,  with  a  good  profit  to  the  vendor,  too.  Such  is  chance  ; 
— 0,  cursed  lust  of  gain !  But  if  I  lose,  somebody  wins ;  let 
us  console  ourselves,  therefore,  and  be  happy,  for  is  it  not  St. 
Philip's  day  ? 

Besides  the  hooks,  there  was  the  old  roulette  table,  in  which 
skill  goes  for  naught ;  and  here  the  high  prizes  were  not  merely 
macaroon  cakes,  but  pictures,  neatly  framed ;  representing  "  le 
bonhewr  conjugal^'  or  "  la  bonne  mere,''  or  the  Prince  de  Joinville, 
in  jack-boots,  superintending  the  exhumation  of  Napoleon,  or  other 
subjects  connected  with  the  life  or  burial  of  the  great  hero  of  the 
people.  There  is  something  affecting  about  these  rude  pictures. 
The  people  always  have  a  kind,  hearty  taste.  They  don't  care  for 
ogling  nudities,  such  as  excite  the  eyes  of  their  betters.  Their 
simple  faith  is  raised  by  homely  parables  ;  and  no  doubt  the  reader 
remembers  the  time  when,  as  a  little  child,  he  placed  imphcit  re- 
liance in  all  the  pictures  of  his  spelling-book.  The  picture  of 
Doctor  Dilworth  in  the  beginning,  and  the  allegory  underneath ; 
the  picture  of  Masters  Smith,  Brown,  Jones,  and  Kobinson  ;  that  of 
the  three  tradesmen  disputing  about  fortifying  the  city ;  that  of  the 
dog  going  across  the  water  with  the  beef  in  his  mouth ;  of  the  envious 
brute  in  the  manger, — and  so  on.  In  all  the  ways  of  children  there 
is  something  sacred  ; — and  yonder  wondering  peasants  in  sabots  and 
high  caps,  those  grave,  brown-faced  simple  soldiers  taking  shots 
with  the  pop-gun,  are  children  in  their  way.  There  are  many  pop- 
gun establishments  about  the  Champs  Elys&s  :  one  has  for  target, 
a  great  Turk ;  if  you  hit  him  straight  in  the  middle,  the  monster 
fires  off  a  pistol.  Another  is  a  Scotchman,  who  salutes  you  in  a 
similar  fashion.  By  the  way,  this  is  the  only  time  in  France  that 
I  have  seen  a  Scotch  Highlander  represented  in  a  grotesque  fashion  ; 
whether  it  is  because  their  costume  is  becoming  and  bizarre,  or  be- 
cause the  Scots  in  old  days  were  allied  with  our  neighbours,  or 
because  the  French  love  Walter  Scott's  novels,  certain  it  is,  they 
never  make  jokes  at  the  expense  of  the  Caledonians,  but  content 
themselves  with  hating  and  girding  at  us  English.  I  saw  a  soldier 
as  brown  as  a  halfpenny  take  a  vast  number  of  shots  at  one  of  these 
targets ;  and  at  last  he  hit  the  bull's  eye  ;  down  came  Cupid,  and 
crowned  the  fellow  with  calico  roses,  by  which  wreath  he  was  made 
as  happy  as  if  he  had  knocked  down  Abd-el-Kader  himself. 


558        VAEIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

Numbers  of  people  were  riding  with  perfect  contentment  in  the 
merry-go-rounds ;  many  an  Englishman  might  like  to  do  this,  but 
for  his  stupid  shame.  Indeed,  when  I  saw  the  man  sucking  the 
barley-sugar,  I  felt  as  if  I  should  like  a  piece,  but  dared  not  get 
one.  Ah,  loUypops,  hardbake,  alicompaine,  brandy-balls !  how 
good  you  were  forty  years  ago ;  though  we  don't  meet  or  see  each 
other  now,  yet  we  are  attached,  and  I  never  never  shall  forget  you. 
Turtle  soup  is  good ;  but  is  it  as  good  as  open  tarts  1  A  cool  glass 
of  clai'et  is  not  bad  ;  but  is  it  as  pleasant  as  a  halfpenny- worth  of 
liquorice,  and  brown  sugar  to  the  same  amount,  mixed  with  water 
in  a  twopenny  vial,  and  kept  hot  in  your  pocket  in  the  warm 
summer  days  ■?  When  you  take  it,  or  give  it  to  a  friend,  you  give 
the  liquor  a  shake  to  make  it  froth,  and  take  out  the  cork  with 
your  teeth,  and  bid  your  friend  drink  only  to  a  certain  place  which 
you  mark  with  your  finger. 

I  have  not  tasted  a  drop  for  forty-three  years — but  what  then  ? 
There  are  things  qui  ne  s'oublient pas.  "Fresh  is  the  picture  of 
one's  prime,  the  later  trace  is  dim."  A  few  days  ago  I  met  a 
gentleman  of  sixty-five  years  old,  who  had  been  at  Charterhouse- 
school,  and  who  said  he  dreamed  the  night  before  of  having  been 
flogged  by  Doctor  Beardmore.  Five-and-fifty  years,  in  a  night, 
the  spirit  whisks  backward  !  Napoleon  has  risen  and  died  in  the 
meanwhile ;  kingdoms  have  changed  hands ;  cares,  gout,  grand- 
children have  seized  upon  the  old  man ;  what  a  number  of  kind 
eyes  have  looked  on  him  that  are  shut  now !  how  many  kind  hearts 
have  beat  for  him,  that  have  been  loved  and  passionately  deplored, 
and  forgotten  by  him !  what  insurmountable  woes  has  he  climbed 
over  !  what  treacheries  and  basenesses  has  he,  by  the  slow  discoveries 
of  friendship,  laid  bare  !  what  a  stir  and  turmoil  of  fifty  years  has 
he  gone  through  !  one  care  pushing  down  another,  one  all-absorbing 
wish  or  interest  giving  place  as  another  came  on ; — and,  see  here, 
he  falls  asleep,  and  straightway,  through  the  immense  labyrinth  of 
a  life's  recollection,  his  spirit  finds  its  way  back  to  the  flogging- 
block,  and  he  wistfully  fumbles  at  his  breeches,  and  looks  up  at 
great  Beardmore  with  the  rod  !  Be  gentle  with  the  little  ones,  ye 
schoolmasters  !  Love  them,  but  strike  them  not.  How  are  the 
cherubim  represented  ?  They  are  the  children  of  the  skies,  and  so 
conformed  that  if  you  were  to  catch  a  stray  one,  you  could  not  flog 
him  if  you  would. 

I  always  think  the  invention  of  toys  and  toy-shops  a  very 
beautiful  and  creditable  part  of  human  nature.  And  it  is  pleasant 
to  see  in  all  fairs  and  public  fStes,  in  all  watering-places  whither 
people  flock  for  pleasure,  how  many  simple  inventions  are  gathered 
together  for  the  mere  amusements  of  children — innumerable  varieties 


A    ST.    PHILIP'S    DAY    AT    PAEIS  559 

of  gingerbread,  drums,  go-carts,  rocking-horses,  by  the  sale  of  which 
honest  people  make  their  livelihood !  The  French  are  essentially  a 
child-loving  race,  much  more  kindly  and  simple  in  their  domestic 
ways  than  are  we  with  our  absurd,  cold,  dignified  airs  (the  men, 
I  mean,  for  the  mothers  are  the  same  all  over  God's  world) ;  and 
it  gives  a  man  with  the  philoprogenitive  bump  great  pleasure  to 
walk  into  the  fete,  and  see  the  worthy  fathers  walking  with  their 
children,  or  dragging  them  in  little  carriages,  or  holding  them  on 
patient  shoulders  to  see  the  shows  of  the  place. 

Round  the  open  square  of  the  Champs  Elysdes  are  a  vast 
number  of  booths  and  exhibitions  ;  all  Napoleon's  battles,  of  course ; 
no  less  than  four  companies  of  strong  men ;  "  Les  Hercules  des 
Hercules;"  "the  Indian  strong  men  ;  "  "the  strong  men  with  the 
fairy  pony,"  &c.  The  drums  and  trumpets  make  an  awful  banging 
and  braying ;  Socrisse  stands  in  front,  in  his  jacket  and  tow-wig, 
and  makes  melancholy  jokes.  When  the  ladies  with  short  petticoats 
have  done  dancing  on  the  ropes  within,  they  come  out  solemnly,  and 
range  their  bandy  legs,  and  dirty  pink  cotton  pantaloons  before  the 
eyes  of  the  vulgar,  to  tempt  them  to  go  into  the  booth.  But  this 
is  a  great  mistake  ;  I,  for  my  part,  was  just  on  the  point  of  entering 
the  booth  of  the  Indian  athletes,  upon  the  faith  of  a  picture  in 
which  these  personages  were  represented — the  men  of  swarthy  hue, 
in  incredible  postures  of  strength,  the  women  of  ravishing  beauty — 
when,  on  a  sudden,  a  company  of  these  Indians  came  forward  to 
the  outer  stage,  and  a  homelier,  uglier  race  of  Frenchmen  I  never 
saw.  So  it  is  with  other  shows.  There  is  the  fat  Belgian  woman, 
only  sixteen,  and  four-and-twenty  stone ;  though  so  young  she 
possesses,  it  is  said,  every  accomplishment;  can  talk  a  dozen 
languages,  play  upon  innumerable  instruments,  and  dance  with 
grace  and  lightness.  But  the  Indian  jugglers  made  us  incredulous, 
and  our  party  determined  not  to  visit  the  fat  j'oung  Belgian  lady. 

We  had,  however,  an  excellent  view  of  the  gentlemen  climbing 
the  immense  mat  de  cocagne  for  the  prizes  dangling  at  the  top. 
There  was  a  gold  watch,  two  silver  ditto,  silver  mugs,  forks  and 
spoons  of  the  same  precious  metal  to  reward  the  enterprising  men 
who  ascended  to  the  summit  of  the  pole.  But  even  this  institution, 
simple  and  praiseworthy  as  it  seems,  is  not  altogether  pure.  It 
appears  that  there  is  a  society  of  climbers  in  Paris,  fellows  who  can 
walk  up  a  greased  pole  as  easily  as  common  mortals  up  a  staircase, 
and  these  individuals  come  early  round  the  mast,  seize  upon  the 
principal  prizes,  and,  selling  them,  divide  their  profits  among  their 
corporation.  The  age  of  maypoles  is  extinct  when  you  see  them 
delivered  over  to  this  unhallowed  commerce.  For  my  part,  too,  I 
very  much  doubt  the  sincerity  of  a  person  who  accosted  us,  having 


560        VARIOUS    ESSAJS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

in  his  possession  some  gold  rings,  a  pair  of  razors,  and  other  articles, 
all  of  which  he  said  he  had  found,  and  offered  to  sell  at  a  great  loss. 
In  the  first  place,  a  man  can't  find  so  many  gold  rings  in  the  course 
of  the  day ;  and  as  for  the  razors,  who  the  deuce  would  bring  his 
case  into  such  a  place  as  this  % 

We  now  saw  a  play  at  a  very  cheap  rate,  in  one  of  the  theatres 
erected  in  the  square.  There  was  a  gentleman  in  a  Spanish  costume 
taken  prisoner  by  some  Turks ;  how  his  faithful  squire  wept  at  his 
own  cowardice,  which  made  him  forsake  his  master  at  such  a  pass  ! 
But  so  it  is,  my  good  squire  !  men  of  your  profession  are  always 
cowardly;  read  all  the  plays  and  novels  ever  written — alwa.ys 
gluttonous,  always  talkative :  here,  however,  you  could  not  be,  be 
cause  the  play  was  a  pantomime,  and  so,  luckily,  you  were  freed 
from  one  of  the  vices  inherent  to  your  profession. 

When  the  news  of  her  lover's  capture  was  brought  to  the  Lady 
Ismena,  far  from  being  down-hearted  and  dismayed,  as  other  ladies 
would,  after  the  first  burst  of  natural  emotion,  what  did  she  do? 
Why,  she  dressed  herself  in  a  light  blue  velvet  page's  costume,  to 
be  sure,  slung  a  guitar  across  her  shoulders,  summoned  the  squire 
and  a  battalion  of  Austrian  grenadiers,  and  followed  the  captors  of 
her  lord. 

When  the  scene  changed,  and  showed  us  the  Moorish  castle  in 
which  that  nobleman  was  to  be  confined,  we  saw  a  Turkish  sentinel 
pacing  the  battlements. 

"  Tiens,  c'est  le  Turc  en  faction,"  said  one  of  two  soldiers 
behind  us,  who  had  just  come  from  Africa.  But  the  sentinel  paced 
up  and  down  without  taking  the  least  notice  of  anything  but  his 
duty. 

In  immediately  came  the  captive  nobleman  with  the  Turkish 
soldiers ;  how  he  threatened  and  resisted,  how  he  writhed  and  how  he 
twisted  !  he  thrust  his  fist  in  the  captain's  face,  in  the  lieutenant's  : 
strove  to  break  away  from  his  guard,  though  weighed  down  by 
immense  chains;  and  though,  for  a  short  time,  he  became  quiescent, 
yet  when  the  governor  of  the  fortress 

"  C'est  Sidi  Abdalla,"  said  one  soldier. 

"  C'est  Mahomet"  cried  another,  "  le  v'la  qui  sort  de  I'eglise." 

"  Ca  s'appelle  une  mosque,"  said  the  first  soldier  ;  and  a  mosque 
it  was,  sure  enough,  with  an  immense  crescent  on  the  top. 

When  the  governor  of  the  fortress,  a  most  venerable  Mahometan, 
with  a  silver  beard,  came  out,  and  all  the  officers  and  privates  of 
the  guard  fell  to  salaaming  hira,  the  captive  knight  burst  out  into  a 
fury  again,  shook  his  fist  in  the  governor's  face,  kicked  and  plunged 
like  a  madman,  and  we  all  thought  would  escape.  But  no ;  numbers 
prevailed — he  was  carried  into  the  fort  with  the  most  horrible  con- 


A    ST.    PHILIP'S    DAY    AT    PARIS  561 

tortions,  the  portcullis  was  drawn  up,  and  the  silent  sentinel  resumed 
his  walk. 

At  that  instant  the  Lady  Ismena  arrived  in  her  light  blue  dress, 
and  we,  knowing  well  enough  that  the  grenadiers  were  behind  her, 
expected  that  they  would  instantly  fall  to  and  fight.  But  no ;  un- 
slinging  her  guitar,  she  struck  a  few  wild  notes  on  it,  and  a  number 
of  Turkish  peasants  in  the  neighbourhood  flocked  in  to  dance. 

Expecting  a  fight,  as  I  said,  I  never  was  more  grossly  disap- 
pointed than  at  the  sight  of  these  ugly  heathens  dancing  gracefully, 
and,  having  moved  ofif  immediately,  can't  tell  what  took  place  after- 
wards. But  it  is  very  probable  that  the  castle  was  stormed  finally, 
and  the  knight  rescued,  and  poor  old  Sidi  Mahomet  put  to  an 
ignominious  death  by  Ismena  herself,  with  her  natty  little  sword. 

All  persons  who  frequent  these  public  spectacles  should  take 
the  writer's  advice,  and  have  a  cigar  to  smoke.  It  is  much  more 
efficacious  than  scent  bottles  of  any  sort. 

As  for  the  evening  amusements,  knowing  that,  however  brilliant 
a  man's  style  may  be,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  describe  rockets  and 
Bengal  lights  properly,  and  having  seen  a  number  of  these  fireworks, 
viz.,  at  Rome,  at  Easter — at  the  Feast  of  Lanterns,  at  Canton — at 
the  peace,  in  Hyde  Park,  in  1814 — our  society  determined  to  quit 
the  town  altogether  for  the  evening,  and  to  partake  of  a  rustic 
dinner  in  the  pretty  village  of  Ville  d'Avray.  It  is  half-an-hour's 
walk  from  Saint  Cloud,  through  the  park,  and  you  travel  in  the 
same  time  by  the  railroad  from  Paris. 

Here,  at  the  park-gates,  is  a  pretty  little  restaurant,  with  a 
garden,  where  there  are  balls  sometimes  and  dinner  always,  which 
latter  we  preferred.  We  had  beefsteaks  for  four  in  a  snug  sort 
of  hermitage,  and  very  good  wine,  and  quiet,  and  a  calm  sky,  and 
numberless  green  trees  round  about.  The  waiter's  name  is  Amelia. 
She  whispered  to  us  knowingly  that,  in  the  hermitage  above  ours 
a  couple  of  couples  were  en  partie  fine  ;  and  so,  sure  enough,  after 
these  ladies  and  gentlemen  had  taken  their  little  sober  modicum  of 
wine,  their  hearts  rose,  and  their  tongues  wagged,  and  they  sang 
songs;  the  men,  in  parts,  very  prettily,  the  ladies  sang  solos 
atrociously  out  of  tune.  Presently  came  a  fellow  with  an  organ, 
and  our  jovial  neighbours  instantly  got  up  and  danced,  in  the  midst 
of  a  great  shrieking  and  laughter. 

When  the  organ-man  had  done  with  the  partie-fine,  he  came 
down  to  us  and  struck  up  two  beautiful  melodies,  viz.,  "Getting 
up  Stairs,"  and  "Jim  Crow."  He  had  never  been  in  England, 
he  said,  but  his  organ  had,  and  there,  no  doubt,  learned  that 
delicious  music. 


562        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

By  this  time  the  partie-fine  had  grown  quite  uproarious ;  they 
•were  talking  English  to  one  another  for  our  benefit — crying  "  Yase," 
"  Godem,"  "  How  you  do,  mister,"  and  so  on.  The  clocks  tolled 
eight,  and  Amelia's  uncle,  a  marichal  des  logis  gendarmes  at  Saint 
Cloud,  who  had  come  down  to  see  his  niece,  because  the  poor  girl 
had  cut  her  two  thumbs  the  day  before,  conducted  us  through  the 
silent  grey  park  of  Saint  Cloud,  across  the  palace,  and  so  to  the 
railroad  station. 

Of  course,  the  train  had  just  set  off ;  and  there  was  no  cuckoo 
or  other  vehicle,  though  there  would  be  hundreds  for  the  grandes 
eaux  the  next  day;  wherefore  Todd,  Higgins,  Blatherwick,  and 
your  humble  servant,  walked  through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and 
so  home. 


Part  II. 

THERE  was  a  second  day  of  fites,  and  in  respect  of  popular 
amusements,  the  morning  and  evening  of  the  second  day 
were  like  the  morning  and  evening  of  the  first.  The  may- 
poles were  furnished  with  a  second  supply  of  watches  and  silver 
spoons.  The  Don  was  again  taken  prisoner,  and  rescued  by  his 
Elvira  in  her  light  blue  dress ;  the  untiring  strong  men,  and 
Herculeses  of  the  booths,  performed  their  prodigious  labours,  and 
the  indefatigable  female  Falstaff  of  Belgium  was  quite  as  fat  on 
Sunday  as  on  Saturday.  More  squibs  and  crackers  blazed  in  the 
evening,  and  many  more  hundreds  of  pounds  of  macaroons  were 
gambled  for  and  devoured  by  the  happy  population. 

The  second  day  was  appropriated  to  the  christening  of  the 
Count  of  Paris,  as  the  first  to  the  birthday  of  the  king ;  and  the 
papers  are  filled  with  long  accounts  of  the  former  ceremony  ;  how 
the  cardinals  attended  ;  how  the  young  prince  about  to  be  chris- 
tened gave  his  own  names  in  an  audible  voice  to  his  Grandeur 
the  Archbishop ;  how  his  Grandeur  made  an  harangue  to  the  king, 
and  was,  after  the  ceremony,  rewarded  by  a  very  handsome  diamond 
cross  and  ring,  on  his  Majesty's  part,  and  complimented  with  a 
most  elegant  mitre  from  the  Duke  of  Orleans. 

Money  was  distributed  largely  to  all  the  churches  for  the  poor 
in  Paris.  The  bounty  of  this  royal  family  is  untiring,  extraordinary. 
No  disaster  occurs,  but  they  come  forward  to  soothe  it ;  wherever 
they  move,  they  scatter  presents  and  kindness ;  to  all  sorts  of  poor 
and  wretched  the  queen  seems  to  act  as  the  gentle  protectress  and 
mother.     They  say  that  the  family  loves  to  publish  its  acts  of 


A    ST.    PHILIP'S    DAY    AT    PAEIS  563 

charity ;  and  the  frequent  appearance  of  their  names  in  all  sub- 
scription lists  would  indeed  appear  like  ostentation,  did  one  not 
know  that  it  is  the  duty  of  persons  so  high  placed  to  make  some 
of  their  kindnesses  public,  to  induce  others  to  be  generous  who 
might  not  be  so  but  for  their  example.  One  reads  in  novels  of 
people  who  give  pharisaically  in  public,  that  in  private  keep  their 
purse-strings  close ;  but  I  am  inclined  not  to  believe  that  there  are 
many  such.  Men  are  ostentatious,  but  charitable,  too.  The  very 
fact  of  giving  away  large  sums  even  for  ostentation's  sake,  must 
generate  a  feeling  of  kindness. 

As  for  the  Orleans  family,  some  of  their  good  deeds  they  publish, 
and  they  are  right.  But  how  much  do  they  do,  of  which  the  world 
never  hears,  or  only  a  small  portion  of  it,  from  the  grateful  lips  ot 
the  persons  obliged  !  I  have  heard  of  three  instances  myself  lately, 
of  simple,  judicious,  delicate  generosity  ou  the  part  of  the  king  and 
his  family.  How  many  thousand  more  such  must  there  be  which 
are  never  blazoned  in  newspapers  !  0  glorious  godlike  privilege  of 
wealth  to  make  the  wretched  happy  ! 

There  was  a  great  concert  and  illumination  to  conclude  the  day's 
festival ;  and  if  my  dear  Smith  would  know  how  much  of  them  the 
humblest  of  her  servants  personally  witnessed,  indeed  he  must  con- 
fess that  he  only  saw  the  heavens  lighted  up  by  the  fire  of  the 
rockets,  and  heard  the  banging  of  the  guns,  and  such  stray  gusts 
of  the  concert  as  the  wind  chose  to  bring  to  a  certain  balcony  in 
a  street  leading  off  the  Kue  Eivoli,  where  several  personages  were 
seated,  enjoying  a  calm  and  philosophical  summer's  evening  con- 
versation. 

We  heard  the  "  Marseillaise "  pretty  distinctly ;  it  was  the 
opening  of  the  concert,  and  the  audience  of  course  encored  their 
fiery  national  anthem.  It  is  a  noble  strain,  indeed  ;  but  a  war- 
song,  breathing  blood  and  vengeance,  is  a  bad-  subject  for  everyday 
enthusiasm  ;  and  one  had  better,  perhaps,  for  a  continuance,  recreate 
oneself  with  some  more  peaceful  musical  diet.  Even  the  fit  of  war 
is  bad  enough ;  but  war  every  day,  murder  and  blood  on  week-days 
as  well  as  on  Sundays — Entendez  vous  dans  nos  campagnes  mugir 
ces  feroces  soldats  ? — egorger  vos  fils,  vos  compagnes — I  forget  how 
the  song  runs.  Mon  Dieu !  the  ferocious  soldiery  is  not  in  the 
country;  French  women  and  children  are  perfectly  safe  from  Cossack 
or  Prussian  ;  the  story  is  now  fifty  years  old,  and  still  Frenchmen 
lash  themselves  in  a  fury  of  conceit  and  blood-thirstiness  whenever 
they  hear  it,  and  fancy  their  brutality  patriotism.  Napoleon  estab- 
lished a  Valhalla  idea  of  a  Frenchman's  paradise— it  was  conquest 
and  murder  all  day. 

Just  before  this  bloody  chorus  was  set  up,  the  King  showed 


564.        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

himself  at  the  balcony  of  the  palace,  and  was  received,  it  is  said, 
with  a  dead  silence ; — then  he  went  out  and  fetched  the  little  boy 
who  had  just  been  christened,  but  the  audience  received  him,  too, 
coldly,  and  so  the  roj'al  pair  went  back  again,  and  gave  place  to 
the  more  popular  concert. 

To  such  as  are  inclined  to  moralise,  is  there  not  here  matter 
enough  1  Think  of  this  old  man  and  his  condition.  He  is  the 
wisest,  the  greatest — the  most  miserable  man  in  Europe.  His 
bounty  makes  thousands  happy, — it  shines  on  all,  like  the  sun;  but 
the  sun,  they  say,  is  cold  itself,  and  in  the  midst  of  its  splendours, 
lonely.  Think  of  this  man,  how  prudent  and  wise  he  is ;  through 
what  dangers  and  crooked  paths  he  has  managed  to  conduct  the 
fiercest,  most  obstinate  team  that  ever  was  reined  by  imperial  hand. 
Napoleon  let  them  run  ahead  at  mad  gallop — this  man  has  been 
keeping  them  at  a  decent  pace ;  by  what  extraordinary  exertion  of 
wisdom  and  stratagem,  coaxing  and  firmness,  has  he  achieved  this 
eleven  years'  miracle  ?  0,  Polumetis  !  I  wonder  whether  you  ever 
sleep  1 — if  you,  with  your  staunch  spirit,  can  bear  to  look  at  the 
sword  hanging  over  you  ?  There  is  a  poor  woman  at  your  side  who 
has  no  such  courage,  and  never  sees  the  door  shut  upon  you  without 
shuddering — nor  open,  without  receiving  you  as  if  you  were  come 
out  of  the  jaws  of  death.  Go  where  you  will,  calumny  follows  you 
like  your  shadow ; — do  your  best  in  the  brightest  lights,  it  only 
turns  the  blacker.  Sullen  conspiracy  is  always  dogging  at  your 
heels,  growling  curses  at  you,  until  it  can  have  its  way,  and  make 
its  spring.  You  have  suffered  much,  but  were  always  kind  and 
simple  in  humour,  and  mercifully  bent ; — you  never  signed  away  a 
man's  life  without  feeling  a  pang :  more  than  one  wretch  have  you 
pardoned — only  gently  putting  away  his  knife  from  your  throat ! 
But  what  boots  your  benevolence  ?  A  day  does  not  pass  without 
its  conspiracy ;  and .  men  lust  for  your  blood,  and  are  ready  to  lie 
in  God's  face,  and  to  call  your  murder  virtue.  See  what  it  is  to  be 
so  wise,  0  King ;  not  one  single  man  trusts  you.  To  be  so  great, 
no  person  loves  you ;  except,  perhaps,  a  few  women  and  children 
whom  you  have  bred.  There  is  scarcely  a  beggar  or  outcast  in  the 
country,  but  has  as  large  a  circle  of  friends  who  trust  him,  and 
whom  he  can  trust :  no  thief  that  deems  each  bush  an  officer,  but 
can  take  almost  as  quiet  a  sleep  as  you. 

And  when  day  comes,  and  you  have  your  many  labours  to  go 
through — you,  who  are  so  wise,  know  that  not  one  single  man  you 
meet  trusts  you  ; — you  hear  speeches  from  old  peers  and  chancellors 
who  have  sworn  and  flattered  for  a  dozen  men  who  stood  in  your 
shoes  : — you  know  that  no  man,  be  he  ever  so  candid,  can  speak  to 
you  the  whole  truth ;  and  to  public  and  private  lies,  you  have  to 


A   ST.    PHILIP'S    DAY    AT    PARIS  56s 

reply  properly — lying  gravely  in  your  task.  My  Lord  Archbishop 
stalks  in  and  addresses  you  in  a  grave  compliment,  in  which  he 
includes  yourself,  Saint  Louis,  and  God  Almighty?  My  Lord 
Ambassador  comes  bowing,  and  congratulates  you  on  your  birthday. 
Sweet  innocent ! — what  a  touching  testimonial  of  family  love  !  It 
isn't  your  birthday ;  and  the  ambassador  does  not  care  one  fig ; 
but  both  of  you  pretend  he  does,  and  bow  and  cringe  to  each  other 
gravely,  and  waggle  your  old  wigs  solemnly,  and  turn  up  to  heaven 
the  white  of  your  old  eyes  ... 

But  stop — it  is  time  we  withdraw  the  old  King  from  the  balcony. 
Ah !  but  it  must  be  a  sad  life  to  stifle  all  day  through,  under  this 
sickly  mask  of  ceremony ;  to  be  lonely,  and  yet  never  alone ;  to 
labour,  and  never  look  for  either  rest  or  sympathy  ;  to  wear  a 
crown,  and  have  outlived  royalty ;  to  bear  all  the  burthens  of 
royalty,  without  any  of  the  old  magnificent  privileges  of  it ;  to 
have  toiled,  and  striven  for,  and  won  this  wretched  solitary 
eminence,  and  feel  it  crumbling ;  and  to  look  down  from  it  and 
see  the  great  popular  deluge  rising  which  shall  swallow  it  under 
its  level. 

While  the  bonfires  and  music  were  roaring  in  the  terraces  and 
garden  hard  by,  we  were  rather  amused  to  see  a  philosophical  artist 
in  his  garret  opposite,  who  was  seated  near  his  open  window,  and 
had  lighted  his  lamp,  and  was  smoking  his  pipe,  and  very  calmly 
copying  a  portrait  of  Madame  de  la  Vallifere.  Here  was  food  for 
new  moralities  for  those  who  were  inclined  for  such  meat. 


SHROVE  TUESDAY  IN  PARIS 


THE  particulars  of  the  fete  need  not  be  described  at  present, 
as  many  hundred  English  writers  have,  no  doubt,  given  an 
account  of  it,  an(i  everybody  knows  very  well  that  on 
Sunday,  Monday,  and  Tuesday,  des  Cendres,  the  annual  fat  ox  of 
the  Carnival  is  made  to  take  sundry  walks  through  Paris,  a  little 
chubby  butcher's  boy,  seated  behind  his  gilded  horns,  with  pink 
breeches  on,  in  the  guise  of  a  Cupid,  and  a  number  of  grown  up 
butchers  and  butcherlings  habited  as  Spanish  grandees,  Turkish 
agas,  Roman  senators,  and  what  not,  following  the  animal,  and 
causing  the  air  to  resound  with  a  most  infernal  music  of  horns  and 
instruments  of  brass.  Triumphal  cars,  adorned  with  tinsel  and 
filled  with  musicians — troops  of  actors  from  Franconi's,  mounted 
on  the  steeds  of  that  establishment,  and  decorated  in  its  finest 
costumes,  join  in  the  august  ceremonial,  and  crowds  of  masks  which 
cover  the  faces  of  many  idle,  merry  young  people  of  both  sexes,  and 
of  au  infinite  number  of  blackguards  of  the  capital,  wander  np  and 
down  the  Boulevards  on  foot,  on  horseback,  in  carriages,  and  jingling 
cabriolets  de  place,  and  have  done  so  from  time  immemorial. 

At  three  o'clock,  as  the  papers  say  ominously,  the  ox's  pro- 
menade is  concluded  ; — at  about  four,  very  likely,  that  enormous 
quadruped  receives  a  blow  from  a  hammer  betwixt  his  gilded  horns, 
and  has  been  served  out  to-day  in  steaks  and  coUops  to  the  beef 
amateun  who  frequent  Mr.  Roland's  shop.  And  a  curious  thing 
it  is  that  the  wondrous  animal  has  the  faculty  of  indefinite  multi- 
plication ;  there  is  not  an  eating-house  in  Paris  but  can  give  you  a 
slice  of  him — a  real  authentic  bond  fide  fillet  or  en-trecote.  Half-a- 
dozen  hecatombs  of  oxen  must  be  slaughtered  if  the  facts  were 
known;  but  each  man  is  fain  to  believe  that  his  particular  portion 
is  genuine — as  they  show  you  in  convents  five  hundred  undoubted 
skulls  of  St.  This  or  St.  That,  and  bits  of  the  true  cross,  that 
added  together,  would  be  enough  to  furnish  all  the  woodwork  for 
Oxford  Street. 

For  more  than  a  month  previous,  the  town  has  been  running 
madly  to  masquerades  at  the  theatres,  and  every  young  man  and 


SHROVE    TUESDAY    IN    PARIS  567 

maiden  (the  latter  word  is  used  from  pure  politeness)  who  had  a 
few  franc  pieces  in  their  pockets,  saved  against  the  happy  period, 
or  a  coat  or  a  shawl  which  would  produce  a  little  money  chez  ma 
tante — "  my  imcle,"  is  the  affectionate  term  applied  to  the  same 
personage  in  England — had  been  intriguing  here,  and  dancing  to 
his  mad  heart's  content.  You  see  a  tolerable  number  of  great  raw 
young  English  lads  joining  clumsily  in  the  festivities  of  the  mas- 
querades ;  but  on  this  point  I  can  only  speak  from  hearsay,  not 
having  seen  one  of  these  balls  for  more  than  ten  years,  when  I  was 
so  frightened  and  wonder  stricken  by  the  demoniacal  frantic  yells 
and  antics  of  the  frequenters  of  the  place,  as  to  slink  home  perfectly 
dumb  and  miserable,  not  without  some  misgivings  lest  some  real 
demons  from  below,  with  real  pitchforks  and  tails,  should  spring  out 
of  the  trap-doors  of  the  playhouse,  as  the  sham-fiends  do  in  Don 
Juan,  and  drive  the  dancers  and  musicians  headlong  down,  sending 
the  theatre  itself  down  after  them,  and  leaving  only  behind  them  a 
smoky  warning  smell  of  sulphur.  However,  the  next  day  there  was 
the  theatre  in  its  place,  having  a  dismal,  rakish  appearance  (with  dead 
lamps  over  the  doors,  and  pale,  blear-eyed  transparencies  that  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  up  all  night) ;  and  it  is  probable  that  the  three 
thousand  mad  people  of  the  night  before  were  pretty  well  restored  to 
their  sober  senses  and  back  to  their  counters  and  their  work  again. 

The  only  acquaintance  I  had  in  the  place  upon  the  awful  night 
of  the  masked-ball,  was  a  lady  who  tapped  me  on  my  shoulder, 
saluted  me  by  name,  and  was  good  enough  to  put  her  arm  into 
mine  quite  uninvited,  and  to  walk  once  or  twice  with  me  up  and 
down  the  room.  This  lovely  creature  appeared  to  be  about  fiive- 
and-thirty  years  of  age ; — she  was  dressed  like  a  man,  in  a  blouse 
and  pair  of  very  dirty-white  trousers — had  an  oilskin  hat,  orna- 
mented with  a  huge  quantity  of  various-coloured  ribbons,  and 
under  it  an  enormous  wig  with  three  tails,  that  dangled  down 
the  lady's  back ;  it  was  of  the  fashion  of  the  time  of  Louis  XV., 
and  so  old  and  dirty  that  I  have  no  doubt  it  had  been  worn  at 
Carnivals  any  time  since  the  death  of  that  monarch. — "  Don't  you 
know  me?"  said  she,  after  a  moment,  seeing  my  wonder,  and  as 
confessing  my  forgetfulness,  she  told  me  who  she  was. 

Indeed,  I  recollect  her  a  governess  in  a  very  sober,  worthy 
family  in  England,  where  she  brought  up  the  daughters,  and  had 
been  selected  especially  because  she  was  a  Protestant.  I  believe 
the  woman  did  her  duty  perfectly  well  in  her  station,  but,  upon  my 
word,  she  told  me  she  had  pawned  her  gown  to  get  this  disgusting 
old  dress,  and  dance  at  this  disgusting  masquerade.  She  was  not 
very  young,  as  has  been  seen,  and  had  never  been  pretty.  Squalid 
poverty  had  not  increased  her  charms ;  but  here  she  was,  as  mad 


568        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

after  the  Carnival  as  the  rest,  and  enjoying  herself  along  with  the 
other  mad  men  and  women.  In  her  private  capacity  she  was  a 
workwoman ;  she  lived  in  the  Eue  Neuve  St.  Augustin,  and  I 
found  her  a  few  days  afterwards  eating  garlic  soup  in  a  foul  porter's 
lodge,  from  which  she  conducted  me  up  a  damp,  mouldy  staircase 
to  her  own  apartment,  on  the  seventh  floor,  with  the  air  and 
politeness  of  a  duchess. 

If  a  wicked  world  is  anxious  to  know  what  took  a  married  man 
into  such  a  quarter,  let  it  be  honestly  confessed  that  the  visit  arose 
upon  the  subject  of  a  half-dozen  of  shirts  which  the  lady  made  for  me. 
She  did  not  cheat  her  customer  out  of  a  sixpence-worth  of  cloth,  and 
finished  the  collars  and  wristbands  to  admiration.  An  honest  lingere 
of  the  Rue  Vivienne  asked  double  the  sum  for  a  similar  article. 

Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Pauhne  must  be  now  five-and-forty 
years  old,  and  I  wonder  whether  she  still  goes  to  the  Carnival 
balls  ?  If  she  is  alive,  and  has  a  gown  to  pawn,  or  a  shilling  to 
buy  a  ticket,  or  a  friend  to  give  her  one,  or  is  not  in  the  hospital, 
no  doubt  she  was  dancing  away  last  night  to  the  sound  of  Monsieur 
DufrSsne's  trumpets,  and  finished  the  morning  at  the  Courtille. 

Que  voulez-vous  ?  it  is  her  nature.  Before  she  turned  Protestant, 
and  instructed  that  respectable  English  family  in  whose  bosom  she 
found  a  home,  where  she  became  acquainted  with  all  the  elegancies 
of  life,  and  habituated  to  the  luxuries  of  refinement,  where  she  had 
a  comfortable  hot  joint  every  day  with  the  children,  in  the  nursery, 
at  one,  and  passed  the  evening  deliciously  in  the  drawing-room, 
listening  to  the  conversation  of  the  ladies,  making  tea,  mayhap, 
for  the  gentlemen  as  they  came  up  from  their  wine,  or  playing 
quadrilles  ^nd  waltzes  when  her  lady  desired  her  to  do  so — before 
this  period  of  her  genteel  existence,  it  is  probable  that  Mademoiselle 
Pauline  was  a  grisette.  When  she  quitted  Sir  John's  family,  she 
had  his  recommendation,  and  an  offer  of  another  place  equally 
eligible  ;  more  children  to  bring  up,  more  walks  in  the  park  or  the 
square,  more  legs  of  mutton  at  one.  She  might  have  laid  by  a 
competence  if  she  had  been  thrifty,  or  have  seized  upon  a  promise 
of  marriage  from  young  Master  Tom,  at  college,  if  she  had  been 
artful ;  or,  better  still,  from  a  respectable  governess  have  become  a 
respectable  step-mother,  as  many  women  with  half  her  good  looks 
have  done.  But  no.  A  grisette  she  was,  and  a  grisette  ske  would 
be ;  and  left  the  milords  and  miladies,  and  cette  triste  ville  de 
Londres,  oil  Von  ne  danse  pas  seulement  le  Dimanche,  for  her  old 
quarters,  habits,  and  companions,  and  that  dear  old  gutter  in  the 
Rue  du  Bac,  which  Madame  de  Stael  has  spoken  of  so  fondly. 

A  fierce,  honest  moralist  might,  to  be  sure,  find  a  good  deal  to 
blame  in  Madame  Pauline's  conduct  and  life ;  and  I  should  probably 


SHROVE    TUESDAY    IN    PARIS  569 

offend  the  reader  if  I  imparted  to  him  secrets  which  the  lady  told 
me  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  and  without  the  slightest  appearance 
of  confusion.  But  to  rightly  judge  the  woman's  character,  we  must 
take  the  good  and  the  bad  together.  It  would  have  been  easy  for 
us  to  coin  a  romantic,  harrowing  story  of  some  monstrous  seducer, 
in  three  volumes,  who,  by  his  superior  blackness  of  character, 
should  make  Madame  Pauline  appear  beside  him  as  white  as  snow; 
but  I  want  to  make  no  heroine  of  her.  Let  us  neither  abuse  her  nor 
pity  her  too  much,  but  look  at  the  woman  such  as  we  find  her,  if 
we  look  at  her  at  all.  Her  type  is  quite  unknown  in  England  ;  it 
tells  a  whole  social  history,  and  speaks  of  manners  and  morals 
widely  different  from  those  which  obtain  in  our  own  country. 
There  are  a  hundred  thousand  Pauline's  in  Paris,  cheerful  in  poverty, 
careless  and  prodigal  in  good  fortune,  but  dreadfully  lax  in  some 
points  of  morals  in  which  our  own  females  are  praiseworthily  severe. 

No  more,  however,  of  the  grisette,  the  jovial  devil-may-care 
patroness  of  the  masked  ball.  B&anger  has  immortalised  her  and 
her  companion ;  and  the  reader  has  but  to  examine  his  song  of  the 
Bonne  Vieille,  for  instance,  by  the  side  of  Burns's  "  John  Anderson," 
to  see  the  different  feelings  of  the  two  countries  upon  the  above 
point  of  morals.  Thank  God !  the  Scotchman's  is  a  purer  and 
heartier  theory  than  that  of  the  Frenchman;  both  express  the 
habits  of  the  people  amongst  whom  they  live. 

In  respect  of  the  griset,  if  one  may  coin  such  a  word,  to  denote 
the  male  companion  of  the  grisette,  almost  all  the  youth  of  Paris 
(and  youth  extends  to  a  very  good  old  age  in  that  city)  may  be 
ranked.  What  sets  all  these  men  so  mad  for  dancing  at  a  certain 
age?  They  lead  a  life  of  immorality  so  extraordinary  that  an 
Englishman  cannot  even  comprehend,  much  more  share  it.  And 
while  we  reproach  them,  and  justly,  for  their  immorality,  they  are, 
on  their  part,  quite  as  justly  indignant  with  ours.  A  Frenchman 
hardly  ever  commits  an  excess  of  the  table ; — ^what  Englishman  has 
not  in  his  time  ?  A  French  gentleman  would  be  disgraced,  were  he 
deeply  in  debt  to  his  tradesman ; — is  an  Englishmen  disgraced  on 
any  such  account?  Far  from  it.  Debt  is  a  staple  joke  to  our 
young  men,  "  Who  suffers  for  your  coat  1 "  is,  or  used  to  be,  a  cant 
phrase ;  comedies  upon  comedies  are  written,  where  the  creditor  is 
the  universal  butt ; — the  butt  of  French  comedy  is  the  husband. 
The  same  personage  and  the  complication  of  wrongs  which,  in  his 
marital  quality,  he  may  suffer,  forms  almost  the  sole  theme  of 
graver  French  romance.  With  this  means  of  exciting  interest,  the 
usages  of  our  country  forbid  the  English  romancer  to  deal,  and  he 
is  obliged  to  resort  to  murder,  robbery,  excessive  low  life,  where- 
with to  tickle  his  reader.     I  have  never  met  a  Frenchman  who 


570        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

could  relish  the  works  of  our  two  modem  most  popular  writers, 
Mr.  Dickens  and  Mr.  Ainsworth ;  Mr.  Weller  and  Dick  Turpin  are 
to  them  immoral  and  indecent.  The  French  writer  wliose  works 
are  best  known  in  England  is  Monsieur  Paul  de  Kock.  Talk  to  a 
French  educated  gentleman  about  this  author,  and  he  shrugs  his 
shoulders,  and  says  it  is  " pitoyable." 

This  disquisition  is  a  great  deal  more  apropos  of  the  Carnival 
than,  perhaps,  the  reader  thinks  for.  It  does  not  seem  to  enter 
into  our  neighbours'  heads  that  gallantry  is  immoral.  When  they 
grow  old,  perhaps,  they  leave  oif  gallantry  and  carnivalising ;  but  then 
it  is  because  they  are  tired  of  it ;  or,  because  they  have  the  rheuma- 
tism, and  are  better  at  home  in  bed  ;  or,  because  they  prefer  a  quiet 
rubber  of  whist,  and  so  they  leave  carnivalising  to  t\i&jeunesse  ;  and 
the  jeunesse  of  to-day  will  probably  hand  over  the  same  principles  and 
practice  to  their  sons,  thinking  their  fredaines  as  harmless  matters 
of  course,  and  on  the  score  of  morality  quite  easy.  There  was  a 
time  in  our  country  when  the  process  of  what  was  called  sowing 
a  man's  wild  oats,  was  regarded  by  his  elders  with  great  good 
humour ;  but  with  regard  to  certain  wild  oats,  our  society  luckily 
is  growing  a  great  deal  more  rigid  and  sensible.  There  was  a 
time,  too,  in  France,  when  roueries  were  the  fashion,  and  it  was 
permitted  to  young  gentlemen  of  condition  to  intoxicate  themselves 

au  cabaret,  and  beat  the  watch,  like  my  Lord  W in  England ; 

but  such  roueries  are  immoral  now  in  France,  and  would  cause  a 
man  to  be  degraded  and  scorned ;  our  public  has  not  gone  quite  so 
far,  and  such  conduct,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  is  not  supposed  to 
affect  a  man's  honour.  Thus,  on  one  side  and  the  other,  some 
vices  we  have  abolished,  and  some  we  have  compounded  for. 

Apropos  of  the  Carnival ;  I  have  just  been  to  visit  a  man  who 
has  sinned  most  cruelly  against  one  of  the  severest  laws  of  French 
Society.  He  is  only  five-and-twenty,  has  not  a  shilling  in  the  world 
but  what  he  earns,  and  has  actually  committed  the  most  unheard-of 
crime  of  marrying.  Had  he  made  a  menage  with  some  young  lady  of 
Mademoiselle  Pauline's  stamp,  nobody  would  have  blamed  him.  His 
parents,  sisters,  and  friends  would  have  considered  and  spoken  of 
the  thing  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  as  one  quite  compatible  with 
prudence  and  morality.  Louis,  however,  has  married,  and  is  now 
paying  the  price  of  his  crime. 

He  is  an  engraver  and  artist  by  trade  ;  and  if  he  gains  a  hundred- 
and-iifty  pounds  a-year  by  his  labour,  it  is  all  that  he  does.  Out  of 
this  he  has  to  support  a  wife,  a  child,  and  a  bonne  to  cook  for  him ; 
and  to  lay  by  money,  if  he  can,  for  a  rainy  day.  He  works  twelve 
hours  at  least  every  day  of  his  life.  He  can't  go  into  society  of 
evenings,  but  must  toil  over  his  steel-plates  all  night ;  he  is  forced 


SHEOVE    TUESDAY    IN    PAEIS  571 

to  breakfast  off  a  lump  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  glass  of  water,  in 
his  atelier  ;  very  often  he  cannot  find  time  to  dine  with  his  family, 
but  his  little  wife  brings  him  his  soup,  and  a  morsel  of  beef,  of 
which  he  snatches  a  bit  as  he  best  may,  but  can  never  hope  for  any- 
thing like  decent  comfort.  Fancy  how  his  worthy  parents  must 
be  desoles,  at  this  dreadful  position  of  their  son.  Rigardez  done 
Louis,  say  his  friends,  et  puis  faites  la  betise  de  vous  marier  I 

Well,  this  monster,  who  has  so  outraged  all  the  laws  of  decency, 
who  does  not  even  smoke  his  pipe  at  the  caf^,  and  play  his  partie 
at  dominoes,  as  every  honest  reputable  man  should,  is  somehow  or 
the  other,  and  in  the  teeth  of  all  reason,  the  most  outrageously 
absurdly  happy  man  I  ever  saw.  His  wife  works  almost  as  hard 
at  her  needle  as  he  does  at  his  engraving.  They  live  in  a  garret 
in  the  Rue  Cadet,  and  have  got  a  little  child,  forsooth  (as  if  the 
pair  of  them  were  not  enough !),  a  little  rogue  that  is  always  trotting 
from  her  mother's  room  to  her  father's,  and  is  disturbing  one  or 
the  other  with  her  nonsensical  prattle.  Their  lodging  is  like  a  cage 
of  canary-birds ;  there  is  nothing  but  singing  in  it  from  morning 
till  night.  You  hear  Louis  beginning  in  a  bass  voice,  Tra-la-la-la, 
Tra-la-la-la,  and  as  sure  as  fate  from  Madame  Louis's  room,  comes 
Tra-la-la-la,  Tra-lala-la,  in  a  treble.  Little  Louise,  who  is  only  two 
years  old,  must  sing  too,  the  absurd  little  wretch  ! — and  half-a-dozen 
times  in  the  day,  Madame  Louis  peeps  into  the  atelier,  and  looks 
over  her  husband's  work,  and  calls  Mm  lolo,  or  mon  hon,  or  mon 
gros,  or  some  such  coarse  name,  and  once,  in  my  presence,  although 
I  was  a  perfect  stranger,  actually  kissed  the  man. 

Did  mortal  ever  hear  of  such  horrid  vulgarity  ?  What  earthly 
right  have  these  people  to  be  happy,  and  if  you  would  know  what 
Monsieur  Louis  had  to  do  apropos  of  the  Carnival,  all  I  can  say 
is,  that  I  went  to  see  him  on  that  day,  and  found  him  at  work  as 
usual,  working  and  singing  in  his  obtuse,  unreasonable  way,  when 
every  person  else  who  had  a  shade  of  common  sense  was  abroad  on 
the  Boulevards,  seeing  the  Boeuf  Oras  make  his  usual  promenade  ! 
Louis,  though  he  looks  upon  the  matter  now  with, great  philosophy, 
told  me,  with  a  rakish  air,  that  there  was  a  time  when  he  was 
mad  after  masked  balls  like  the  rest,  and  would  not  have  lost  his 
Carnival  for  the  world. 

And  not  only  in  Paris  does  the  Boeuf  Oras  make  his  walk. 
Beeves,  more  or  less  fat,  promenade  in  the  villages,  too,  and,  having 
occasion  to  go  to  a  miserable,  mouldy,  deserted,  straggling  place  in 
the  environs  of  Paris,  where  there  are  two  shops,  and  two  wretched 
inns  or  taverns,  with  faded  pictures  of  billiard-balls  and  dishes  of 
poultry,  painted  on  the  damp  walls,  and  a  long,  straggling  street, 
with  almost  every  tottering  tenement  in  it  to  let,  I  saw  that  the 


572        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

two  shops  had  their  windows  filled  with  cheap  masks,  and  met  one 
or  two  little  blackguards  of  the  place  disguised,  and  making  their 
Carnival.  In  one  of  the  houses  of  this  delectable  place  a  sick  friend 
was  lying,  and,  from  his  room,  we  heard  a  great  braying  of  horns 
coming  from  the  market-place,  where  the  village  fat  ox  was  pro- 
menading. A  donkey  was  roaring  in  concert  with  the  horns,  and 
you  heard  one  or  two  voices  of  yelling  children  that  were  taking 
their  part  in  the  fite. 

One  other  instance,  apropos  of  the  Carnival,  may  as  well  be 
mentioned.  A  young  lad  of  fifteen,  who  is  at  a  school  in  Paris, 
has  just  been  giving  an  account  of  his  share  of  the  festivities.  The 
three  last  days  of  the  Carnival  are  holidays  for  all  the  schoolboys  of 
the  ■  metropolis,  and  my  young  informer  had  his  full  share  of  the 
pleasure.  "  Ah  !  Monsieur  Titmarsh,"  said  he,  "  comme  je  me  suis 
amus^  !  J'ai  dans^  toute  la  soiree  de  Dimanche  chez  Madame — (il  y 
avoient  des  demoiselles  charmantes  !)  et  puis  j'ai  dans^  Lundi,  et 
puis  Mardi.     Dieu  !  comme  c'etoit  amusant !  " 

With  this  the  little  fellow  went  oif  perfectly  contented  to  his 
school,  to  get  up  at  five  o'clock  the  next  morning  and  continue  his 
studies.  And,  if  the  reader  wishes  to  know  how  the  foregoing  essay 
upon  Carnivals  and  English  and  French  usages  of  society  came 
about,  let  him  be  informed  that  it  arose  from  considering  the  way 
in  which  Monsieur  Ernest  said  he  had  "amused"  himself. 

Was  there  ever  an  English  boy  of  fifteen  heard  of  who  could 
amuse  himself  with  dancing  for  three  nights  running'?  What  could 
bring  the  inhabitants  of  London  to  troop  like  madmen  after  a  fat  ox  ? 
What  power  on  earth  could  set  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  of  them 
dancing  and  tramping,  merely  because  it  is  the  last  day  before  Lent  ? 

To  us,  considering  these  things,  and  the  wonderful  difference 
that  a  score  of  miles  of  salt  water  can  make  in  the  ways  and  morals 
of  people,  it  appeared  that  the  little  personages  above  drawn, 
though  very  common  in  France,  would  be  to  England  perfectly 
strange,  and  might,  therefore,  be  appropriately  placed  in  the 
Britannia.  And  if  it  be  in  writing,  as  in  drawing,  that  a  sketch 
taken  from  nature  of  a  place  never  so  humble  or  unpicturesque,  has 
always  a  certain  good  in  it  that  is  not  to  be  found  in  fanciful  works 
of  far  greater  pretension — in  this  manner  poor  Pauline's  rude 
portrait  may  find  a  little  favour  in  the  eyes  of  the  public.  There 
are  certain  little  features  in  the  countenance  which  might,  to  be 
sure,  be  much  prettier  than  they  are ;  but  it  is  best,  after  all,  to 
take  such  things  as  we  find  them,  nor,  be  they  ever  so  ugly,  has 
nature  made  them  in  vain. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING 

IN   A   LETTER   TO    OLIVER    YORKE,    ESQUIRE,    BY   M.    A.    TITMARSH 

Paris  :  May  1841. 

SIR, — The  man  who  makes  the  best  salads  in  London,  and 
•whom,  therefore,  we  have  facetiously  called  Sultan  Saladin, — 
a  man  who  is  conspicuous  for  his  love  and  practice  of  all  the 
polite  arts — music,  to  wit,  architecture,  painting,  and  cookery — 
once  took  the  humble  personage  who  writes  this  into  his  library, 
and  laid  before  me  two  or  three  volumes  of  manuscript  year-books, 
such  as,  since  he  began  to  travel  and  to  observe,  he  has  been  in 
the  habit  of  keeping. 

Every  night,  in  the  course  of  his  rambles,  his  highness  the 
sultan  (indeed,  his  port  is  sublime,  as,  for  the  matter  of  that,  are 
all  the  wines  in  his  cellar)  sets  down  with  an  iron  pen,  and  in  the 
neatest  handwriting  in  the  world,  the  events  and  observations  of 
the  day ;  with  the  same  iron  pen  he  illuminates  the  leaf  of  his 
journal  by  the  most  faithful  and  delightful  sketches  of  the  scenery 
which  he  has  witnessed  in  the  course  of  the  four-and -twenty  hours ; 
and  if  he  has  dined  at  an  inn  or  restaurant,  gasthaus,  posada, 
albergo,  or  what  not,  invariably  inserts  into  his  log-book  the  bill 
of  fare.  The  sultan  leads  a  jolly  life — a  tall  stalwart  man,  who 
every  day  about  six  o'clock  in  London  and  Paris,  at  two  in  Italy, 
in  Germany  and  Belgium  at  an  hour  after  noon,  feels  the  noble  calls 
of  hunger  agitating  his  lordly  bosom  (or  its  neighbourhood,  that  is), 
and  replies  to  the  call  by  a  good  dinner.  Ah !  it  is  wonderful  to 
think  how  the  healthy  and  philosophic  mind  can  accommodate  itself 
in  all  cases  to  the  varying  circumstances  of  the  time — how,  in  its 
travels  through  the  world,  the  liberal  and  cosmopolite  stomach 
recognises  the  national  dinner-hour !  Depend  upon  it  that,  in  all 
countries,  nature  has  wisely  ordained  and  suited  to  their  exigencies 
THE  DISHES  OF  A  PEOPLE.  I  mean  to  say  that  olla  podrida  is  good 
in  Spain  (though  a  plateful  of  it,  eaten  in  Paris,  once  made  me  so 
dreadfully  ill  that  it  is  a  mercy  I  was  spared  ever  to  eat  another 
dinner) ;  I  mean  to  say,  and  have  proved  it,  that  sauerkraut  ia 
good  in  Germany ;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  whale's  blubber  is  a 


574        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

very  tolerable  dish  in  Kamtschatka,  though  I  have  never  visited 
the  country.  Cannibalism  in  the  South  Seas,  and  sheepsheadism  in 
Scotland,  are  the  only  practices  that  one  cannot,  perhaps,  reconcile 
with  this  rule — at  least,  whatever  a  man's  private  opinions  may  be, 
the  decencies  of  society  oblige  him  to  eschew  the  expression  of  them 
upon  subjects  which  the  national  prejudice  has  precluded  from  free 
discussion. 

Well,  after  looking  through  three  or  four  of  Saladin's  volumes, 
I  grew  so  charmed  with  them,  that  I  used  to  come  back  every  day 
and  study  them.  I  declare  there  are  bills  of  fare  in  those  books 
over  which  I  have  cried ;  and  the  reading  of  them,  especially  about 
an  hour  before  dinner,  has  made  me  so  ferociously  hungry,  that,  in 
the  first  place,  the  sultan  (a  kind-hearted  generous  man,  as  every 
man  is  who  loves  his  meals)  could  not  help  inviting  me  to  take 
potluck  with  him  ;  and,  secondly,  I  could  eat  twice  as  much  as 
upon  common  occasions,  though  my  appetite  is  always  good. 

Lying  awake,  then,  of  nights,  or  wandering  solitary  abroad  on 
wide  commons,  or  by  the  side  of  silent  rivers,  or  at  church  when 
Doctor  Snufflem  was  preaching  his  favourite  sermon,  or  stretched 
on  the  flat  of  my  back  smoking  a  cigar  at  the  club  when  X  was 
talking  of  the  corn -laws,  or  Y  was  describing  that  famous  run  they 
had  with  the  Z  hounds — at  all  periods,  I  say,  favourable  to  self- 
examination,  those  bills  of  fare  have  come  into  my  mind,  and  often 
and  often  I  have  thought  them  over.  "  Titmarsh,"  I  have  said  to 
myself,  "  if  ever  you  travel  again,  do  as  the  sultan  has  done,  and 
Tceep  your  dinner-bills.  They  are  always  pleasant  to  look  over; 
they  always  will  recall  happy  hours  and  actions,  be  you  ever  so 
hard  pushed  for  a  dinner,  and  fain  to  put  up  with  an  onion  and  a 
crust :  of  the  past  fate  cannot  deprive  you.  Yesterday  is  the 
philosopher's  property ;  and  by  thinking  of  it,  and  using  it  to 
advantage,  he  may  gaily  go  through  to-morrow,  doubtful  and  dismal 
though  it  be.  Try  this  lamb  stuffed  with  pistachio-nuts ;  another 
handful  of  this  pillau.  Ho,  you  rascals  !  bring  round  the  sherbet 
there,  and  never  spare  the  jars  of  wine — 'tis  true  Persian,  on  the 
honour  of  a  Barmecide  ! "  Is  not  that  dinner  in  the  "  Arabian 
Nights  "  a  right  good  dinner  ?  Would  you  have  had  Bedreddin  to 
refuse  and  turn  sulky  at  the  windy  repast,  or  to  sit  down  grinning 
in  the  face  of  his  grave  entertainer,  and  gaily  take  what  came? 
Remember  what  came  of  the  honest  fellow's  philosophy.  He 
slapped  the  grim  old  prince  in  the  face ;  and  the  grim  old  prince, 
who  had  invited  him  but  to  laugh  at  him,  did  presently  order  a 
real  and  substantial  repast  to  be  set  before  him — great  pyramids 
of  smoking  rice  and  pillau  (a  good  pillau  is  one  of  the  best  dishes 
in  the  world),  savoury  kids,  snow-cooled  sherbets,  luscious  wine  of 


MEMORIALS    OP    GORMANDISING  575 

Schiraz ;  with  an  accompaniment  of  moon-faced  beauties  from  tte 
harem,  no  doubt,  dancing,  singing,  and  smiling  in  the  most  ravishing 
manner.  Thus  should  we,  my  dear  friends,  laugh  at  Fate's  beard, 
as  we  confront  him — thus  should  we,  if  the  old  monster  be  insolent, 
fall  to  and  box  his  ears.  He  has  a  spice  of  humour  in  his  composi- 
tion ;  and  be  sure  he  will  be  tickled  by  such  conduct. 

Some  months  ago,  when  the  expectation  of  war  between  Eng- 
land and  France  grew  to  be  so  strong,  and  there  was  such  a  talk 
of  mobilising  national  guards,  and  arming  three  or  four  hundred 
thousand  more  French  soldiers — when  such  ferocious  yells  of  hatred 
against  perfidious  Albion  were  uttered  by  the  liberal  French  press, 
that  I  did  really  believe  the  rupture  between  the  two  countries  was 
about  immediately  to  take  place ;  being  seriously  alarmed,  I  set  off 
for  Paris  at  once.  My  good  sir,  what  could  we  do  without  our 
Paris?  I  came  here  first  in  1815  (when  the  Duke  and  I  were  a 
.good  deal  remarked  by  the  inhabitants) ;  I  proposed  but  to  stay  a 
week ;  stopped  three  months,  and  have  returned  every  year  since. 
There  is  something  fatal  in  the  place — a  charm  about  it — a  wicked 
one  very  likely — but  it  acts  on  us  all ;  and  perpetually  the  old 
Paris  man  comes  hieing  back  to  his  quarters  again,  and  is  to  be 
found,  as  usual,  sunning  himself  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Painters, 
princes,  gourmands,  officers  on  half-pay — serious  old  ladies  even 
acknowledge  the  attraction  of  the  place — are  more  at  ease  here  than 
in  any  other  place  in  Europe ;  and  back  they  come,  and  are  to  be 
■  found  sooner  or  later  occupying  their  old  haunts. 

My  darling  city  improves,  too,  with  each  visit,  and  has  some 
new  palace,  or  church,  or  statue,  or  other  gimcrack,  to  greet  your 
eyes  withal.  A  few  years  since,  and  lo  !  on  the  column  of  the 
Place  Vendome,  instead  of  the  shabby  tri-coloured  rag,  shone  the 
bronze  statue  of  Napoleon.  Then  came  the  famous  triumphal 
arch ;  a  noble  building  indeed ! — how  stately  and  white,  and 
beautiful  and  strong,  it  seems  to  dominate  over  the  whole  city ! 
Next  was  the  obelisk ;  a  huge  bustle  and  festival  being  made  to 
welcome  it  to  the  city.  Then  came  the  fair  asphaltum  terraces 
round  about  the  obelisk ;  then  the  fountains  to  decorate  the  terraces. 
I  have  scarcely  been  twelve  months  absent,  and  behold  they  have 
gilded  all  the  Naiads  and  Tritons;  they  have  clapped  a  huge 
fountain  in  the  very  midst  of  the  Champs  Elys^es — a  great, 
glittering,  frothing  fountain,  that  to  the  poetic  eye  looks  like  an 
enormous  shaving-brush ;  and  all  down  the  avenue  they  have  placed 
hundreds  of  gilded  flaring  gas-lamps,  that  make  this  gayest  walk  in 
the  world  look  gayer  still  than  ever.  But  a  truce  to  such  descrip- 
tions, which  might  carry  one  far,  very  far,  from  the  object  proposed 
in  this  paper. 


576        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

I  simply  wish  to  introduce  to  public  notice  a  brief  dinner-journal. 
It  has  been  written  with  the  utmost  honesty  and  simplicity  of 
purpose ;  and  exhibits  a  picture  or  table  of  the  development  of  the 
human  mind  under  a  series  of  gastronomic  experiments,  diversified 
in  their  nature,  and  diversified,  consequently,  in  their  effects.  A 
man  in  London  has  not,  for  the  most  part,  the  opportunity  to  make 
these  experiments.  You  are  a  family  man,  let  us  presume,  and  you 
live  in  that  metropolis  for  half  a  century.  You  have  on  Sunday, 
say,  a  leg  of  mutton  and  potatoes  for  dinner.  On  Monday  you 
have  cold  mutton  and  potatoes.  On  Tuesday,  hashed  mutton  and 
potatoes ;  the  hashed  mutton  being  flavoured  with  little  damp 
triangular  pieces  of  toast,  which  always  surround  that  charming 
dish.  Well,  on  Wednesday,  the  mutton  ended,  you  have  beef:  the 
beef  undergoes  the  same  alternations  of  cookery,  and  disappears. 
Your  life  presents  a  succession  of  joints,  varied  every  now  and 
then  by  a  bit  of  fish  and  some  poultry.  You  drink  three  glasses  of 
a  brandyfied  liquor  called  sherry  at  dinner;  your  excellent  lady 
imbibes  one.  When  she  has  had  her  glass  of  port  after  dinner,  she 
goes  upstairs  with  the  children,  and  you  fall  asleep  in  your  arm-chair. 
Some  of  the  most  pure  and  precious  enjoyments  of  life  are  unknown 
to  you.  You  eat  and  drink,  but  you  do  not  know  the  art  of  eating 
and  drinking ;  nay,  most  probably  you  despise  those  who  do.  "  Give 
me  a  slice  of  Bneat,"  say  you,  very  likely,  "and  a  fig  for  your 
gourmands."  You  fancy  it  is  very  virtuous  and  manly  all  this. 
Nonsense,  my  good  sir  ;  you  are  indifierent  because  you  are  ignorant, 
because  your  life  is  passed  in  a  narrow  circle  of  ideas,  and  because 
you  are  bigotedly  blind  and  pompously  callous  to  the  beauties  and 
excellences  beyond  you. 

Sir,  RESPECT  YOUE  DINNER ;  idolise  it,  enjoy  it  properly. 
You  will  be  by  many  hours  in  the  week,  many  weeks  in  the  year, 
and  many  years  in  your  life  the  happier  if  you  do. 

Don't  tell  us  that  it  is  not  worthy  of  a  man.  All  a  man's 
senses  are  worthy  of  employment,  and  should  be  cultivated  as  a 
duty.  The  senses  are  the  arts.  What  glorious  feasts  does  Nature 
prepare  for  your  eye  in  animal  form,  in  landscape,  and  painting ! 
Are  you  to  put  out  your  eyes  and  not  see  %  What  royal  dishes  of 
melody  does  her  bounty  provide  for  you  in  the  shape  of  poetry, 
music,  whether  windy  or  wiry,  notes  of  the  human  voice,  or  ravish- 
ing song  of  birds !  Are  you  to  stuff  your  ears  with  cotton,  and 
vow  that  the  sense  of  hearing  is  unmanly  % — you  obstinate  dolt  you  ! 
No,  surely ;  nor  must  you  be  so  absurd  as  to  fancy  that  the  art 
of  eating  is  in  any  way  less  worthy  than  the  other  two.  You  hke 
your  dinner,  man ;  never  be  ashamed  to  say  so.  If  you  don't  like 
your  victuals,  pass  on  to  the  next  article ;  but  remember  that  every 


MEMOEIALS    OF    GOEMANDISING 


577 


man  who  has  been  worth  a  fig  in  this  world,  as  poet,  painter,  or 
musician,  has  had  a  good  appetite  and  a  good  taste.  Ah,  what  a 
poet  Byron  would  have  been  had  he  taken  his  meals  properly,  and 
allowed  himself  to  grow  fat — if  nature  intended  him  to  grow  fat^ — 
and  not  have  physicked  his  intellect  with  wretched  opium  pills  and 
acrid  vinegar,  that  sent  his  principles  to  sleep,  and  turned  his  feel- 
ings sour !  If  that  man  had  respected  his  dinner,  he  never  would 
have  written  "  Don  Juan." 

Allans  done  !  enough  sermonising ;  let  us  sit  down  and  fall  to 
at  once. 

I  dined  soon  after  my  arrival  at  a  very  pleasant  Paris  club, 
where  daily  is  provided  a  dinner  for  ten  persons,  that  is  universally 
reported  to  be  excellent.  Five  men  in  England  would  have  con- 
sumed the  same  amount  of  victuals,  as  you  wiU  see  by  the  bills 
of  fare  :^— 


A  beef,  with  carrots 
and  vegetables,  very 
good; 


removed  by 


A  brace  of  roast 
pheasants. 


Soupe  a  la  pur^e 
aux  crotitons. 


Poulets  b,  la  Marengo  ; 


removed  by 


Cardons  "k  la  Moelle. 


Desserts  of  cheese.     Pears  and  Fontainebleau  grapes. 
Bordeaux  red,  and  excellent  Chablis  at  discretion. 


This  dinner  was  very  nicely  served.  A  venerable  maitre 
(Fhdtel  in  black  cutting  up  neatly  the  dishes  on  a  trencher 
at  the  side-table,  and  several  waiters  attending  in  green  coats, 
red  plush  tights,  and  their  hair  curled.  There  was  a  great 
quantity  of  light  in  the  room ;  some  handsome  pieces  of  plated 
ware ;  the  pheasants  came  in  with  their  tails  to  their  backs ; 
and  the  smart  waiters,  with  their  hair  dressed  and  parted  down 
the  middle,  gave  a  pleasant,  lively,  stylish  appearance  to  the 
whole  affair. 

Now,  I  certainly  dined  (by  the  way,  I  must  not  forget  to 
mention  that  we  had  with  the  beef  some  boiled  kidney  potatoes, 
very  neatly  dished  up  in  a  napkin) — I  certainly  dined,  I  say ;  and 
13  2  0 


578        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

half-an-hour  afterwards  felt,  perhaps,  more  at  my  ease  than  I 
should  have  done  had  I  consulted  my  owu  inclinations,  and  de- 
voured twice  the  quantity  that  on  this  occasion  came  to  my  share. 
But  I  would  rather,  as  a  man  not  caring  for  appearances,  dine,  as 
a  general  rule,  off  a  beef-steak  for  two  at  the  Ca.i6  Eoy,  than  sit 
down  to  take  a  tenth  part  of  such  a  meal  every  day.  There  was 
only  one  man  at  the  table  besides  your  humble  servant  who  did 
not  put  water  into  his  wine ;  and  he — I  mean  the  other — was 
observed  by  his  friends,  who  exclaimed,  "  Comment !  vous  buvez 
sec,"  as  if  to  do  so  was  a  wonder.  The  consequence  was,  that  half- 
ardozen  bottles  of  wine  served  for  the  whole  ten  of  us ;  and  the 
guests,  having  despatched  their  dinner  in  an  hour,  skipped  lightly 
away  from  it,  did  not  stay  to  ruminate,  and  to  feel  uneasy,  and  to 
fiddle  about  the  last  and  penultimate  waistcoat  button,  as  we  do 
after  a  house-dinner  at  an  English  club.  What  was  it  that  made 
the  charm  of  this  dinner'? — for  pleasant  it  was.  It  was  the  neat 
and  comfortable  manner  in  which  it  was  served ;  the  pheasant-tails 
had  a  considerable  effect ;  that  snowy  napkin  coquettishly  arranged 
round  the  kidneys  gave  them  a  distingue  air ;  the  light  and  glitter- 
ing service  gave  an  appearance  of  plenty  and  hospitality  that  sent 
everybody  away  contented. 

I  put  down  this  dinner  just  to  show  English  and  Scotch  house- 
keepers what  may  be  done,  and  for  what  price.     Say, 

».     d. 

Soup  and  fresh  bread,  )       ■  .  .-,     ^ 

■n    5i      ]  ,  >  prmae  cost     .         .26 

Beef  and  carrots  j    ^ 

Fowls  and  sauce         .  .  .  .  .36 

Pheasants  (hens)        .         .         .         .         .50 

Grapes,  pears,  cheese,  vegetables  .         .30 


14     0 


For  fifteenpence  par  tete  a  company  of  ten  persons  may  have  a 
dinner  set  before  them, — nay,  and  be  made  to  fancy  that  they  dine 
well,  provided  the  service  is  handsomely  arranged,  that  you  have 
a  good  stock  of  side-dishes,  &c.,  in  your  plate-chest,  and  don't  spare 
the  spermaceti. 

As  for  the  wine,  that  depends  on  yourself.  Always  be  crying 
out  to  your  friends,  "  Mr.  So-and-so,  I  don't  drink  myself,  but  pray 
pass  the  bottle.  Tomkins,  my  boy,  help  your  neighbour,  and 
never  mind  me.  What !  Hopkins,  are  there  two  of  us  on  the 
doctor's  list?  Pass  the  wine;  Smith  I'm  sure  won't  refuse  it;" 
and  so  on.     A  very  good  plan  is  to  have  the  butler  (or  the  fellow 


MEMOEIALS    OF   GORMANDISING  579 

in  the  white  waistcoat  who  "  behaves  as  sicli ")  pour  out  the  wine 
when  wanted  (in  half-glasses,  of  course),  and  to  make  a  deuced 
great  noise  and  shouting,  "John,  John,  why  the  devil,  sir,  don't 
you  help  Mr.  Simkins  to  another  glass  of  wine?"  If  you  point 
out  Simkins  once  or  twice  in  this  way,  depend  upon  it,  he  won't 
drink  a  great  quantity  of  your  liquor.  You  may  thus  keep  your 
friends  from  being  dangerous,  by  a  thousand  innocent  manoeuvres ; 
and,  as  I  have  said  before,  you  may  very  probably  make  them 
believe  that  they  have  had  a  famous  dinner.  There  was  only 
one  man  in  our  company  of  ten  the  other  day  who  ever  thought 
he  had  not  dined;  and  what  was  he?  a  foreigner, — a  man  of  a 
discontented  inquiring  spirit,  always  carpuig  at  things,  and  never 
satisfied. 

Well,  next  day  I  dined  au  cinquieme  with  a  family  (of  Irish 
extraction,  by  the  way),  and  what  do  you  think  was  our  dinner 
for  six  persons  1     Why,  simply. 

Nine  dozen  Ostend  oysters ; 
Soup  k  la  mulhgatawny ; 
Boiled  turkey,  with  celery  sauce ; 
Saddle  of  mutton  roti. 

Removes.     Plompouding ;  croflte  de  macaroni. 
Vin  Beaune  ordinaire,  volnay,  bordeaux,  cham- 
pagne, eau  chaude,  cognac. 

I  forget  the  dessert.  Alas  !  in  moments  of  prosperity  and 
plenty,  one  is  often  forgetful :  I  remember  the  dessert  at  the  Cercle 
well  enough. 

A  person  whom  they  call  in  this  country  an  illustration 
littiraire — the  editor  of  a  newspaper,  in  fact — with  a  very  pretty 
wife,  were  of  the  party,  and  looked  at  the  dinner  with  a  great  deal 
of  good-humoured  superiority.  I  declare,  upon  my  honour,  that  I 
helped  both  the  illustration  and  his  lady  twice  to  saddle  of  mutton ; 
and  as  for  the  turkey  and  celery  sauce,  you  should  have  seen  how 
our  host  dispensed  it  to  them !  They  ate  the  oysters,  they  ate  the 
soup  ("Diable!  mais  il  est  poivr^ ! "  said  the  illustration,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes),  they  ate  the  turkey,  they  ate  the  mutton,  they 
ate  the  pudding ;  and  what  did  our  hostess  say  ?  Why,  casting 
down  her  eyes  gently,  and  with  the  modestest  air  in  the  world,  she 
said — "  There  is  such  a  beautiful  piece  of  cold  beef  in  the  larder ; 
do  somebody  ask  for  a  little  slice  of  it." 

Heaven  bless  her  for  that  speech !  I  loved  and  respected  her 
for  it ;  it  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes.     A  man  who  could  sneer 


580        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

at  such  a  sentiment  could  have  neither  heart  nor  good-breeding. 
Don't  you  see  that  it  shows 

Simplicity, 

Modesty, 

Hospitality  1 
Put  these  against 

Waiters  with  their  hair  curled, 
Pheasants  roasted  with  their  tails  on, 
A  dozen  spermaceti  candles. 

Add  them  up,  I  say,  oh  candid  reader,  and  answer  in  the  sum  of 
human  happiness,  which  of  the  two  accounts  makes  the  better  figure? 

I  declare,  I  know  few  things  more  aifecting  than  that  little 
question  about  the  cold  beef;  and  considering  calmly  our  national 
characteristics,  balancing  in  the  scale  of  quiet  thought  our  de- 
fects and  our  merits,  am  daily  more  inclined  to  believe  that  there 
is  something  in  the  race  of  Britons  which  renders  them  usually 
superior  to  the  French  family.  This  is  but  one  of  the  traits  of 
English  character  that  has  been  occasioned  by  the  use  of  roast  beef 

It  is  an  immense  question,  that  of  diet.  Look  at  the  two  bills 
of  fare  just  set  down ;  the  relative  consumption  of  ten  animals  and 
six.  What  a  profound  physical  and  moral  difference  may  we  trace 
here  !  How  distinct,  from  the  cradle  upwards,  must  have  been 
the  thoughts,  feelings,  education  of  the  parties  who  ordered  those 
two  dinners  !  It  is  a  fact  which  does  not  admit  of  a  question,  that 
the  French  are  beginning,  since  so  many  English  have  come  among 
them,  to  use  beef  much  more  profusely.  Everybody  at  the  restaura- 
teur's orders  beef-steak  and  pommes.  Will  the  national  character 
slowly  undergo  a  change  under  the  influence  of  this  dish  1  Will 
the  French  be  more  simple '?  broader  in  the  shoulders  1  less  inclined 
to  brag  about  military  glory  and  such  humbug  ?  All  this  in  the 
dark  vista  of  futurity  the  spectator  may  fancy  is  visible  to  him,  and 
the  philanthropist  cannot  but  applaud  the  change.  This  brings  me 
naturally  to  the  consideration  of  the  manner  of  dressing  beef-steaks 
in  this  country,  and  of  the  merit  of  that  manner. 

I  dined  on  a  Saturday  at  the  Caf^  Foy,  on  the  Boulevard,  in  a 
private  room,  with  a  friend.     We  had 

Potage  julienne,  with  a  little  pur^e  in  it; 

Two  entrecotes  aux  dpinards ; 

One  perdreau  truflfd ; 

One  fromage  roquefort ; 

A  bottle  of  nuits  with  the  beef; 

A  bottle  of  Sauterne  with  the  partridge. 


MEMOKIALS    OF    GOKMANDISING  581 

And  perhaps  a  glass  of  punch,  with  a  cigar,  afterwards  :  but  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  The  insertion  of  the  purfe  into  the  julienne 
was  not  of  my  recommending;  and  if  this  junction  is  efi'ected  at 
all,  the  operation  should  be  performed  with  the  greatest  care.  If 
you  put  too  much  purfe,  both  soups  are  infallibly  spoiled.  A  much 
better  plan  it  is  to  have  your  julienne  by  itself,  though  I  will  not 
enlarge  on  this  point,  as  the  excellent  friend  with  whom  I  dined 
may  chance  to  see  this  notice,  and  may  be  hurt  at  the  renewal  in 
print  of  a  dispute  which  caused  a  good  deal  of  pain  to  both  of  us. 
By  the  way,  we  had  half-a-dozen  sardines  while  the  dinner  was 
getting  ready,  eating  them  with  delicious  bread  and  butter,  for 
whicli  this  place  is  famous.     Then  followed  the  soup.     Why  the 

deuce  would  he  have  the  pu- but  never  mind.     After  the  soup, 

we  had  what  I  do  not  hesitate  to  call  the  very  best  beef-steak  I  ever 
ate  in  my  life.  By  the  shade  of  Heliogabalus  !  as  I  write  about  it 
now,  a  week  after  I  have  eaten  it,  the  old,  rich,  sweet,  piquant,  juicy 
taste  comes  smacking  on  my  lips  again ;  and  I  feel  something  of 
that  exquisite  sensation  I  then  had.     I  am  ashamed  of  the  delight 

which  the  eating  of  that  piece  of  meat  caused  me.    G and  I  had 

quarrelled  about  the  soup  (I  said  so,  and  don't  wish  to  return  to 
the  subject) ;  but  when  we  began  on  the  steak,  we  looked  at  each 
other,  and  loved  each  other.  We  did  not  speak, — our  hearts  were 
too  full  for  that ;  but  we  took  a  bit,  and  laid  down  our  forks,  and 
looked  at  one  another,  and  understood  each  other.  There  were  no 
two  individuals  on  this  wide  earth, — no  two  lovers  billing  in  the 
shade, — no  mother  clasping  baby  to  her  heart,  more  supremely 
happy  than  we.  Every  now  and  then  we  had  a  glass  of  honest, 
firm,  generous  Burgundy,  that  nobly  supported  the  meat.  As  you 
may  fancy,  we  did  not  leave  a  single .  morsel  of  the  steak ;  but 
when  it  was  done,  we  put  bits  of  bread  into  the  silver  dish,  and 
wistfully  sopped  up  the  gravy.  I  suppose  I  shall  never  in  this 
world  taste  anything  so  good  again.  But  what  then  1  What  if  I 
did  like  it  excessively?  Was  my  liking  unjust  or  unmanly?  Is 
my  regret  now  puling  or  unworthy  1  No.  "  Laudo  manentem  !  " 
as  Titmouse  says.  When  it  is  eaten,  I  resign  myself,  and  can 
eat  a  two-franc  dinner  at  Eichard's  without  ill-humour  and  without 
a  pang. 

Any  dispute  about  the  relative  excellence  of  the  beef-steak  cut 
from  the  fillet,  as  is  usual  in  France,  and  of  the  entrecote,  must 
henceforth  be  idle  and  absurd.  Whenever,  my  dear  young  friend, 
you  go  to  Paris,  call  at  once  for  the  entrecote ;  the  fillet  in  com- 
parison to  it  is  a  poor  fade  lady's  meat.  What  folly,  by  the  way, 
is  that  in  England  which  induces  us  to  attach  an  estimation  to  the 
part  of  the  sirloin  that  is  called  the  Sunday  side,— poor,  tender, 


582        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

stringy  stuff,  not  comparable  to  the  manly  meat  on  the  other  side, 
handsomely  garnished  with  crisp  fat,  and  with  a  layer  of  horn ! 
Give  the  Sunday  side  to  misses  and  ladies'-maids,  for  men  be  the 
Monday's  side,  or,  better  still,  a  thousand  times  more  succulent  and 
full  of  flavour — the  ribs  of  heef.  This  is  the  meat  I  would  eat 
were  I  going  to  do  battle  with  any  mortal  foe.  Fancy  a  hundred 
thousand  Englishmen,  after  a  meal  of  stalwart  beef  ribs,  encounter- 
ing a  hundred  thousand  Frenchmen  who  had  partaken  of  a  trifling 
collation  of  soup,  turnips,  carrots,  onions,  and  Gruyfere  cheese. 
Would  it  be  manly  to  engage  at  such  odds  1     I  say,  no. 

Passing  by  Vary's  one  day,  I  saw  a  cadaverous  cook  with  a 
spatula,  thumping  a  poor  beef-steak  with  all  his  might.  This  is 
not  only  a  horrible  cruelty,  but  an  error.  They  not  only  beat  the 
beef,  moreover,  but  they  soak  it  in  oil.  Absurd,  disgusting  bar- 
barity !  Beef  so  beaten  loses  its  natural  spirit ;  it  is  too  noble 
for  corporal  punishment.  You  may  by  these  tortures  and  artifices 
make  it  soft  and  greasy,  but  tender  and  juicy  never. 

The  landlord  of  the  Caf^  Foy  (I  have  received  no  sort  of  con- 
sideration from  him)  knows  this  truth  full  well,  and  follows  the 
simple  honest  plan ;  first,  to  have  good  meat,  and  next  to  hang  it  a 
long  time.  I  have  instructed  him  how  to  do  the  steaks  to  a  turn, 
not  raw,  horribly  livid  and  blue  in  the  midst,  as  I  have  seen  great 
flaps  of  meat  (what  a  shame  to  think  of  our  fine  meat  being  so 
treated !),  but  cooked  all  the  way  through.  Go  to  the  Caf^  Foy 
then,  ask  for  a  beef-steak  a  la  Titmabsh,  and  you  will  see  what 
a  dish  will  be  set  before  you.  I  have  dwelt  upon  this  point  at 
too  much  length,  perhaps,  for  some  of  my  readers ;  but  it  can't  be 
helped.  The  truth  is,  beef  is  my  weakness ;  and  I  do  declare  that 
I  derive  more  positive  enjoyment  from  the  simple  viand  than  from 
any  concoction  whatever  in  the  whole  cook's  cyclopaedia. 

Always  drink  red  wine  with  beef-steaks ;  port,  if  possible ;  if 
not.  Burgundy,  of  not  too  high  a  flavour, — good  Beaune,  say. 
This  fact,  which  is  very  likely  not  known  to  many  persons  who, 
forsooth,  are  too  magnificent  to  care  about  their  meat  and  drink, — 
this  simple  fact  I  take  to  be  worth  the  whole  price  I  shall  get  for 
this  article. 

But  to  return  to  dinner.     "We  were  left,  I  think,  G and  I, 

sopping  up  the  gravy  with  bits  of  bread,  and  declaring  that  no 
power  on  earth  could  induce  us  to  eat  a  morsel  more  that  day. 
At  one  time,  we  thought  of  countermanding  the  perdreau  aux 
truffes,  that  to  my  certain  knowledge  had  been  betruffed  five  days 
before. 

Poor  blind  mortals  that  we  were ;  ungrateful  to  our  appetites, 
needlessly  mistrustful  and  cowardly.     A   man  may  do  what  he 


MEMORIALS    OF    GORMANDISING  583 

dares ;  nor  does  he  know,  until  he  tries,  what  the  honest  appetite 
will  bear.  We  were  "kept  waiting  between  the  steak  and  the 
partridge  some  ten  minutes  or  so.  For  the  first  two  or  three 
minutes  we  lay  back  in  our  chairs  quite  exhausted  indeed.  Then 
we  began  to  fiddle  witli  a  dish  of  toothpicks,  for  want  of  anything 

more  savoury ;  then  we  looked  out  of  the  window ;  then  G^ 

got  in  a  rage,  rang  the  bell  violently,  and  asked,  "  Pourquoi  diable 
nous  fait-on  attendre  si  longtemps  1 "  The  waiter  grinned.  He  is 
a  nice  good-humoured  fellow,  Auguste;  and  I  heartily  trust  that 
some  reader  of  this  may  give  him  a  five-franc  piece  for  my  sake. 
Auguste  grinned  and  disappeared. 

Presently,  we  were  aware  of  an  odour  gradually  coming  towards 
us,  something  musky,  fiery,  savoury,  mysterious, — a  hot  drowsy 
smell,  that  lulls  the  senses,  and  yet  eniiames  them, — the  truffes 
were  coming !  Yonder  they  lie,  caverned  under  the  full  bosom  of 
the  red-legged  bird.     My  hand  trembled  as,  after  a  little  pause,  I 

cut  the  animal  in  two.     G said  I  did  not  give  him  his  share 

of  the  truffes ;  I  don't  believe  I  did.  I  spilled  some  salt  into  my 
plate,  and  a  little  cayenne  pepper — very  little  :  we  began,  as  far  as 
I  can  remember,  the  following  conversation  : — 

Gustavus.  Chop,  chop,  chop. 

Michael  Angela.  Globlobloblob. 

G.  Gobble. 

M.  A.  Obble. 

G.  Here's  a  big  one. 

M.  A.  Hobgob.  What  wine  shall  we  have?  I  should  like 
some  champagne. 

G.  It's  bad  here.     Have  some  Sauteme. 

M.  A.  Very  well.     Hobgobglobglob,  &c. 

Auguste  (opening  the  Sauterne).  Cloo-oo-oo-oop !  The  cork 
is  out  J  he  pours  it  into  the  glass,  glock,  glock,  glock. 

Nothing  more  took  place  in  the  way  of  talk.  The  poor  little 
partridge  was  soon  a  heap  of  bones — a  very  little  heap.  A 
trufflesque  odour  was  left  in  the  room,  but  only  an  odour.  Pre- 
sently, the  cheese  was  brought :  the  amber  Sauteme  flask  has 
turned  of  a  sickly  green  hue  ;  nothing,  save  half  a  glass  of  sediment 
at  the  bottom,  remained  to  tell  of  the  light  and  social  spirit  that 
had  but  one  half-hour  before  inhabited  the  flask.  Darkness  fell 
upon  our  little  chamber;  the  men  in  the  street  began  crying, 
"  Messager  !  Journal  du  Soir  I  "  The  bright  moon  rose  glitter- 
ing over  the  tiles  of  the  Rue  Louis  le  Grand,  opposite,  illuminating 
two  glasses  of  punch  that  two  gentlemen  in  a  small  room  of  the 
Caf^  Foy  did  ever  and  anon  raise  to  their  lips.  Both  were  silent ; 
both  happy ;  both  were  smoking  cigars, — for  both  knew  that  the 


584        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

soothing  plant  of  Cuba  is  sweeter  to  the  philosopher  after  dinner 
than  the  prattle  of  all  the  women  in  the  world.  Women — pshaw  ! 
The  man  who,  after  dinner — after  a  good  dinner — can  think  about 
driving  home,  and  shaving  himself  by  candlelight,  and  enduing  a 
damp  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  tight  glazed  pumps  to  show  his  cobweb 
stockings  and  set  his  feet  in  a  flame ;  and,  having  undergone  all 
this,  can  get  into  a  cold  cab,  and  drive  off  to  No.  222  Harley 
Street,  where  Mrs.  Mortimer  Smith  is  at  home ;  where  you  take 
off  your  cloak  in  a  damp  dark  back  parlour,  called  Mr.  Smith's 
study,  and  containing,  when  you  arrive,  twenty-four  ladies'  cloaks 
and  tippets,  fourteen  hats,  two  pairs  of  clogs  (belonging  to  two 
gentlemen  of  the  Middle  Temple,  who  walk  for  economy,  and  think 
dancing  at  Mrs.  Mortimer  Smith's  the  height  of  enjoyment)  ;^the 
man  who  can  do  all  this,  and  walk,  gracefully  smiling,  into  Mrs. 
Smith's  drawing-rooms,  where  the  brown  holland  bags  have  been 
removed  from  the  chandeliers  ;  a  man  from  Kirkman's  is  thumping 
on  the  piano,  and  Mrs.  Smith  is  standing  simpering  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  dressed  in  red,  with  a  bird  of  paradise  in  her  turban, 
a  tremulous  fan  in  one  hand,  and  the  other  clutching  hold  of  her 
little  fat  gold  watch  and  seals ; — the  man  who,  after  making  his 
bow  to  Mrs.  Smith,  can  advance  to  Miss  Jones,  in  blue  crape,  and 
lead  her  to  a  place  among  six  other  pairs  of  solemn-looking  persons, 
and  whisper  fadaises  to  her  (at  which  she  cries,  "  Oh  fie,  you 
naughty  man !  how  can  you  1 "),  and  look  at  Miss  Smith's  red 
shoulders  struggling  out  of  her  gown,  and  her  mottled  elbows  that 
a  pair  of  crumpled  kid  gloves  leave  in  a  state  of  delicious  nature ; 
and,  after  having  gone  through  certain  mysterious  quadrille  figures 
with  her,  lead  her  back  to  her  mamma,  who  has  just  seized  a  third 
glass  of  muddy  negus  from  the  black  footnmn ; — the  man  who  can 
do  all  this  may  do  it,  and  go  hang,  for  me  !  And  many  such  men 
there  be,  my  Gustavus,  in  yonder  dusky  London  city.  Be  it  ours, 
my  dear  friend,  when  the  day's  labour  and  repast  are  done,  to  lie 
and  ruminate  calmly ;  to  watch  the  bland  cigar  smoke  as  it  rises 
gently  ceiling-wards  ;  to  be  idle  in  body  as  well  as  mind ;  not  to 
kick  our  heels  madly  in  quadrilles,  and  puff  and  pant  in  senseless 
gallopades  :  let  us  appreciate  the  joys  of  idleness ;  let  us  give  a 
loose  to  silence ;  and  having  enjoyed  this,  the  best  dessert  after  a 
goodly  dinner,  at  close  of  eve,  saunter  slowly  home. 


As  the  dinner  above  described  drew  no  less  than  three  franc 
pieces  out  of  my  purse,  I  determined  to  economise  for  the  next  few 
days,  and  either  to  be  invited  out  to  dinner,  or  else  to  partake  of 
some  repast  at  a  small  charge,   such   as  one  may  have  here.     I 


MEMORIALS    OF    GORMANDISING  585 

had  on  the  day  succeeding  the  truffled  partridge  a  dinner  for  a 
shilling,  viz.  : — 

Bifsteck  aux  pommes  (heu  quantum  mutatus  ab  illo  !) 

Galantine  de  volaille, 

Fromage  de  Gruyfere, 

Demi-bouteille  du  vin  trfes-vieux  de  Macon  ou  Chablis, 

Pain  h,  discretion. 

This  dinner,  my  young  friend,  was  taken  about  half-past  two 
o'clock  in  the  day,  and  was,  in  fact,  a  breakfast, — a  breakfast  taken 
at  a  two-franc  house,  in  the  Rue  Haute  Vivienne ;  it  was  certainly  a 
sufficient  dinner  :  I  certainly  was  not  hungry  for  all  the  rest  of  the 
day.  Nay,  the  wine  was  decently  good,  as  almost  all  wine  is  in 
the  morning,  if  one  had  the  courage  or  the  power  to  drink  it. 
You  see  many  honest  Eughsh  families  marching  into  these  two-franc 
eating-houses,  at  five  o'clock,  and  fancy  they  dine  in  great  luxury. 
Returning  to  England,  however,  they  inform  their  friends  that  the 
meat  in  France  is  not  good ;  that  the  fowls  are  very  small,  and 
black  ;  the  kidneys  very  tough ;  the  partridges  and  fruit  have  no 
taste  in  them,  and  the  soup  is  execrably  thin.  A  dinner  at 
Williams's,  in  the  Old  Bailey,  is  better  than  the  best  of  these ;  and 
therefore  had  the  English  Cockney  better  remain  at  Williams's 
than  judge  the  great  nation  so  falsely. 

The  worst  of  these  two-franc  establishments  is  a  horrid  air  of 
shabby  elegance  which  distinguishes  them.  At  some  of  thera,  they 
will  go  the  length  of  changing  your  knife  and  fork  with  every  dish  ; 
they  have  grand  chimney-glasses,  and  a  fine  lady  at  the  counter, 
and  fine  arabesque  paintings  on  the  walls  ;  they  give  you  your 
soup  in  a  battered  dish  of  plated  ware,  which  has  served  its  best 
time,  most  likely,  in  a  first-rate  establishment,  and  comes  here  to 
etaler  its  second-hand  splendour  amongst  amateurs  of  a  lower  grade. 
I  fancy  the  very  meat  that  is  served  to  you  has  undergone  the 
same  degradation,  and  that  some  of  the  mouldy  cutlets  that  are 
offered  to  the  two-franc  epicures  lay  once  plump  and  juicy  in  Vary's 
larder.  Much  better  is  the  sanded  floor  and  the  iron  fork  !  Homely 
neatness  is  the  charm  of  poverty  :  elegance  should  belong  to  wealth 
alone.  There  is  a  very  decent  place  where  you  dine  for  thirty-two 
sous  in  the  Passage  Ohoiseul.  You  get  your  soup  in  china  bowls ; 
they  don't  change  your  knife  and  fork,  but  they  give  you  very  fit 
portions  of  meat  and  potatoes,  and  mayhap  a  herring  with  mustard 
sauce,  a  dish  of  apple  fritters,  a  dessert  of  stewed  prunes,  and  a 
pint  of  drinkable  wine,  as  I  have  proved  only  yesterday. 

After  two  such  banyan  days,  I  allowed  myself  a  little  feasting ; 


586        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

and  as  nobody  persisted  in  asking  me  to  dinner,  I  went  off  to 
the  "  Trois  Frferes "  by  myself,  and  dined  in  that  excellent 
company. 

I  would  recommend  a  man  who  is  going  to  dine  by  himself  here, 
to  reflect  well  before  he  orders  soup  for  dinner. 

My  notion  is,  that  you  eat  as  much  after  soup  as  without  it, 
but  you  don't  eat  with  the  same  appetite. 

Especially  if  you  are  a  healthy  man,  as  I  am — deuced  hungry 
at  five  o'clock.  My  appetite  runs  away  with  me ;  and  if  I  order 
soup  (which  is  always  enough  for  two),  I  invariably  swallow  the 
whole  of  it ;  and  the  greater  portion  of  my  petit  pain,  too,  before 
my  second  dish  arrives. 

The  best  part  of  a  pint  of  julienne,  or  purfe  k  la  Cond^,  is  very 
well  for  a  man  who  has  only  one  dish  besides  to  devour ;  but  not 
for  you  and  me,  who  like  our  fish  and  our  rati  of  game  or  meat 
as  well. 

Oysters  you  may  eat.  They  do,  for  a  fact,  prepare  one  to  go 
through  the  rest  of  a  dinner  properly.  Lemon  and  cayenne  pepper 
is  the  word,  depenii  on  it,  and  a  glass  of  white  wine  braces  you  up 
for  what  is  to  follow. 

French  restaurateur  dinners  are  intended,  however,  for  two 
people,  at  least;  still  better  for  three;  and  require  a  good 'deal  of 
thought  before  you  can  arrange  them  for  one. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  recent  menu : — 

Trois  Freres  Provengaux. 

Pain       .... 
Beaune  premifere 
Purfe  k  la  Crdci 
Turbot  aux  capres    . 
Quart  poulet  aux  truffes   . 
Champignons  k  la  Provengale 
GeMe  aux  pommes  . 
Cognac  .... 


f. 

c. 

0 

25 

3 

0 

0 

75 

1 

75 

2 

25 

1 

25 

1 

25 

0 

30 

10     80 


A  heavy  bill  for  a  single  man ;  and  a  heavy  dinner,  too ;  for  I 
have  said  before  I  have  a  great  appetite,  and  when  a  thing  is  put 
before  me  I  eat  it.  At  Brussels  I  once  ate  fourteen  dishes; 
and  have  seen  a  lady,  with  whom  I  was  in  love,  at  the  table  of 
a  German  grand-duke,  eat  seventeen  dishes.  This  is  a  positive, 
though  disgusting  fact.     Up  to  the  first  twelve  dishes  she  had  a 


MEMORIALS   OF   GORMANDISING  587 

very  good  chance  of  becoming  Mrs.  Titmarsh,  but  I  have  lost  sight 
of  her  since. 

Well,  then,  I  say  to  you,  if  you  have  self-command  enough  to 
send  away  half  your  soup,  order  some ;  but  you  are  a  poor  creature 
if  you  do,  after  all.  If  you  are  a  man,  and  have  not  that  self- 
command,  don't  have  any.  The  Frenchmen  cannot  live  without  it, 
but  I  say  to  you  that  you  are  better  than  a  Frenchman.  I  would 
lay  even  money  that  you  who  are  reading  this  are  more  than  five 
feet  seven  in  height,  and  weigh  eleven  stone ;  while  a  Frenchman  is 
five  feet  four,  and  does  not  weigh  nine.  The  Frenchman  has  after 
his  soup  a  dish  of  vegetables,  where  you  have  one  of  meat.  You 
are  a  different  and  superior  animal — a  French-beating  animal  (the 
history  of  hundreds  of  years  has  shown  you  to  be  so) ;  you  must 
have,  to  keep  up  that  superior  weight  and  sinew,  which  is  the 
secret  of  your  superiority — as  for  public  institutions,  bah  ! — you 
must  have,  I  say,  simpler,  stronger,  more  succulent  food. 

Eschew  the  soup,  then,  and  have  the  fish  up  at  once.  It  is  the 
best  to  begin  with  fish,  if  you  like  it,  as  every  epicure  and  honest 
man  should,  simply  boiled  or  fried  in  the  English  fashion,  and  not 
tortured  and  bullied  with  oil,  onions,  wine,  and  herbs,  as  in  Paris 
it  is  frequently  done. 

Turbot  with  lobster-sauce  is  too  much  ;  turbot  k  la  HoUandaise 
vulgar;  sliced  potatoes  swimming  in  melted  butter  are  a  mean 
concomitant  for  a  noble,  simple,  liberal  fish  :  turbot  with  capers  is 
the  thing.  The  brisk  little  capers  reheve  the  dulness  of  the  turbot ; 
the  melted  butter  is  rich,  bland,  and  calm — it  should  be,  that  is  to 
say;  not  that  vapid  watery  mixture  that  I  see  in  London;  not 
oiled  butter,  as  the  Hollanders  have  it,  but  melted,  with  plenty  of 
thickening  matter :  -I  don't  know  how  to  do  it,  but  I  know  it  when 
it  is  good. 

They  melt  butter  well  at  the  "  Rocher  de  Cancale,"  and  at  the 

"  FrferesV' 

Well,  this  turbot  was  very  good ;  not  so  well,  of  course,  as  one 
gets  it  in  London,  and  dried  rather  in  the  boiling ;  which  can't  be 
helped,  unless  you  are  a  Lucullus  or  a  Cambac&fes  of  a  man,  and 
can  afford  to  order  one  for  yourself.  This  grandeur  d'dme  is  very 
rare ;  my  friend  Tom  Willows  is  almost  the  only  man  I  know  who 
possessed  it.  Yes,  *  *  *  one  of  the  wittiest  men  in  London,  I  once 
knew  to  take  the  whole  inUrieur  of  a  diligence  (six  places),  because 
he  was  a  little  unwell.  Ever  since  I  have  admired  that  man.  He 
understands  true  economy;  a  mean  extravagant  man  would  have 
contented  himself  with  a  single  place,  and  been  unwell  m  conse- 
quence. How  I  am  rambling  from  my  subject,  however!  The 
fish  was  good,  and  I  ate  up  every  single  scrap  of  it,  sucking  the 


588        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

bones  and  fins  curiously.  That  is  the  deuce  of  an  appetite,  it  must 
be  satisfied  ;  and  if  you  were  to  put  a  roast  donkey  loefore  me,  with 
the  promise  of  a  haunch  of  venison  afterwards,  I  believe  I  should 
eat  the  greater  part  of  the  long-eared  animal. 

A  pint  of  purde  k  la  Cr^ci,  a  pain  de  gruau,  a  slice  of  turbot — 
a  man  should  think  about  ordering  his  bill,  for  he  has  had  enough 
dinner  ;  but  no,  we  are  creatures  of  superstition  and  habit,  and 
must  have  one  regular  course  of  meat.  Here  comes  the  poulet  h, 
la,  Marengo  :  I  hope  they've  given  me  the  wing. 

No  such  thing.  The  poulet  k  la  Marengo  aux  truffes  is  bad — 
too  oily  by  far ;  the  trufiles  are  not  of  this  year,  as  they  should  be, 
for  there  are  cartloads  in  town  :  they  are  poor  in  flavour,  and  have 
only  been  cast  into  the  dish  a  minute  before  it  was  brought  to 
table,  and  what  is  the  consequence?  They  do  not  flavour  the 
meat  in  the  least ;  some  faint  trufilesque  savour  you  may  get  as 
you  are  crunching  each  individual  root,  but  that  is  all,  and  ihat  all 
not  worth  the  having ;  for  as  nothing  is  finer  than  a  good  trufile, 
in  like  manner  nothing  is  meaner  than  a  bad  one.  It  is  merely 
pompous,  windy,  and  pretentious,  like  those  scraps  of  philosophy 
with  which  a  certain  eminent  novelist  decks  out  his  meat. 

A  mushroom,  thought  I,  is  better  a  thousand  times  than  these 
tough  flavourless  roots.  I  finished  every  one  of  them,  liowever, 
and  the  fine  fat  capon's  thigh  which  they  surrounded.  It  was  a 
disappointment  not  to  get  a  wing,  to  be  sure.  They  always  give 
me  legs ;  but,  after  all,  with  a  little  good-humour  and  philosophy, 
a  leg  of  a  fine  Mans  capon  may  be  found  very  acceptable.  How 
plump  and  tender  the  rogue's  thigh  is  !  his  very  drumstick  is  as 
fat  as  the  calf  of  a  London  footman ;  and  the  sinews,  which 
puzzle  one  so  over  the  lean  black  hen-legs  in  London,  are 
miraculously  whisked  away  from  the  limb  before  me.  Look  at 
it  now  !  Half-a-dozen  cuts  with  the  knife,  and  yonder  lies  the 
bone — white,  large,  stark  naked,  without  a  morsel  of  flesh  left 
upon  it,  solitary  in  the  midst  of  a  pool  of  melted  butter. 

How  good  the  Burgundy  smacks  after  it  !  I  always  drink 
Burgundy  at  this  house,  and  that  not  of  the  best.  It  is  my  firm 
opinion  that  a  third-rate  Burgundy,  and  a  third-rate  claret — 
Beaune  and  Larose,  for  instance,  are  better  than  the  best.  The 
Bordeaux  enlivens,  the  Burgundy  invigorates ;  stronger  drink  only 
inflames ;  and  where  a  bottle  of  good  Beaune  only  causes  a  man 
to  feel  a  certain  manly  warmth  of  benevolence — a  glow  something 
like  that  produced  by  sunshine  and  gentle  exercise — a  bottle  of 
Chambertin  will  set  all  your  frame  in  a  fever,  swell  the  extremities, 
and  cause  the  pulses  to  throb.  Chambertin  should  never  be 
handed  round  more  than  twice ;  and  I  recollect  to  this  moment 


MEMOETALS    OF    GORMANDISING-  589 

the  headache  I  had  after  drinking  a  bottle  and  a  half  of  Eomande- 
G6l^e,  for  which  this  house  is  famous.  Somebody  else  paid  for 
the — (no  other  than  you,  0  Gustavus !  -with  whom  I  hope  to  have 
many  a  tall  dinner  on  the  same  charges) — but  'twas  in  our  hot 
youth,  ere  experience  had  taught  us  that  moderation  was  happi- 
ness, and  had  shown  us  that  it  is  absurd  to  be  guzzling  wine  at 
fifteen  francs  a  bottle. 

By  the  way,  I  may  here  mention  a  story  relating  to  some  of 
Blackwood's  men,  who  dined  at  this  very  house.  Fancy  the  fellows 
trying  claret,  which  they  voted  sour;  then  Burgundy,  at  which 
they  made  wry  faces,  and  finished  the  evening  with  brandy  and 
lunel !  This  is  what  men  call  eating  a  French  dinner.  "Willows 
and  I  dined  at  the  "  Rocher,"  and  an  English  family  there  feeding 
ordered — mutton  chops  and  potatoes.  Why  not,  in  these  cases, 
stay  at  home  ?  Chops  are  better  chops  in  England  (the  best  chops 
in  the  world  are  to  be  had  at  the  Reform  Club)  than  in  France. 
What  could  literary  men  mean  by  ordering  lunel?  I  always 
rather  hked  the  descriptions  of  eating  in  the  Koctes.  They  were 
gross  in  all  cases,  absurdly  erroneous  in  many ;  but  there  was 
manliness  about  them,  and  strong  evidence  of  a  great,  though  mis- 
directed and  uneducated,  genius  for  victuals. 

Mushrooms,  thought  I,  are  better  than  those  tasteless  truffles, 
and  so  ordered  a  dish  to  try.  You  know  what  a  Py-ovencale  sauce 
is,  I  have  no  doubt  ? — a  rich  savoury  mixture  of  garlic  and  oil ; 
which,  with  a  little  cayenne  pepper  and  salt,  impart  a  pleasant 
taste  to  the  plump  little  mushrooms,  that  can't  be  described  but 
may  be  thought  of  with  pleasure. 

The  only  point  was,  how  will  they  agree  with  me  to-morrow 
morning?  for  the  fact  is,  I  had  eaten  an  immense  quantity  of 
them,  and  began  to  be  afraid !  Suppose  we  go  and  have  a  glass 
of  punch  and  a  cigar  !  Oh,  glorious  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal ! 
your  trees  are  leafless  now,  but  what  matters'?  Your  alleys  are 
damp,  but  what  of  that  ?  All  the  windows  are  blazing  with  light 
and  merriment ;  at  least  two  thousand  happy  people  are  pacing 
up  and  down  the  colonnades ;  cheerful  sounds  of  money  chinking 
are  heard  as  you  pass  the  changers'  shops  ;  bustling  shouts  of 
"  Gar^on  !  "  and  "  V'lk,  Mon.sieur  !  "  come  from  the  swinging  doors 
of  the  restaurateurs.  Look  at  that  group  of  soldiers  gaping  at 
Vdfour's  window,  where  lie  lobsters,  pineapples,  fat  truffle-stuffed 
partridges,  which  make  me  almost  hungry  again.  I  wonder 
whether  those  three  fellows  with  mustachios  and  a  toothpick 
apiece  have  had  a  diimer,  or  only  a  toothpick.  When  the 
"  Trois  Frferes "  used  to  be  on  the  first-floor,  and  had  a  door 
leading  into  the  Rue  de  Valois,  as  well  as  one  into  the  garden, 


590        VAEIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

I  recollect  seeing  three  men  with  tootlipicks  mount  the  stair 
from  the  street,  descend  the  stair,  into  the  garden,  and  give  them- 
selves as  great  airs  as  if  they  had  dined  for  a  napoleon  a  head. 
The  rogues  are  lucky  if  they  have  had  a  sixteen-sous  dinner ;  and 
the  next  time  I  dine  abroad,  I  am  resolved  to  have  one  myself. 
I  never  understood  why  Gil  Bias  grew  so  mighty  squeamish  in  the 
affair  of  the  cat  and  the  hare.  Hare  is  best,  but  why  should  not 
cat  be  good  ? 

Being  on  the  subject  of  bad  dinners,  I  may  as  well  ease  my 
mind  of  one  that  occurred  to  me  some  few  days  back.  When 
walking  in  the  Boulevard,  I  met  my  friend.  Captain  Hopkinson, 
of  the  half-pay,  looking  very  hungry,  and  indeed  going  to  dine. 
In  most  cases  one  respects  the  dictum  of  a  half-pay  officer  regard- 
ing a  dining-house.  He  knows  as  a  general  rule  where  the  fat  of 
the  land  lies,  and  how  to  take  his  share  of  that  fat  in  the  most 
economical  manner. 

"I  tell  you  what  I  do,"  says  Hopkinson;  "I  allow  myself 
fifteen  francs  a  week  for  dinner  (I  count  upon  being  asked  out 
twice  a  week),  and  so  have  a  three-franc  dinner  at  Eichard's,  where, 
for  the  extra  francs,  they  give  me  an  excellent  bottle  of  wine,  and 
make  me  comfortable." 

"Why  shouldn't  they?"  I  thought.  "Here  is  a  man  who 
has  served  his  country,  and  no  doubt  knows  a  thing  when  he  sees 
it."  We  made  a  party  of  four,  therefore,  and  went  to  the  Captain's 
place  to  dine. 

We  had  a  private  room  au  second;  a  very  damp  and  dirty 
private  room,  with  a  faint  odour  of  stale  punch,  and  dingy  glasses 
round  the  walls. 

We  had  a  soup  of  purfe  aux  crotitons ;  a  very  dingy  dubious 
soup,  indeed,  thickened,  I  fancy,  with  brown  paper,  and  flavoured 
with  the  same. 

At  the  end  of  the  soup,  Monsieur  Landlord  came  upstairs  very 
kindly,  and  gave  us  each  a  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  a  gold  snuff-box. 

We  had  four  portions  of  anguille  h  la  Tartare,  very  good  and 
fresh  (it  is  best  in  these  places  to  eat  freshwater  fish).  Each  portion 
was  half  the  length  of  a  man's  finger.  Dish  one  was  despatched  in 
no  time,  and  we  began  drinking  the  famous  wine  that  our  guide 
recommended.  I  have  cut  him  ever  since.  It  was  four-sous  wine, — 
weak,  vapid,  watery  stuff,  of  the  most  unsatisfactory  nature. 

We  had  four  portions  of  gigot  aux  haricots — four  flaps  of 
bleeding  tough  meat,  cut  unnaturally  (that  is,  with  the  grain  :  the 
French  gash  the  meat  in  parallel  lines  with  the  bone).  AVe  ate 
these  up  as  we  might,  and  the  landlord  was  so  good  as  to  come  up 
again  and  favour  us  with  a  pinch  from  his  gold  box. 


•      MEMORIALS    OF    aORMANDISING  591 

With  wonderful  unanimity,  as  we  were  told  the  place  was 
famous  for  civet  de  lifevre,  we  ordered  civet  de  lifevre  for  four. 

It  came  up,  but  we  couldn't — really  we  couldn't.  We  were 
obliged  to  have  extra  dishes,  and  pay  extra.  Gustavus  had  a 
mayonnaise  of  crayfish,  and  half  a  fowl ;  I  fell  to  work  upon  my 
cheese,  as  usual,  and  availed  myself  of  the  discretionary  bread. 
We  went  away  disgusted,  wretched,  unhappy.  We  had  had  for 
our  three  francs  bad  bread,  bad  meat,  bad  wine.  And  there  stood 
the  landlord  at  the  door  (and  be  hanged  to  him  !)  grinning  and 
offering  his  box. 

We  don't  speak  to  Hopkinson  any  more  now  when  we  meet 
him.  How  can  you  trust  or  be  friendly  with  a  man  who  deceives 
you  in  this  miserable  way  ? 

What  is  the  moral  to  be  drawn  from  this  dinner?  It  is 
evident.  Avoid  pretence ;  mistrust  shabby  elegance ;  cut  your 
coat  according  to  your  cloth ;  if  you  have  but  a  few  shillings  in 
your  pocket,  aim  only  at  those  humble  and  honest 'meats  which 
your  small  store  will  purchase.  At  the  Caf^  Foy,  for  the  same 
money,  I  might  have  had 

f.      s. 

A  delicious  entrecote  and  potatoes       .         .         .15 

A  pint  of  excellent  wine    .... 

A  little  bread  (meaning  a  great  deal)  . 

A  dish  of  stewed  kidneys  .... 


0 

10 

0 

n 

1 

0 

3 

0 

0 

5 

0 

15 

1 

0 

0 

10 

Or  at  Paolo's : 

A  bread  (as  before) 

A  heap  of  macaroni,  or  raviuoli . 

A  Milanese  cutlet 

A  pint  of  wine 

And  ten  sous  for  any  other  luxury  your  imagination  could  suggest. 
The  raviuoli  and  the  cutlets  are  admirably  dressed  at  Paolo's.  Does 
any  healthy  man  need  more  1 

These  dinners,  I  am  perfectly  aware,  are  by  no  means  splendid  ; 
and  I  might,  with  the  most  perfect  ease,  write  you  out  a  dozen  bills 
of  fare,  each  more  splendid  and  piquant  than  the  other,  in  which  all 
the  luxuries  of  the  season  should  figure.  But  the  remarks  here  set 
down  are  the  result  of  experience,  not  fancy,  and  intended  only  for 
persons  in  the  middling  classes  of  life.  Very  few  men  can  afford  to 
pay  more  than  five  francs  daily  for  dinner.  Let  us  calmly,  then,  con- 
sider what  enjoyment  may  be  had  for  those  five  francs ;  how,  by 
economy  on  one  day,  we  may  venture  upon  luxury  the  next ;  how,  by 


5.02        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

a  little  forethought  and  care,  we  may  be  happy  on  all  days.  We 
knew  and  studied  this  cheap  philosophy  of  life  better  than  old  Horace 
before  quoted.  Sometimes  (when  in  luck)  he  cherupped  over  cups 
that  were  fit  for  an  archbishop's  supper  ;  sometimes  he  philosophised 
oyer  his  own  ordinaire  at  his  own  farm.  How  affecting  is  the  last 
ode  of  the  first  book  : — ■ 

To  his  serving-boy.  Ad  ministram. 

Persicos  odi,  Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is, — 

Puer,  apparatus  ;  I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss  : 

Displicont  nexss  Your  silly  entrees  and  made  dishes 

Philyra,  coronas  :  Were  never  intended  for  us. 

Mitte  sectari  No  footman  in  lace  and  in  ruffles 

Rosa  quo  locorum  Need  dangle  behind  my  arm-chair  ; 

Sera  moretur.  And  never  mind  seeking  for  truffles, 
Although  they  be  ever  so  rare. 

Simplioi  myrto  But  a  plain  leg  of  mutton,  my  Lucy, 
Nihil  allabores  I  pr'ythee  get  ready  at  three  : 

Sedulus  curse :  Have  it  smoking,  and  tender,  and  juicy, 
Neque  te  ministrum  And  what  better  meat  can  there  be  ? 

Dedecet  myrtus.  And  when  it  has  feasted  the  master, 
Neque  me  sub  arct^  'Twill  amply  suffice  for  the  maid  ; 

Vite  bibentem.  Meanwhile  I  will  smoke  my  canaster, 
And  tipple  my  ale  in  the  shade. 

Not  that  this  is  the  truth  entirely  and  for  ever.  Horatius  Flaccus 
was  too  wise  to  dislike  a  good  thing ;  but  it  is  possible  that  the 
Persian  apparatus  was  on  that  day  beyond  his  means,  and  so  he  con- 
tented himself  with  humble  fare. 

A  gentleman,  by-the-bye,  has  just  come  to  Paris  to  whom  I  am 
very  kind  ;  and  who  will,  in  all  human  probability,  between  this  and 
next  month,  ask  me  to  a  dinner  at  the  "  Rocher  de  Cancale."  If  so, 
something  may  occur  worth  writing  about ;  or  if  you  are  anxious  to 
hear  more  on  the  subject,  send  me  over  a  sum  to  my  address,  to  be 
laid  out  for  you  exclusively  in  eating.  I  give  you  my  honour  I  will 
do  you  justice,  and  account  for  every  farthing  of  it. 

One  of  the  most  absurd  customs  at  present  in  use  is  that  of  giving 
your  friend — when  some  piece  of  good-luck  happens  to  him,  such  as 
an  appointment  as  Chief  Judge  of  Owhyhee,  or  King's  advocate  to 
Timbuctoo — of  giving  your  friend,  because,  forsooth,  he  may  have 
been  suddenly  elevated  from  £200  a  year  to  £'2000,  an  enormous 
dinner  of  congratulation. 

Last  year,  for  instance,  when  our  friend,  Fred  Jowling,  got  his 
place  of  Commissioner  at  Quashumaboo,  it  was  considered  absolutely 
necessary  to  give  the  man  a  dinner,  and  some  score  of  us  had  to  pay 


MEMORIALS    OF    GORMANDISING  593 

about  fifty  shillings  apiece  for  the  purpose.  I  had,  so  help  me, 
Moses !  but  three  guineas  in  the  world  at  that  period ;  and  out 
of  this  sum  the  biense'ances  compelled  me  to  sacrifice  five-sixths,  to 
feast  myself  in  company  of  a  man  gorged  with  wealth,  rattling 
sovereigns  in  his  pocket  as  if  they  had  been  so  much  dross,  and 
capable  of  treating  us  all  without  missing  the  sum  he  might  expend 
on  us. 

Jow  himself  allowed,  as  I  represented  the  case  to  him,  that 
the  arrangement  was  very  hard;  but  represented  fairly  enough, 
that  this  was  one  of  the  sacrifices  that  a  man  of  the  world,  from 
time  to  time,  is  called  to  make.  "  You,  my  dear  Titmarsh,"  said 
he,  "  know  very  well  that  I  don't  care  for  these  grand  entertain- 
ments "  (the  rogue,  he  is  a  five-bottle  man,  and  just  the  most 
finished  gourmet  of  my  acquaintance  !) ;  "  you  know  that  I  am 
perfectly  convinced  of  your  friendship  for  me,  though  you  join  in 
the  dinner  or  not,  but — it  would  look  rather  queer  if  you  backed 
out, — it  would  look  rather  queer."  Jow  said  this  in  such  an 
emphatic  way,  that  I  saw  I  must  lay  down  my  money ;  and  ac- 
cordingly Mr.  Lovegrove  of  Blackwall,  for  a  certain  quantity  of 
iced  punch,  champagne,  cider  cup,  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl,  received 
the  last  of  my  sovereigns. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  Bolter  got  a  place  too — Judge 
Advocate  in  the  Topinambo  Islands,  of  £3000  a  year,  which,  he 
said,  was  a  poor  remuneration  in  consideration  of  the  practice  which 
he  gave  up  in  town.  He  may  have  practised  on  his  laundress,  but 
for  anything  else  I  believe  the  man  never  had  a  client  in  his  life. 

However,  on  his  way  to  Topinambo — by  Marseilles,  Egypt, 
the  Desert,  the  Persian  Gulf,  and  so  on — Bolter  arrived  in  Paris ; 
and  I  saw  from  his  appearance,  and  his  manner  of  shaking  hands 
with  me,  and  the  peculiar  way  in  which  he  talked  about  the 
"Rocher  de  Cancale,"  that  he  expected  we  were  to  give  him  a 
dinner,  as  we  had  to  Jowling. 

There  were  four  friends  of  Bolter's  in  the  capital  besides 
myself,  and  among  us  the  dinner  question  was  mooted  :  we  agreed 
that  it  should  be  a  simple  dinner  of  ten  francs  a  head,  and  this 
was  the  bill  of  fare  : — 

1.  Oysters  (common),  nice. 

2.  Oysters,  green  of  Marennes  (very  good). 

3.  Potage,  pur^e  de  gibier  (very  fair). 

As  we  were  EngKsh,  they  instantly  then  served  us^ 

4.  Sole  en  matelotte  Normande  (comme  ca). 

5.  Turbot  k  la  crfeme  au  gratin  (excellent). 


594        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

6.  Jardiniere  cutlets  (particularly  seedy). 

7.  Poulet  k  la  Marengo  (very  fair,  but  why  the  deuce  is  one 

always  to  be  pestered  by  it  1). 

8      ) 

„■     >  (Entries  of  some  kind,  but  a  blank  in  my  memory.) 

10.  A  rot  of  chevreuil. 

11.  Ditto  of  ^perlans  (very  hot,  crisp,  and  nice). 

12.  Ditto  of  partridges  (quite  good  and  plump). 

13.  Pointes  d'asperges. 

14.  Champignons  k  la  Proven9ale  (the  most  delicious  mush- 
rooms I  ever  tasted). 

15.  Pineapple  jelly. 

16.  Blanc,  'or  red  mange. 

17.  Pencacks.  Let  everybody  who  goes  to  the  "Rocher" 
order  these  pancakes  ;  they  are  arranged  with  jelly  inside,  rolled  up 
between  various  couches  of  vermicelli,  flavoured  with  a  leeile  wine ; 
and,  by  everything  sacred,  the  most  delightful  meat  possible. 

18.  Timbale  of  macaroni. 

The  jellies  and  sucreries  should  have  been  mentioned  in  the 
dessert,  and  there  were  numberless  plates  of  trifles,  whicli  made 
the  table  look  very  pretty,  but  need  not  be  mentioned  here. 

The  dinner  was  not  a  fine  one,  as  you  see.  No  rarities,  no 
truffles  even,  no  mets  de  primeur,  though  there  were  peas  and 
asparagus  in  the  market  at  a  pretty  fair  price.  But  with  rarities 
no  man  has  any  business  except  he  have  a  colossal  fortune.  Hot- 
house strawberries,  asparagus,  &c.,  are,  as  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  most  fade,  mean,  and  tasteless  meats.  Much  better  to  have 
a  simple  dinner  of  twenty  dishes,  and  content  therewith,  than  to 
look  for  impossible  splendours  and  Apician  morsels. 

In  respect  of  wine.  Let  those  who  go  to  the  "Rocher  "take 
my  advice  and  order  Madeira.  They  have  here  some  pale  old  East 
India  very  good.  How  they  got  it  is  a  secret,  for  the  Parisians  do 
not  know  good  Madeira  when  they  see  it.  Some  very  fair  strong 
young  wine  may  be  had  at  the  Hotel  des  Am&ioains,  in  the 
Rue  Saint  Honor^ ;  as,  indeed,  all  West  India  produce — pineapple 
rum,  for  instance.  I  may  say,  with  confidence,  that  I  never  knew 
what  rum  was  until  I  tasted  this  at  Paris. 

But  to  the  "  Rocher."  The  Madeira  was  the  best  wine  served  ; 
though  some  Burgundy,  handed  round  in  the  course  of  dinner,  and 
a  bottle  of  Montrachet,  similarly  poured  out  to  us,  were  very  fair. 
The  champagne  was  decidedly  not  good — poor,  inflated,  thin  stuff. 
They  say  the  drink  we  swallow  in  England  is  not  genuine  wine, 
but  brandy  loaded  and  otherwise  doctored  for  the  English  market  j 


MEMOEIALS    OF    GORMANDISING  595 

but,  ah,  what  superior  wine!  Au  reste,  the  French  will  not 
generally  pay  the  money  for  the  wine ;  and  it  therefore  is  carried 
from  an  ungrateful  country  to  more  generous  climes,  where  it  is 
better  appreciated.  We  had  claret  and  speeches  after  dinner ;  and 
very  possibly  some  of  the  persons  present  made  free  with  a  jug  of 
hot  water,  a  few  lumps  of  sugar,  and  the  horrid  addition  of  a  glass 
of  cognac.  There  can  be  no  worse  practice  than  this.  After  a 
dinner  of  eighteen  dishes,  in  which  you  have  drunk  at  least  thirty- 
six  glasses  of  wine — when  the  stomach  is  full,  the  brain  heavy,  the 
hands  and  feet  inflamed — when  the  claret  begins  to  pall — you, 
forsooth,  must  gorge  yourself  with  brandy  and  water,  and  puff 
filthy  cigars.  For  shame  !  Who  ever  does  it  "i  Does  a  gentleman 
drink  brandy  and  water  1  Does  a  man  who  mixes  in  the  society 
of  the  loveliest  half  of  humanity  befoul  himself  by  tobacco-smoke  1 
Fie,  fie!  avoid  the  practice.  I  indulge  in  it  always  myself;  but 
that  is  no  reason  why  you,  a  young  man  entering  into  the  world, 
should  degrade  yourself  in  any  such  way.  No,  no,  my  dear  lad, 
never  refuse  an  evening  party,  and  avoid  tobacco  as  you  would  the 
upas  plant. 

By  the  way,  not  having  my  purse  about  me  when  the  above 
dinner  was  given,  I  was  constrained  to  borrow  from  Bolter,  whom 
I  knew  more  intimately  than  the  rest ;  and  nothing  grieved  me 
more  than  to  find,  on  calling  at  his  hotel  four  days  afterwards,  that 
he  had  set  off  by  the  mail  post  for  Marseilles.  Friend  of  my  youth, 
dear  dear  Bolter !  if  haply  this  trifling  page  should  come  before 
thine  eyes,  weary  of  perusing  the  sacred  rolls  of  Themis  in  thy 
far-off  island  in  the  Indian  Sea,  thou  wilt  recall  our  little  dinner 
in  the  little  room  of  the  Oancalian  Coffee-house,  and  think  for  a 
while  of  thy  friend  ! 

Let  us  now  mention  one  or  two  places  that  the  Briton,  on  his 
arrival  here,  should  frequent  or  avoid.  As  a  quiet  dear  house, 
where  there  are  some  of  the  best  rooms  in  Paris — always  the  best 
meat,  fowls,  vegetables,  &c. — we  may  specially  recommend  Monsieur 
Voisin's  caf^,  opposite  the  Church  of  the  Assumption.  A  very 
decent  and  lively  house  of  restauration  is  that  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  du  Faubourg  Montmartre,  on  the  Boulevard.  I  never  yet 
had  a  good  dinner  at  V^four's ;  something  is  always  manque  at 
the  place.  The  grand  Vatel  is  worthy  of  note,  as  cheap,  pretty, 
and  quiet.  All  the  Enghsh  houses  gentlemen  may  frequent  who 
are  so  inclined ;  but  though  the  writer  of  this  has  many  times  dined 
for  sixteen  sous  at  Catcomb's,  cheek  by  jowl  with  a  French  chasseur 
or  a  labourer,  he  has,  he  confesses,  an  antipathy  to  enter  into  the 
confidence  of  a  footman  or  groom  of  his  own  country. 

A  gentleman  who  purchases  pictures  in  this  town  was  lately 


596        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

waited  upon  by  a  lady,  who  said  she  had  in  her  possession  one  of 
the  greatest  rarities  in  the  world, — a  picture  admirable,  too,  as  a 
work  of  art, — no  less  than  an  original  portrait  of  Shakspeare,  by 
his  comrade,  the  famous  John  Davis.  The  gentleman  rushed  off 
immediately  to  behold  the  wonder,  and  saw  a  head,  rudely  but 
vigorously  painted  on  panel,  about  twice  the  size  of  life,  with  a 
couple  of  hooks  drawn  through  the  top  part  of  the  board,  under 
which  was  written — 

THE   WILLIAM    SHAKSPEAEB, 
BY   JOHN   DAVIS. 

"Voyez-vous,  Monsieur,"  said  the  lady;  "il  n'y  a  plus  de 
doute.  Le  portrait  de  Shakspeare,  du  cdlfebre  Davis,  et  sign^ 
meme  de  lui !  " 

I  remember  it  used  to  hang  up  in  a  silent  little  street  in  the 
Latin  quarter,  near  an  old  convent,  before  a  quafht  old  quiet  tavern 
that  I  loved.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  the  old  name  written  up  in 
a  strange  land,  and  the  well-known  friendly  face  greeting  one. 
There  was  a  quiet  little  garden  at  the  back  of  the  tavern,  and 
famous  good  roast  beef,  clean  rooms,  and  English  beer.  Where 
are  you  now,  John  Davis  1  Could  not  the  image  of  thy  august 
patron  preserve  thy  house  from  ruin,  or  rally  the  faithful  around 
it  ?  Are  you  unfortunate,  Davis  1  Are  you  a  bankrupt  ?  Let  us 
hope  not.  I  swear  to  thee,  that  when,  one  sunny  afternoon,  I  saw 
the  ensign  of  thy  tavern,  I  loved  thee  for  thy  choice,  and  doused 
my  cap  on  entering  the  porch,  and  looked  around,  and  thought  all 
friends  were  here. 

In  the  queer  old  pleasant  novel  of  the  "  Spiritual  Quixote " 
honest  Tugwell,  the  Sancho  of  the  story,  relates  a  Warwickshire 
legend,  which  at  the  time  Graves  wrote  was  not  much  more  than 
a  hundred  years  old :  and  by  which  it  appears  that  the  owner  of 
New  Place  was  a  famous  jesting  gentleman,  and  used  to  sit  at  his 
gate  of  summer  evenings,  cutting  the  queerest  merriest  jokes  with 
all  the  passers-by.  I  have  heard  from  a  Warwickshire  clergyman 
that  the  legend  still  exists  in  the  country  ;  and  Ward's  "  Diary  " 
says  that  Master  Shakspeare  died  of  a  surfeit,  brought  on  by 
carousing  with  a  literary  friend  who  had  come  to  visit  him  from 
London.  And  wherefore  not?  Better  to  die  of  good  wine  and 
good  company  than  of  slow  disease  and  doctors'  doses.  Some 
geniuses  live  on  sour  misanthropy,  and  some  on  meek  milk  and 
water.  Let  us  not  deal  too  hardly  with  those  that  are  of  a  jovial 
sort,  and  indulge  in  the  decent  practice  of  the  cup  and  the  platter. 

A  word  or  two,  by  way  of  conclusion,  may  be  said  about  the 


MEMORIALS    OP    GORMANDISING  597 

numerous  pleasant  villages  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Paris,  or  rather 
of  the  eating  and  drinking  to  he  found  in  the  taverns  of  those 
suburban  spots.  At  Versailles,  Monsieur  Duboux,  at  the  Hotel 
des  Reservoirs,  has  a  good  cook  and  cellars,  and  will  gratify  you 
with  a  heavier  bill  than  is  paid  at  Vary's  and  the  "  Rocher."  On 
the  beautiful  terrace  of  Saint  Germain,  looking  over  miles  of  river 
and  vineyard,  of  fair  villages  basking  in  the  meadows,  and  great 
tall  trees  stretching  wide  round  about,  you  may  sit  in  the  open  air 
of  summer  evenings,  and  see  the  white  spires  of  Saint  Denis  rising 
in  the  distance,  and  the  grey  arches  of  Marly  to  the  right,  and 
before  you  the  city  of  Paris  with  innumerable  domes  and  towers. 

Watching  these  objects,  and  the  setting  sun  gorgeously  illumin- 
ing the  heavens  and  them,  you  may  have  an  excellent  dinner  served 
to  you  by  the  chef  of  Messire  Gallois,  who  at  present  owns  the 
pavilion  where  Louis  XIV.  was  born.  The  maitre  d'hotel  is  from 
the  "  Rocher,"  and  told  us  that  he  came  out  to  Saint  Germain  for 
the  sake  of  the  air.  The  only  drawback  to  the  entertainment  is, 
that  the  charges  are  as  atrociously  high  in  price  as  the  dishes  pro- 
vided are  small  in  quantity ;  and  dining  at  this  pavilion  on  the 
15th  of  April,  at  a  period  when  a  botte  of  asparagus  at  Paris 
cost  only  three  francs,  the  writer  of  this  and  a  chosen  associate 
had  to  pay  seven  francs  for  about  the  third  part  of  a  botte  of 
asparagus,  served  up  to  them  by  Messire  Gallois. 

Facts  like  these  ought  not  to  go  unnoticed.  Therefore  let  the 
readers  of  Fraser's  Magazine  who  propose  a  visit  to  Paris,  take 
warning  by  the  unhappy  fate  of  the  person  now  addressing  them, 
and  avoid  the  place  or  not,  as  they  think  fit.  A  bad  dinner  does 
no  harm  to  any  human  soul,  and  the  philosopher  partakes  of  such 
with  easy  resignation;  but  a  bad  and  dear  dinner  is  enough  to 
raise  the  anger  of  any  man,  however  naturally  sweet-tempered,  and 
he  is  bound  to  warn  his  acquaintance  of  it. 

With  one  parting  syllable  in  praise  of  the  "Marroniers"  at 
Bercy,  where  you  get  capital  eels,  fried  gudgeons  fresh  from  the 
Seine,  and  excellent  wine  of  the  ordinary  kind,  this  discourse  is 
here  closed.  "  En  telle  ou  meilleure  pensfe,  Beuueurs  trfes  illustres 
(car  k  vous  non  k  aultres  sont  d^di^s  ces  escriptz),  reconfortez  vostre 
malheur,  et  beuuez  fraiz  si  faire  se  peult." 


MEN   AND    GOATS 


THERE  is  some  peculiar  influence,  whicli  no  doubt  the  reader 
has  remarked  in  his  own  case,  for  it  has  been  sung  by  ten 
thousand  poets,  or  versifying  persons,  whose  ideas  you  adopt, 
if  perchance,  as  is  barely  possible,  you  have  none  of  your  own — 
there  is,  I  say,  a  certain  balmy  influence  in  the  spring-time,  which 
brings  a  rush  of  fresh  dancing  blood  into  the  veins  of  all  nature, 
and  causes  it  to  wear  a  peculiarly  festive  and  sporting  look.  Look 
at  the  old  Sun, — how  pale  he  was  all  the  winter  through  !  Some 
days  he  was  so  cold  and  wretched  he  would  not  come  out  at  all, — 
he  would  not  leave  his  bed  till  eight  o'clock,  and  retired  to  rest, 
the  old  sluggard  !  at  four ;  but  lo  !  comes  May,  and  he  is  up  at 
five,  — he  feels,  like  the  rest  of  us,  the  delicious  vernal  influence ;  he 
is  always  walking  abroad  in  the  fresh  air,  and  his  jolly  face  lights 
up  anew !  Remark  the  trees ;  they  have  dragged  through  the 
shivering  winter-time  without  so  much  as  a  rag  to  cover  them, 
but  about  May  they  feel  obligated  to  follow  the  mode,  and  come 
out  in  a  new  suit  of  green.  The  meadows,  in  like  manner,  appear 
invested  with  a  variety  of  pretty  spring  fashions,  not  only  covering 
their  backs  with  a  bran-new  glossy  suit,  but  sporting  a  world  of 
little  coquettish  ornamental  gimcracks  that  are  suited  to  the  season. 
This  one  covers  his  robe  with  the  most  delicate  twinkling  white 
daisies ;  that  tricks  himself  out  with  numberless  golden  cowslips, 
or  decorates  his  bosom  with  a  bunch  of  dusky  violets.  Birds  sing 
and  make  love ;  bees  wake  and  make  honey ;  horses  and  men  leave 
off  their  shaggy  winter  clothing  and  turn  out  in  fresh  coats.  The 
only  animal  that  does  not  feel  the  power  of  spring  is  that  selfish, 
silent,  and  cold-blooded  beast,  the  oyster,  who  shuts  himself  up  for 
the  best  months  of  the  year,  and  with  whom  the  climate  disagrees. 

Some  people  have  wondered  how  it  is  that  what  is  nailed  "  the 
season  "  in  London  should  not  begin  until  spring.  What  an  absurd 
subject  for  wondering  at !  How  could  the  London  season  begin  at 
any  other  time?  How  could  the  great,  black,  bilious,  overgrown 
city,  stifled  by  gas,  and  fogs,  and  politics,  ever  hope  to  have  a 
season  at  all,  unless  nature  with  a  violent  effort  came  to  its  aid 


MEN    AND    COATS  .599 

about  Easter-time,  and  infused  into  it  a  little  spring  blood  ?  The 
town  of  London  feels  then  the  influences  of  the  spring,  and  salutes 
it  after  its  fashion.  The  parks  are  green  for  about  a  couple  of 
months.  Lady  Smigsmag,  and  other  leaders  of  the  ton,  give  their 
series  of  grand  parties;  Gunter  and  Grange  come  forward  with 
iced-creams  and  champagnes;  ducks  and  green-peas  burst  out; 
the  river  Thames  blossoms  with  whitebait;  and  Alderman  Birch 
announces  the  arrival  of  fresh  lively  turtle.  If  there  are  no  birds 
to  sing  and  make  love,  as  in  country  places,  at  least  there  are 
coveys  of  opera-girls  that  frisk  and  hop  about  airily,  and  Kubini 
and  Lablaclie  to  act  as  a  couple  of  nightingales.  "A  lady  of 
fashion  remarked,"  says  Dyson,  in  the  Morning  Post,  "  that  for  all 
persons  pretending  to  hold  a  position  in  genteel  society," — I  forget 
the  exact  words,  but  the  sense  of  them  remains  indelibly  engraven 
upon  my  mind, — "  for  any  one  pretending  to  take  a  place  in  genteel 
society  two  things  are  indispensable.     And  what  are  these? — a 

BOUQUET    AND    AN    EMBEOIDEEBD    POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF."      This 

is  a  self-evident  truth.  Dyson  does  not  furnish  the  bouquets — he 
is  not  a  market-gardener — he  is  not  the  goddess  Flora ;  but,  a 
townman,  he  knows  what  the  season  requires,  and  furnishes  his 
contribution  to  it.  The  lilies  of  the  field  are  not  more  white  and 
graceful  than  his  embroidered  nose  ornaments,  and  with  a  little 
eau  des  cent  milles  fleurs,  not  more  fragrant.  Dyson  knows  that 
pocket-handkerchiefs  are  necessary,  and  has  "an  express  from 
Longchamps  "  to  bring  them  over. 

Whether  they  are  picked  from  ladies'  pockets  by  Dyson's 
couriers,  who  then  hurry  breathless  across  the  Channel  with  them, 
no  one  need  ask.  But  the  gist  of  Dyson's  advertisement,  and  of  all 
the  preceding  remarks,  is  this  great  truth,  which  need  not  be  carried 
out  further  by  any  illustrations  from  geography  or  natural  history, — 
that  in  the  spring-time  all  nature  renews  itself.  There  is  not  a 
country  newspaper  published  in  England  that  does  not  proclaim 
the  same  fact.  Madame  Hoggin  informs  the  nobility  and  gentry 
of  Penzance  that  her  new  and  gigantic  stock  of  Parisian  fashions 
has  just  arrived  from  London.  Mademoiselle  M'Whirter  begs  to 
announce  to  the  haut-ton  in  the  environs  of  John-o'-Groat's  that 
she  has  this  instant  returned  from  Paris,  with  her  dazzling  and 
beautiful  collection  of  spring  fashions. 

In  common  with  the  birds,  the  trees,  the  meadows, — in  common 
with  the  Sun,  with  Dyson,  with  all  nature,  in  fact,  I  yielded  to 
the  irresistible  spring  impulse — homo  sum,  nihil  humani  a  me 
alienvm,   &c. — I  acknowledged  the  influence  of  the  season,  and 

ordered  a  new  coat,  waistcoat,  and  tr in  short,  a  new  suit. 

Now,  having  worn  it  for  a  few  days,  and  studied  the  efiect  which 


600        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

it  has  upon  the  -wearer,  I  thought  that  perhaps  an  essay  upon  new 
clothes  and  their  influence  might  be  attended  with  some  profit  both 
to  the  public  and  the  writer. 

One  thing  is  certain.  A  man  does  not  have  a  new  suit  of 
clothes  every  day;  and  another  general  proposition  may  be  advanced, 
that  a  man  in  sporting  a  coat  for  the  first  time  is  either 

agreeably  affected,  or 
disagreeably  affected,  or 
not  affected  at  all, — 

which  latter  case  I  don't  believe.  There  is  no  man,  however 
accustomed  to  new  clothes,  but  must  feel  some  sentiment  of  pride 
in  assuming  them,  —  no  philosopher,  however  calm,  but  must 
remark  the  change  of  raiment.  Men  consent  to  wear  old  clothes 
for  ever, — nay,  feel  a  pang  at  parting  with  them  for  new ;  but 
the  first  appearance  of  a  new  garment  is  always  attended  with 
exultation. 

Even  the  feeling  of  shyness,  which  makes  a  man  ashamed  of 
his  splendour,  is  a  proof  of  his  high  sense  of  it.  What  causes  an 
individual  to  sneak  about  in  corners  and  shady  places,  to  avoid 
going  out  in  new  clothes  of  a  Sunday,  lest  he  be  mistaken  for  a 
snobi  Sometimes  even  to  go  the  length  of  ordering  his  servant 
to  powder  his  new  coat  with  sand,  or  to  wear  it  for  a  couple  of 
days,  and  remove  the  gloss  thereof?  Are  not  these  manoeuvres 
proofs  of  the  effects  of  new  coats  upon  mankind  in  general  1 

As  this  notice  will  occupy  at  least  ten  pages  (for  a  reason  that 
may  be  afterwards  mentioned)  I  intend,  like  the  great  philosophers 
who  have  always  sacrificed  themselves  for  the  public  good,  imbibing 
diseases,  poisons,  and  medicines,  submitting  to  operations,  inhaling 
asphyxiations,  &c.,  in  order  that  they  might  note  in  themselves  the 
particular  phenomena  of  the  case, — in  like  manner,  I  say,  I  intend 
to  write  this  essay  in  five  several  coats,  viz.  : — 

1.  My  old  single-breasted  black  frock-coat,  with  patches  at  the 
elbows,  made  to  go  into  mourning  for  William  IV. 

2.  My  double-breasted  green  ditto,  made  last  year  but  one,  and 
still  very  good,  but  rather  queer  about  the  lining,  and  snowy  in 
the  seams. 

3.  My  grand  black  dress-coat,  made  by  Messrs.  Sparding  and 
Spohrer,  of  Conduit  Street,  in  1836.  A  little  scouring  and  reno- 
vating have  given  it  a  stylish  look  even  now ;  and  it  was  always 
a  splendid  cut. 

4.  My  worsted-net  jacket  that  my  uncle  Harry  gave  me  on 
his   departure  for  Italy.      This  jacket  is  wadded   inside  with  a 


MEN  -AND    COATS  601 

wool  like  that  one  makes  Welsh  wigs  of ;  and  though  not  handsome, 
amazing  comfortable,  with  pockets  all  over. 

5.  My  new  feock-coat. 

Now,  will  the  reader  be  able  to  perceive  any  difference  in  the 
style  of  writing  of  each  chapter?  I  fancy  I  see  it  myself  clearly; 
and  am  convinced  that  the  new  frock-coat  chapter  will  be  infinitely 
more  genteel,  spruce,  and  glossy  than  the  woollen-jacket  chapter ; 
which,  again,  shall  be  more  comfortable  than  the  poor,  seedy, 
patched  William-the-Fourth's  black  frock  chapter.  The  double- 
breasted  green  one  will  be  dashing,  manly,  free-and-easy;  and 
though  not  fashionable,  yet  with  a  well-bred  look.  The  grand 
black-dress  chapter  will  be  solemn  and  grave,  devilish  tight  about 
the  waist,  abounding  in  bows  and  shrugs,  and  small  talk ;  it  will 
have  a  great  odour  of  bohea  and  pound-cake ;  perhaps  there  will 
be  a  faint  whiff  of  negus ;  and  the  tails  will  whisk  up  in  a  quadrille 
at  the  end,  or  sink  down,  mayhap,  on  a  supper-table  bench  before 
a  quantity  of  trifles,  lobster-salads,  and  champagnes ;  and  near  a 
lovely  blushing  white  satin  skirt,  which  is  continually  crying  out, 
"  O  you  ojous  creature  !  "  or,  "  0  you  naughty  satirical  man,  you  !  " 
"And  do  you  really  believe  Miss  Moffat  dyes  her  hair?"  "And 
liave  you  read  that  sweet  thing  in  the  'Keepsake'  by  Lord  Diddle?" 
"  Well,  only  one  leetle  leetle  drop,  for  Mamma  will  scold ; "  and  "  0 
you  horrid  Mr.  Titmarsh,  you  have  filled  my  glass,  I  declare  !  "  Dear 
white  satin  skirt,  what  pretty  shoulders  and  eyes  you  have  !  what 
a  nice  white  neck,  and  bluish-mottled,  round,  innocent  arms !  how 
fresh  you  are  and  candid  !  and  ah,  my  dear,  what  a  fool  you  are  ! 

I  don't  have  so  many  coats  nowadays  as  in  the  days  of  hot 
youth,  when  the  figure  was  more  elegant,  and  credit,  mayhap,  more 
plenty ;  and,  perhaps,  this  accounts  for  the  feeling  of  unusual  exulta- 
tion that  comes  over  me  as  I  assume  this  one.  Look  at  the  skirts 
how  they  are  shining  in  the  sun,  with  a  delicate  gloss  upon  them, — 
that  evanescent  gloss  that  passes  away  with  the  first  freshness  of  the 
coat,  as  the  bloom  does  from  the  peach.  A  friend  meets  you, — he 
salutes  you  cordially,  but  looks  puzzled  for  a  moment  at  the  change 
in  your  appearance.  "  I  have  it !  "  says  Jones.  "  Hobson,  my 
boy,  I  congratulate  you, — a  new  coat,  and  very  neat  cut, — puce- 
coloured  frock,  brown  silk  lining,  brass  buttons,  and  velvet  collar,^ 
quite  novel,  and  quiet  and  genteel  at  the  same  time."  You  say, 
"  Pooh,  Jones  !  do  you  think  so,  though  ? "  and  at  the  same  time 
turn  round  just  to  give  him  a  view  of  the  back,  in  which  there  is 
not  a  single  wrinkle.  You  find  suddenly  that  you  must  buy  a  new 
stock  ;  that  your  old  Berlin  gloves  will  never  do  ;  and  that  a  pair  of 
three-and-sixpenny  kids  are  absolutely  necessary.      You  find  your 


602        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

boots  are  cruelly  thick,  and  fancy  that  the  attention  of  the  world  is 
accurately  divided  between  the  new  frock-coat  and  the  patch  on 
your  great  toe.  It  is  very  odd  that  that  patch  did  not  annoy  you 
yesterday  in  the  least  degree, — that  you  looked  with  a  good-natured 
grin  at  the  old  sausage-fingered  Berlin  gloves,  bulging  out  at  the 
end  and  concaved  like  spoons.     Bujt  there  is  a  change  in  the  man, 

without  any  doubt.     Notice  Sir  M O'D ;  those  who  know 

that  celebrated  military  man  by  sight  are  aware  of  one  peculiarity 
in  his  appearance — his  hat  is  never  brushed.  I  met  him  one  day 
with  the  beaver  brushed  quite  primly :  and  looking  hard  at  the 
baronet  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  this  phenomenon,  saw  that  he  had 
a  new  coat.  Even  his  great  spirit  was  obliged  to  yield  to  the  power 
of  the  coat, — he  made  a  genteel  effort, — he  awoke  up  from  his 
habitual  Biogenic  carelessness  ;  and  I  have  no  doubt,  had  Alexander, 
before  he  visited  the  cynic,  ordered  some  one  to  fling  a  new  robe  into 
his  barrel,  but  thai  he  would  have  found  the  fellow  prating  and 
boasting  with  all  the  airs  of  a  man  of  fashion,  and  talking  of  tilburies, 
opera-girls,  and  the  last  ball  at  Devonshire  House,  as  if  the  brute 
had  been  used  all  his  life  to  no  other  company.  Fie  upon  the 
swaggering  vulgar  bully !  I  have  always  wondered  how  the  Prince 
of  Macedon,  a  gentleman  by  birth,  with  an  excellent  tutor  to  educate 
him,  could  have  been  imposed  upon  by  the  grovelling,  obscene, 
envious  tub-man,  and  could  have  uttered  the  speech  we  know  of 
It  was  a  humbug,  depend  upon  it,  attributed  to  his  Majesty  by 
some  maladroit  hon-mot  maker  of  the  Court,  and  passed  subse- 
quently for  genuine  Alexandrine. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  for  the  moralist  earnestly  to  point  out  to 
persons  moving  in  a  modest  station  of  life  the  necessity  of  not  having 
coats  of  too  fashionable  and  rakish  a  cut.  Coats  have  been,  and 
will  be  in  the  course  of  this  disquisition,  frequently  compared  to  the 
flowers  of  the  field  ;  like  them  they  bloom  for  a  season,  like  them 
they  grow  seedy  and  they  fade. 

Can  you  afford  always  to  renew  your  coat  when  this  fatal  hour 
arrives  %  Is  your  coat  like  the  French  monarchy,  and  does  it  never 
die  ?  Have,  then,  clothes  of  the  newest  fashion,  and  pass  on  to  the 
next  article  in  the  Magazine,* — unless,  always,  you  prefer  the  style 
of  this  one. 

But  while  a  shabby  coat,  worn  in  a  manly  way,  is  a  bearable, 
nay,  sometimes  a  pleasing  object,  reminding  one  of  "a  good  man 
struggling  with  the  storms  of  fate,"  whom  Mr.  Joseph  Addison  has 
represented  in  his  tragedy  of  "  Cato," — while  a  man  of  a  certain 
character  may  look  august  and  gentlemanlike  in  a  coat  of  a  certain 

*  Frascr's  Magazine. 


MEN    AND    COATS  603 

cut, — it  is  quite  impossible  for  a  person  who  sports  an  ultra-fashion- 
able costume  to  wear  it  with  decency  beyond  a  half-year  say.  My 
coats  always  last  me  two  years,  and  any  man  who  knows  me  knows 
how  /  look ;  but  I  defy  Count  d'Orsay  thus  publicly  to  wear  a  suit 
for  seven  hundred  and  thirty  days  consecutively,  and  look  respectable 
at  the  end  of  that  time.     In  like  manner,  I  would  defy,  without 

any  disrespect,  the  Marchioness  of  X ,  or  her  Grace  the  Duchess 

of  Z ,  to  sport  a  white  satin  gown  constantly  for  six  months 

and  look  decent.  There  is  propriety  in  dress.  Ah,  my  poor  Noll 
Goldsmith,  in  your  famous  plum-coloured  velvet !  I  can  see  thee 
strutting  down  Fleet  Street,  and  stout  old  Sam  rolling  behind  as 
Maister  Boswell  pours  some  Caledonian  jokes  into  his  ear,  and  grins 
at  the  poor  vain  poet.  In  what  a  pretty  condition  will  Goldy's 
puce-coloured  velvet  be  about  two  months  hence,  when  it  is  covered 
with  dust  and  grease,  and  he  comes  in  his  slatternly  finery  to  borrow 
a  guinea  of  his  friend  ! 

A  friend  of  the  writer's  once  made  him  a  present  of  two  very 
handsome  gold  pins ;  and  what  did  the  author  of  this  notice  do  % 
Why,  with  his  usual  sagacity,  he  instantly  sold  the  pins  for  flve- 
and-twenty  shillings,  the  cost  of  the  gold,  knowing  full  well  that 
he  could  not  afford  to  live  up  to  such  fancy  articles.  If  you  sport 
handsome  gold  pins,  you  must  have  everything  about  you  to  match. 
Nor  do  I  in  the  least  agree  with  my  friend  Bosk,  who  has  a  large 
amethyst  brooch,  and  fancies  that,  because  he  sticks  it  in  his  shirt, 
his  atrocious  shabby  stock  and  surtout  may  pass  muster.  No,  no  ! 
let  us  be  all  peacock,  if  you  please ;  but  one  peacock's  feather  in 
your  tail  is  a  very  absurd  ornament,  and  of  course  all  moderate 
men  will  avoid  it.  I  remember,  when  I  travelled  with  Captain 
Cook  in  the  South  Sea  Islands,  to  have  seen  Quashamaboo  with 
nothing  on  him  but  a  remarkably  fine  cocked-hat,  his  queen  sported 
a  red  coat,  and  one  of  the  princesses  went  frisking  about  in  a  pair 
of  leather  breeches,  much  to  our  astonishment. 

This  costume  was  not  much  more  absurd  than  poor  Goldsmith's, 
who  might  be  very  likely  seen  drawing  forth  from  the  gold- 
embroidered  pocket  of  his  plum-coloured  velvet  a  pat  of  butter 
wrapped  in  a  cabbage-leaf,  a  pair  of  farthing. rushlights,  an  onion 
or  two,  and  a  bit  of  bacon. 

I  recollect  meeting  a  great,  clever,  ruffianly  boor  of  a  man, 
who  had  made  acquaintance  with  a  certain  set  of  very  questionable 
aristocracy,  and  gave  himself  the  air  of  a  man  of  fashion.  He  had 
a  coat  made  of  the  very  pattern  of  Lord  Toggery's,— a  green  frock, 
a  green  velvet  collar,  a  green  lining :  a  plate  of  spring  cabbage  is 
not  of  a  brisker,  brighter  hue.  This  man,  who  had  been  a  shop- 
keeper's apprentice  originally,  now  declared  that  every  man  who 


604        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

was  a  gentleman  wore  white  kid  gloves,  and  for  a  certain  period 
sported  a  fresh  pair  every  day. 

One  hot,  clear,  sunshiny  July  day,  walking  down  the  Hay- 
market  at  two  o'clock,  I  heard  a  great  yelling  and  shouting  of 
blackguard  boys,  and  saw  that  they  were  hunting  some  object 
in  their  front. 

The  object  approached  us, — it  was  a  green  object, — a  green 
coat,  collar,  and  lining,  and  a  pair  of  pseudo-white  kid  gloves.  The 
gloves  were  dabbled  with  mud  and  blood,  the  man  was  bleeding 
at  the  nose,  and  slavering  at  the  mouth,  and  yelling  some  unin- 
telligible verses  of  a  song,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  across  the  sun- 
shiny street,  with  the  blackguard  boys  in  chase. 

I  turned  round  the  corner  of  Vigo  Lane  with  the  velocity  of 
a  cannon-ball,  and  sprang  panting  into  a  baker's  shop.  It  was 
Mr.  Bludyer,  our  London  Diogenes.  Have  a  care,  ye  gay  dashing 
Alexanders  !  how  ye  influence  such  men  by  too  much  praise,  or 
debauch  tKem  by  too  much  intimacy.  How  much  of  that  man's 
extravagance,  and  absurd  aristocratic  airs,  and  subsequent  roueries, 
and  cutting  of  old  acquaintance,  is  to  be  attributed  to  his  imitation 
of  Lord  Toggery's  coat ! 

Actors  of  the  lower  sort  affect  very  much  braiding  and  fur 
collars  to  their  frock-coats  ;  and  a  very  curious  and  instructive 
sight  it  is  to  behold  these  personages  with  pale  lean  faces,  and  hats 
cooked  on  one  side,  in  a  sort  of  pseudo-military  trim.  One  sees 
many  such  sauntering  under  Drury  Lane  Colonnade,  or  about  Bow 
Street,  with  sickly  smiles  on  their  faces.  Poor  fellows,  poor 
fellows  !  how  much  of  their  character  is  embroidered  in  that  seedy 
braiding  of  their  coats  !  Near  five  o'clock,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Rupert  Street  and  the  Haymarket,  you  may  still  occasionally 
see  the  old,  shabby,  manly,  gentlemanly,  half-pay  frock  :  but  the 
braid  is  now  growing  scarce  in  London ;  and  your  military  man, 
with  reason  perhaps,  dresses  more  like  a  civilian ;  and  understand- 
ing life  better,  and  the  means  of  making  his  half-crown  go  as  far 
as  five  shillings  in  former  days,  has  usually  a  club  to  dine  at,  and 
leaves  Rupert  Street  eating-houses  to  persons  of  a  different  grade, 
— to  some  of  those  dubious  dandies  whom  one  sees  swaggering 
in  Regent  Street  in  the  afternoon,  or  to  those  gay  spruce  gentle- 
men whom  you  encounter  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  at  ten  minutes 
after  five,  on  their  way  westward  from  the  City.  Look  at  the 
same  hour  at  the  Temple,  and  issuing  thence  and  from  Essex 
Street,  you  behold  many  scores  of  neat  barristers,  who  are  walking 
to  the  joint  and  half  a  pint  of  Marsala  at  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
Club.  They  are  generally  tall,  slim,  proper,  well-dressed  men,  but 
their  coats  are  too  prim  and  professionally  cut.     Indeed,  I  have 


Men  and  coats  605 

generally  remarked  that  their  clerks,  who  leave  chambers  about  the 
same  time,  have  a  far  more  rakish  and  fashionable  air ;  and  if,  ray 
dear  madam,  you  will  condescend  to  take  a  beef-steak  at  the  "  Cock," 
or  at  some  of  the  houses  around  Covent  Garden,  you  will  at  once 
allow  that  this  statement  is  perfectly  correct. 

I  have  always  had  rather  a  contempt  for  a  man  who,  on  arriving 
at  home,  deliberately  takes  his  best  coat  from  his  back  and  adopts 
an  old  and  shabby  one.  It  is  a  mean  precaution.  Unless  very  low 
in  the  world  indeed,  one  should  be  above  a  proceeding  so  petty. 
Once  I  knew  a  French  lady  very  smartly  dressed  in  a  black  velvet 
pelisse,  a  person  whom  I  admired  very  much, — and  indeed  for  the 
matter  of  that  she  was  very  fond  of  me,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there, — I  say  I  knew  a  French  lady  of  some  repute  who  used  to  wear 
a  velvet  pelisse,  and  how  do  you  think  the  back  of  it  was  arranged  ? 

Why,  pelisses  are  worn,  as  you  know,  very  full  behind;  and 
Madame  de  Tournuronval  had  actually  a  strip  of  black  satin  let  into 
the  hinder  part  of  her  dress,  over  which  the  velvet  used  to  close 
with  a  spring  when  she  walked  or  stood,  so  that  the  satin  was 
invisible.  But  when  she  sat  on  a  chair,  especially  one  of  the  cane- 
bottomed  species,  Euphemia  gave  a  loose  to  her  spring,  the  velvet 
divided  on  each  side,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  satin. 

Was  it  an  authorised  stratagem  of  millinery?  Is  a  woman 
under  any  circumstances  permitted  to  indulge  in  such  a  manoeuvre  1 
I  say.  No.  A  woman  with  such  a  gown  is  of  a  mean  deceitful 
character.  Of  a  woman  who  has  a  black  satin  patch  behind  her 
velvet  gown,  it  is  right  that  one  should  speak  ill  behind  the  back ; 
and  when  I  saw  Euphemia  Tournuronval  spread  out  her  wings 
(non  usitatcB pennce,  but  what  else  to  call  them?) — spread  out  her 
skirts  and  ensure  them  from  injury  by  means  of  this  dastardly  ruse, 
I  quitted  the  room  in  disgust,  and  never  was  intimate  with  her  as 
before.  A  widow  I  know  she  was ;  I  am  certain  she  looked  sweet 
upon  me ;  and  she  said  she  had  a  fortune,  but  I  don't  believe  it. 
Away  with  parsimonious  ostentation  !  That  woman,  had  I  married 
her,  would  either  have  turned  out  a  swindler,  or  we  should  have 
had  bouilli  five  times  a  week  for  dinner, — houilli  off  silver,  and 
hungry  lacqueys  in  lace  looking  on  at  the  windy  meal ! 

The  old  coat  plan  is  not  so  base  as  the  above  female  arrange- 
ment ;  but  say  what  you  will,  it  is  not  high-minded  and  honourable 
to  go'  out  in  a  good  coat,  to  flaunt  the  streets  in  it  with  an  easy 
d^gage  air,  as  if  you  always  wore  such,  and  returning  home  assume 
another  under  pretext  of  dressing  for  dinner.  There  is  no  harm  in 
putting  on  your  old  coat  of  a  morning,  or  in  wearing  one  always. 
Common  reason  points  out  the  former  precaution,  which  is  at  once 
modest  and  manly.     If  your  coat  pinches  you,  there  is  no  harm  in 


606        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

cliaiiging  it ;  if  you  are  going  out  to  dinner,  there  is  no  harm  in 
changing  it  for  a  better.  But  I  say  the  plan  of  habitual  changing 
is  a  base  one,  and  only  fit  for  a  man  at  last  extremities ;  or  for  a 
clerk  in  the  City,  who  hangs  up  his  best  garment  on  a  peg,  both 
at  the  office  and  at  home ;  or  for  a  man  who  smokes,  and  has  to ' 
keep  his  coat  for  tea-parties, — a  paltry  precaution,  however,  this. 
If  you  like  smoking,  why  shouldn't  you  1  If  you  do  smell  a  little 
of  tobacco,  Where's  the  harm?  The  smell  is  not  pleasant,  but  it 
does  not  kill  anybody.  If  the  lady  of  the  house  do  not  like  it,  she 
is  quite  at  liberty  not  to  invite  you  again.  Hi  puis  1  Bah  !  Of 
what  age  are  you  and  1 1  Have  we  lived  ?  Have  we  seen  men 
and  cities  1  Have  we  their  manners  noted,  and  understood  their 
idiosyncrasy  ?  Without  a  doubt !  And  what  is  the  truth  at  which 
we  have  arrived  %  This, — that  a  pipe  of  tobacco  is  many  an  hour 
in  the  day,  and  many  a  week  in  the  month,  a  thousand  times  better 
and  more  agreeable  society  than  the  best  Miss,  the  loveliest  Mrs., 
the  most  beautiful  Baroness,  Countess,  or  what  not.  Go  to  tea- 
parties,  those  who  will ;  talk  fiddle-faddle,  such  as  like  ;  many  men 
there  are  who  do  so,  and  are  a  little  partial  to  music,  and  know 
how  to  twist  the  leaf  of  the  song  that  Miss  Jemima  is  singing 
exactly  at  the  right  moment.  Very  good.  These  are  the  enjoy- 
ments of  dress-coats ;  but  men, — are  they  to  be  put  off  with  such 
fare  for  ever  \  No  !  One  goes  out  to  dinner,  because  one  likes 
eating  and  drinking ;  because  the  very  act  of  eating  and  drinking 
opens  the  heart,  and  causes  the  tongue  to  wag.  But  evening 
parties !  0,  milk  and  water,  bread  and  butter !  No,  no,  the  age 
is  wiser !  The  manly  youth  frequents  his  club  for  commou  society, 
has  a  small  circle  of  amiable  ladies  for  friendly  intercourse,  his  book 
and  his  pipe  always. 

Do  not  be  angry,  ladies,  that  one  of  your  most  ardent  and 
sincere  admirers  should  seem  to  speak  disparagingly  of  your  merits, 
or  recommend  his  fellows  to  shun  the  society  in  which  you  ordinarily 
assemble.  No,  miss,  I  am  the  man  who  respects  you  truly, — the 
man  who  respects  and  loves  you  when  you  are  most  lovely  and 
respectable, — in  your  families,  my  dears.  A  wife,  a  mother,  a 
daughter, — has  God  made  anything  more  beautiful?  A  friend, — ■ 
can  one  find  a  truer,  kinder,  a  more  generous  and  enthusiastic  one, 
than  a  woman  often  will  be  ?  All  that  has  to  do  with  your  hearts 
is  beautiful,  and  in  everything  with  which  they  meddle,  a  man 
must  be  a  brute  not  to  love  and  honour  you. 

But  Miss  Eudge  in  blue  crape,  squeaking  romances  at  a  harp, 
or  Miss  Tobin  dancing  in  a  quadrille,  or  Miss  Blogg  twisting  round 
the  room  in  the  arms  of  a  lumbering  Life-guardsman ; — what  are 
these  ? — so  many  vanities.     With  the  operations  here  described  the 


MEN   AND    COATS  t)07 

heart  has  nothing  to  do.  Has  the  intellect  ?  0  ye  gods  !  think  of 
Miss  Eudge's  intellect  while  singing — 

"  Away,  away  to  the  mountain's  brow, 
Where  the  trees  are  gently  waving ; 
Away,  away  to  the  fountain's  flow, 
Where  the  streams  are  softly  la-a-ving  ! " 

These  are  the  words  of  a  real  song  that  I  have  heard  many  times, 
and  rapturously  applauded  too.  Such  a  song,  such  a  poem, — such 
a  songster ! 

No,  madam,  if  I  want  to  hear  a  song  sung,  I  will  pay  eight-and- 
sixpence  and  listen  to  Tamburini  and  Persiani.  I  will  not  pay, 
gloves,  three-and-si?: ;  cab,  there  and  back,  four  shillings ;  silk 
stockings  every  now  and  then,  say  &  shilling  a  time  :  I  will  not  pay 
to  hear  Miss  Eudge  screech  such  disgusting  twaddle  as  the  above. 
If  I  want  to  see  dancing,  there  is  Taglioni  for  my  money ;  or  across 
the  water,  Mrs.  Serle  and  her  forty  pupils ;  or  at  Covent  Garden, 
Madame  Vedy,  beautiful  as  a  houri,  dark-eyed  and  agile  as  a 
gazelle.  I  can  see  all  these  in  comfort,  and  they  dance  a  great 
deal  better  than  Miss  Blogg  and  Captain  Haggerty,  the  great  red- 
whiskered  monster,  who  always  wears  nankeens  because  he  thinks 
his  legs  are  fine.  If  I  want  conversation,  what  has  Miss  Flock  to 
say  to  me,  forsooth,  between  the  figures  of  a  cursed  quadrille  that 
we  are  all  gravely  dancing?  By  heavens,  what  an  agony  it  is. 
Look  at  the  he-dancers,  they  seem  oppressed  with  dreadful  care. 
Look  at  the  cavalier  seul !  if  the  operation  lasted  long  the  man's 
hair  would  turn  white, — he  would  go  mad  !  And  is  it  for  this  that 
men  and  women  assemble  in  multitudes,  for  this  sorry  pastime  1 

No  !  dance  as  you  will,  Miss  Smith,  and  swim  through  the 
quadrille  like  a  swan,  or  flutter  through  the  gallop  like  a  sylphide, 
and  have  the  most  elegant  fresh  toilettes,  the  most  brilliantly 
polished  white  shoulders,  the  blandest  eyes,  the  reddest,  simper- 
ingest  mouth,  the  whitest  neck,  the— in  fact,  I  say,  be  as  charming 
as  you  will,  that  is  not  the  place  in  which,  if  you  are  worth 
anything,  you  are  most  charming.  You  are  beautiful;  you  are 
very  much  decolletee ;  your  eyes  are  always  glancing  down  at  a 
pretty  pearl  necklace,  round  a  pearly  neck,  or  on  a  fresh  fragrant 
bouquet,  stuck— fiddlestick !  What  is  it  that  the  men  admire  in 
you  ?— the  animal,  miss,— the  white,  plump,  external  Smith,  which 
men  with  their  eye-glasses,  standing  at  various  parts  of  the  room, 
are  scanning  pertly  and  curiously,  and  of  which  they  are  speaking 
brutally.  A  pretty  admiration,  truly!  But  is  it  possible  that 
these  men  can  admire  anything  else  in  you  who  have  so  much  that 
is  reaUy  admirable?     Cracknell,  in  the  course  of  the  waltz,  has 


608        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

just  time  to  pant  into  your  ear,  "Were  you  at  Ascot  Races?" 
Kidwinter,  who  dances  two  sets  of  quadrilles  with  you,  whispers 
to  you,  "Do  you  pwefer  thtwawbewy  ithe  aw  wathbewy  ithe?" 
and  asks  the  name  of  "that  gweat  enawmuth  fat  woman  in  wed 
thatin  and  bird  of  pawadithe  ? "  to  which  you  reply,  "  Law,  sir,  it's 
mamma ! "  The  rest  of  the  evening  passes  away  in  conversation 
similarly  edifying.  What  can  any  of  the  men  admire  in  you,  you 
little  silly  creature,  but  the  animal?  There  is  your  mother,  now, 
in  red  and  a  bird  of  paradise,  as  Kidwinter  says.  She  has  a  large 
fan  which  she  flaps  to  and  fro  across  a  broad  chest ;  and  has  one  eye 
directed  to  her  Amelia,  dancing  with  Kidwinter  before  mentioned ; 
another  watching  Jane,  who  is  dancing  vis-a-vis  with  Major  Cutts ; 
and  a  third  complacently  cast  upon  Edward,  who  is  figuring  with 
Miss  Binx  in  the  other  quadrille.  How  the  dear  fellow  has  grown, 
to  be  sure ;  and  how  like  his  papa  at  his  age — heigho  !  There  is 
mamma,  the  best  woman  breathing;  but  fat,  and  even  enormous, 
as  has  been  said  of  her.  Does  anybody  gaze  on  her  1  And  yet  she 
was  once  as  slim  and  as  fair  as  you,  0  simple  Amelia ! 

Does  anybody  care  for  her  1  Yes,  one.  Your  father  cares  for 
her ;  Smith  cares  for  her ;  and  in  his  eyes  she  is  still  the  finest 
woman  of  the  room ;  and  he  remembers  when  he  danced  down 
seven-and-forty  couples  of  a  country  dance  with  her,  two  years 
before  you  were  born  or  thought  of  But  it  was  all  chance  that 
Miss  Hopkins  turned  out  to  be  the  excellent  creature  she  was. 
Smith  did  not  know  any  more  than  that  she  was  gay,  plump,  good- 
looking,  and  had  five  thousand  pounds.  Hit  or  miss,  he  took  her, 
and  has  had  assuredly  no  cause  to  complain  ;  but  she  might  have 
been,  a  Borgia  or  Joan  of  Naples,  and  have  had  the  same  smiling 
looks  and  red  cheeks,  and  five  thousand  pounds,  which  won  his 
heart  in  the  year  1814. 

The  system  of  evening  parties,  then,  is  a  false  and  absurd  one. 
Ladies  may  frequent  them  professionally  with  an  eye  to  a  husband, 
but  a  man  is  an  ass  who  ta.kes  a  wife  out  of  such  assemblies,  having 
no  other  means  of  judging  of  the  object  of  his  choice.  You  are 
not  the  same  person  in  your  white  crape  and  satin  slip  as  you  are 
in  your  morning  dress.  A  man  is  not  the  same  in  his  tight  coat 
and  feverish  glazed  pumps,  and  stiff  white  waistcoat,  as  he  •  is  in 
his  green  double-breasted  frock,  his  old  black  ditto,  or  his  woollen 
jacket.  And  a  man  is  doubly  an  ass  who  is  in  the  habit  of  fre- 
quenting evening  parties,  unless  he  is  forced  thither  in  search  of  a 
lady  to  whom  he  is  attached,  or  unless  he  is  compelled  to  go  by 
his  wife.  A  man  who  loves  dancing  may  be  set  down  to  be  an 
ass ;  and  the  fashion  is  greatly  going  out  with  the  increasing  good 
sense  of  the  age.     Do  not  say  that  he  who  lives  at  home,   or 


MEN    AND    COATS  609 

frequents  clubs  in  lieu  of  balls,  is  a  brute,  and  has  not  a  proper 
respect  for  the  female  sex ;  on  the  contrary,  he  may  respect  it  most 
sincerely.  He  feels  that  a  woman  appears  to  most  advantage,  not 
among  those  whom  she  cannot  care  about,  but  among  those  whom 
she  loves.  He  thinks  her  beautiful  when  she  is  at  home  making 
tea  for  her  old  father.  He  believes  her  to  be  charming  when  she 
is  singing  a  simple  song  at  her  piano,  but  not  when  she  is  screech- 
ing at  an  evening  party.  He  thinks  by  far  the  most  valuable  part 
of  her  is  her  heart;  and  a  kind  simple  heart,  my  dear,  shines  in 
conversation  better  than  the  best  of  wit.  He  admires  her  best  in 
her  intercourse  with  her  family  and  her  friends,  and  detests  the 
miserable  twaddling  slipslop  that  he  is  obliged  to  hear  from  and 
utter  to  her  in  the  course  of  a  ball ;  and  avoids  and  despises  such 
meetings. 

He  keeps  his  evening  coat,  then,  for  dinners.  And  if  this 
friendly  address  to  all  the  mothers  who  read  this  miscellany  may 
somewhat  be  acted  upon  by  them ;  if  heads  of  families,  instead 
of  spending  hundreds  upon  chalking  floors,  and  Gunter,  and  cold 
suppers,  and  Weippert's  band,  will  determine  upon  giving  a  series 
of  plain,  neat,  nice  dinners,  of  not  too  many  courses,  but  well 
cooked,  of  not  too  many  wines,  but  good  of  their  sort,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  giver's  degree,  they  will  see  that  the  young  men  will 
come  to  them  fast  enough ;  that  they  will  marry  their  daughters 
quite  as  fast,  without  injuring  their  health,  and  that  they  will  make 
a  saving  at  the  year's  end.  I  say  that  young  men,  young  women, 
and  heads  of  families  should  bless  me  for  pointing  out  this  obvious 
plan  to  them,  so  natural,  so  hearty,  so  hospitable,  so  different  to 
the  present  artificial  mode 

A  grand  ball  in  a  palace  is  splendid,  generous,  and  noble, — a 
sort  of  procession  in  which  people  may  figure  properly.  A  family 
dance  is  a  pretty  and  pleasant  amusement;  and  (especially  after 
dinner)  it  does  the  philosopher's  heart  good  to  look  upon  merry 
young  people  who  know  each  other,  and  are  happy,  natural,  and 
familiar.  But  a  Baker  Street  hop  is  a  base  invention,  and  as  such 
let  it  be  denounced  and  avoided. 

A  dressing-gown  has  great  merits,  certainly,  but  it  is  dangerous. 
A  man  who  wears  it  of  mornings  generally  takes  the  liberty  of 
going  without  a  neckcloth,  or  of  not  shaving,  and  is  no  better  than 
a  drfveller.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  it  is  necessary,  in  self-defence, 
not  to  shave,  as  a  precaution  against  yourself  that  is  to  say ;  and 
I  know  no  better  means  of  ensuring  a  man's  remaining  at  home 
than  neglecting  the  use  of  the  lather  and  razor  for  a  week,  and 
encouraging  a  crop  of  bristles.  When  I  wrote  my  tragedy,  I  shaved 
off  for  the°last  two  acts  my  left  eyebrow,  and  never  stirred  out  of 
13  2q 


610        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

doors  until  it  had  grown  to  be  a  great  deal  thicker  than  its  right- 
hand  neighbour.  But  this  was  an  extreme  precaution,  and  unless 
a  man  has  very  strong  reasons  indeed  for  stopping  at  home,  and  a 
very  violent  propensity  to  gadding,  his  best  plan  is  to  shave  every 
morning  neatly,  to  put  on  his  regular  coat,  and  go  regularly  to 
work,  and  to  avoid  a  dressing-gown  as  the  father  of  all  evil. 
Painters  are  the  only  persons  who  can  decently  appear  in  dressing- 
gowns  ;  but  these  are  none  of  your  easy  morning-gowns ;  they  are 
commonly  of  splendid  stuff,  and  put  on  by  the  artist  in  order  to 
render  himself  remarkable  and  splendid  in  the  eyes  of  his  sitter. 
Your  loose-wadded  German  schlafrock,  imported  of  late  years  into 
our  country,  is  the  laziest,  filthiest  invention ;  and  I  always  augur 
as  ill  of  a  man  whom  I  see  appearing  at  breakfast  in  one,  as  of  a 
woman  who  comes  downstairs  in  curl-papers. 

By  the  way,  in  the  third  act  of  "  Macbeth,''  Mr.  Macready 
makes  his  appearance  in  the  courtyard  of  Glamis  Castle  in  an 
affair  of  brocade  that  has  always  struck  me  as  absurd  and  un- 
Macbethlike.  Mac  in  a  dressing-gown  (I  mean  'Beth,  not  'Ready), 
— Mac  in  list  slippers, — Mac  in  a  cotton  nightcap,  with  a  tassel 
bobbing  up  and  down, — I  say  the  thought  is  unworthy,  and  am 
sure  the  worthy  thane  would  have  come  out,  if  suddenly  called 
from  bed,  by  any  circumstance,  however  painful,  in  a  good  stout 
jacket.  It  is  a  more  manly,  simple,  and  majestic  wear  than  the 
lazy  dressing-gown;  it  more  becomes  a  man  of  Macbeth's  moun- 
tainous habits ;  it  leaves  his  legs  quite  free,  to  run  whithersoever 
he  pleases, — whether  to  the  stables,  to  look  at  the  animals, — to  the 
farm,  to  see  the  pig  that  has  been  slaughtered  that  morning, — to 
the  garden,  to  examine  whether  that  scoundrel  of  a  John  Hoskins 
has  dug  up  the  potato-bed, — to  the  nursery,  to  have  a  romp  with 
the  little  Macbeths  that  are  spluttering  and  quarrelling  over  their 
porridge, — or  whither  you  will.  A  man  in  a  jacket  is  fit  company 
for  anybody ;  there  is  no  shame  about  it  as  about  being  seen  in 
a  changed  coat ;  it  is  simple,  steady,  and  straightforward.  It  is 
as  I  have  stated,  all  over  pockets,  which  contain  everything  you 
want ;  in  one,  your  buttons,  hammer,  small  nails,  thread,  twine, 
and  cloth-strips  for  the  trees  on  the  south  wall ;  in  another,  your 
dog-whip  and  whistle,  your  knife,  cigar-case,  gingerbread  for  the 
children,  paper  of  Epsom  salts  for  John  Hoskins's  mother,  who  is 
mortal  bad, — and  so  on  :  there  is  no  end  to  the  pockets,  and  to  the 
things  you  put  in  them.  Walk  about  in  your  jacket,  and  meet 
what  person  you  will,  you  assume  at  once  an  independent  air ;  and, 
thrusting  your  hands  into  the  receptacle  that  flaps  over  each  hip, 
look  the  visitor  in  the  face,  and  talk  to  the  ladies  on  a  footing  of 
perfect  equality.     Whereas,  look  at  the  sneaking  way  in  which  a 


MEN   AND    COATS  6ll 

man  caught  in  a  dressing-gown,  in  loose  bagging  trousers  most  likely 
(for  the  man  who  has  a  dressing-gown,  has,  two  to  one,  no  braces), 
and  in  shuffling  slippers, — see  how  he  whisks  his  dressing-gown  over 
his  legs,  and  looks  ashamed  and  uneasy.  His  lankj  hair  hangs 
over  his  blowsy,  fat,  shining,  unhealthy  face ;  his  bristly  dumpling- 
shaped  double-chin  peers  over  a  flaccid  shirt-collar  ;  the  sleeves  of 
his  gown  are  in  rags,  and  you  see  underneath  a  pair  of  black  wrist- 
bands, and  the  rim  of  a  dingy  flannel  waistcoat. 

A  man  who  is  not  strictly  neat  in  his  person  is  not  an  honest 
man.  I  shall  not  enter  into  this  very  ticklish  subject  of  personal 
purification  and  neatness,  because  this  essay  will  be  read  by 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  ladies  as  well  as  men  ;  and  for  the  former 
I  would  wish  to  provide  nothing  but  pleasure.  Men  may  listen 
to  stern  truths ;  but  for  ladies  one  should  only  speak  verities  that 
are  sparkling,  rosy,  brisk,  and  agreeable.  A  man  who  wears  a 
dressing-gown  is  not  neat  in  his  person ;  his  moral  character  takes 
invariably  some  of  the  slatternliness  and  looseness  of  his  costume ; 
he  becomes  enervated,  lazy,  incapable  of  great  actions ;  A  man  in 
A  JACKET  is  a  man.  All  great  men  wore  jackets.  Walter  Scott 
wore  a  jacket,  as  everybody  knows ;  Byron  wore  a  jacket  (not  that 
I  count  a  man  who  turns  down  his  collars  for  much) ;  I  have  a 
picture  of  Napoleon  in  a  jacket  at  Saint  Helena ;  Thomas  Carlyle 
wears  a  jacket ;  Lord  John  Eussell  always  mounts  a  jacket  on 
arriving  at  the  Colonial  Office ;  and  if  I  have  a  single  fault  to  find 

with  that  popular  writer,  the  author  of never  mind  what,  you 

know  his  name  as  well  as  I, — it  is  that  he  is  in  the  habit  of  com- 
posing his  works  in  a  large  flowered  damask  dressing-gown,  and 
morocco  slippers ;  whereas,  in  a  jacket  he  would  write  you  off' 
something,  not  so  flowery,  if  you  please,  but  of  honest  texture,- — 
something,  not  so  long,  but  terse,  modest,  and  comfortable, — no 
great,  long,  strealing  tails  of  periods, — no  staring  peonies  and  holly- 
hocks of  illustrations, — no  flaring  cords  and  tassels  of  episodes, — no 
great,  dirty,  wadded  sleeves  of  sentiment,  ragged  at  the  elbows  and 
cuff's,  and  mopping  up  everything  that  comes  in  their  way, — cigar- 
ashes,  ink,  candle-wax,  cold  brandy  and  water,  coff'ee,  or  whatever 
aids  to  the  brain  he  may  employ  as  a  literary  man ;  not  to  mention 
the  quantity  of  tooth-powder,  whisker-dye,  soapsuds,  and  pomatum 
that  the  same  garment  receives  in  the  course  of  the  toilets  at  which 
it  assists.  Let  all  literary  men,  then,  get  jackets.  I  prefer  them 
without  tails;  but  do  not  let  this  interfere  with  another  man's 
pleasure :  he  may  have  tails  if  he  likes,  and  I  for  one  will  never 
say  him  nay. 

Like  all  things,  however,  jackets  are  subject  to  abuse ;  and  the 
pertness  and  conceit  of  those  jackets  cannot  be  sufficiently  repre- 


612        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

hended  which  one  sees  on  the  backs  of  men  at  watering-places, 
with  a  telescope  poking  out  of  one  pocket,  and  a  yellow  bandanna 
flaunting  from  the  other.  Nothing  is  more  contemptible  than  Tims 
in  a  jacket,  with  a  blue  bird'd-eye  neck-handkerchief  tied  sailor- 
fashion,  puffing  smoke  like  a  steamer,  with  his  great  broad  orbicular 
stern  shining  in  the  sun.  I  always  long  to  give  the  wretch  a  smart 
smack  upon  that  part  where  his  coat-tails  ought  to  be,  and  advise 
him  to  get  into  a  more  decent  costume.  There  is  an  age  and  a 
figure  for  jackets ;  those  who  are  of  a  certain  build  shoidd  not 
wear  them  in  public.  Witness  fat  ofiicers  of  the  dragoon-guards 
that  one  has  seen  bumping  up  and  down  the  Steyne,  at  Brighton, 
on  their  great  chargers,  with  a  laced  and  embroidered  coat,  a 
cartridge-box,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  of  the  size  of  a  twopenny 
loaf,  placed  on  the  small  of  their  backs, — if  their  backs  may  be 
said  to  have  a  small, — and  two  little  twinkling  abortions  of  tails 
pointing  downwards  to  the  enormity  jolting  in  the  saddle.  Officers 
should  be  occasionally  measured,  and  after  passing  a  certain  width, 
should  be  drafted  into  other  regiments,  or  allowed, — nay,  ordered, 
to  wear  frock-coats. 

The  French  tailors  make  frock-coats  very  well,  but  the  people 
who  wear  them  have  the  disgusting  habit  of  wearing  stays,  than 
which  nothing  can  be  more  unbecoming  the  dignity'  of  man.  Look 
what  a  waist  the  Apollo  has,  not  above  four  inches  less  in  the  girth 
than  the  chest  is.  Look,  ladies,  at  the  waist  of  the  Venus,  and 
pray, — pray  do  not  pinch  in  your  dear  little  ribs  in  that  odious  and 
unseemly  way.  In  a  young  man  a  slim  waist  is  very  well ;  and  if 
he  looks  like  the  Eddystone  lighthouse,  it  is  as  nature  intended  him 
to  look.  A  man  of  certain  age  may  be  built  like  a  tower,  stalwart 
and  straight.  Then  a  man's  middle  may  expand  from  the  pure 
cylindrical  to  the  barrel  shape ;  well,  let  him  be  content.  Nothing 
is  so  horrid  as  a  fat  man  with  a  band ;  an  hour-glass  is  a  most 
mean  and  ungracious  figure.  Daniel  Lambert  is  ungracious,  but 
not  mean.  One  meets  with  some  men  who  look  in  their  frock-coats 
perfectly  sordid,  sneaking,  and  ungentlemanlike,  who  if  you  see 
them  dressed  for  an  evening  have  a  slim,  easy,  almost  fashionable, 
appearance.  Set  th&se  persons  down  as  fellows  of  poor  spirit  and 
milksops.  Stiff  white  ties  and  waistcoats,  prim  straight  tails,  and 
a  gold  chain  wiU  give  any  man  of  moderate  lankiness  an  air  of  fac- 
titious gentility ;  but  if  you  want  to  underetand  the  individual,  look 
at  him  in  the  daytime ;  see  him  walking  with  his  hat  on.  There 
is  a  great  deal  in  the  build  and  wearing  of  hats,  a  great  deal  more 
than  at  first  meets  the  eye.  I  know  a  man  who  in  a  particular  hat 
looked  so  extraordinarily  like  a  man  of  property,  that  no  tradesman 
on  earth  could  refuse  to  give  him  credit.     It  was  one  of  Andre's, 


MEN    AND    COATS  6l3 

and  cost  a  guinea  and  a  half  ready  money;  but  the  person  in 
question  was  frightened  at  the  enormous  charge,  and  afterwards 
purchased  beavers  in  the  City  at  the  cost  of  seventeen-and-sixpence. 
And  what  was  the  consequence  1  He  fell  off  in  public  estimation, 
and  very  soon  after  he  came  out  in  his  City  hat  it  began  to  be 
whispered  abroad  that  he  was  a  ruined  man. 

A  blue  coat  is,  after  all,  the  best;  but  a  gentleman  of  my 
acquaintance  has  made  his  fortune  by  an  Oxford  mixture,  of  all 
colours  in  the  world,  with  a  pair  of  white  buckskin  gloves.  He 
looks  as  if  he  had  just  got  off  his  horse,  and  as  if  he  had  three 
thousand  a  year  in  the  country.  There  is  a  kind  of  proud  humility 
in  an  Oxford  mixture.  Velvet  collars,  and  all  such  gimcracks,  had 
best  be  avoided  by  sober  people.  This  paper  is  not  written  for 
drivelling  dandies,  but  for  honest  men.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
philosophy  and  forethought  in  Sir  Robert  PeeFs  dress ;  he  does  not 
wear  those  white  waistcoats  for  nothing.  I  say  that  O'Connell's 
costume  is  likewise  that  of  a  profound  rhetorician,  slouching  and 
careless  as  it  seems.  Lord  Melbourne's  air  of  reckless,  good- 
humoured,  don't-care-a-damn-ativeness  is  not  obtained  without  an 
effort.  Look  at  the  Duke  as  he  passes  along  in  that  stem  little 
straight  frock  and  plaid  breeches ;  look  at  him,  and  off  with  your 
hat !  How  much  is  there  in  that  little  grey  coat  of  Napoleon's  ! 
A  spice  of  claptrap  and  dandyism,  no  doubt ;  but  we  must  re- 
member the  country  which  he  had  to  govern.  I  never  see  a  picture 
of  George  III.  in  his  old  stout  Windsor  uniform  without  feeling  a 
respect ;  or  of  George  IV.,  breeches  and  silk  stockings,  a  wig,  a 
sham  smile,  a  frogged  frock-coat  and  a  fur  collar,  without  that 
proper  degree  of  reverence  which  such  a  costume  should  inspire. 
The  coat  is  the  expression  of  the  man, — onjirep  <jivX.A^v,  &c. ; 
and  as  the  peach-tree  throws  out  peach-leaves,  the  pear-tree  pear 
ditto,  as  old  George  appeared  invested  in  the  sober  old  garment  of 
blue  and  red,  so  did  young  George  in  oiled  wigs,  fur  collars,  stays, 
and  braided  surtouts,  according  to  his  nature. 

Enough, — enough ;  and  may  these  thoughts,  arising  in  the 
writer's  mind  from  the  possession  of  a  new  coat,  which  circumstance 
caused  him  to  think  not  only  of  new  coats  but  of  old  ones,  and  of 
coats  neither  old  nor  new, — and  not  of  coats  merely,  but  of  men, — 
may  these  thoughts  so  inspired  answer  the  purpose  for  which  they 
have  been  set  down  on  paper,  and  which  is  not  a  silly  wish  to 
instruct  mankind, — no,  no  ;  but  an  honest  desire  to  pay  a  desei-ving 
tradesman  whose  confidence  supplied  the  garment  in  question. 

Pektonville  ;  April  25, 1841. 


GREENWICH—  WHITEBAIT 


I  WAS  recently  talking  in  a  very  touching  and  poetical  strain 
about  the  above  delicate  fish  to  my  friend  Foozle  and  some 
others  at  the  Club,  and  expatiating  upon  the  excellence  of  the 
dinner  which  our  little  friend  Guttlebury  had  given  us  :  when  Foozle, 
looking  round  about  him  with  an  air  of  triumph  and  immense 
wisdom,  said — 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Wagstaff,  I'm  a  plain  man,  and  despise 
all  your  gormandising  and  kickshaws.  I  don't  know  the  difference 
between  one  of  your  absurd  made  dishes  and  another — give  me  a 
plain  cut  of  mutton  or  beef.  I'm  a  plain  Englishman,  I  am,  and 
no  glutton." 

Foozle,  I  say,  thought  this  speech  a  terrible  set-down  for  me — 
and  indeed  acted  up  to  his  principles — you  may  see  him  any  day 
at  six  sitting  down  before  a  great  reeking  joint  of  meat ;  his  eyes 
quivering,  his  face  red,  and  he  cutting  great  smoking  red  collops 
out  of  the  beef  before  him,  which  he  devours  with  corresponding 
quantities  of  cabbage  and  potatoes,  and  the  other  gratis  luxuries 
of  the  club-table. 

What  I  complain  of  is,  not  that  the  man  should  enjoy  his 
great  meal  of  steaming  beef;  let  him  be  happy  over  that  as  much 
as  the  beef  he  is  devouring  was  in  life  happy  over  oil-cakes  or 
mangel-wurzel :  but  I  hate  the  fellow's  brutal  self-complacency,  and 
his  scorn  of  other  people  who  have  different  tastes  from  his.  A 
man  who  brags  regarding  himself,  that  whatever  he  swallows  is  the 
same  to  him,  and  that  his  coarse  palate  recognises  no  difference  be- 
tween venison  and  turtle,  pudding,  or  mutton-broth,  as  his  indifferent 
jaws  close  over  them,  brags  about  a  personal  defect — the  wretch — 
and  not  about  a  virtue.  It  is  like  a  man  boasting  that  he  has  no 
ear  for  music,  or  no  eye  for  colour,  or  that  his  nose  cannot  scent 
the  difference  between  a  rose  and  a  cabbage — I  say,  as  a  general 
rule,  set  that  man  down  as  a  conceited  fellow  who  swaggers  about 
not  caring  for  his  dinner. 

Why  shouldn't  we  care  about  it?  Was  eating  not  made  to 
be  a  pleasure  to  us  ?    Yes,  I  say,  a  daily  pleasure ;  a  sweet  sola- 


GREENWICH— WHITEBAIT  615 

men :  a  pleasure  familiar,  yet  ever  new,  the  same  and  yet  how 
different !  It  is  one  of  the  causes  of  domesticity  :  the  neat  dinner 
makes  the  husband  pleased,  the  housewife  happy,  the  children 
consequently  are  well  brought  up  and  love  their  papa  and  mamma. 
A  good  dinner  is  the  centre  of  the  circle  of  the  social  sympathies 
— it  warms  acquaintanceship  into  friendship — it  maintains  that 
friendship  comfortably  unimpaired :  enemies  meet  over  it  and  are 
reconciled.  How  many  of  you,  dear  friends,  has  that  late  bottle 
of  claret  warmed  into  affectionate  forgiveness,  tender  recollections 
of  old  times,  and  ardent  glowing  anticipations  of  new  !  The  brain 
is  a  tremendous  secret.  I  believe  some  chemist  will  arise  anon, 
who  will  know  how  to  doctor  the  brain  as  they  do  the  body  now, 
as  Liebig  doctors  the  ground.  They  will  apply  certain  medicines, 
and  produce  crops  of  certain  qualities  that  are  lying  dormant  now 
for  want  of  intellectual  guano.  But  this  is  a  subject  for  future 
speculation — a  parenthesis  growing  out  of  another  parenthesis. 
What  I  would  urge  especially  here  is  a  point  which  must  be 
familiar  with  every  person  accustomed  to  eat  good  dinners — viz. 
the  noble  and  friendly  qualities  that  they  elicit.  How  is  it  we 
cut  such  jokes  over  them  1  How  is  it  we  become  so  remarkably 
friendly  ?  How  is  it  that  some  of  us,  inspired  by  a  good  dinner, 
have  sudden  gusts  of  genius  unknown  in  the  quiet  unfestive  state  1 
Some  men  make  speeches,  some  shake  their  neighbour  by  the  hand, 
and  invite  him  or  themselves  to  dine — some  sing  prodigiously — 
my  friend,  Saladin,  for  instance,  goes  home,  he  says,  with  the  most 
beautiful  harmonies  ringing  in  his  ears ;  and  I,  for  my  part,  will 
take  any  given  tune,  and  make  variations  upon  it  for  any  given 
period  of  hours,  greatly,  no  doubt,  to  the  delight  of  all  hearers. 
These  are  only  temporary  inspirations  given  us  by  the  jolly  genius, 
but  are  they  to  be  despised  on  that  account  ?  No.  Good  dinners 
have  been  the  greatest  vehicles  of  benevolence  since  man  began 
to  eat. 

A  taste  for  good  living,  then,  is  praiseworthy  in  moderation' — 
like  all  the  other  qualities  and  endowments  of  man.  If  a  man 
were  to  neglect  his  family  or  his  business  on  account  of  his  love 
for  the  fiddle  or  the  fine  arts — he  would  commit  just  the  crime 
that  the  dinner-sensualist  is  guilty  of:  but  to  enjoy  wisely  is  a 
maxim  of  which  no  man  need  be  ashamed.  But  if  you  cannot 
eat  a  dinner  of  herbs  as  well  as  a  stalled  ox,  then  you  are  an 
unfortunate  man — your  love  for  good  dinners  has  passed  the 
wholesome  boundary,  and  degenerated  into  gluttony. 

Oh,  shall  I  ever  forget  the  sight  of  the  only  City  dinner  I 
ever  attended  in  my  life  !  at  the  hall  of  the  Eight  Worshipful 
Company  of  Chimney-sweepers— it  was  in  May,  and  a  remarkably 


616        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

late  pea-season.  The  hall  was  decorated  with  banners  and 
escutcheons  of  deceased  chummies — martial  music  resounded  from 
the  balconies  as  the  Master  of  the  Company  and  the  great  ones 
marched  in.  We  sat  down,  grace  was  said,  the  tureen-covers 
removed,  and  instantly  a  silence  in  the  hall — a  breathless  silence 
— and  then  a  great  gurgle  ! — grwlwlwlw  it  sounded  like.  The 
worshipful  Company  were  sucking  in  the  turtle !  Then  came  the 
venison,  and  with  it  were  two  hundred  quarts  of  peas,  at  five-and- 
twenty  shillings  a  quart — oh,  my  heart  sank  within  me,  as  we 
devoured  the  green  ones !  as  the  old  waddling,  trembling,  winking 
citizens  held  out  their  plates  quivering  with  anxiety,  and,  said  Mr. 
Jones,  "  A  little  bit  of  the  f-f-fat,  another  spoonful  of  the  p-p-pe-as  " 
— and  they  swallowed  them  down,  the  prematurely  born  children 
of  the  spring — and  there  were  thousands  in  London  that  day 
without  bread. 

This  is  growing  serious — and  is  a  long  grace  before  whitebait 
to  be  sure — but  at  a  whitebait  dinner,  haven't  you  remarked  that 
you  take  a  number  of  dishes  first?  In  the  first  place,  water- 
souchy,  soochy,  or  soojy — flounder-souchy  is  incomparably,  ex- 
quisitely the  best — perch  is  muddy,  bony,  and  tough,  compared 
to  it,  slips  are  coarse :  and  salmon — perhaps  salmon  is  next  to 
the  flounder.  You  hear  many  people  exclaim  against  flounder- 
souchy — I  dined  with  Jorrocks,  Sangsue,  the  Professor,  and  one 
or  two  more,  only  the  other  day,  and  they  all  voted  it  tasteless. 
Tasteless  1  It  has  an  almost  angelic  delicacy  of  flavour :  it  is  as 
fresh  as  the  recollections  of  childhood — it  wants  a  Correggio's 
pencil  to  describe  it  with  sufficient  tenderness. 

"  If  a  flounder  had  two  backs,"  Saladin  said  at  the  "Star  and 
Garter  "  the  other  day,  "  it  would  be  divine  ! " 

Foolish  man,  whither  will  your  wild  desires  carry  you?  As 
he  is,  a  flounder  is  a  perfect  being.  And  the  best  reply  to  those 
people  who  talk  about  its  tastelessness,  is  to  say  "  Yes,"  and  draw 
over  the  tureen  to  yourself,  and  never  leave  it  while  a  single  slice 
of  brown  bread  remains  beside  it,  or  a  single  silver-breasted  fishlet 
floats  in  the  yellow  parsley-flavoured  wave. 

About  eels,  salmon,  lobsters,  either  au  gratin  or  in  cutlets,  and 
about  the  variety  of  sauces — Genevese  sauce,  Indian  sauce  (a  strong 
but  agreeable  compound),  &c.,  I  don't  think  it  is  necessary  to 
speak.  The  slimy  eel  is  found  elsewhere  than  in  the  stream  of 
Thames  (I  have  fasted  him  charmingly  matelotted  with  mush- 
rooms and  onions,  at  the  "  Marroniers  "  at  Passy),  the  lusty  salmon 
flaps  in  other  waters — by  the  fair  tree-clad  banks  of  Lismore — by 
the  hospitable  margin  of  Ballynahinch — by  the  beauteous  shores 


Greenwich— WHITEBAIT  6it 

of  Wye,  and  on  the  sandy  flats  of  Scheveningen,  I  have  eaten  and 
loved  him.  I  do  not  generally  eat  him  at  Greenwich.  Not  that 
he  is  not  good.  But  he  is  not  good  in  such  a  place.  It  is  like 
Mrs.  Siddons  dancing  a  hornpipe,  or  a  chapter  of  Burke  in  a  novel 
— the  salmon  is  too  vast  for  Greenwich. 

I  would  say  the  same,  and  more,  regarding  turtle.  It  has  no 
business  in  such  a  feast  as  that  fresh  and  simple  one  provided  at 
the  "Trafalgar"  or  the  "Old  Ship."  It  is  indecorous  somehow 
to  serve  it  in  that  company.  A  fine  large  lively  turtle,  and  a  poor 
little  whitebait  by  his  side !  Ah,  it  is  wrong  to  place  them  by 
each  other. 

At  last  we  come  to  the  bait — the  twelve  dishes  of  preparatory 
fish  are  removed,  the  Indian  sauced  salmon  has  been  attacked  in 
spite  of  our  prohibition,  the  stewed  eels  have  been  mauled,  and  the 
flounder  soup-tureen  is  empty.  All  those  receptacles  of  pleasure 
are  removed — eyes  turned  eagerly  to  the  door,  and  enter 

Mr.  Derbyshire  (with  a  silver  dish  of  whitebait). 

John  (brown  bread  and  butter). 

Samuel  (lemons  and  cayenne). 

Frederick  (a  dish  of  whitebait). 

Gustavus  (brown  bread  and  butter). ' 

Adolphus  (whitebait). 

A  waiter  with  a  napkin,  which  he  flaps  about  the  room  in 
an  easy  de'gage  manner. 
"  There's  plenty  more  to  follow,  sir,"  says  Mr.  D.,  whisking 
oft  the  cover.  Frederick  and  Adolphus  pass  rapidly  round  with 
their  dishes;  John  and  Gustavus  place  their  refreshments  on  the 
table,  and  Samuel  obsequiously  insinuates  the  condiments  under 
his  charge. 

Ah  !  he  must  have  had  a  fine  mind  who  first  invented  brown 
bread  and  butter  with  whitebait !  That  man  was  a  kind,  modest, 
gentle  benefactor  to  his  kind.  AVe  don't  recognise  sufficiently 
the  merits  of  tliose  men  who  leave  us  such  quiet  benefactions.  A 
statue  ought  to  be  put  up  to  the  philosopher  who  joined  together 
this  charming  couple.  Who  was  it  ?  Perhaps  it  was  done  by  the 
astronomer  at  Greenwich,  who  observed  it  when  seeking  for  some 
other  discovery.  If  it  were  the  astronomer — why  the  next  time 
we  go  to  Greenwich  we  will  go  into  the  Park  and  ascend  the  hill, 
and  pay  our  respects  to  the  Observatory. 

That,  by  the  way,  is  another  peculiarity  about  Greenwich. 
People  leave  town,  and  sat/  they  will  walk  in  the  Park  before 
dinner.  But  we  never  do.  We  may  suppose  there  is  a  Park 
from  seeing  trees;  but  we  have  never  entered  it.  We  walk 
wistfully  up  and  down  on  the  terrace  before  the  Hospital,  looking 


618        VAEIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

at  the  clock  a  great  many  times ;  at  the  brown  old  seamen  basking 
in  the  sun  ;  at  the  craft  on  the  river ;  at  the  nursery-maids  mayhap, 
and  the  gambols  of  the  shrill-voiced  Jacks-ashore  on  the  beach. 
But  the  truth  is,  one's  thinking  of  something  else  all  the  time.  Of 
the  bait.  Eemark  how  silent  fellows  are  on  steamboats  going 
down  to  Greenwich.  They  won't  acknowledge  it,  but  they  are 
thinking  of  what  I  tell  you. 

Well,  when  the  whitebait  does  come,  what  is  it  after  all? 
Come  now.  Tell  us,  my  dear  sir,  your  real  sentiments  about  this 
fish,  this  little  little  fish  about  which  we  all  make  such  a  noise ! 
There  it  lies.  Lemon  it,  pepper  it :  pop  it  into  your  mouth — and 
what  then  1 — a  crisp  crunch,  and  it  is  gone.  Does  it  realise  your 
expectations — is  it  better  than  anything  you  ever  tasted?  Is  it 
as  good  as  raspberry  open  tarts  used  to  be  at  school  ?  Come,  upon 
your  honour  and  conscience  now,  is  it  better  than  a  fresh  dish  of 
tittlebacks  or  gudgeons  ? 

0  fool,  to  pry  with  too  curious  eye  into  these  secrets !  0 
blunderer,  to  wish  to  dash  down  a  fair  image  because  it  may  be 
of  plaster !  0  dull  philosopher,  not  to  know  that  pursuit  is 
pleasure,  and  possession  worthless  without  it  T  I,  for  my  part, 
never  will,  as  long  as  I  live,  put  to  myself  that  question  about 
whitebait.  Whitebait  is  a  butterfly  of  the  waters — and  as  the 
animal  mentioned  by  Lord  Byron  invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 
and  leads  him  through  thy  fields  Cashmere — as  it  carries  him  in 
his  chase  through  a  thousand  agreeable  paths  scented  with  violets, 
sparkling  with  sunshine,  with  beauty  to  feast  his  eyes,  and  health 
in  the  air — let  the  right-thinking  man  be  content  with  the  pursuit, 
nor  inquire  too  curiously  about  the  object.  How  many  hunters 
get  the  brush  of  the  fox,  and  what,  when  gotten,  is  the  worth  of 
that  tawny  wisp  of  hair  ? 

Whitebait,  then,  is  only  a  little  means  for  acquiring  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure.  Somehow  it  is  always  allied  with  sunshine :  it 
is  always  accompanied  by  jolly  friends  and  good-humour.  You 
rush  after  that  little  fish,  and  leave  the  cares  of  London  behind 
you — the  row  and  struggle,  the  foggy  darkness,  the  slippery  pave- 
ment where  every  man  jostles  you,  striding  on  his  way,  pre- 
occupied with  care  wiitten  on  his  brow.  Look  out  of  the  window, 
the  sky  is  tinted  with  a  thousand  glorious  hues — the  ships  pass 
silent  over  the  blue  glittering  waters — there  is  no  object  within 
sight  that  is  not  calm,  and  happy,  and  beautiful.  Yes  !  turn  your 
head  a  little,  and  there  lie  the  towers  of  London  in  tlie  dim  smoky 
sunset.  There  lies  Care,  Labour,  To-morrow.  Friends,  let  us 
have  another  glass  of  claret,  and  thank  our  luck  that  we  have 
stm  to-day. 


GREENWICH— WHITEBAIT  619 

On  thinking  over  the  various  whitebait  dinners  which  have 
fallen  to  our  lot  in  the  last  month — somehow  you  are  sure  to  find 
the  remembrance  of  them  all  pleasant.  I  have  seen  some  wretches 
taking  whitebait  and  tea,  which  has  always  inspired  me  with  a  sort 
of  terror,  and  a  yearning  to  go  up  to  the  miserable  objects  so  em- 
ployed, and  say,  "  My  good  friend,  here  is  a  crown-piece  ;  have  a 
bottle  of  iced  punch,  or  a  tankard  of  delicious  cider-cup— but  not 
tea,  dear  sir;  no,  no,  not  tea;  you  can  get  that  at  home— there's 
no  exhilaration  in  Congo.  It  was  not  made  to  be  drunk  on  holidays. 
Those  people  are  unworthy  of  the  "  Ship  "—I  don't  wish  to  quarrel 
with  the  enjoyments  of  any  man ;  but  fellows  who  take  tea  and 
whitebait  should  not  be  allowed  to  damp  the  festive  feelings  of 
persons  better  engaged.  They  should  be  consigned  to  the  smiUng 
damsels  whom  one  meets  on  the  walk  to  Mr.  Derbyshire's,  who 
issue  from  dingy  tenements  no  bigger  than  houses  in  a  pantomime, 
and  who,  whatever  may  be  the  rank  of  the  individual,  persist  in 
saying,  "  Tea,  sir — I  can  accommodate  your  party — tea,  sir, — 
srimps  1 " 

About  the  frequenters  of  Greenwich  and  the  various  classes 
of  ichthyophagi,  many  volumes  might  be  written.  All  classes  of 
English  Christians,  with  the  exception  of  her  Majesty  and  Prince 
Albert  (and  the  more  is  the  pity  that  their  exalted  rank  deprives 
them  of  an  amusement  so  charming !)  frequent  the  hospitable  taverns 
— the  most  celebrated  gormandiser  and  the  very  humble.  There 
are  the  annual  Ministerial  Saturnalia,  which,  whenever  I  am  called 
in  by  her  Majesty,  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in  describing  in  these 
pages,  and  in  which  the  lowest  becomes  the  highest  for  the  occasion, 
and  Taper  and  Tadpole  take  just  as  high  a  rank  as  Lord  Eskdale  or 
Lord  Monmouth.  There  are  the  private  banquets  in  which  Lord 
Monmouth  diverts  himself  with  his  friends  from  the  little  French — 
but  this  subject  has  been  already  touched  upon  at  much  length. 
There  are  the  lawyers'  dinners,  when  Sir  Frederick  or  Sir  William 
is  advanced  to  the  honour  of  the  bench  or  the  attorney-generalship, 
and  where  much  legal  pleasantry  is  elicited.  The  last  time  I  dined 
at  the  "  Ship,"  hearing  a  dreadful  Bacchanalian  noise  issuing  from  a 
private  apartment,  I  was  informed,  "It's  the  gentlemen  of  'Punch,' 
sir."  What  would  I  not  have  given  to  be  present  at  such  an 
assembly  of  choice  spirits  !  Even  missionary  societies  and  converters 
of  the  Quashimdoo  Indians  come  hither  for  a  little  easy  harmless 
pleasuring  after  their  labours,  and  no  doubt  the  whitebait  slips 
down  their  reverend  throats,  and  is  relished  by  them  as  well  us  by 
the  profane  crowd. 

Then  in  the  cofifee-room,  let  a  man  be  by  himself,  and  he  is 
never  lonely.     Every   table   tells  its  little   history.      Yonder  sit 


6'20        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

three  City  bucks,  with  all  the  elegant  graces  of  the  Custom-house 
and  the  Stock  Exchange. 

"  That's  a  good  glass  of  wine,"  says  Wiggins. 

"  Ropy,"  says  Figgins ;  "  I'll  put  you  in  a  pipe  of  that  to 
stand  you  in  three-and-twenty  a  dozen." 

Once,  in  my  presence,  I  heard  a  City  "gent"  speak  so  slight- 
ingly of  a  glass  of  very  excellent  brown  sherry,  that  the  landlord 
was  moved  almost  to  tears,  and  made  a  speech,  of  which  the  sorrow 
was  only  equalled  by  the  indignation. 

Sporting  young  fellows  come  down  in  great  numbers,  with  cut- 
away coats  and  riding-whips,  which  must  be  very  useful  on  the 
water.  They  discourse  learnedly  about  Leander  and  Running 
Rein,  and  say,  "  I'll  bet  you  three  to  two  of  that." 

Likewise  pink-faced  lads  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  Those 
from  the  former  University  wear  lavender-coloured  gloves,  and 
drink  much  less  wine  than  their  jolly  comrades  from  the  banks  of 
Cam.  It  would  be  a  breach  of  confidence  to  report  their  conversa- 
tion :  but  I  lately  heard  some  very  interesting  anecdotes  about  the 
Master  of  Trinity,  and  one  Bumpkins,  a  gyp  there. 

Of  course  there  are  foreigners.  I  have  remarked  many  "  Mosaic 
Arabs  "  who  dress  and  drink  remarkably  smartly  ;  honest  pudding- 
faced  Germans,  who  sit  sentimentally  over  their  punch  ;  and  chatter- 
ing little  Frenchmen  with  stays,  and  whiskers,  and  canes,  and  little 
lacquered  boots.  These  worthies  drink  ale,  for  the  most  part, 
saying,  "  Je  ne  bois  que  I'ale  moi,"  or  "  Que  la  bifere  est  bonne  en 
Angleterre."  "  Et  que  le  vin  est  mauvais,"  shrieks  out  the  pigmy 
addressed,  and  so  they  club  their  sixpence,  and  remain  faithful  to 
the  malt-and-hoppish  liquor.  It  may  be  remarked  that  ladies  and 
Frenchmen  are  not  favourites  with  inn-waiters,  coach-guards,  cabmen, 
and  such  officials,  doubtless  for  reasons  entirely  mercenary. 

I  could  continue  for  many  more  pages,  but  the  evening  grey  is 
tinging  the  river;  the  packet-boat  bells  are  ringing;  the  sails  of 
the  ships  look  greyer  and  more  ghostlike  as  they  sweep  silently  by. 
It  is  time  to  be  thinking  of  returning,  and  so  let  us  call  for  the 
bill,  and  finish  with  a  moral.  My  dear  sir,  it  is  this.  The  weather 
is  beautiful.  The  whitebait  singularly  fine  this  season.  You  are 
sure  to  be  happy  if  you  go  to  Greenwich.     Go  then ;  and,  above 

all,    TAKE    YOUE    AMIABLE    LADY   WITH    YOU. 

Ah  !  if  but  ten  readers  will  but  follow  this  advice,  Lancelot 
Wagstaff  has  not  written  in  vain,  and  has  made  ten  charming 
women  happy  ! 


AN  EASTERN  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT 
CONTRIBUTOR 


WHEN  our  friend,  the  Fat  Contributor,  arrived  from  the 
East,  he  was  the  object  of  a  good  deal  of  curiosity, 
especially  among  the  younger  artists  and  writers  con- 
nected with  the  facetious  little  periodical  called  Pvmch ;  and  his 
collection  of  Oriental  curiosities,  his  beard  (which,  though  originally 
red,  he  wore  dyed  of  a  rich  purple),  his  pipes,  narghilfe,  yataghans, 
and  papooshes,  made  him  a  personage  of  no  small  importance.  The 
crimson  satin  dressing-gown  and  red  tarboosh,  arrayed  in  which  he 
used  to  Ke  on  a  sofa  and  smoke  a  long  pipe  all  day,  caused  the  greatest 
sensation  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  New  Out,  Lambeth,  where 
the  Contributor  lived  ;  nor  can  a  finer  sight  be  imagined  than  our 
fat  friend  in  this  magnificent  costume,  ogling  and  smiling,  and 
kissing  his  hand,  to  the  six  young  ladies  at  Miss  Kunt's,  the  straw- 
bonnet  makers  over  the  way.  Frank  Delamere,  the  actor  at  the 
Victoria  Theatre  (his  real  name  is  Snoggin,  by  the  way),  got  an 
old  cotton  robe  covered  with  faded  spangles,  and  used  to  attempt 
the  same  manoeuvres  out  of  his  window;  but  he  was  voted  an 
impostor,  and  our  friend  Bluebeard,  as  we  used  to  call  him,  from 
the  peculiar  dye  of  his  whiskers,  was  the  Lion  of  Lambeth 
for  1845. 

His  stories  about  the  East  and  his  personal  adventures  were 
so  outrageous  that  we  all  laughed  at  the  fellow's  gasconading, 
with  the  exception  of  young  Speck,  the  artist,  a  credulous  little 
creature,  who  swallowed  all  these  legends  with  the  most  extra- 
ordinary good  faith,  smoked  his  long  pipes,  although  tobacco 
disagreed  wofully  with  his  poor  little  chest,  and  absolutely  began 
to  grow  his  beard  and  moustachios  forsooth  ;  just  as  if  he  had 
a  beard  to  grow.  Such  are  the  foolish  vanities  indulged  in  by 
weak  minds. 

Over  the  Contributor's  mantelpiece  was  an  immense  silver- 
mounted  yataghan,  of  Damascus  steel,  in  an  embroidered  filligree- 
case,  with  texts  from  the  Koran  engraved  upon  the  hilt.  Of  this 
weapon  the  owner  was  excessively  proud ;  he  read  off  the  sentences 


622        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

of  the  handle  with  perfect  ease  (though  he  might  have  been  reading 
gibberish  for  anything  we  knew  to  the  contrary),  and  Speck  came 
back  from  supping  with  him  one  night  in  a  state  of  great  con- 
sternation. "  What  do  you  think  he  told  me  ? "  Mr.  Speck  said. 
"  We  had  a  ham  for  supper  (lae  ad  an  am  for  sujjper,  S. 
pronounces  it),  and  the  knife  being  blunt,  the  Contributor  took 
down  his  yataghan,  and  carved  with  it.  He  sliced  off  the  meat  as 
if  he'd  been  bred  to  Woxall,"  Speck  continued;  "and  as  I  took  my 
last  slice,  'Speck,  my  boy,'  says  he,  'what  do  you  think  I  used 
that  knife  for  last?' — 'Well,  mayhap  to  cut  beef  with,'  Speck  said. 
'  Beef?  ha  !  ha  !  when  I  drew  that  knife  last  it  was  to  cut  off  the 
head  of  Soliman  Effendi ! ' 

"  I  'eard  this,"  Speck  said,  "  I  laid  down  my  knife  and  fork, 
and  thought  I  should  have  fainted.  I  pressed  him  for  further 
particulars  ;  which  he  not  only  refused,  but  his  countenance  assumed 
an  expression  of  intense  agony,  and  he  said  circumstances  had  passed 
connected  with  that  tragedy  which  he  never,  never  could  relate  ; 
and  he  made  me  solemnly  promise  never  to  reveal  a  single  word 
even  of  that  half-confidence  which  he  had  made." 

Speck  of  course  called  upon  every  one  of  the  Contributors  to 
Punch  the  next  day,  and  told  them  this  terrific  story,  on  which  we 
rallied  our  fat  friend  remorselessly  the  next  time  we  met. 

Some  fifteen  days  afterwards  Messrs.  Bradbury  and  Evans  were 
greatly  siu"prised  by  receiving  a  letter  with  the  Alexandria  post- 
mark, and  containing  the  following  extraordinary  document : — 


' '  Cairo,  the  fourth  day  of  the  month  Nishan,  year  1234 
of  the  Begird.     Sept.  25,  1844. 

"  Three   months   after   sight,  please   to   pay  the  sum  of  one 
thousand  tomauns  on  account  of  your  obedient  servant, 

"  The  Fat  Contributor. 

"  Messrs.  Bradbury  and  Evans, 
"  Whitefriars,  London." 


This  extraordinary  draft  was  crossed  to  the  house  of  Ossum 
Hoosein  and  Company,  Alexandria ;  and  a  note  scrawled  in  pencil 
at  the  back  of  it,  said,  "  For  Heaven's  sake  pay  it :  my  life 
depends  on  it.     F.  C." 

As  the  Contributor  was  back  among  us — as  the  draft  came  by 
the  post,  and  was  presented  by  nobody — of  course  Messrs.  B.  and  E. 
did  not  pay  the  thousand  tomauns,  but  sent  over  a  printer's  devil 
to  the  New  Cut,  requesting  the  Contributor  to  call  in  Whitefriars, 
and  explain  the  meaning  of  this  strange  transaction. 


AN    EASTEEN    ADVENTURE  623 

He  called.  And  now  indeed  we  did  begin  to  stare.  "  Gentle- 
men," said  he,  blushing  and  seeming  very  much  agitated,  "that 
paper  was  extracted  from  me  by  an  Egyptian  Bey,  at  the  risk  of 
my  life.  An  unfortunate  affair,  which  I  can't  particularise,  put  me 
into  his  power,  and  I  only  escaped  by — by  killing  him.  Don't 
ask  me  any  more."  Every  one  of  our  gents  was  amazed  at  this 
mystery,  and  our  Contributor  rose  so  much  in  importance  that  he 
instantly  demanded  an  increase  of  his  salary.  He  gave  the  law 
to  our  Society  about  all  matters  of  fashion,  about  duelling,  horse- 
flesh, &c.  "That's  a  nice  nag,"  he  would  say,  while  swaggering 
in  the  Park  with  us ;  "  but  you  should  see  what  horses  I  rode  at 
the  Etmeidan  at  Constantinople."  "What  do  you  know  about  the 
East?"  he  would  exclaim,  if  any  of  us  talked  about  our  Eastern 
victories ;  and  in  fact  became  a  perfect  bully  and  nuisance  to  the 
Society. 

One  day,  in  Eotten  Row,  two  very  smart,  though  rather  yellow- 
faced  gentlemen,  moustached  and  with  a  military  look,  came  riding 
up,  and  seeing  our  fat  friend,  hailed  him  with  loud  voices  and  the 
utmost  cordiality. 

"  The  Contributor  sprang  over  the  railings  to  salute  them,  and 
shaking  hands  with  the  pair  turned  round  with  a  beaming  face  to- 
wards us,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  There,  my  boys,  do  you  know  any 
such  swells  as  these,  mounted  on  thoroughbred  horses,  who  will  shake 
hands  with  you  in  the  full  Park  1 " 

"My  friends,  Bob  Farcy  and  Frank  Glanders,  of  the  Bengal 
Cavalry,"  said  he  afterwards,  tapping  his  boot  with  an  easy  air ; 
"devilish  good  fellow.  Bob;  made  that  brilliant  charge  at  Feroze- 
shah ;  met  him  in  the  East  j " — and  he  swelled  and  swaggered  about 
more  pompously  than  ever. 

That  very  day,  some  of  us  had  made  a  little  conspiracy  to  dine 
at  Greenwich,  and  we  were  just  sitting  down  to  dinner  at  the 
"  Trafalgar,"  when  who  should  enter  the  coffee-room  but  the  Con- 
tributor's Park  friends  ?  They  singled  him  out  in  a  moment.  His 
countenance  fell.  "  Can  you  and  these  gentlemen  make  room  for  us. 
Poddy,  my  hoyi"  they  said.  The  tables  were  everywhere  quite 
full ;  and,  besides,  these  military  gentlemen  very  likely  were  anxious 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  persons,  I  may  say,  not  altogether 
disagreeable  or  unknown. 

We  congratulated  these  officers  upon  their  achievements  in  the 
East,  and  they  received  our  compliments  with  a  great  deal  of  manli- 
ness and  modesty.  The  whole  party  speedily  became  very  talkative 
and  intimate.  AU  the  room  was  enlivened  by  our  sallies,  until,  to 
tell  the  truth,  we  ordered  in  so  many  cool  cups  and  tankards  and 
bottles  of  claret,  that  at  last  we  had  the  apartment  to  ourselves,  and 


624        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

sat  in  great  contentment  looking  out  at  the  river  and  the  shipping, 
and  the  moon  rising  as  the  smi  sank  away. 

And  now  a  history  was  revealed  about  our  Fat  Contributor, 
which  was  so  terrible  and  instructive  that  we  cannot  do  better  than 
record  it  here. 

It  must  be  premised  that  the  individual  in  question  had  in  the 
early  stage  of  the  dinner  been  particularly  loud  and  brilliant ;  that 
his  loudness  increased  with  the  courses  of  the  banquet ;  that  some- 
how during  the  dessert  he  insisted  upon  making  a  speech,  remarkable 
for  its  energetic  incoherency;  that  then  he  proposed,  without  the 
least  desire  upon  anybody  else's  part,  to  sing  a  song — a  very  senti- 
mental one — which  finished  abruptly  in  a  most  melancholy  falsetto  ; 
that  he  sate  down  affected  to  tears  by  something  unknown,  and 
was  now  sound  asleep  in  his  chair. 

"  Has  he  told  you  his  adventures  in  the  East  1 "  Captain 
Glanders  said,  "and  his  famous  night  in  the  Harem?" 

"  La  !  "  exclaimed  Speck. 

"  In  the  Harem  of  Osman  Effendi.  We  used  to  call  him  the 
Harem  Scarum  :  a  joke  which,  though  old,  we  thought  was  pretty 
fair  for  a  professional  man." 

"  Do  tell  it  us,"  we  all  exclaimed,  and  a  snore  from  the  poor 
Contributor  seemed  to  encourage  the  Captain  to  go  on. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  Farcy  here,  and  I,  had  the  pleasure 
of  making  your  friend's  acquaintance  on  board  the  Burrumpooter 
steamer,  which  we  found  at  Gibraltar  on  our  way  to  our  regiment 
in  India.  Your  fat  little  friend  got  the  name  of  Poddy,  I  don't 
know  how ;  we  found  him  christened  when  we  came  on  board, 
and  he  was  at  that  time  in  a  great  state  of  despondency,  having 
just  parted  with  a  lady  at  Cadiz  with  whom  he  was  violently 
smitten." 

"  Dolores  !  "  we  all  exclaimed  in  chorus. 

"  The  very  same.  Well,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Poddy's 
heart  was  as  fickle  as  it  was  inflammable ;  for  during  the  course 
of  our  voyage  to  Alexandria  he  was  in  love  with  more  than  one 
person.  He  proposed  to  Miss  JSTokes,  who  was  going  to  Bombay 
to  be  married  to  Livermore,  of  the  Civil  Service ;  had  grown  un- 
commonly sweet  upon  Colonel  Hustler's  daughter  before  we  left 
Malta,  and  was  ready  to  throw  himself  into  the  river  when  she 
refused  him  on  the  Nile.  Tom  Hustler,  a  young  lad  fresh  from 
Addiscombe,  was  always  the  chief  of  the  jokes  against  him,  in 
which,  indeed,  every  one  of  the  passengers  joined. 

"  When  we  arrived  at  Cairo  I  had  the  pleasure  of  accompanying 
your  friend  to  the  Pyramids,  and  saw  him  stick  up  the  placard  of 
PwThch  there,  which  I  have  iio  doubt  may  still  be  seen  there ;  but 


AN    EASTERN    ADVENTURE  625 

all  the  way  on  the  journey  he  was  particularly  anxious  and  reserved. 
At  last  he  broke  out  to  me  in  confidence  : 

" '  Captain  Glanders,'  said  he,  '  do  you  know  the  language  of 
flowers  t '  and  of  course,  from  my  long  residence  in  the  East,  I  am 
acquainted  with  that  elegant  mode  of  orthography. 

" '  Look  here,'  says  he,  taking  a  bunch  out  of  his  bosom  and 
thrusting  it  into  my  hand  ;  '  what  do  you  think  of  that  1 ' 

" '  Hallo  !  this  is  a  declaration  indeed.  A  polyanthus,  eternal 
constancy  ;  a  rhododendron,  my  heart  pines  for  you  ;  a  magnolia,  I 
am  imprisoned  by  a  wall ;  a  withered  rose,  I  pine  for  my  bulbul ; 
two  tulips — upon  my  word  you're  a  lucky  fellow  ! ' 

"  '  The  finest  eyes  you  ever  saw  in  the  world  I '  Poddy  exclaimed. 
'  The  most  extraordinary  circumstance !  I  was  riding  yesterday 
through  the  Frank  Bazaar  with  young  Hustler,  when  Soliinan 
Effendi's  harem  passed — fourteen  of  them,  mounted  on  donkeys, 
all  covered  over  with  hoods,  like  cab-heads,  and  black  masks  con- 
cealing everything  but  their  eyes — but  oh,  such  eyes !  Four 
hideous  black  slaves  accompanied  the  procession,  which  was  going 
to  the  Bath  opposite  the  Mosque  of  Sultan  Hassan;  and,  seeing 
me  gazing  rather  too  eagerly,  one  brute  rode  up  and  actually 
handled  his  whip,  when  my  servant  Paolo  dragged  me  away.  The 
dear  disguised  creature  rode  on  in  the  procession,  throwing  me  back 
a  glance — one  glance  of  those  delicious  orbs. 

" '  Last  night  Paolo  came  to  me  with  an  air  of  mystery,  and 
thrust  that  bouquet  into  my  hand.  "  One  old  woman,"  he  said, 
"bring  me  this — you  see  Egyptian  lady— She  love  you — Soliman 
Efiendi's  daughter.  Don't  you  go :  he  cut  you  head  off."  I  was 
at  a  loss  for  the  mystery.  I  showed  the  flowers  to  Farcy,  and  he 
read  them  exactly  as  ym  do.' 

" '  But,  my  dear  fellow,  recollect  it's  a  dangerous  matter  enter- 
ing a  Turkish  Harem — death  threatens  you.' 

"  '  Death  1 '  said  Poddy  :  '  Ha,  ha  !  I'm  armed,  Glanders ; '  and 
he  showed  me  a  pair  of  pistols  and  a  knife  that  he  had  got.  '  I'll 
run  away  with  her,  and  take  her  to  the  Consul's  and  marry  her. 
I'm  told  she  has  jewels  to  the  amount  of  millions.  I'm  going  to 
meet  her  to-night,  I  tell  you,  and  (whispers)  disguised  as  a 
woman.' 

"  You  know  what  a  figure  your  friend  is  ;  and  sure  enough,  on 
our  return  from  the  Pyramids,  he  dressed  himself  in  a  woman's 
dress  and  trousers,  put  a  veil  over  his  face,  and  one  of  those 
enormous  hoods  which  the  Egyptian  ladies  wear ;  and  though  we 
could  not  help  laughing  at  the  absurdity  of  his  appearance,  yet, 
knowing  the  danger  he  was  about  to  incur;  we  entreated  him  to 
give  up  his  attempt.     Go,  however,  he  would. 


626        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

"A  black  slave  with  a  lantern,  an  old  woman  veiled,  another 
slave  holding  a  pair  of  donkeys,  were  in  waiting  at  the  door  of  the 
hotel,  and  on  one  of  these  beasts  the  undaunted  Contributor 
mounted,  taking  rather  a  moiu-uful  farewell  of  half-a-dozen  of  us 
who  were  there  to  wish  him  good-bye.  The  streets  of  Cairo  are 
quite  dark  at  night.  He  and  his  people  threaded  through  the 
lonely  alleys  environed  by  enormous  masses  of  black  houses,  and 
were  presently  lost  in  the  labyrinths  of  the  city.  But  this  is  what, 
as  we  heard  from  him,  afterwards  took  place. 

"  After  winding  and  winding  through  the  city  for  half-an-hour, 
the  party  came  to  a  garden  gate ;  and  the  guide  knocking  and 
uttering  some  words,  the  gate  was  cautiously  unbarred.  Poddy 
must  have  had  good  pluck,  it  must  be  owned,  to  pass  that  barrier 
alone. 

"  He  was  carried  into  a  court,  where  he  descended  from 
his  animal ;  then  into  another  court,  where  there  was  a  garden 
and  a  fountain ;  then  into  a  gallery,  where  everything  was 
dark ;  and  at  last — at  last  into  the  room,  the  harem  itself, 
an  ancient  chamber  ornamented  with  carved  arabesques,  and  on 
a  divan  at  the  end  of  which,  with  a  single  faint  lamp  near  her, 
sat — a  lady. 

" '  Bring  the  lady  to  the  divan,'  said  the  veiled  one,  in  the 
Egyptian  language,  '  and  bring  pipes  and  coffee.' 

"Poddy  shuffled  up  in  his  double  yellow  slippers  and  sate 
down  opposite  his  charmer. 

"  G-udge  mudge  gurry  bang  hubaloo  1 "  says  he,  after  the  slaves 
who  had  brought  the  refreshment  had  retired.  It  is  the  Turkish 
for  '  What  is  your  elegant  name,  darling  of  my  heart  1 ' 

"  The  fair  replied — '  Emina.' 

" '  Chow  row,  wackyboss,  coctaloo  ! '  continued  Poddy,  re- 
peating his  lesson  of  the  morning — meaning,  '  angel  of  my  soul,  let 
me  kiss  your  lily  finger.'  She  gave  him  her  hand,  glittering  with 
rings,  and  tinged  with  hennah. 

" '  I  can  speak  EngUsh  well,'  said  she,  with  ever  so  little 
foreign  accent.  '  I  was  born  there.  My  poor  mother  was  drowned 
in  the  Regent's  Canal  by  my  father,  who  was  chief  secretary  to 
the  Ottoman  Embassy.  I  love  your  country.  Christian.  Emina 
pines  here.' 

"  '  Let  us  fly  thither  ! '  exclaimed  the  enraptured  Contributor. 
'  My  boat  is  on  the  sea,  and  my  bark  is  on  the  shore.  Pack  up 
your  jewels,  and  hasten  with  me  to  the  Consul's. ,  My  palace  at 
home  awaits  thee ;  thou  shalt  be  the  ornament  of  London  Society ; 
thou  shalt  share  my  heart  and  my  fame.'  And  who  knows  how 
much  farther  the  enraptured  Contributor  might  have  carried  his 


THE   FAT    CONTEIBUTOR 


AN    EASTEKN    ADVENTURE  627 

eloquence,  when  the  black  slave  came  rushing  in,   crying — 'The 
Effendi !  the  Effendi ! ' 

"  '  Gosh  guroo  ! '  cried  Emina,  '  my  father  ! '  Poddy  let  down  his 
veil  in  a  twinkling,  crossed  his  legs,  and  pufied  away  at  his  pipe  in 
the  utmost  trepidation,  and  a  most  ferocious  Turk  entered  the 
room. 

" '  The  English  lady,  my  father,'  Emina  said,  recovering  from 
her  perturbation.  '  She  came  by  the  Burrimnpooter.  We — we  met 
in  the  bazaar.  Speak  to  her  in  her  northern  language,  father  of 
my  heart ! ' 

"  '  The  English  lady  is  welcome- — the  light  of  the  sun  is  welcome 
— the  Northern  rose  is  beautiful  in  the  Eastern  garden.  What  a 
figure  she  has !  as  round  as  the  full  moon ;  and  what  eyes !  as 
brilliant  as  carbuncles.  Mashallah,  the  English  lady  is  welcome. 
AVill  she  not  unveil  r 

"  '  Before  a  stranger,  my  father  ! ' 

"  '  I  have  seen  English  ladies  at  Almack's  unveiled  before  strangers 
— and  shall  not  this  one  ? '  Soliman  Effendi  said ;  and,  approaching 
the  disguised  lady,  with  a  sudden  jerk  he  tore  off  her  veil,  and  the 
Contributor  stood  before  him  aghast. 

'"Ha!  by  Mahomet,'  roared  the  Effendi,  'have  English  ladies 
beards  1  Dog  of  an  unbeliever !  Disgrace  of  my  house  !  Ho  ! 
Hassan,  Muley,  Hokey,  Ibrahim,  eunuchs  of  my  guards  ! '  and 
clapping  his  hands,  a  body  of  slaves  ran  in,  just  as,  rushing  upon 
Emina,  he  dashed  a  dagger  into  the  poor  girl's  side,  and  she  fell 
to  the  ground  with  a  horrible  hysteric  scream  ! 

"  At  the  sight  of  this.  Poddy,  who  had  some  courage,  fell  roaring 
on  his  knees,  and  cried  out — '  Amaun  !  amaun  !  Mercy  !  mercy  ! 
I'll  write  to  the  Consul.  I'm  enormously  rich.  I'll  pay  any 
ransom.' 

"  '  Give  me  an  order  for  a  thousand  tomauns  ! '  said  the  Effendi 
gloomily ;  and,  pointing  to  his  daughter's  body,  '  Fling  that  piece 
of  carrion  into  the  Nile.'  Poddy  wrote  a  note  for  a  thousand 
tomauns,  which  was  prepared  by  the  Effendi  in  the  regular 
Oriental  manner.  'And  now,'  said  he,  putting  it  into  his  waist- 
coat pocket,— 'now,  Christian,  prepare  to  die!  Bring  the  sack, 
mutes  ! '  And  they  brought  in  a  large  one,  in  which  they  invited 
him  to  enter. 

" '  I'U  turn  Turk — I'll  do  anything,'  screamed  frantically  the 

Fat  Contributor." 

Here  Captain  Glander's  story  was  interrupted  by  the  subject  of 
it,  the  Fat  Contributor,  bouncing  up  from  his  chair,  and  screammg 


628        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

out,  "  It  is  an  infernal  lie !     I  did  not  say  I  would  turn  Turk." 
And  he  rushed  out  of  the  room  like  a  madman. 

Captain  Glanders  tiien  explained  to  us  the  whole  circumstances 
of  the  hoax.  Young  Tom  Hustler  acted  Emina.  Glanders  himself 
was  Soliman  EfFendi ;  all  that  had  been  done  was  to  lead  the 
Contributor  up  and  down  the  street  for  half-an-hour,  and  bring 
him  in  at  the  back  part  of  the  hotel,  which  was  still  a  Turkish 
house 


THE   DIGNITY   OF  LITERATURE 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "  MORNING  CHRONICLE  " 

SIR, — In  a  leading  article  of  your  journal  of  Thursday,  the  3rd 
instant,  you  commented  upon  literary  pensions  and  the  status 
of  literary  men  in  this  country,  and  illustrated  your  arguments 
by  extracts  from  the  story  of  "  Pendennis,"  at  present  in  course  of 
publication.  You  have  received  my  writings  with  so  much  kindness, 
that,  if  you  have  occasion  to  disapprove  of  them  or  the  author,  I  can't 
question  your  right  to  blame  me,  or  doubt  for  a  moment  the  friendli- 
ness and  honesty  of  my  critic ;  and  however  I  might  dispute  the 
justice  of  your  verdict  in  my  case,  I  had  proposed  to  submit  to  it  in 
silence,  being  indeed  very  quiet  in  my  conscience  with  regard  to  the 
charge  made  against  me. 

But  another  newspaper  of  high  character  and  repute  takes  occa- 
sion to  question  the  principles  advocated  in  your  article  of  Thursdaj^, 
arguing  in  favour  of  pensions  for  literary  persons  as  you  argued 
against  them ;  and  the  only  point  upon  which  the  Mxaminer  and 
the  Chronicle  appear  to  agree,  unluckily  regards  myself,  who  am 
offered  up  to  general  reprehension  in  two  leading  articles  by  the  two 
writers :  by  the  latter  for  "  fostering  a  baneful  prejudice  "  against 
literary  men  ;  by  the  former  for  "  stooping  to  flatter  "  this  prejudice 
in  the  public  mind,  and  "  condescending  to  caricature  (as  is  too  often 
my  habit)  my  literary  fellow-labourers,  in  order  to  pay  court  to  the 
non-literary  class." 

The  charges  of  the  Examiner  against  a  man  who  has  never,  to 
his  knowledge,  been  ashamed  of  his  profession,  or  (except  for  its 
dulness)  of  any  single  Hne  from  his  pen,  grave  as  they  are,  are,  I 
hope,  not  proven.  "To  stoop  to  flatter"  any  class  is  a  novel  accu- 
sation brought  against  my  writings ;  and  as  for  my  scheme  "  to  pay 
court  to  the  non-literary  class  by  disparaging  my  literary  fellow- 
labourers,"  it  is  a  design  which  would  exhibit  a  degree  not  only  of 
baseness  but  of  folly  upon  my  part  of  which,  I  trust,  I  am  not  cap- 
able. The  editor  of  the  Examiner  may  perhaps  occasionally  write, 
like  other  authors,  in  a  hurry,  and  not  be  aware  of  the  conclusions 
to  which  some  of  his  sentences  may  lead.     If  I  stoop  to  flatter  any- 


630        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

body's  prejudices  for  some  interested  motives  of  my  own,  I  am  no 
more  nor  less  than  a  rogue  and  a  cheat ;  which  deductions  from  the 
Examiner's  premisses  I  will  not  stoop  to  contradict,  because  the 
premisses  themselves  are  simply  absurd. 

I  deny  that  the  considerable  body  of  our  countrymen  described 
by  the  Examiner  as  "  the  non-literary  class  "  has  the  least  gratifica- 
tion in  witnessing  the  degradation  or  disparagement  of  literary  men. 
Why  accuse  "  the  non-literary  class  "  of  being  so  ungrateful  1  If  the 
writings  of  an  author  give  the  reader  pleasure  or  profit,  surely  the 
latter  will  have  a  favourable  opinion  of  the  person  who  benefits  him. 
What  intelligent  man,  of  whatsoever  political  views,  would  not  receive 
with  respect  and  welcome  that  writer  of  the  Examiner  of  whom  your 
paper  once  said  that  "  he  made  all  England  laugh  and  think  "  ?  Who 
would  deny  to  that  brilliant  wit,  that  polished  satirist,  his  just 
tribute  of  respect  and  admiration  ?  Does  any  man  who  has  written 
a  book  worth  reading — any  poet,  historian,  novelist,  man  of  science 
— lose  reputation  by  his  character  for  genius  or  for  learning  ?  Does 
he  not,  on  the  contrary,  get  friends,  sympathy,  applause — money, 
perhaps  ? — all  good  and  pleasant  things  in  themselves,  and  not  un- 
generously awarded  as  they  are  honestly  won.  That  generous  faith 
in  men  of  letters,  that  kindly  regard  in  which  the  whole  reading 
nation  holds  them,  appear  to  )ne  to  be  so  clearly  shown  in  our  coun- 
try every  day,  that  to  question  them  would  be  absurd,  as,  permit 
me  to  say  for  my  part,  it  would  be  ungrateful.  What  is  it  that 
fills  mechanics'  institutes  in  the  great  provincial  towns  when  literary 
men  are  invited  to  attend  their  festivals  ?  Has  not  every  literary 
man  of  mark  his  friends  and  his  circle,  his  hundreds  or  his  tens  of 
thousands  of  readers  1  And  has  not  every  one  had  from  these  constant 
and  affecting  testimonials  of  the  esteem  in  which  they  hold  him  1 
It  is  of  course  one  writer's  lot,  from  the  nature  of  his  subject  or  of 
his  genius,  to  command  the  sympathies  or  awaken  the  curiosity  of 
many  more  readers  than  shall  choose  to  listen  to  another  author ; 
but  surely  all  get  their  hearing.  The  literary  profession  is  not  held 
in  disrepute ;  nobody  wants  to  disparage  it,  no  man  loses  his  social 
rank,  whatever  it  may  be,  by  practising  it.  On  the  contrary;  the 
pen  gives  a  place  in  the  world  to  men  who  had  none  before,  a  fair 
place,  fairly  achieved  by  their  genius,  as  any  other  degree  of  eminence 
is  by  any  other  kind  of  merit.  Literary  men  need  not,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  be  in  the  least  querulous  about  their  position  any  more,  or  want 
the  pity  of  anybody.  The  money-prizes  which  the  chief  among  them 
get  are  not  so  high  as  those  which  fall  to  men  of  other  callings — to 
bishops,  or  to  judges,  or  to  opera-singers  and  actors,  nor  have  they 
received  stars  and  garters  as  yet,  or  peerages  and  governorships  of 
islands,  such  as  fall  to  the  lot  of  military  officers.     The  rewards  of 


THE   DIGNITY    OF   LITERATUKE  631 

the  profession  are  not  to  be  measured  by  the  money  standard,  for  one 
man  may  spend  a  life  of  learning  and  labour  on  a  book  which  does 
not  pay  the  printer's  bill;  and  another  gets  a  Uttle  fortune  by 
a  few  light  volumes.  But  putting  the  money  out  of  the  question, 
I  believe  that  the  social  estimation  of  the  man  of  letters  is  as  good 
as  it  deserves  to  be,  and  as  good  as  that  of  any  other  professional 
man. 

With  respect  to  the  question  in  debate  between  you  and  the 
Examiner,  as  to  the  propriety  of  public  rewards  and  honours  to 
literary  men,  I  don't  see  why  men  of  letters  should  not  cheerfully 
coincide  with  Mr.  Examiner,  in  accepting  all  the  honours,  places, 
and  prizes  which  they  can  get.  The  amount  of  such  as  will  be 
awarded  to  them  will  not,  we  may  be  pretty  sure,  impoverish  the 
country  much ;  and  if  it  is  the  custom  of  the  State  to  reward  by 
money,  or  titles  of  honour,  or  stars  and  garters  of  any  sort,  in- 
dividuals who  do  the  country  service ;  and  if  individuals  are  grati- 
fied by  having  Sir,  or  my  Lord,  appended  to  their  names,  or  stars 
and  ribbons  hooked  on  to  their  coats  and  waistcoats,  as  n"in  most 
undoubtedly  are,  and  as  their  wives,  families,  and  relations  are — 
there  can  be  no  reason  why  men  of  letters  should  not  have  the 
chance,  as  well  as  men  of  the  robe  or  the  sword ;  or  why,  if  honour 
and  money  are  good  for  one  profession,  they  should  not  be  good 
for  another.  No  man  in  other  callings  thinks  himself  degraded  by 
receiving  a  reward  from  his  Government ;  nor  surely  need  the 
literary  man  be  more  squeamish  about  pensions,  and  ribbons,  and 
titles,  than  the  ambassador,  or  general,  or  judge.  Every  European 
State  but  ours  rewards  its  men  of  letters ;  the  American  Govern- 
ment gives  them  their  full  share  of  its  small  patronage ;  and  if 
Americans,  why  not  Englishmen  1  If  Pitt  Crawley  is  disappointed 
at  not  getting  a  ribbon  on  retiring  from  his  diplomatic  post  at 
Pumpernickel ;  if  General  O'Dowd  is  pleased  to  be  called  Sir 
Hector  O'Dowd,  K.O.B.,  and  his  wife  at  being  denominated  my 
Lady  O'Dowd — are  literary  men  to  be  the  only  persons  exempt 
from  vanity,  and  is  it  to  be  a  sin  in  them  to  covet  honour  'i 

And  now  with  regard  to  the  charge  against  myself  of  fostering 
baneful  prejudices  against  our  calling — to  which  I  no  more  plead 
guilty  than  I  should  think  Fielding  would  have  done,  if  he  had 
been  accused  of  a  design  to  bring  the  Church  into  contempt  by 
describing  Parson  TruUiber — permit  me  to  say,  that  before  you 
deliver  sentence  it  would  be  as  well  to  have  waited  to  hear  the 
whole  of  the  argument.  Who  knows  what  is  coming  in  the  future 
numbers  of  the  work  which  has  incurred  your  displeasure  and  the 
Examiner's,  and  whether  you,  in  accusing  me  of  prejudice,  and  the 
Examiner  (alas !)  of  swindling  and  flattering  the  public,  have  not 


632        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

been  premature  ?  Time  and  tlie  hour  may  solve  this  mystery,  for 
which  the  candid  reader  is  referred  to  "  our  next." 

That  I  have  a  prejudice  against  running  into  debt,  and  drunlcen- 
ness,  and  disorderly  life,  and  against  quackery  and  falsehood  in  my 
profession,  I  own ;  and  that  I  like  to  have  a  laugh  at  those  pre- 
tenders in  it  who  write  confidential  news  about  fashion  and  politics 
for  provincial  gobemouches ;  but  I  am  not  aware  of  feeling  any 
malice  in  describing  this  weakness,  or  of  doing  anything  wrong  in 
exposing  the  former  vices.  Have  they  never  existed  amongst 
literary  men  ?  Have  their  talents  never  been  urged  as  a  plea  for 
improvidence,  and  their  very  faults  adduced  as  a  consequence  of 
their  genius  ■?  The  only  moral  that  I,  as  a  writer,  wished  to  hint 
in  the  descriptions  against  which  you  protest  was,  that  it  was  the 
duty  of  a  literary  man,  as  well  as  any  other,  to  practise  regularity 
and  sobriety,  to  love  his  family,  and  to  pay  his  tradesmen.  Nor 
is  the  picture  I  have  drawn  "a  caricature  which  I  condescend  to," 
any  more  than  it  is  a  wilful  and  insidious  design  on  my  part  to 
flatter  "  the  non-literary  class."  If  it  be  a  caricature,  it  is  the 
result  of  a  natural  perversity  of  vision,  not  of  an  artful  desire  to 
mislead ;  but  my  attempt  was  to  tell  the  truth,  and  I  meant  to 
tell  it  not  unkindly.  I  have  seen  the  bookseller  whom  Bludyer 
robbed  of  his  books ;  I  have  carried  money,  and  from  a  noble 
brother  man-of-letters,  to  some  one  not  unlike  Shandon  in  prison, 
and  have  watched  the  beautiful  devotion  of  his  wife  in  that  place. 
Wliy  are  these  things  not  to  be  described,  if  they,  illustrate,  as  they 
appear  to  me  to  do,  that  strange  and  awful  struggle  of  good  and 
wrong  which  takes  place  in  our  hearts  and  in  the  world  1  It  may 
be  tliat  I  work  out  my  moral  ill,  or  it  may  possibly  be  that  the 
critic  of  the  ExaTniner  fails  in  apprehension.  My  effort  as  an 
artist  came  perfectly  within  his  province  as  a  censor ;  but  when 
Mr.  Examine]-  says  of  a  gentleman  that  he  is  "  stooping  to  flatter 
the  public  prejudice,"  which  public  prejudice  does  not  exist,  I 
submit  that  he  makes  a  charge  which  is  as  absurd  as  it  is  unjust, 
and  am  thankful  that  it  repels  itself. 

And  instead  of  accusing  the  public  of  persecuting  and  disparaging 
us  as  a  class,  it  seems  to  me  that  men  of  letters  had  best  silently 
assume  that  they  are  as  good  as  any  other  gentlemen ;  nor  raise 
piteous  controversies  upon  a  question  which  all  people  of  sense 
must  take  as  settled.  If  I  sit  at  your  table,  I  suppose  that  I  am 
my  neighbour's  equal,  and  tliat  he  is  mine.  If  I  begin  straightway 
with  a  protest  of  "  Sir,  I  am  a  literary  man,  but  I  would  have  you 
to  know  that  I  am  as  good  as  you,"  which  of  us  is  it  that  questions 
the  dignity  of  the  literary  profession — my  neighbour  who  would 
like  to  eat  his  soup  in  quiet,  or  the  man  of  letters  who  commences 


THE    DIGNITY    OF    LITERATUEE  633 

the  arguments  And  I  hope  that  a  comic  writer,  because  he 
describes  one  author  as  improvident,  and  another  as  a  parasite, 
may  not  only  be  guiltless  of  a  desire  to  vilify  his  profession,  but 
may  really  have  its  honour  at  heart.  If  there  are  no  spendthrifts 
or  parasites  among  us,  the  satire  becomes  unjust ;  but  if  such  exist, 
or  have  existed,  they  are  as  good  subjects  for  comedy  as  men  of 
other  callings.  I  never  heard  that  the  bar  felt  itself  aggrieved 
because  Punch  chose  to  describe  Mr.  Dump's  notorious  state  of 
insolvency,  or  that  the  picture  of  Stiggins,  in  "Pickwick,"  was 
intended  as  an  insult  to  all  Dissenters ;  or  that  all  the  attorneys 
in  the  empire  were  indignant  at  the  famous  history  of  the  firm  of 
"  Quirk,  Gammon,  and  Snap."  Are  we  to  be  passed  over  because 
we  are  faultless,  or  because  we  cannot  afford  to  be  laughed  at? 
And  if  every  character  in  a  story  is  to  represent  a  class,  not  an 
individual — if  every  bad  figure  is  to  have  its  obliged  contrast  a 
good  one,  and  a  balance  of  vice  and  virtue  is  to  be  struck — novels, 
I  think,  would  become  impossible,  as  they  would  be  intolerably 
stupid  and  unnatural;  and  there  would  be  a  lamentable  end  of 
writers  and  readers  of  such  compositions.  Believe  me,  Sir,  to  be 
your  very  faithful  servant,  W.  M.  Thackeray. 


Reform  Club  :  Jan.  8. 


MR.   THACKERAY  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES 

TO   THE   EDITOR   OF    "ERASER'S   MAGAZINE" 

YOU  may  remember,  my  dear  Sir,  how  I  prognosticated  a  warm 
reception  for  your  Mr.  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  in  New 
York — how  I  advised  that  he  should  come  by  a  Collins  rather 
than  a  Ounard  liner — how  that  he  must  land  at  New  York  rather 
than  at  Boston — or,  at  any  rate,  that  he  mustn't  dare  to  begin 
lecturing  at  the  latter  city,  and  bring  "  cold  joints  "  to  the  former 
one.  In  the  last  particular  he  has  happily  followed  my  suggestion, 
and  has  opened  with  a  warm  success  in  the  chief  city.  The  journals 
have  been  full  of  him.  On  the  19th  of  November,  he  commenced 
his  lectures  before  the  Mercantile  Library  Association  (young  ardent 
commercialists),  in  the  spacious  New  York  Church  belonging  to  the 
flock  presided  over  by  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Chapin ;  a  strong  row  of 
ladies — the  cream  of  the  capital — and  an  "  unusual  number  of  the 
distinguished  literary  and  professional  celebrities."  The  critic  of 
the  JVew  York  Tribune  is  forward  to  commend  his  style  of  delivery 
as  "  that  of  a  well-bred  gentleman,  reading  with  marked  force  and 
propriety  to  a  large  circle  in  the  drawing-room."  So  far,  excellent. 
This  witness  is  a  gentleman  of  the  press,  and  is  a  credit  to  his 
order.  But  there  are  some  others  who  have  whetted  the  ordinary 
American  appetite  of  inquisitiveness  with  astounding  intelligence. 
Sydney  Smith  excused  the  national  curiosity  as  not  only  venial, 
but  laudable.  In  1824,  he  wrote — "  Where  men  live  in  woods  and 
forests,  as  is  the  case,  of  course,  in  remote  American  settlements, 
it  is  the  duty  of  every  man  to  gratify  the  inhabitants  by  telling 
them  his  name,  place,  age,  oflice,  virtues,  crimes,  children,  fortune, 
and  remarks."  It  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise,  therefore,  that  this 
percontatorial  foible  has  grown  with  the  national  growth. 

You  cannot  help  perceiving  that  the  lion  in  America  is  public  pro- 
perty and  confiscate  to  the  common  weal.  They  trim  the  creature's 
nails,  they  cut  the  hair  off  his  mane  and  tail  (which  is  distributed  or 
sold  to  his  admirers),  and  they  draw  his  teeth,  which  are  frequently 
preserved  with  much  the  same  care  as  you  keep  any  memorable 
grinder  whose  presence  has  been  agony  and  departure  delight. 


ME.   THACKERAY   IN   THE   UNITED    STATES     635 

Bear-leading  is  not  so  much  in  ■vogue  across  the  Atlantic  as  at  your 
home  in  England ;  but  the  lion-leading  is  infinitely  more  in  fashion. 

Some  learned  man  is  appointed  Androcles  to  the  new  arrival. 
One  of  the  familiars  of  the  press  is  despatched  to  attend  the  latest 
attraction,  and  by  this  reflecting  medium  the  lion  is  perpetually 
presented  to  the  popular  gaze.  The  guest's  most  secret  self  is 
exposed  by  his  host.  Every  action — every  word — every  gesture 
is  preserved  and  proclaimed — a  sigh — a  nod — a  groan — a  sneeze — 
a  cough — or  a  wink — is  each  written  down  by  this  recording 
minister,  who  blots  out  nothing.  No  tabula  rasa  with  him.  The 
portrait  is  limned  with  the  fidelity  of  Parrhasius,  and  filled  up  with 
the  minuteness  of  the  Daguerre  process  itself.  No  bloodhound 
or  Bow-Street  oflicer  can  be  keener  or  more  exact  on  the  trail  than 
this  irresistible  and  unavoidable  spy.  'Tis  in  Austria  they  calotype 
criminals :  in  the  far  West  the  public  press  prints  the  identity  of 
each  notorious  visitor  to  its  shores. 

In  turn,  Mr.  Dickens,  Lord  Carlisle,  Jenny  Lind,  and  now  Mr. 
Thackeray,  have  been  lionised  in  America. 

"  They  go  to  see,  themselves  a  greater  sight  than  all." 

In  providing  for  a  gaping  audience,  narrators  are  disposed  rather 
to  go  beyond  reality.  Your  famous  Oriental  lecturer  at  the  British 
and  Foreign  Institute  had  a  wallet  of  personal  experience,  from 
which  Lemuel  Gulliver  might  have  helped  himself.  With  such 
hyperbole  one  or  two  of  "our  own  correspondents"  of  American 
journals  tell  Mr.  Thackeray  more  about  his  habits  than  he  himself 
was  cognisant  of.  Specially  I  have  selected  from  the  Sachem  and 
Broadway  Delineator  (the  latter-named  newspaper  has  quite  a 
fabulous  circulation)  a  pleasant  history  of  certain  of  the  peculiarities 
of  your  great  humorist  at  which  I  believe  he  himself  must  smile. 

Mr.  Thackeray's  person,  height,  breadth,  hair,  complexion, 
voice,  gesticulation,  and  manner  are,  with  a  fair  enough  accuracy, 
described. 

Anon,  these  recorders,  upon  which  we  play,  softly  whisper — 

"One  of  his  most  singular  habits  is  that  of  making  rough 
sketches  for  caricatures  on  his  finger-nails.  The  phosphoretic  ink 
he  originally  used  has  destroyed  the  entire  nails,  so  his  fingers  are 
now  tipped  with  horn,  on  which  he  draws  his  portraits.  The  Duke 
of  Marlboro'  (under  Queen  Anne),  General  O'Gahagan  (under  Lord 
Lake),  together  with  Ibrahim  Pasha  (at  the  Turkish  Ambassador's), 
were  thus  taken.  The  celebrated  engravings  in  the  '  Paris  Sketch 
Book,'  '  Esmond,'  &c.,  were  made  from  these  sketches.  He  has  an 
insatiable  passion  for  snuflF,  which  he  carries  loose  in  his  pockets. 


636        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

At  a  ball  at  the  Duke  of  Northumberland's,  he  set  a  whole  party 
sneezing,  in  a  polka,  in  so  convulsive  a  manner  that  they  were 
obliged  to  break  up  in  confusion.  His  pockets  are  all  lined  with 
tea-lead,  after  a  fashion  introduced  by  the  late  Lord  Dartmouth. 

"  Mr.  T.  has  a  passion  for  daguerreotypes,  of  which  he  has  a 
collection  of  many  thousands.  Most  of  these  he  took  unobserved 
from  the  outer  gallery  of  Saint  Paul's.  He  generally  carries  his 
apparatus  in  one  of  Sangster's  alpaca  umbrellas,  surmounted  with 
a  head  of  Doctor  Syntax.  (This  umbrella,  we  believe,  remained 
with  the  publishers  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  after  the  article  on  the 
London  Exhibitions,  in  which  it  was  alluded  to.)  He  has  been 
known  to  collar  a  beggar  boy  in  the  streets,  drag  him  off  to  the 
nearest  pastrycook's,  and  exercise  his  photographic  art  without 
ceremony.  In  London  he  had  a  tame  laughing  hyaena  presented 
to  him,  on  the  breaking  up  of  the  Tower  menagerie,  which  followed 
him  like  a  dog,  and  was  much  attached  to  his  master,  though 
totally  blind  from  confinement,  deaf,  and  going  on  three  legs  and  a 
wooden  one.  He  was  always  surrounded  by  pets  and  domestic 
animals  in  his  house ;  two  owls  live  in  the  ivy-tod  of  the  summer- 
house  in  the  garden.  His  back  sitting-room  has  an  aviary. 
Monkeys,  dogs,  parrots,  cats,  and  guinea-pigs  swarm  in  the 
chambers.  The  correspondent  of  the  Buffalo  Revolver,  who  stayed 
three  weeks  with  Mr.  Thackeray  during  the  Great  Exhibition,  gave 
us  these  particulars. 

"  His  papers  on  the  '  Greater  Petty  Chaps '  or  '  Garden  Warbler 
(Sylva  hortensis),'  '  the  Fauvette,'  created  an  immense  sensation 
when  Madame  Otto  Goldschmidt  was  last  in  London.  The  study 
is  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  The  outside  is  richly  covered  with 
honeysuckle,  jasmine,  and  Virginian  creepers.  Here  Mr.  T.  sits 
in  perfect  solitude,  'chewing  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy.' 
Being  an  early  riser,  he  is  generally  to  be  found  there  in  the  morn- 
ing, whence  he  can  watch  the  birds.  His  daily  costume  is  a 
hanging  chlamys,  or  frock-coat,  which  he  closely  buttons,  to  avoid 
the  encumbrance  of  a  waistcoat.  Hence  the  multiplicity  of  his 
coat-pockets,  whose  extreme  utility  to  him  during  his  lecture  has 
been  remarked  elsewhere.  He  wears  no  braces,  but  his  nether 
garments  are  sustained  by  a  suspensory  belt  or  bandage  of  hemp 
round  his  loins.  Socks  or  stockings  he  despises  as  effeminate,  and 
has  been  heard  to  sigh  for  the  days  of  the  Solea  or  o-olvMXlov.  A 
hair-shirt  close  to  the  skin,  as  Dejanira's  robe,  with  a  changeable 
linen  front  of  the  finest  texture ;  a  mortification,  or  penance, 
according  to  his  cynical  contempt  and  yet  respect  for  human  vanity, 
is  a  part  of  liis  ordinary  apparel.  A  gibus  hat  and  a  pair  of 
bluchers  complete  his  attire.     By  a  contrivance  borrowed  from  the 


MR.  THACKERAY   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES    637 

disguises  of  pantomimists,  he  undresses  himself  in  the  twinkling  of 
a  bedpost ;  and  can  slip  into  bed  while  an  ordinary  man  is  pulling 
oflf  his  coat.  He  is  awaked  from  his  sleep  (lying  always  on  his 
back  in  a  sort  of  mesmeric  trance)  by  a  black  servant  (Joe's 
domestic  in  '  Vanity  Fair '),  who  enters  the  bedroom  at  four  o'clock 
precisely  every  morning,  winter  or  summer,  tears  down  the  bed- 
clothes, and  literally  saturates  his  master  with  a  can  of  cold  water 
drawn  from  the  nearest  spring.  As  he  has  no  whiskers,  he  never 
needs  to  shave,  and  he  is  used  to  clean  his  teeth  with  the  feather 
end  of  the  quill  with  which  he  writes  in  bed.  (In  this  free  and 
enlightened  country  he  will  find  he  need  not  waste  his  time  in 
cleaning  his  teeth  at  all.)  With  all  his  excessive  simplicity,  he  is 
as  elaborate  in  the  arrangement  of  his  dress  as  Count  d'Orsay  or 
Mr.  Brummel.  His  toilet  occupies  him  after  matin  studies  till 
midday.  He  then  sits  down  to  a  substantial  '  bever,'  or  luncheon 
of  'tea,  coffee,  bread,  butter,  salmon-shad,  liver,  black  puddings, 
and  sausages.'  At  the  top  of  this  he  deposits  two  glasses  of  ratafia 
and  three-fourths  of  a  glass  of  rum-shrub.  Immediately  after  the 
meal  his  horses  are  brought  to  the  door;  he  starts  at  once  m  a 
mad  gallop,  or  coolly  commences  a  gentle  amble,  according  to  the 
character  of  the  work,  fast  or  slow,  that  he  is  engaged  upon. 

"  He  pays  no  visits,  and  being  a  solitudinarian,  frequents  not 
even  a  single  club  in  London.  He  dresses  punctiliously  for  dinner 
every  day.  He  is  but  a  sorry  eater,  and  avoids  all  vegetable  diet, 
as  he  thinks  it  dims  the  animal  spirits.  Only  when  engaged 
on  pathetic  subjects  does  he  make  a  hearty  meal ;  for  the  body 
macerated  by  long  fasting,  he  says,  cannot  unaided  contribute  the 
tears  he  would  shed  over  what  he  writes.  Wine  he  abhors,  as  a 
true  Mussulman.  Mr.  T.'s  favourite  drink  is  gin  and  toast  and 
w^ater,  or  cider  and  bitters,  cream  and  cayenne. 


"  In  religion  a  Parsee  (he  was  born  in  Calcutta),  in  morals  a 
Stagyrite,  in  philosophy  an  Epicurean ;  though  nothing  in  his  con- 
versation or  manners  would  lead  one  to  surmise  that  he  belonged  to 
either  or  any  of  these  sects.  In  politics  an  unflinching  Tory ;  fond 
of  the  Throne,  admiring  the  Court,  attached  to  the  peerage,  proud 
of  the  ai-my  and  navy ;  a  thick  and  thin  upholder  of  Church  and 
State,  he  is  for  tithes  and  taxes  as  in  Pitt's  time.  He  wears  hair 
powdered  to  thLs  day,  from  his  entire  reliance  on  the  wisdom  of  his 
forefathers.  Besides  his  novels,  he  is  the  author  of  the  '  Vestiges  of 
Creation,'  the  'Errors  of  Numismatics,'  'Junius's  Letters,'  and 
'  Ivanhoe.'  The  sequel  to  this  last  he  published  three  or  four  years 
ago.     He  wrote  all  Louis  Napoleon's  works,   and  Madame  H.'a 


638        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

exquisite  love  letters ;  and  whilst  secretary  to  that  prince  in  con- 
finement at  Ham,  assisted  him  in  his  escape,  by  knocking  down 
the  sentry  with  a  ruler  with  which  he  had  been  ruling  accounts. 
Mr.  T.  is  very  fond  of  boxing,  and  used  to  have  an  occasional  set-to 
■with  Ben  Caunt,  the  Tipton  Slasher,  and  young  Sambo.  He  fences 
admirably,  and  ran  the  celebrated  Bertrand  through  the  lungs  twice, 
at  an  assaut  d'armes  in  Paris.  He  is  an  exquisite  dancer,  he 
founded  Laurent's  Casino  (was  a  pupil  of  Old  Grimaldi,  surnamed 
Iron  Legs),  and  played  Harlequin  in  '  Mother  Goose '  pantomime 
once,  when  Ella,  the  regular  performer,  was  taken  ill  and  unable 
to  appear. 

"  He  has  no  voice,  ear,  or  fancy  even,  for  music,  and  the  only 
instruments  he  cares  to  listen  to  are  the  Jew's-harp,  the  bagpipes, 
and  the  '  Indian  drum.' 

"He  is  disputatious  and  loquacious  to  a  degree  in  company; 
and  at  a  dinner  at  the  Bishop  of  Oxford's,  the  discussion  with  Mr. 
Macaulay  respecting  the  death  of  Mausolus,  the  husband  of  Zenobia, 
occupied  the  disputants  for  thirteen  hours  ere  either  rose  to  retire. 
Mr.  Macaulay  was  found  exhausted  under  the  table.  He  has  no 
acquaintance  with  modern  languages,  and  his  French,  which  he 
freely  uses  throughout  his  writings,  is  furnished  by  the  Parisian 
governess  in  the  Baron  de  B.'s  establishment.  In  the  classics 
he  is  superior  to  either  Professor  Sedgwick  or  Blackie  {vide  his 
'  Colloquies  on  Strabo,'  and  the  '  Curtian  Earthquake ').  He  was 
twice  senior  opt.  at  Magdalen  College,  and  three  times  running 
carried  off  Barnes's  prize  for  Greek  Theses  and  Cantate,"  k.  t.  X. 


Happily  these  delicate  attentions  have  not  ruffled  Mr.  Thackeray's 
good  temper  and  genial  appreciation  of  the  high  position  occupied 
by  literary  men  in  the  United  States.  Let  me  avow  that  this 
position  not  only  reflects  credit  on  the  country  which  awards  it,  but 
helps  to  shed  its  lustre  on  the  men  of  letters  who  become  the  guests 
of  its  hospitality.  Mr.  Thackeray's  last  lecture  of  the  series,  on  the 
7th  ult.,  gracefully  conceded  this  in  the  following  tribute  : — 

"  In  England  it  was  my  custom,  after  the  delivery  of  these 
lectures,  to  point  such  a  moral  as  seemed  to  befit  the  country  I  lived 
in,  and  to  protest  against  an  outcry,  which  some  brother  authors 
of  mine  most  imprudently  and  unjustly  raise,  when  they  say  that 
our  profession  is  neglected  and  its  professors  held  in  light  esteem. 
Speaking  in  this  country,  I  would  say  that  such  a  complaint  could 
not  only  not  be  advanced,  but  could  not  be  even  understood  here, 
where  your  men  of  letters  take  their  manly  share  in  public  life ; 


MR.  THACKERAY   IN   THE  UNITED   STATES     639 

whence  Everett  goes  as  Minister  to  Washington,  and  Irving  and 
Bancroft  to  represent  the  republic  in  the  old  country.  And  if  to 
English  authors  the  English  public  is,  as  I  believe,  kind  and  just  in 
the  main,  can  any  of  us  say,  will  any  who  visit  your  country  not 
proudly  and  gratefully  own,  with  what  a  cordial  and  generous  greet- 
ing you  receive  us  1  I  look  round  on  this  great  company.  I  think 
of  my  gallant  young  patrons  of  the  Mercantile  Library  Association, 
as  whose  servant  I  appear  before  you,  and  of  the  kind  hands 
stretched  out  to  welcome  me  by  men  famous  in  letters,  and  honoured 
in  our  country  as  in  their  own,  and  I  thank  you  and  them  for  a 
most  kindly  greeting  and  a  most  generous  hospitality.  At  home, 
and  amongst  his  own  people,  it  scarce  becomes  an  English  writer  to 
speak  of  himself;  his  public  estimation  must  depend  upon  his  works  ; 
his  private  esteem  on  his  character  and  his  life.  But  here,  among 
friends  newly  found,  I  ask  leave  to  say  that  I  am  thankful ;  and  I 
think  vrith  a  grateful  heart  of  those  I  leave  behind  me  at  home,  who 
will  be  proud  of  the  welcome  you  hold  out  to  me,  and  wiR  benefit, 
please  God,  when  my  days  of  work  are  over,  by  the  kindness  which 
you  show  to  their  father." 

John  Small. 


GOETHE  IN  HIS  OLD  AGE  * 

London  :  April  28,  1855. 

DEAR  LEWES, — I  wish  I  had  more  to  tell  you  regarding 
Weimar  and  Goethe.  Five-and-twenty  years  ago,  at  least 
a  score  of  young  English  lads  used  to  live  at  Weimar  for 
study,  or  sport,  or  society :  all  of  which  were  to  be  had  in  the 
friendly  little  Saxon  capital.  The  Grand  Duke  and  Duchess  re- 
ceived us  with  the  kindliest  hospitality.  The  Court  was  splendid, 
but  yet  most  pleasant  and  homely.  We  were  invited  in  our  turns 
to  dinners,  balls,  and  assemblies  there.  Such  young  men  as  had 
a  right  appeared  in  uniforms,  diplomatic  and  military.  Some,  I 
remember,  invented  gorgeous  clothing :  the  kind  old  Hof-Marschall 
of  those  days,  Monsieur  de  Spiegel  (who  had  two  of  the  most 
lovely  daughters  eyes  ever  looked  on),  being  in  nowise  difficult 
as  to  the  admission  of  these  young  Englanders.  Of  the  winter 
nights  we  used  to  charter  sedan-chairs,  in  which  we  were  carried 
through  the  snow  to  those  pleasant  Court  entertainments.  I  for 
my  part  had  the  good  luck  to  purchase  Schiller's  sword,  which 
formed  a  part  of  my  Court  costume,  and  still  hangs  in  my  study, 
and  puts  me  in  mind  of  days  of  youth  the  most  kindly  and 
delightful. 

We  knew  the  whole  society  of  the  little  city,  and  but  that  the 
young  ladies,  one  and  all,  spoke  admirable  English,  we  surely  might 
have  learned  the  very  best  German.  The  society  met  constantly. 
The  ladies  of  the  Court  had  their  evenings.  The  theatre  was  open 
twice  or  thrice  in  the  week,  where  we  assembled,  a  large  family 
party.  Goethe  had  retired  from  the  direction,  but  the  great  tradi- 
tions remained  still.  The  theatre  was  admirably  conducted ;  and 
besides  the  excellent  Weimar  company,  famous  actors  and  singers 
from  various  parts  of  Germany  performed  "  GastroUe  "  t  through 
the  winter.    In  that  winter  I  remember  we  had  Ludwig  Devrient  in 

*  This  letter  was  written  by  Mr.  Thackeray  in  answer  to  a  request  from 
G.  H.  Lewes  for  some  account  of  his  recollections  of  Goethe.  It  is  printed  in 
Lewes's  "Life  of  Goethe,"  p.  560. 

f  What  in  England  are  called  "  starring  engagements." 


GOETHE    IN    HIS    OLD    AGE  641 

Shylock,  «  Hamlet,"  Falstafif,  and  the  "  Robbers  "  ;  and  the  beautiful 
Schroder  in  "  Fidelio." 

After  three-and-twenty  years'  absence  I  passed  a  couple  of 
summer  days  in  the  well-remembered  place,  and  was  fortunate 
enough  to  find  some  of  the  friends  of  my  youth.  Madame  de 
Goethe  was  there,  and  received  me  and  my  daughters  with  the 
kindness  of  old  days.  We  drank  tea  in  the  open  air  at  the  famous 
cottage  in  the  Park,*  which  still  belongs  to  the  family,  and  has 
been  so  often  inhabited  by  her  illustrious  father. 

In  1831,  though  he  had  retired  from  the  world,  Goethe  would 
nevertheless  very  kindly  receive  strangers.  His  daughter-in-law's  tea- 
table  was  always  spread  for  us.  We  passed  hours  after  hours  there, 
and  night  after  night,  with  the  pleasantest  talk  and  music.  We 
read  over  endless  novels  and  poems  in  French,  English,  and  German. 
My  delight  in  those  days  was  to  make  caricatures  for  children.  I 
was  touched  to  find  that  they  were  remembered,  and  some  even 
kept  until  the  present  time ;  and  very  proud  to  be  told,  as  a  lad, 
that  the  great  Goethe  had  looked  at  some  of  them. 

He  remained  in  his  private  apartments,  where  only  a  very  few 
privileged  persons  were  admitted;  but  he  liked  to  know  all  that 
was  happening,  and  interested  himself  about  all  strangers.  When- 
ever a  countenance  struck  his  fancy,  there  was  an  artist  settled  in 
Weimar  who  made  a  portrait  of  it.  Goethe  had  quite  a  gallery  of 
heads,  in  black  and  white,  taken  by  this  painter.  His  house  was 
all  over  pictures,  drawings,  casts,  statues,  and  medals. 

Of  course  I  remember  very  well  the  perturbation  of  spirit  with 
which,  as  a  lad  of  nineteen,  I  received  the  long-expected  intimation 
that  the  Herr  Geheimrath  would  see  me  on  such  a  morning.  This 
notable  audience  took  place  in  a  little  ante-chamber  of  his  private 
apartments,  covered  all  round  with  antique  casts  and  bas-reliefs. 
He  was  habited  in  a  long  grey  or  drab  redingote,  with  a  white 
neckcloth  and  a  red  ribbon  in  his  button-hole.  He  kept  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  just  as  in  Eauch's  statuette.  His  complexion 
was  very  bright,  clear,  and  rosy.  His  eyes  extraordinarily  dark,t 
piercing  and  brilliant.  I  felt  quite  afraid  before  them,  and  recollect 
comparing  them  to  the  eyes  of  the  hero  of  a  certain  romance  called 
"  Melmoth  the  Wanderer,"  which  iised  to  alarm  us  boys  thirty 
years  ago ;  eyes  of  an  individual  who  had  made  a  bargain  with  a 
Certain  Person,  and  at  an  extreme  old  age  retained  these  eyes  in 
all  their  awful  splendour.  I  fancy  Goethe  must  have  been  still 
more  handsome  as  an  old  man  than  even  in  the  days  of  his  youth. 

*  The  Garlenhaus. 

f  This  must  have  been  the  effect  of  the  position  in  which  he  sat  with  regard 
to  the  light.     Goethe's  eyes  were  dark  brown,  but  not  very  dark. 

13  2  S 


642        VAEIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

His  voice  was  very  rich  and  sweet.  He  asked  me  questions  about 
myself,  which  I  answered  as  best  I  could.  I  recollect  I  was  at 
first  astonished,  and  then  somewhat  relieved,  when  I  found  he 
spoke  French  with  not  a  good  accent. 

Vidi  tantmn.  I  saw  him  but  three  times.  Once  walking  in 
the  garden  of  his  house  in  the  Fraiienplan ;  once  going  to  step 
into  his  chariot  on  a  sunshiny  day,  wearing  a  cap  and  a  cloak  with 
a  red  collar.  He  was  caressing  at  the  time  a  beautiful  little  golden- 
aired  granddaughter,  over  whose  sweet  fair  face  the  earth  has  long 
since  closed  too. 

Any  of  us  who  had  books  or  magazines  from  England  sent  them 
to  him,  and  he  examined  them  eagerly.  Fraser's  Magazine  had 
lately  come  out,  and  I  remember  he  was  interested  in  those  admir- 
able outline  portraits  which  appeared  for  awhile  in  its  pages.  But 
there  was  one,  a  very  ghastly  caricature  of  Mr.  Eogers,  which,  as 
Madame  de  Goethe  told  me,  he  shut  up  and  put  away  from  him 
angrily.  "They  would  make  me  look  like  that,"  he  said  :  though 
in  truth  I  can  fancy  nothing  more  serene,  majestic,  and  healthy- 
looking  than  the  grand  old  Goethe. 

Though  his  sun  was  setting,  the  sky  round  about  was  calm 
and  bright,  and  that  little  Weimar  illumined  by  it.  In  every  one 
of  those  kind  salons  the  talk  was  still  of  Art  and  Letters.  The 
theatre,  though  possessing  no  very  extraordinary  actors,  was  still 
connected  with  a  noble  intelligence  and  order.  The  actors  read 
books,  and  were  men  of  letters  and  gentlemen,  holding  a  not 
unkindly  relationship  with  the  Adel.  At  Court  the  conversation 
was  exceedingly  friendly,  simple,  and  polished.  The  Grand  Duchess 
(the  present  Grand  Duchess  Dowager),  a  lady  of  very  remarkable 
endowments,  would  kindly  borrow  our  books  from  us,  lend  us  her 
own,  and  graciously  talk  to  us  young  meu  about  our  literary  taste 
and  pursuits.  In  the  respect  paid  by  this  Court  to  the  Patriarch 
of  letters,  there  was  something  ennobling,  I  think,  alike  to  the 
subject  and  sovereign.  With  a  five-and-twenty  years'  experience 
since  those  happy  days  of  which  I  write,  and  an  acquaintance  with 
an  immense  variety  of  human  kind,  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a 
society  more  simple,  charitable,  courteous,  gentleman-like,  than  that 
of  the  dear  little  Saxon  city  where  the  good  Schiller  and  the  great 
Goethe  lived  and  lie  buried. — Very  sincerely  yours, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


A   LEAF  OUT  OF  A   SKETCH-BOOK 


IF  you  will  take  a  leaf  out  of  my  sketch-book,  you  are  welcome. 
It  is  only  a  scrap,  but  I  have  nothing  better  to  give.  When 
the  fishing-boats  come  in  at  a  watering-place,  haven't  you  re- 
marked that  though  these  may  be  choking  with  great  fish,  you 
can  only  get  a  few  herrings  or  a  wliiting  or  two?  The  big  fish 
are  aU  bespoken  in  London.  As  it  is  with  fish,  so  it  is  with 
authors,  let  us  hope.  Some  Mr.  Charles  of  Paternoster  Eow,  some 
Mr.  Grove  of  Oornhill  (or  elsewhere),  has  agreed  for  your  turbots 
and  your  salmon,  your  soles  and  your  lobsters.  Take  one  of  my 
little  fish — any  leaf  you  like  out  of  the  little  book — a  battered 
little  book :  through  what  a  number  of  countries,  to  be  sure,  it  has 
travelled  in  this  pocket ! 

The  sketches  are  but  poor  performances,  say  you.  I  don't  say 
no ;  and  value  them  no  higher  than  you  do,  except  as  recollections 
of  the  past.  The  little  scrawl  helps  to  fetch  back  the  scene  which 
was  present  and  alive  once,  and  is  gone  away  now,  and  dead.  The 
past  resurges  out  of  its  grave  :  comes  up — a  sad-eyed  ghost  some- 
times— and  gives  a  wan  ghost-like  look  of  recognition,  ere  it  pops 
down  under  cover  again.  Here's  the  Thames,  an  old  graveyard, 
an  old  church,  and  some  old  chestnuts  standing  behind  it.  Ah ! 
it  was  a  very  cheery  place,  that  old  graveyard ;  but  what  a 
dismal,  cut-throat,  cracked-windowed,  disreputable  residence  was 
that  "  charming  villa  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,"  which  led  me 
on  the  day's  excursion!  Why,  the  "capacious  stabling"  was  a 
ruinous  wooden  old  barn,  the  garden  was  a  mangy  potato  patch, 
overlooked  by  the  territories  of  a  neighbouring  washerwoman.  The 
housekeeper  owned  that  the  water  was  constantly  in  the  cellars  and 
ground-floor  rooms  in  winter.  Had  I  gone  to  live  in  that  place, 
I  should  have  perished  like  a  flower  in  spring,  or  a  young  gazelle, 
let  us  say,  with  dark  blue  eyes.  I  had  spent  a  day  and  hired  a 
fly  at  ever  so  much  charges,  misled  by  an  unveracious  auctioneer, 
against  whom  I  have  no  remedy  for  publishing  that  abominable 
work  of  fiction  which  led  me  to  make  a  journey,  lose  a  day,  and 
waste  a  guinea. 


644       VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

What  is  the  next  picture  in  the  little  show-book?  It  is  a 
scene  at  Calais.  The  sketch  is  entitled  "The  Little  Merchant." 
He  was  a  dear  pretty  little  rosy-cheeked  merchant,  four  years  old 
maybe.  He  had  a  little  scarlet  hipi  ;  a  little  military  frock-coat ; 
a  little  pair  of  military  red  trousers  and  boots,  which  did  not  near 
touch  the  ground  from  the  chair  on  which  he  sat  sentinel.  He 
was  a  little  crockery  merchant,  and  the  wares  over  which  he  was 
keeping  guard,  sitting  surrounded  by  walls  and  piles  of  them  as 

in  a  little  castle,  were well,  I  never  saw  such  a  queer  little 

crockery  merchant. 

Him  and  his  little  chair,  boots,  Ttipi,  crockery,  you  can  see  in 
the  sketch — but  I  see,  nay,  hear,  a  great  deal  more.  At  the  end 
of  the  quiet  little  old  old  street,  which  has  retired  out  of  the 
world's  business  as  it  were,  being  quite  too  aged,  feeble,  and  musty 
to  take  any  part  in  life — there  is  a  great  braying  and  bellowing  of 
serpents  and  bassoons,  a  nasal  chant  of  clerical  voices,  and  a  patter- 
ing of  multitudinous  feet.  We  run  towards  the  market.  It  is  a 
Church  fgte  day.  Banners  painted  and  gilt  with  images  of  saints 
are  flaming  in  the  sun.  Candles  are  held  aloft,  feebly  twinkling 
in  the  noontide  shine.  A  great  procession  of  children  with  white 
veils,  white  shoes,  white  roses,  passes,  and  the  whole  town  is 
standing  with  its  hat  off  to  see  the  religious  show.  When  I  look 
at  my  little  merchant,  then,  I  not  only  see  him,  but  that  procession 
passing  over  the  place ;  and  as  I  see  those  people  in  their  surplices, 
I  can  almost  see  Eustache  de  Saint  Pierre  and  his  comrades  walking 
in  their  shirts  to  present  themselves  to  Edward  and  Philippa  of 
blessed  memory.  And  they  stand  before  the  wrathful  monarch, — 
poor  fellows,  meekly  shuddering  in  their  chemises,  with  ropes  round 
their  necks ;  and  good  Philippa  kneels  before  the  royal  conqueror, 
and  says,  "  My  King,  my  Edward,  my  heau  Sire !  Give  these 
citizens  their  lives  for  our  Lady's  gramercy  and  the  sake  of  thy 
Philippa  ! "  And  the  Plantagenet  growls,  and  scowls,  and  softens, 
and  he  lets  those  burgesses  go.  This  novel  and  remarkable  historical 
incident  passes  through  my  mind  as  I  see  the  clergymen  and  clergy- 
boys  pass  in  their  little  short  white  surplices  on  a  mid- August  day. 
The  balconies  are  full,  the  bells  are  all  in  a  jangle,  and  the  blue 
noonday  sky  quivers  overhead. 

I  suppose  other  pen  and  pencil  sketchers  have  the  same  feeling. 
The  sketch  brings  back,  not  only  the  scene,  but  the  circumstances 
under  which  the  scene  was  viewed.  In  taking  up  an  old  book, 
for  instance,  written  in  former  days  by  your  humble  servant,  he 
comes  upon  passages  which  are  outwardly  lively  and  facetious, 
but  inspire  their  writer  with  the  most  dismal  melancholy.  I 
lose  all  cognisance  of  the  text  sometimes,  which  is  hustled  and 


A    LEAF    OUT    OF    A    SKETCH-BOOK         645 

elbowed  out  of  sight  by  the  crowd  of  thoughts  which  throng 
forward,  and  which  were  alive  and  active  at  the  time  that  text 
was  born.  Ah,  my  good  sir !  a  man's  books  mayn't  be  interesting 
(and  I  could  mention  other  authors'  works  besides  this  one's 
which  set  me  to  sleep),  but  if  you  knew  all  a  writer's  thoughts, 
how  interesting  his  book  would  be !  Why,  a  grocer's  day-book 
might  be  a  wonderful  history,  if  alongside  of  the  entries  of  cheese, 
pickles,  and  figs,  you  could  read  the  circumstances  of  the  writer's 
life,  and  the  griefs,  hopes,  joys,  which  caused  the  heart  to  beat, 
while  the  hand  was  writing  and  the  ink  flowing  fresh.  Ah 
memory !  ah  the  past !  ah  the  sad  sad  past !  Look  under  this 
waistcoat,  my  dear  madam.  There.  Over  the  liver.  Don't  be 
frightened.  You  can't  see  it.  But  there,  at  this  moment,  I  assure 
you,  there  is  an  enormous  vulture  gnawing,  gnawing. 

Turn  over  the  page.  You  can't  deny  that  this  is  a  nice  little 
sketch  of  a  quaint  old  town,  with  city  towers,  and  an  embattled 
town  gate,  with  a  hundred  peaked  gables,  and  rickety  balconies, 
and  gardens  sweeping  down  to  the  river  wall,  with  its  toppling 
ancient  summer-houses  under  which  the  river  rushes ;  the  rushing 
river,  the  talking  river,  that  murmurs  all  day,  and  brawls  all 
night  over  the  stones.  At  early  morning  and  evening  under  this 
terrace  which  you  see  in  tlie  sketch — it  is  the  terrace  of  the 
Steinbock  or  Capricorn  Hotel — the  cows  come ;  and  there,  under 
the  walnut-trees,  before  the  tannery,  is  a  fountain  and  pump  where 
the  maids  come  in  the  afternoon,  and  for  some  hours  make  a  clatter 
as  noisy  as  the  river.  Mountains  gird  it  around,  clad  in  dark 
green  firs,  with  purple  shadows  gushing  over  their  sides,  and 
glorious  changes  and  gradations  of  sunrise  and  setting.  A  more 
picturesque,  quaint,  kind,  quiet  little  town  than  this  of  Coire, 
in  the  Orisons,  I  have  seldom  seen ;  or  a  more  comfortable  little 
inn  than  this  of  the  Steinbock  or  Capricorn,  on  the  terrace  of 
which  we  are  standing.  But  quick,  let  us  turn  the  page.  To 
look  at  it  makes  one  horribly  melancholy.  As  we  are  on  the 
inn-terrace,  one  of  our  party  lies  ill  in  the  hotel  within.  When 
will  that  doctor  come?  Can  we  trust  to  a  Swiss  doctor  in  a 
remote  little  town  away  at  the  confines  of  the  railway  world? 
He  is  a  good,  sensible,  complacent  doctor,  laus  Deo, — the  people 
of  the  hotel  as  kind,  as  attentive,  as  gentle,  as  eager  to  oblige. 
But  oh,  the  gloom  of  those  sunshiny  days ;  the  sickening  languor 
and  doubt  which  fill  the  heart  as  the  hand  is  making  yonder  sketch, 
and  I  think  of  the  invalid  sufi'ering  within  ! 

Quick,  turn  the  page.  And  what  is  herel  This  picture, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  represents  a  steamer  on  the  Alabama  river, 
plying  (or  which  plied)  between  Montgomery  and  Mobile.     See, 


646        VARIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

there  is  a  black  nurse  with  a  cotton  handkerchief  round  her  head, 
dandling  and  tossing  a  white  baby.  Look  in  at  the  open  door 
of  that  cabin,  or  "  state-room "  as  they  call  the  crib  yonder.  A 
mother  is  leaning  by  a  bed-place ;  and  see,  kicking  up  in  the  air, 
are  a  little  pair  of  white  fat  legs,  over  which  that  happy  young 
mother  is  bending  in  such  happy  tender  contemplation.  That  gentle- 
man with  a  forked  beard  and  a  slouched  hat,  whose  legs  are  sprawl- 
ing here  and  there,  and  who  is  stabbing  his  mouth  and  teeth  with 
his  penknife,  is  quite  good-natured,  though  he  looks  so  fierce.  A 
little  time  ago,  as  I  was  reading  in  the  cabin,  having  one  book  in 
my  hand  and  another  at  my  elbow,  he  affably  took  the  book 
at  my  elbow,  read  in  it  a  little,  and  put  it  down  by  my  side 
again.  He  meant  no  harm.  I  say  he  is  quite  good-natured 
and  kind.  His  manners  are  not  those  of  Mayfair,  but  is  not 
Alabama  a  river  as  well  as  Thames?  I  wish  that  other  little 
gentleman  were  in  the  cabin  who  asked  me  to  liquor  twice  or 
thrice  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  but  whose  hospitality  I 
declined,  preferring  not  to  be  made  merry  by  wine  or  strong 
waters  before  dinner.  After  dinner,  in  return  for  his  hospitality, 
I  asked  him  if  he  would  drink?  "No,  sir,  I  have  dined,"  he 
answered,  with  very  great  dignity,  and  a  tone  of  reproof  Very 
good.     Manners  differ.     I  have  not  a  word  to  say. 

Well,  my  little  Mentor  is  not  in  my  sketch,  but  he  is  in  my 
mind  as  I  look  at  it :  and  this  sketch,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is 
especially  interesting  and  valuable,  because  the  steamer  blew  up 
on  the  very  next  journey :  blew  up,  I  give  you  my  honour, — 
burst  her  boilers  close  by  my  state-room,  so  that  I  might,  had  I 
but  waited  for  a  week,  have  witnessed  a  celebrated  institution  of 
the  country,  and  had  the  full  benefit  of  the  boiling. 

I  turn  a  page,  and  who  are  these  little  men  who  appear  on  it  1 
Jim  and  Sady  are  two  young  friends  of  mine  at  Savannah  in 
Georgia.  I  made  Sady's  acquaintance  on  a  first  visit  to  America, — 
a  pretty  little  brown  boy  with  beautiful  bright  eyes, — and  it  appears 
that  I  presented  him  with  a  quarter  of  a  dollar,  which  princely  gift 
he  remembered  years  afterwards,  for  never  were  eyes  more  bright 
and  kind  than  the  little  man's  when  he  saw  me,  and  I  dined  with 
his  kind  masters  on  my  second  visit.  Jim  at  my  first  visit  had 
been  a  little  toddling  tadpole  of  a  creature,  but  during  the  interval 
of  the  two  journeys  had  developed  into  a  full-blown  beauty.  On 
the  day  after  my  arrival  these  young  persons  paid  me  a  visit,  and 
here  is  an  accurate  account  of  a  conversation  which  took  place 
between  us,  as  taken  down  on  the  spot  by  the  elder  of  the 
interlocutors. 

Jim  is  five  years  old  :  Sady  is  seben  :  only  Jim  is  a  great  deal 


A   LEAF    OUT    OF    A    SKETCH-BOOK         647 

fatter.  Jim  and  Sady  have  had  sausage  and  hominy  for  breakfast. 
One  sausage,  Jim's,  was  the  biggest.  Jim  can  sing,  but  declines  on 
being  pressed,  and  loolcs  at  Sady  and  grins.  They  both  work  in  de 
garden.  Jim  has  been  licked  by  Master,  but  Sady  never.  These 
are  their  best  clothes.  They  go  to  church  in  these  clothes.  Heard 
a  fine  sermon  yesterday,  but  don't  know  what  it  was  about.  Never 
heard  of  England,  never  heard  of  America.  Like  orangees  best. 
Don't  know  any  old  woman  who  sells  orangees.  (A  pecuniar^/ 
transaction  takes  place.)  Will  give  that  quarter-dollar  to  Pa. 
That  was  Pa  who  waited  at  dinner.  Are  hungry,  but  dinner  not 
cooked  yet.  Jim  all  the  while  is  revolving  on  his  axis,  and  when 
begged  to  stand  still  turns  round  in  a  fitful  manner. 

Exeunt  Jim  and  Sady  with  a  cake  apiece  which  the  homse- 
keeper  gives  them.     Jim,  tumbles  downstairs. 

In  his  little  red  jacket,  his  little — his  little  t — his  immense  red 
trousers,  such  a  queer  little  laughing  blackamoorkin  I  have  never 
seen.  Seen?  I  see  him  now,  and  Sady,  and  a  half-dozen  more 
of  the  good  people,  creeping  on  silent  bare  feet  to  the  drawing- 
room  door  when  the  music  begins,  and  listening  with  all  their  ears, 
with  all  their  eyes.  Good-night,  kind  warm-hearted  little  Sady  and 
Jim  !  May  peace  soon  be  within  your  doors,  and  plenty  within 
your  walls !  I  have  had  so  much  kindness  there,  that  I  grieve  to 
think  of  friends  in  arras,  and  brothers  in  anger. 


DR.  JOHNSON  AND  GOLDSMITH 


THIS  drawing  was  first  published  in  the  North  British  Review 
of  February  1864,  in  the  admirable  article  on  Thackeray  by 
Doctor  John  Brown.     It  had  been  sent  to  a  friend  with  the 
following  letter : — 

"  Behold  a  drawing  instead  of  a  letter.  I've  been  thinking  of 
writing  you  a  beautiful  one  ever  so  long,  but,  etc.,  etc.  And  instead 
of  doing  my  duty  this  morning,  I  began  this  here  drawing,  and  will 
pay  your  debt  some  other  day — no,  part  of  your  debt.  I  intend  to 
owe  the  rest,  and  like  to  owe  it,  and  think  I'm  sincerely  grateful  to 
you  always,  my  dear  good  friends.  W.  M.  T." 

The  letter  is  not  dated,  but  may  probably  be  placed  about  the 
time  of  the  "English  Humorists."  A  slight  sketch  of  the  two 
principal  figures  has  been  published  in  the  lecture  on  Sterne  and 
Goldsmith,  in  which  there  are  several  allusions  to  the  fine  clothes 
which  Filby  the  tailor  made  for  Goldsmith,  and  often  did  not  get 
paid  for. 


THE  HISTOEY 

OF 

DIONYSIUS   DIDDLEE 


THE  HISTORY  OF  DIONYSIUS  BIBDLER* 


LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN,— Many  thousand  years  ago,  in 
the  reign  of  Chrononhotonthologos,  King  of  Brentford,  there 
■^  lived  a  young  gentleman  whose  history  is  about  to  be  laid 
before  you. 

He  was  sixty  years  of  age,  and  his  name  was  Dionysius 
Diddler ;  no  relation  of  any  other  Dionysius,  nor,  indeed,  a  Brent- 
fordian  by  birth ;  for  (though  the  Diddlers  are  very  numerous  in 
Brentford)  this  was  a  young  fellow  from  Patland,  which  country  he 
quitted  at  a  very  early  age. 

He  was  by  trade  a  philosopher, — an  excellent  profession  in 
Brentford,  where  the  people  are  more  ignorant  and  more  easily 
huoabugged  than  any  people  on  earth ; — and  no  doubt  he  would 
have  made  a  pretty  fortune  by  his  philosophy,  but  the  rogue  longed 
to  be  a  man  of  fashion,  and  spent  all  his  money  in  buying  clothes, 
and  in  giving  treats  to  the  ladies,  of  whom  he  was  outrageously 
fond.  Not  that  they  were  very  partial  to  him,  for  he  was  not 
particularly  handsome — especially  without  his  wig  and  false  teeth, 
both  of  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  this  poor  Diddler  wore. 

Well,  the  consequence  of  this  extravagance  was,  that,  although 
by  his  learning  he  had  made  himself  famous  (there  was  his  Essay 
on  the  Tea-Kettle,  his  Eemarks  on  Pumps,  and  his  celebrated 
Closet  Cyclopsedia,  that  every  one  has  lieard  of) — one  day,  after 
forty  years  of  glory,  Diddler  found  himself  turned  out  of  his 
lodging,  without  a  penny,  without  his  .wig,  which  he  had  pawned, 
without  even  his  teeth,  which  he  had  pawned  too,  seeing  he  had 
no  use  for  them. 

And  now  befell  a  series  of  adventures  that  you  shall  all  hear ; 
and  so  take  warning,  ye  dashing  blades  of  the  town,  by  the  awful 
fate  of  Dionysius. 

*  First  published  in  the  Autographic  Mirror,  1864.     The  drawings  were 
made  about  1838. 


This  is  Dionysius  Diddler !  young,  innocent,  and  with  a  fine  head  of  hair, — 
when  he  was  a  student  in  the  University  of  Ballybunion. — That  is  Ballybunion 
University,  in  the  hedge. 


Here  he  is,  after  forty  years  ot  fame,  and  he  thinks  upon  dear  Ballybunion. 
"  I'm  femous,"  says  he,  "  all  the  world  over  :  but  what's  the  use  of  riputetion  ? 
Look  at  me  with  all  me  luggage  at  the  end  of  me  stick — all  me  money  in  me 
left-hand  breeches  pocket — and  it's  oh  !  but  I'd  give  all  me  celebrity  for  a  bowl 
of  butther-milk  and  potaties." 


He  goes  to  call  on  Mr.  Shortman,  the  publisher  of  the  "  Closet  Cyclopaedia," 
and,  sure  an  ouns  I  Mr.  Shortman  gives  him  three  sovereigns  and  three  £s 
notes. 


The  first  thing  he  does  is  to  take  his  wig  out  of  pawn. 


'  And  now,"  says  he,  "  I'll  go,  take  a  sthroll  to  the  Wist  Ind,  and  call  on 
me  frind.  Sir  Hinry  Pelham." 


He  pays  a  visit  to  Sir  Henry  Pelham. 


"  Fait ! "  says  Diddler,  "  the  what-d'ye-call-'ems  fit  me  like  a  glove,' 


'  And  upon  me  honour  and  conshience,  now  I'm  dthressed,  but  I  look 
intirely  ginteel." 


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THE   ORPHAN   OF    PIMLICO 


NOTE 


MISS  WIGG-LESWOETH'S  Moral  Tale  was  begun  at  Ken- 
sington one  evening  by  lamplight.  Her  specimen-pages 
were  put  together  vaguely  at  first ;  the  Moral  Preface  was 
written  afterwards,  and  the  Title-page  last  of  all.  One  page  of 
the  specimen  is  unfortunately  missing,  that  upon  which  the  Earl 
wrote  the  impassioned  verses  which  Rigolette  so  basely  gave  up 
to  the  wicked  Coideuvre.  Perhaps  the  Countess  destroyed  them. 
Perhaps  they  were  all  the  more  impressive  from  the  fact  that  they 
consisted  of  tags  only.  There  was  a  picture  of  the  unfortunate 
Earl  in  his  dressing-gown,  sitting  at  a  desk  in  the  agonies  of  com- 
position. Upstairs,  in  an  elegantly  furnished  drawing-room,  the 
sarcastic  Mordant  was  paying  his  deadly  compliments  to  the  frivolous 
Countess.  A.  I.  R. 


A  Morrtl  Tale  of  jSelmaviian  Li|e 


K 


6 


!H?ss .  M-T."W;tf<desw*rtii 


LONDON.  1851 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE   "HEIRESS  OP  PIMLIOO" 

THOSE  who  only  view  our  nobility  in  their  splendid  equipages 
or  gorgeous  opera-boxes,  who  fancy  that  their  life  is  a  routine 
of  pleasure,  and  that  the  rose-leaf  of  luxury  has  no  thorns, 
are,  alas,  wofuUy  mistaken  ! 

Care  oppresses  the  coronetted  brow,  and  there  is  a  skeleton  in 
the  most  elegant  houses  of  May  Fair !  The  authoress  has  visited 
many  of  them  and  been  on  terms  of  familiarity  (she  is  humbly  proud 
to  say)  with  more  than  one  patrician  family  ! 

The  knowledge  of  the  above  truths,  and  the  idea  that  to  dis- 
seminate them  amongst  my  countrymen  might  be  productive  of  a 
deep  and  lasting  benefit,  has  determined  me  (with  the  advice  of 
friends)  to  publish  my  tale  of  The  Heiress  of  Pimlico.  The 
present  is  the  mere  prologue  to  that  absorbing  and  harrowing  story, 
wherein  the  consequences  of  crime  and  the  beneficial  effects  of 
virtue,  the  manners  of  the  nobility,  the  best  Chm'ch  principles,  and 
the  purest  morality  are  pourtrayed. 

I  have  engaged  an  artist  at  considerable  expense  to  illustrate 
the  first  part  of  this  momentous  tale,  and  if  I  receive  encouragement 
(which  I  do  not  doubt),  shall  hasten  to  deliver  The  Tale  to  the 
public. 

The  Kev.  Mr.  Oriel,  the  Eev.  Mr.  Thurifer,  and  other  revered 
clergy  of  the  district,  have  kindly  consented  to  give  the  testimony  of 
their  high  names  to  the  character  of  the  reader's  obliged  servant, 

Maeia  Theresa  Wigglesworth. 

For  many  years  Governess  in  families  of  the  highest  distinction. 

17  nobth  motcomb  street, 
Belgkave  Square. 


IN  the  year  18 — ,  a  humble  but  pious  governess  of,  as  she  trusts 
satisfactory,  Church  of  England  principles  (being  the  daughter 
of  the  Rev.  Clement  Wigglesworth  of  Clapham  Chapel  of  Ease), 
instructed  two  young  ladies,  by  name  Arabella  and  Emmeline. 

The  Lady  Arabella  Muggleton  was  daughter  of  the  Earl  of 
Trumpington ;  and  her  cousin  Emmeline  was  only  child  of  Admiral 
the  Hon.  Hugh  Fitzmarlinspike,  brother  of  the  Eari  of  that  name. 
The  Admiral  commanded  in  the   Mediterranean,  whither  his 


tr^  Mwu  H^  Au  [kJiha«M.|««ii^l 
lu^L  tMMO*  C  llu,  6Lma«(4»  4    tb*.  a^AiLni.  0\rC^e4.  i«>ft><u.| 


X^  W.^i(Uii.^nib(|vu.iv  jbt.u^1uvl<4  ) 


c4liun<4  "(b  &a£i  <Ua|i<"«Vta,um   1  dYuUN.  C  ^tCti.  ttot  *t(A«-  lM|  4  .AC&I'C 

hu  |u^mmIc«.  (^  till.,  tiutuisto  it*.  C4utuuu.  ^Uu 

Ik  t'oui.  1  turtuToL'  Alt'  Ui  fuu  tiwJ;  "t  tui  WM  h"^  i  tCf^dUw^ci  "Ml 
t  %f ufr  ^wtu.  It£  JiKut^  't^  itt-  aftuUg*  <jgcun,  tyuW  .  ft  lot*  Iwi  ^- 
Cftujc  <H-LI|  tntllJiM.  Ug«(M.CC  4u.<l«lUMiJ  t^htg^i'd  fikAfuAi^UobAJ^ 
(u  I  luMtL-Wufb.  tU  ■tu«|lw6.)c4M,  *H»  1-  1h(UiM  (^U  Jill  ixu^V^a^^ 


lib  Mu  titM.   liT —     l"  tuuuIrC  Ikl  [urtM  JW/'-tv*  A 
«j  jtiflsMti  jat^fa^Kui,  Qmtcttrf  ^wnLiHjt  ('Aatc.f.iii 
(V(w(fk  iUuJUm.  4  i(u  Ru'  C<MMfJ  tlli^'^Uiu'inJ^ 

t^  4  J%4^iuh^l^  i  mk  lux-  Awik.  int.\uJm,  ^«t 

•uL,  cCa  ^*UiH"«*t  flu  (wf  ^^(.1l«l»ullU 

UuSji,  (lit  c((aAuuu  JKtJ  tf^U^.  ^Ut^Uit.  ZuMU^ 


676        VAEIOUS    ESSAYS,    SKETCHES,    ETC. 

charming  but  volatile  daughter  Emmeline  went  to  join  her 
Papa. 

It  was  at  Malta,  on  board  the  Admiral's  flagship,  The  Rum- 
hustical,  that  Emmeline  for  the  first  time  saw  Henry,  25  th  Earl 
of  Lancelot,  to  whom  she  was  united  only  three  days  before  the 
news  arrived  at  Valetta  of  the  death  of  the  Admiral's  elder  brother, 
the  2nd  Earl  of  Fitzmarlinspike. 

Our  young  couple  passed  several  years  abroad,  and  it  was  not 
until  their  daughter  Emmeline  was  more  than  two  years  old  that 
they  returned  to  London,  where  his  Lordship  occupied  a  house. 
No.  76  Ohesham  Place,  Belgrave  Square. 

The  cousins,  my  former  pupils,  hastened  to  each  other's  arms ; 
and  Arabella,  now  an  orphan,  came  to  dwell  with  her  relative  the 
amiable  Countess  of  Lancelot. 

Among  the  Earl's  acquaintances,  I  grieve  to  state  that  there 
was  a  gentleman  whom  I  shall  call  Mordant,  and  who  speedily  be- 
came an  assiduous  frequenter  of  the  mansion  in  Chesham  Place. 

In  vain  I  pointed  out,  in  my  visits  to  my  noble  pupil,  the 
danger  likely  to  result  from  the  society  of  this  ill-regtdated  young 
man.  It  was  not  because,  in  his  vulgar  insolence  and  odious  con- 
tempt of  the  poor,  Mr.  Mordant  (as  I  heard  through  the  open  door) 
called  me  "a  toothless  old  she-dragon,"  and  "a  twaddling  old 
catamaran,"  that  I  disliked  him,  but  from  his  general  levity  and 
daring  licence  of  language.  That  my  dislike  was  well  fowtided, 
this  melancholy  tale  will  too  well  show. 


Lady  Arabella  looked  down  at  the  little  Lady  Emmeline  with  a 
glance  of  unutterable  afiection. 

"  Is  she  not  like  me  1 "  asked  the  lively  but  frivolous  Countess. 

Arabella  thought  with  a  sigh,  "  How  like  the  cherub  is  to  her 
father  !  "     Poor  Arabella  ! — The  Heiress  of  Pimlico,  vol.  ii. 

The  good  old  Admiral,  now  Earl  of  Fitzmarlinspike,  had  "  braved 
the  battle  and  the  breeze  "  for  many  years  on  every  sea.  He  wore 
the  collar  and  Grand  Cross  of  our  own  and  the  French  Orders,  and 
came  into  the  saloon  shortly  after  ten  o'clock. — The  Heiress  of 
Pimlico. 


1,4  H 


U.iM-«*i  lu.  Ut  .ui.  tt«  Uufa' (k  i>^»i  1"-^  ^^^i^^- 
Ut  (*i,tt..  &*uv  ^a  tiM-A  cwfc  4  iii  «*«• ««- "-* ""  ^"-^ 


Mordant  looked  after  the  Countess  with  a  glance  in  which  rage, 
love,  hatred,  contempt,  demoniac  talent,  and  withering  scorn  were 
blended.  "  She  has  refused  me,"  he  said,  "  and  she  thinks  she 
has  escaped  nae  !  She  has  insulted  me,  and  she  imagines  I  wiU  not 
be  revenged ! " 

The  young  Earl  rushed  into  the  balcony,  unable  to  control  his 
emotions  in  the  salon.  "  Cruel  stars  !  "  said  he  (apostrophising  those 
luminaries,  whose  mQd  effulgence  twinkled  in  the  serene  azure  and 
lit  up  Chesham  Place  and  Belgrave  Square),  "  why,  why  did  I  marry 
the  Countess  so  early,  and  know  Lady  Arabella  so  late  1 " 

"  A  letter  for  Miladi  Arabella  !  "  cried  Eigolette,  "  and  sealed 
with  a  couronne  de  Comte  1  Ah,  men  Dieu,  what  would  I  not  give 
to  have  such  a  distinguished  correspondence  !  " 

"  I  will  give  you  a  dinner  at  Eichemont,  a  box  at  the  French 
comedy,  and  the  Cachemire  shawl  you  admired  so  much,  for  that 
letter,  Miss  Rigolette,"  said  Couleuvre,  Mr.  Mordant's  man,  who 
was  taking  tea  in  the  housekeeper's  room. 


I'utb,  UiUH  irttM 

1  M  ^U^  t  llMb 


"  Lancelot  a  model  man !  haw,  haw,  haw,  hah ! "  laughed 
Mordant,  with  a  demoniacal  sneer.  "  This  will  show  you  the 
morality  of  my  Lord  Lancelot."  And  with  this  Mordant  handed 
to  the  Countess  the  Earl's  impassioned  and  elegant  verses  to 
Arabella. 

At  the  moment  the  unprincipled  young  man  was  speaking.  Lord 
Lancelot  entered  at  the  portifere.  Having  overheard  their  conversa- 
tion, the  agonised  Earl  retreated  so  silently  that  neither  the  heedless 
"  Ladye  "  nor  her  false  companion  were  aware  that  they  had  had 
a  listener. 

With  all  his  vices  Mordant  was  not  a  coward.  And  when  the 
next  morning  Captain  Eagg  waited  upon  Mr.  Mordant  with  a 
message  from  the  Earl  of  Lancelot,  Mordant's  reply  was,  "  Tell 
the  Earl  to  make  his  will."  A  message  which  the  Captain  promised 
to  convey  to  his  Lordship. 

It  was  five  o'clock,  and  the  Earl,  who  had  passed  the  night  in 
writing,  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  chamber  of  his  child.  Emmeline  was 
sleeping  the  rosy  sleep  of  innocence — smiling  in  her  sleep  !  "  Bless 
thee,  bless  thee,  my  Emmeline  !  "  exclaimed  his  Lordship,  and  printed 
a  kiss  on  the  cheek  of  his  darling.  Captain  Eagg's  brougham  was 
heard  at  that  instant  to  drive  to  the  door. 


^^ 


ktUU^A  Xidji'  Ucrfhc/f. 
^  4  UImJ^ 


Wm  Uu*.  tH«  StMMiLt^  £icWMu4   (wi   JA^fufi    «a4   JMuJof 
CaMm.4  Kq^M*   BttfU<lt>AI<i  i 


The  Earl  and  his  companion  now  drove  to  Wimbledon  Common, 
where,  faithful  to  his  diabolical  appointment,  Mordant  was  already 
in  waiting,  accompanied  by  his  friend  Lieutenant  Famish.  The 
two  broughams  pulled  up  together.  How  often  had  they  done  so 
before  at  the  parties  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  ! 

The  gentlemen  were  quickly  placed  by  their  seconds,  and  the 
horrid  signal  was  given !  Crack,  crack !  Two  pistols  sounded 
simultaneously,  and  at  the  next  instant  a  ball  had  gone  through 
Mordant's  hat  (a  new  one),  and  he  looked  opposite  him  and  laughed 
a  hellish  laugh  !  "  Through  his  left  eye  !  "  exclaimed  the  fiend  in 
human  shape.  "  I  aimed  for  it,  and  his  beauty  wiU  not  even  be 
spoiled.  Famish  and  I  must  to  the  Continent.  Well,  well,  a  day 
sooner  or  later,  what  matters  f  My  debts  would  have  driven  me 
away  in  a  week.     Come  away.  Famish." 

During  the  fatal  rencontre  a  third  carriage  had  driven  up,  from 
which  two  veterans  descended.  One  was  a  famous  General  known 
in  our  Eastern  and  Peninsular  wars,  the  other  was  the  Countess's 
father.  Admiral  the  Earl  of  Fitzmarlinspike,  G.C.B.  "  Stop  !  "  said 
the  Admiral.  "  The  husband  is  dead,  but  the  father  is  alive  and 
demands  vengeance  !  "     Mordant  turned  pale. 


1..  ,u«.  1    C^  Cu^  .  "?,„  (U.W,  i^^  siuJ^'l^ii 


tw<|l.!- 


""■^  '•^«-l«it.     Cnui..^,  4.,^^, 


,*5^ 


Again  the  dreadful  signal  to  fire  was  given,  and  the  intrepid 
Marlinspike  delivered  his  shot  at  the  instant.  Mordant's  pistol 
went  oflf  as  it  fell  to  the  ground. 

As  it  fell  to  the  ground  and  as  he  sprang  six  feet  into  the  air 
with  the  Admiral's  ball  through  his  wicked  and  remorseless  heart ! 

Gentles  !  the  rest  of  our  afflicting  prologue  is  quickly  told.  The 
body  of  Lord  Lancelot  was  laid  at  Castle  Guinever ;  that  of  the 
fiendish  Mordant  carried  back  to  his  apartments  in  the  Albany,  of 
which  the  bailiffs  had  already  taken  possession.  The  Pitzmarlin- 
spike  family,  'tis  known,  profess  the  ancient  faith.  In  the  convent 
of  Taunton  is  a  lady,  who  has  doflfed  the  Countess's  coronet  for  the 
black  veil  and  white  cap  of  the  nun.  Among  the  barefooted  friars 
at  Puddleswood  is  one  who  is  old  and  grey-bearded,  and  has  a 
wooden  leg.  But  few  know  that  old  Brother  Barnabas  is  Fitz 
marlinspike's  Earl.  Eigolette  and  Couleuvre,  the  domestics  whose 
betrayal  caused  aU  this  tragedy,  fled,  and  were  apprehended  with 
the  spoons.  Messieurs  Famish  and  Ragg  are  both  in  the  Bench ; 
and  the  General  who  acted  as  Lord  Pitzmarlinspike's  second  is  now 
an  altered  man.  And  Arabella?  the  lovely  and  innocent?  how, 
how  is  Arabella  ?  Who  can  tell  how  much  she  suffered,  how  bitterly 
she  wept? 

She,  of  course,  never  married.  She  was  appointed  guardian  to 
the  little  Lady  Emmeline,  who  is  now  eighteen  years  of  age,  has 
ninety-six  thousand  a  year,  is  as  lovely  as  an  angel,  and  called 
The  Heiress  op  Pimlico. 


VI 


C&nuL  Hm  Ivu^itAu)  atwirUftf*  tuat^!  . 


ll    <rU  <tuJ.^2u, fremiti, (UmL  t*i  *<«fr<Uu.t«.   buJ -juj  fc«^„<,  tU*-<F<d 

■<i«*a.,ftu.  ituwtut  iJiM,  Uj£u|«t  c*«^U  -idtfiti  Ta»^<3«, 

t^,<ua  Utou  X^^umJU  tMlLiU  J|umv.  c^'uc^ 
^etiMdt  U^  aJiA  tut  IaJ  ^i^hMi«liM7^[u^ 


11-p,.f^^,,^u,.^ClCiM/^<iW-^^^^  „  pi„Ll« 


THE  LIFE  OP  W.  M.  THACKERAY 


To  Leslie  Stephen,  my  brother-in-law,  I  owe  a  brother's 
help  and  advice.  In  his  biography  of  my  father,  reprinted 
from  the  "  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,"  the  whole 
framework  of  the  life  is  given  :  the  story  he  purposely  left 
for  me  to  tell. 

A.  I.  E. 


THE  LIFE  OF  W.  M.  THACKERAY 


THE  following  is  a  reprint,  with  some  corrections,  of  the  life 
of  Thackeray  in  the  "  Dictionary  of  National  Biography." 
In  conformity  with  the  principles  of  that  work,  it  is  little 
more  than  a  condensed  statement  of  facts ;  and,  indeed,  for  Cer- 
tain reasons,  even  less  devoted  than  usual  to  critical  or  other 
comment.  It  will,  perhaps,  be  the  better  suited  to  fulfil  its 
present  purpose  of  serving  as  a  Table  of  Contents  to  the  In- 
troductions prefixed  to  volumes  in  this  edition  of  Thackeray's 
works.  References  are  given  to  the  various  introductions  at 
the  periods  which  they  mainly  illustrate. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  born  at  Calcutta  on  July  18, 
1811,  was  the  only  child  of  Richmond  and  Anne  Thackeray. 
The  Thackerays  descended  from  a  family  of  yeomen  who  had 
been  settled  for  several  generations  at  Hampsthwaite,  a  ham- 
let on  the  Mdd,  in  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire.  Thomas'" 
Thackeray  (1693-1760)  was  admitted  a  King's  Scholar  at  Eton 
in  January  1705-6.  He  was  Scholar  (1712)  and  Fellow  (1715) 
of  King's  College,  Cambridge,  and  was  afterwards  an  Assistant 
Master  at  Eton.  In  1746  he  was  appointed  Headmaster  of 
Harrow,  where  Dr.  Parr  was  one  of  his  pupils.  In  1748  he 
was  made  Chaplain  to  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  and  in  1753 
Archdeacon  of  Surrey.  He  died  at  Harrow  in  1760.  By  his 
wife  Anne,  daughter  of  John  Woodward,  he  had  sixteen  children. 
The  fourth  son,  Thomas  (1736-1806),  became  a  surgeon  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  had  fifteen  children,  one  of  whom,  William  Make- 
peace (1770-1849),  was  a  well-known  physician  at  Chester; 
another,  Elias  (1771-1854),  mentioned  in  the  "Irish  Sketch 
Book,"  became  Vicar  of  Dundalk ;  and  a  third,  Jane  Townley 
(1788-1871),  married  in  1813  George  Pryme,the  political  econ- 
omist. The  Archdeacon's  fifth  son,  a  physician  at  Windsor, 
was  father  of  George  Thackeray  (1777-1850),  Provost  of  King's 
College,  Cambridge.  The  Archdeacon's  youngest  child,  William 
Makepeace  (1749-1813),  entered  the  service  of  the  East  India 


688      THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.    THACKERAY 

Company  in  1766.  He  was  patronised  by  Cartier,  Governor  of 
Bengal,  was  made  "factor"  at  Dacca  in  1771,  and  first  collector 
of  Sylhet  in  1772.  There,  besides  reducing  the  province  to 
order,  he  became  known  as  a  hunter  of  elephants,  and  made 
money  by  supplying  them  to  the  Company.  In  1774  he  re- 
turned to  Dacca,  and  on  January  31,  1776,  he  married,  at  Cal- 
cutta, Amelia  Richmond,  third  daughter  of  Colonel  Richmond 
Webb.  Webb  was  related  to  General  John  Richmond  Webb, 
whose  victory  at  Wynendael  is  described  in  "  Esmond."  An- 
other daughter  of  Colonel  Webb  married  Peter  Moore  (1753- 
1828),  who  supported  Burke  and  Francis  in  the  impeachment 
of  Warren  Hastings,  and  was  afterwards  an  active  though  ob- 
scure politician.  He  was  a  guardian  of  the  novelist.  W.  M. 
Thackeray  had  made  a  fortune  by  his  elephants  and  other  trad- 
ing speculations  then  allowed  to  the  Company's  servants,  when 
in  1776  he  returned  to  England.  In  1786  he  bought  a  property 
at  Hadley,  near  Barnet,  where  Peter  Moore  had  also  settled. 
W.  M.  Thackeray  had  twelve  children:  Emily,  third  child 
(1780-1824),  married  John  Talbot  Shakspear,  and  was  mother 
of  Sir  Richmond  Campbell  Shakspear;  Charlotte  Sarah,  the 
sixth  child  (1786-1854),  married  John  Ritchie,  and  was  mother 
of  William  Ritchie  (1817-1862),  legal  Member  of  Council  in 
India;  and  Francis,  tenth  child  and  sixth  son  (1793-1842), 
took  orders,  and  is  best  known  as  the  author  of  a  Life  of 
Chatham  (1827).  Francis's  two  sons,  the  Rev.  Francis  St. 
John  Thackeray  and  Colonel  Sir  Edward  Talbot  Thackeray, 
V.C,  K.C.B.,  are  still  living.  Of  the  six  elder  sons  of  W.  M. 
Thackeray  four  were  in  the  Civil  Service  in  India,  one  in  the 
Indian  army,  and  a  sixth  at  the  Calcutta  bar.  All  had  died, 
two  in  action,  by  1825.  William,  the  eldest  (1778-1823),  was 
intimate  with  Sir  Thomas  Munro,  and  had  an  important  part  in 
the  administration  and  land  settlement  of  Madras.  Richmond, 
fourth  child  of  William  Makepeace  and  Amelia  Thackeray,  was 
_born  at  South  Mimms  on  September  1,  1781,  and  in  1798  went 
to  India  in  the  Company's  service.  In  1807  he  became  Secre- 
tary to  the  Board  of  Revenue  at  Calcutta,  and  on  October  13, 
1810,  married  Anne,  daughter  of  John  Harman  Becher,  a 
"reigning  beauty"  at  Calcutta.  William  Makepeace,  their 
only  child,  was  named  after  his  grandfather,  the  name  "  Make- 
peace "  being  derived,  according  to  a  family  tradition,  from 
some  ancestor  who  had  been  a  Protestant  martyr  in  the  davs 
of  Queen  Mary.  Richmond  Thackeray  was  appointed  to  the 
coUectorship  of  the  twenty-four  Pergunnahs,  then  considered  to 
be  "  one  of  the  prizes  of  the  Bengal  service,"  at  the  end   of 


THE    LIFE   OF  W.  M.  THACKERAY        689 

1811.  He  died  at  Calcutta  on  September  13,  1816.  He  seems, 
like  his  son,  to  have  been  a  man  of  artistic  tastes  and  was  a 
collector  of  pictures,  musical  instruments,  and  horses.  A  por- 
trait in  possession  of  his  grand-daughter,  Mrs.  Ritchie,  shows 
a  refined  and  handsome  face.*  .•■ 

His  son,  William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  was  sent  to  England 
in  1817  in  a  ship  which  touched  at  St.  Helena.  There  a  black 
servant  took  the  child  to  look  at  Napoleon, who  was  then  at  Bowood, 
eating  three  sheep  a  day  and  all  the  little  children  he  could  catch. 
The  boy  found  all  England  in  mourning  for  the  Princess  Charlotte 
(died  November  6,  1817).  He  was  placed  under  the  care  of  his 
aunt,  Mrs.  Ritchie.  She  was  alarmed  by  discovering  that  the  child 
could  wear  his  uncle's  hat,  till  she  was  assured  by  a  physician  that 
the  big  head  had  a  good  deal  in  it.  The  child's  precocity  appeared 
especially  in  an  early  taste  for  drawing.  Thackeray  was  sent  to 
a  school  in  Hampshire,  and  then  to  one  kept  by  Dr.  Turner  at 
Chiswick,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  imaginary  Miss  Pinkerton 
of  "Vanity  Fair."  Thackeray's  mother  in  1818  married  Major 
Henry  William  Carmichael-Smyth  (died  1861)  of  the  Bengal  En- 
gineers, author  of  a  Hindoostanee  dictionary  (1800),  a  "  Hindoo- 
stanee  Jest-book,"  and  a  history  of  the  royal  family  of  Lahore 
(1847).  The  Smyths  returned  to  England  in  1821,  and  settled 
at  Addiscombe,  where  for  two  years,  from  August  1822,  Major 
Smyth  was  superintendent  of  the  Company's  military  college. 
From  1822  to  1828  Thackeray  was  at  the  Charterhouse.  Frequent 
references  in  his  writings  show  that  he  was  deeply  impressed  by 
the  brutality  of  English  public  school  life,  although,  as  was  nat- 
ural, he  came  to  look  back  with  more  tenderness,  as  the  years 
went  on,  upon  the  scenes  of  his  boyish  life.  The  headmaster  was^ 
John  Russell  (1787-1863),  who  for  a  time  raised  the  numbers  of 
the  school.  Russell  had  been  trying  the  then  popular  system  of 
Dr.  Bell,  which,  after  attracting  pupils,ended  in  failure.  The  num- 
ber of  boys  in  1825  was  480,  but  afterwards  fell  off.  A  description 
of  the  school  in  Thackeray's  time  is  in  Mozley's  "  Reminiscences.'^; 
George  Stovin  Venables  (a  man  who  devoted  to  law  and  journal- 
ism powers  which  might  have  won  a  great  literary  reputation)  was 
a  schoolfellow  and  a  lifelong  friend.    Venables  broke  Thackeray's 

*  Very  full  information  as  to  the  above-mentioned  Thackerays,  and  others 
less  connected  with  his  personal  history,  is  given  in  "  Memorials  of  the 
Thackeray  Family,"  by  Mrs  Pryrae  and  her  daughter,  Mrs  Bayne,  privately 
printed  in  1879  A  very  interesting  account  of  some  of  them  is  in  Sir  W. 
W  Hunter's  "  Thackerays  in  India"  (1897).  For  references  to  the  Beoher 
family,  see  Introduction  to  "  The  Newcomes  " ;  and  for  references  to  "  Grand- 
fathera  and  Grandmothers,"  see  Introduction  to  "Ballads  and  Miscellanies. 


690        THE    LIFE    OF  W.   M.    THACKERAY 

nose  in  a  fight,  causing  permanent  disfigurement.  He  remem- 
bered Thackeray  as  a  "  pretty,  gentle  boy,"  who  did  not  distin- 
guish himself  either  at  lessons  or  in  the  playground,  but  was 
much  liked  by  a  few  friends.  He  rose  to  the  first  class  in  time, 
and  was  a  monitor,  but  showed  no  special  promise  as  a  scholar. 
Towards  the  end  of  his  school-time  he  became  famous  as  a  writer 
of  humorous  verses.  Latterly  he  lived  at  a  boarding-house  in 
Charterhouse  Square,  and  as  a  "  day  boy"  saw  less  of  his  school, 
fellows.  In  February  1828  he  wrote  to  his  mother,  saying  that 
he  had  become  "terribly  industrious,"  but  "could  not  get  Russell 
to  think  so."  There  were  then  370  boys  in  the  school,  and  he 
wishes  that  there  were  only  369.  Russell,  as  these  letters  show, 
had  reproached  him  pretty  much  as  the  master  of  "Greyfriars" 
reproaches  young  Pendennis,  and  a  year  after  leaving  the  school 
he  says  that  as  a  child  he  had  been  "  licked  into  indolence," 
and  when  older  "abused  into  sulkiness"  and  "bullied  into  de- 
spair." He  left  school  in  May  1828.*  Thackeray  now  went  to 
live  with  the  Smyths,  who  had  left  Addiscombe,  and  about  1825 
taken  a  house  called  Larkbeare,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Ottery 
St.  Mary.f  His  recollections  were  used  in  "  Pendennis,"  where 
Clavering  St.  Mary,  Chatteris,  and  Baymouth  stand  for  Ottery 
St.  Mary,  Exeter,  and  Sidmouth.  Dr.  Cornish,  then  vicar  of 
Ottery  St.  Mary,  lent  Thackeray  books,  among  others  Cary's  ver- 
sion of  the  "  Birds  "  of  Aristophanes,  which  the  lad  illustrated 
with  three  humorous  watercolour  drawings.  Cornish  reports 
that  Thackeray,  like  Pendennis,  contributed  to  the  poet's  corner 
of  the  county  paper,  and  gives  a  parody  of  Moore's  "  Minstrel 
Boy  "(cited  in  "Thackeray  Memorials")  ridiculing  an  intended 
speech  of  Richard  Lalor  Shiel.  This  was  probably  the  author's 
first  appearance  in  print.  Thackeray  read,  it  seems,  for  a  time 
with  his  stepfather,  who  was  proud  of  the  lad's  cleverness,  but 
probably  an  incompetent  "  coach."  Thackeray  was  entered  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.|  His  college  tutor  was  the  omnis- 
cient William  Whewell,  with  whom,  apparently,  he  had  no  further 
relations.  He  began  residence  in  February  1829.  He  was  thus 
a  "  by-term  man,"  which,  as  the  great  majority  of  his  year  had 
a  term's  start  of  him,  was  perhaps  some  disadvantage.  This,  how- 
ever, was  really  of  little  importance,  especially  as  he  had  the  op- 
tion of  "  degrading  " — that  is,  joining  the  junior  year.    Thackeray 

*  For  notices  of  Thackeray's  infancy  and  schooldays,  see  the  Introductions 
to  "  Vanity  Fair,"  "  Pendennis,"  and  "  The  Newcomes." 

+  For  descriptions  of  Larkbeare,  see  Introduction  to  "  Pendennis." 
f  For  Cambridge  career,  see  Introduction  to  "  Pendennis." 


THE    LIFE    OF   W.   M.   THACKERAY        691 

had  little  taste  for  mathematics,  though  he  is  said  to  have  shown 
quickness  in  Euclid ;  nor  had  he  taken  to  the  classical  traiaing 
of  his  school  in  such  a  way  as  to  qualify  himself  for  success 
in  examinations.  In  the  May  examination  (1829)  he  was  in  the 
fourth  class,  where  "  clever  non-reading  men  were  put  as  in  a 
limbo."  He  had  expected  to  be  in  the  fifth.  He  read  some 
classical  authors  and  elementary  mathematics,  but  his  main  in- 
terests were  of  a  different  kind.  He  saw  something  of  his 
Cambridge  cousins,  two  of  whom  were  Fellows  of  King's  Col- 
lege ;  and  formed  lasting  friendships  with  some  of  his  most 
promising  contemporaries.  He  was  very  sociable  ;  he  formed 
an  Essay  club  in  his  second  term,  and  afterwards  a  small  club  of 
which  John  Allen  (afterwards  Archdeacon)  and  William  Hep- 
worth  Thompson  (afterwards  Master  of  Trinity)  were  members. 
Other  lifelong  friendships  formed  during  or  through  his  college 
career  were  with  William  Henry  Brookfield,  Edward  FitzGerald, 
John  Mitchell  Kemble,  A.  W.  Kinglake,  Monckton  Milnes, 
Spedding,  and  Tennyson.  The  intimacy  with  FitzGerald  was 
especially  close  for  many  years,  and  the  friendship  remained 
when  in  after  life  intercourse  became  less  frequent.*  He  was 
fond  of  literary  talk,  expatiated  upon  the  merits  of  Fielding, 
read  poetry,  and  could  sing  a  good  song.  He  also  contributed 
to  the  "  Snob  :  a  literary  and  scientific  journal  not  conducted  by 
members  of  the  University,"  which  lasted  through  the  May  term 
of  1829.  "Snob"  appears  to  have  been  the  cant  phrase  for 
townsmen  as  opposed  to  gownsmen.  In  this  appeared  "  Tim- 
buctoo,"  a  mock  poem  upon  the  subject  of  that  year,  for  which 
Tennyson  won  the  prize ;  "  Genevieve,"  and  other  trifies. 
Thackeray  was  bound  to  attend  the  lectures  of  Pryme,  his 
cousin's  husband,  upon  political  economy,  and  is  said  to  have 
admired  them.  He  certainly  adorned  the  syllabus  with  pen-and- 
ink  drawings.  He  spoke  at  the  Union  with  little  success,  and 
was  much  interested  in  Shelley,  who  seems  to  have  been  then  a 
frequent  topic  of  discussion.  Thackeray  was  attracted  by  Shel- 
ley's poetry,  but  repelled  by  his  principles.  He  was  at  this 
time  an  ardent  opponent  of  Catholic  emancipation. 

He  found  Cambridge  more  agreeable  but  not  more  profitable 
than  the  Charterhouse.  He  had  learnt  "  expensive  habits,"  and 
in  his  second  year  appears  to  have  anticipated  some  of  the  er- 
rors of  Pendennis.  He  spent  part  of  the  long  vacation  of  1829 
in  Paris  studying  French  and  German,  and  left  at  the  end  of 
the  Easter  term  1830.     His  rooms  were  on  the  ground  floor  of 

«  For  FitzGerald,  see  especially  Introduction  to  "  Christmas  Books." 


692        THE   LIFE    OP  W.   M.   THACKERAY 

the  staircase  between  the  chapel  and  the  gateway  of  the  great 
court,  where,  as  he  remarks  to  bis  mother,  it  will  be  said  hereafter 
that  Newton  and  Thackeray  both  lived.  He  left,  as  he  said  at 
the  time,  because  he  felt  that  he  was  wasting  time  upon  studies 
which,  without  more  success  than  was  possible  to  him,  would 
be  of  no  use  in  later  life.  He  inherited  from  his  father  a  fort- 
une which  appears  to  have  been  about  £20,000.*  His  relations 
wished  hira  to  go  to  the  bar ;  but  he  disliked  the  profession 
from  the  first,  and  resolved  to  finish  his  education  by  travelling. 
In  1830  he  went  by  Godesberg  and  Cologne,  where  he  made 
some  stay,  to  Weimar.f  There  he  spent  some  months.  He 
was  delighted  by  the  homely  and  friendly  ways  of  the  little 
German  court,  which  afterwards  suggested  "  Pumpernickel," 
and  was  made  welcome  in  all  the  socialities  of  the  place.  He 
had  never  been  in  a  society  "more  simple,  charitable,  courteous, 
gentlemanlike."  He  was  introduced  to  Goethe,  whom  he  long 
afterwards  described  in  a  letter  published  in  Lewes's  "  Life  of 
Goethe."  He  delighted  then,  as  afterwards,  in  drawing  carica- 
tures to  amuse  children,  and  was  flattered  by  hearing  that  the 
great  man  had  looked  at  them.  He  seems  to  have  preferred 
the  poetry  of  Schiller,  whose  "  religion  and  morals,"  as  he  ob- 
serves, "  were  unexceptionable,"  and  who  was  "  by  far  the 
favourite "  at  Weimar.  He  translated  some  of  Schiller's  and 
other  German  poems,  and  thought  of  making  a  book  about  Ger- 
man manners  and  customs.  He  did  not,  however,  become  a 
profound  student  of  the  literature.  His  studies  at  Weimar  had 
been  carried  on  by  "  lying  on  a  sofa,  reading  novels,  and  dream- 
ing " ;  but  he  began  to  think  of  the  future,  and,  after  some 
thoughts  of  diplomacy,  resolved  to  be  called  to  the  bar.  He 
read  a  little  civil  law,  which  he  did  not  find  "  much  to  his  taste." 
He  returned  to  England  in  1831,  entered  the  Middle  Temple, 
and  in  November  was  settled  in  chambers  in  Hare  Court.J 

The  "  preparatory  education  "  of  lawyers  struck  him  as  "  one 
of  the  most  cold-blooded,  prejudiced  pieces  of  invention  that 
ever  a  man  was  slave  to."  He  read  with  Mr.  Taprell,  studied 
his  Chitty,  and  relieved  himself  by  occasional  visits  to  the 
theatres  and  a  trip  to  his  old  friends  at  Cambridge.  He  be- 
came intimate  with  Charles  BuUer,  who,  though  he  had  gradu- 
ated a  little  before,  was  known  to  the  later  Cambridge  set ; 
and,  after  the  passage  of  the  Reform  Bill,  went  to  Liskeard  to 

*  See  Introduction  to  "  Philip,"  p.  xv. 
f  See  Introduction  to  "  Tauity  Fair." 

j  For  the  following  period  until  Thackeray's  marriage,  see  Introduction 
to  "  Yellowplush  Papers." 


THE    LIFE    OF  W.   M.   THACKERAY 


693 


help  in  Buller's  canvass  for  the  following  election.     He  then 
spent  some  time  in  Paris,  which  he  was  frequently  visiting  at 
this  period  ;  and  soon  after  his  return  finally  gave  up  a  profes- 
sion which  seems  to  have  been  always  distasteful.     He  had 
tormed  an  acquaintance  with  Maginn  in  1832.     F.  S    Mahonv 
("  Father  Front  ")  told  Blanchard  Jerrold  that  he  had  given  the 
introduction,  a  statement  which  seems  to  be  irreconcilable  with 
the  dates  of  xMahony's  life  in  London.     Mahony  further   said 
tliat  Thackeray  paid  £500  to  Maginn  to  edit  a  new  magazine. 
Ihis  is  probably  an  erroneous  version  of  some  real  transaction.* 
ihackeray  was  certainly  mixing  in  literary  circles  and  trying  to 
get  publishers  for  his  caricatures.     A  paper  had  been  started 
on  January  5,  1833,  called  the  National  Standard  and  Journal 
^Literature,   Science,   Music,  Theatricals,  and  the  Fine  Arts 
Thackeray  is  said  to  have  bought  this  from  F.  W.  N.  Bayley,  a 
journalist  who  was  afterwards  the  first  editor  of  the  Illustrated 
London  News.     At  any  rate  he  became  editor  and  proprietor. 
He  went  to  Paris,  whence  he  wrote  letters  to  the  Standard  (end 
of  June  to  August)  and  collected  materials  for  articles.     He 
returned  to  look  after  the  paper  a  little  later,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  year  reports  that  he  has  lost  about  £200  upon  it,  and  that 
at  this  rate  he  will  be  ruined  before  it  has  made  a  success. 
Thackeray  tells  his  mother  at  the  same  time  that  he  ought  to 
"  thank  Heaven "  for  making  him  a  poor  man,  as  he  will  be 
"much  happier" — presumably  as  having  to  work  harder.     The 
last  number  of  the  Standard  appeared  on   February  1,  1834. 
The  loss  to  Thackeray  was  clearly  not  sufiicient  to  explain  a 
change  in  his  position  which  happened  about  this  time,  nor  are 
the  circumstances  now  ascertainable.     A  good  deal  of  money 
was  lost  at  one  time  by  the  failure  of  an  Indian  bank,  and 
probably  by  other  investments  for  which  his  stepfather  was 
more  or  less  responsible.     Thackeray  had  spent  too  much  at 
Cambridge,  and  was  led  into  occasional  gambling.     He  told  Sir 
Theodore  Martin  that  his  story  of  Deuceace  (in  the  "Yellow- 
plush  Papers  ")  represented  an  adventure  of  his  own.     "  I  have 
not  seen  that  man,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  gambler  at  Spa, 
"  since  he  drove  me  down  in  his  cabriolet  to  my  bankers  in  the 
city,  where  I  sold  out  my  patrimony  and  handed  it  over  to  him." 
He  added  that  the  sum  was  lost  at  ecart6,  and  amounted  to 
£1500.     This  story,  which  is  reported  on  trustworthy  authority, 
must  refer  to  this  period.     In  any  case,  Thackeray  had  now  to 
work  for  his  bread.     He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  could  draw 

*  E.  Jerrold's  "  Father  Prout "  in  Belgravia  for  July  1868. 


694        THE    LIFE    OF  W.   M.   THACKERAY 

better  than  he  could  do  anything  else,  and  determined  to  qualify 
himself  as  an  artist  and  to  study  in  Paris.  "  Three  years'  ap- 
prenticeship "  would  be  necessary.  He  accordingly  settled  at 
Paris  in  1834.  His  aunt  (Mrs.  Ritchie)  was  living  there,  and 
his  maternal  grandmother  accompanied  him  thither  in  October 
and  made  a  home  for  him.  The  Smyths  about  the  same  time 
left  Devonshire  for  London.  He  worked  in  the  atelier  of  Brine 
and  perhaps  Gros,*  and  copied  pictures  industriously  at  the 
Louvre.  He  never  acquired  any  great  technical  skill  as  a 
draughtsman,  but  he  always  delighted  in  the  art.  The  efiort 
of  preparing  his  drawings  for  engraving  wearied  him,  and 
partly  accounts  for  the  inferiority  of  his  illustrations  to  the 
original  sketches.  As  it  is,  they  have  the  rare  interest  of  being 
interpretations  by  an  author  of  his  own  conceptions,  though  in- 
terpretations in  an  imperfectly  known  language. 

It  is  pretty  certain  that  Thackeray  was  at  the  same  time  mak- 
ing some  literary  experiments.  In  January  1835  he  appears  as 
one  of  the  "  Fraserians  "  in  the  picture  by  Maclise  issued  with 
the  Fraser  of  that  month.  The  only  article  before  that  time 
which  has  been  conjecturally  assigned  to  him  is  the  story  of 
"Elizabeth  Brownrigge,"  a  burlesque  of  Bulwer's  "Eugene 
Aram,"  in  the  numbers  for  August  and  September  1832.  If 
really  by  him,  as  is  most  probable,  it  shows  that  his  skill  in  the 
art  of  burlesquing  was  as  yet  very  imperfectly  developed.  He 
was  for  some  years  desirous  of  an  artistic  career,  and  in  1836 
he  applied  to  Dickens  (as  he  said  in  a  speech  at  the  Academy 
dinner  of  1858)  to  be  employed  in  illustrating  the  "Pickwick 
Papers,"  as  successor  to  Robert  Seymour,  who  died  April  20, 
1836.  Henry  Reeve  speaks  of  him  in  January  1836  as  editing 
an  English  paper  at  Paris  in  opposition  to  Galiffnani's  Messenger, 
but  of  this  nothing  more  is  known.  In  the  same  year  came  out 
his  first  publication,  "  Flore  et  Zephyr,"  a  collection  of  eight 
satirical  drawings,  published  at  London  and  Paris.  In  1836  a 
company  was  formed,  of  which  Major  Smyth  was  chairman,  in 
order  to  start  an  Ultra-Liberal  newspaper.  The  price  of  the 
stamp  upon  newspapers  was  lowered  in  the  session  of  1836,  and 
the  change  gave  encouragement  for  a  new  start  in  journalism. 
All  the  Radicals — Grote,  Molesworth,  Buller,  and  their  friends — 
promised  support.  The  old  Public  Ledger  was  bought,  and, 
with  the  new  title.  The  Constitutional,  prefixed,  began  to  appear 
on  September  15  (the  day  on  which  the  duty  was  lowered). 

*  Introduction  to  "Tellowplush  Papers,"  p.  xxxv.     Cf.  "Thackeray's 
Haunts  and  Homes,"  p.  9. 


THE    LIFE    OF  W.    M.   THACKERAY        695 

Samuel  Laman  Blanchard  was  editor,  and  Thackeray  the  Paris 
correspondent.  He  writes  that  his  stepfather  had  behaved 
"  nobly,"  and  refused  to  take  any  remuneration  as  "  director," 
desiring  only  this  appointment  for  his  stepson.  Thackeray 
acted  in  that  capacity  for  some  time,  and  wrote  letters  strongly 
attacking  Louis -Philippe  as  the  representative  of  retrograde 
tendencies.  The  Constitutional,  however,  failed,  and  after  July 
1, 1837,  the  name  disappeared  and  the  Public  Ledger  revived  in 
its  place.  The  company  had  raised  over  £40,000,  and  the  loss 
is  stated  at  £6000  or  £7000— probably  a  low  estimate.* 

Meanwhile  Thackeray  had  taken  advantage  of  his  temporary 
position.  He  married,  as  he  told  his  friend  Synge,  "  with  £400  " 
(the  exact  sum  seems  to  have  been  eight  guineas  a  week),  "  paid 
by  a  newspaper  which  failed  six  months  afterwards,"  referring 
presumably  to  his  salary  from  The  Constitutional.  He  was  en- 
gaged early  in  the  year  to  Isabella  Gethin  Creagh  Shawe  of 
Doneraile,  co.  Cork.  She  was  daughter  of  Colonel  Shawe,  who 
had  been  military  secretary,  it  is  said,  to  the  Marquis  of  Wel- 
lesley  in  India.  The  marriage  took  place  at  the  British  Embassy 
at  Paris  on  August  20, 1836.f 

The  marriage  was  so  timed  that  Thackeray  could  take  up  his 
duties  as  soon  as  The  Constitutional  started.  The  failure  of  the 
paper  left  him  to  find  support  by  his  pen.  He  speaks  in  a  later 
letter  of  having  written  for  Galignani  at  ten  francs  a  day,  ap- 
parently at  this  time.  He  returned,  however,  to  England  in 
1837.  The  Smyths  had  left  Larkbeare  some  time  before,  and 
were  now  living  at  18  Albion  Street,  where  Thackeray  joined 
them,  and  where  his  first  daughter  was  born.  Major  Smyth  resem- 
bled Colonel  Newcome  in  various  qualities,  including  a  weakness 
for  rash  speculations.  He  wasted  money  in  various  directions, 
and  the  liabilities  incurred  by  The  Constitutional  were  for  a  long 
time  a  source  of  anxiety.  The  Smyths  now  went  to  live  at  Paris, 
while  Thackeray  took  a  house  at  13  Great  Coram  Street,  and'la- 
boured  energetically  at  a  variety  of  hackwork.J  He  reviewed  Car- 
lyle's  "  French  Revolution  "  in  the  Times  (August  3, 1837).  The 
author,  as  Carlyle  reports,  "  is  one  Thackeray,  a  half-monstrous 
Cornish  giant,  kind  of  painter,  Cambridge  man,  and  Paris  news- 
paper correspondent,  who  is  now  writing  for  his  life  in  London. 
I  have  seen  him  at  the  Bullers'  and  at  Sterling's." 

*  Fox  Bourne,  "English  Newspapers,"  ii.  96-100;  Andrews,  "British 
Journalism,"  p.  237. 

f  See  Marzials  and  Merivale,  p.  107,  for  the  official  entry,  first  made 
known  by  Mr.  Marzials  in  the  Aihenaum. 

\  For  this  period,  see  Introduction  to  "Barry  Lyndon." 


696        THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.   THACKERAY 

In  1838,  and  apparently  for  some  time  later,  he  worked  for 
the  Times.  He  wrote  an  article  upon  Fielding  in  1840.  He  oc- 
casionally visited  Paris  upon  journalistic  business.  He  had  some 
connection  with  the  Morning  Chronicle.  He  contributed  stories 
to  the  New  Monthly  and  to  some  of  George  Cruikshank's  publi- 
cations. He  also  illustrated  Douglas  Jerrold's  "  Men  of  Char- 
acter" in  1838;  and  in  1840  was  recommended  by  Mr.,  after- 
wards Sir,  Henry  Cole  for  employment  both  as  writer  and  artist 
by  the  anti-corn-law  agitators.  His  drawings  for  this  purpose 
are  reproduced  in  Sir  Henry  Cole's  "  Fifty  Years  of  Public 
Work."  His  most  important  connection,  however,  was  with 
Fraser''s , Magazine.  In  1838  he  contributed  to  it  "The  Yellow- 
plush  Correspondence,"  containing  the  forcible  incarnation  of 
his  old  friend  Deuceace,  and  in  1839-1840  the  "Catherine:  by 
^nTey  Solomons,"  following  apparently  the  precedent  of  his  fa- 
vourite Fielding's  "Jonathan  Wild."  The  original  was  the  real 
murderess  Catherine  Hayes  (1690-1726),  whose  name  was  un- 
fortunately identical  with  that  of  the  popular  Irish  vocalist 
Catherine  Hayes  (1825-1861).  A  later  reference  to  his  old 
heroine  in  "  Pendennis "  (the  passage  is  in  vol.  ii.  chap.  vii.  of 
the  serial  form,  afterwards  suppressed)  produced  some  indignant 
remarks  in  Irish  papers,  which  took  it  for  an  insult  to  the  singer. 
Thackeray  explained  the  facts  on  April  12,  1850,  in  a  letter  to 
the  Morning  Chronicle  on  "  Capers  and  Anchovies "  (dated 
"  Garrick  Club,  April  11,  1850  ").  A  compatriot  of  Miss  Hayes 
took  lodgings  about  the  same  time  opposite  Thackeray's  house 
in  Young  Street  in  order  to  inflict  vengeance.  Thackeray  first 
sent  for  a  policeman;  but  finally  called  upon  the  avenger,  and 
succeeded  in  making  him  hear  reason.* 

For  some  time  Thackeray  wrote  annual  articles  upon  the  Ex- 
hibitions, the  first  of  which  appeared  in  Fraser  in  1838.  Ac- 
cording to  FitzGerald,  they  annoyed  one  at  least  of  the  persons 
criticised,  a  circumstance  not  unparalleled,  even  when  criticism, 
as  this  seems  to  have  been,  is  both  just  and  good-natured.  In 
another  respect,  unfortunately,  he  conformed  too  much  to  a 
practice  common  to  the  literary  class  of  the  time.  He  ridiculed 
the  favourite  butts  of  his  allies  with  a  personality  which  he  after- 
wards regretted.  In  a  preface  to  the  Punch  papers,  published 
in  America  in  1853,  he  confesses  to  his  sins  against  Bulwer,  and 
afterwards  apologised  to  Bulwer  himself.  "  I  suppose  we  all  be- 
gin by  being  too  savage,"    he  wrote  to  Hannay  in  1849 ;  "  I 

*  For  an  account  of  this,  see  Introduction  to  "  Barry  Lyndon,"  p.  xix.,  and 
Thackeray's  "  Haunts  and  Homes,"  p.  51. 


THE    LIFE    OF   W.   M.   THACKERAY        697 

know  one  who  did."     A  private  letter  of  1840  shows  that  he  con-  i 
sidered  his  satire  to  be  "  good-natured."  u-/ 

Three  daughters  were  born  about  this  time.  The  death  of 
the  second  in  infancy  (1839)  suggested  a  pathetic  chapter  in 
the  "  Hoggarty  Diamond."  After  the  birth  of  the  third  (May 
28,  1840)  Thackeray  took  a  trip  to  Belgium,  having  arranged 
for  the  publication  of  a  short  book  of  travels.  He  had  left  his 
wife  "  nearly  well,"  but  returned  to  find  her  in  a  strange  state 
of  languor  and  mental  inactivity,  which  became  gradually  more  I 
pronounced.*  For  a  long  time  there  were  gleams  of  hope,  j 
Thackeray  himself  attended  to  her  exclusively  for  a  time.  He^ 
took  her  to  her  mother's  in  Ireland  and  afterwards  to  Paris. 
There  she  had  to  be  placed  in  a  maison  de  sante,  Thackeray 
taking  lodgings  close  by,  and  seeing  her  as  frequently  as  he 
could.  A  year  later,  as  he  wrote  to  FitzGerald,  then  his 
most  intimate  friend,  he  thought  her  "  all  but  well."  He  was 
staying  with  her  at  a  hydropathic  establishment  in  Germany, 
where  she  seemed  to  be  improving  for  a  short  time.  The  case, 
however,  had  become  almost  hopeless  when  in  1842  he  went  to 
Ireland.  Yet  he  continued  to  write  letters  to  her  as  late  as  1844, 
hoping  that  she  might  understand  them.  She  had  finally  to  be 
placed  with  a  trustworthy  attendant.  She  was  placid  and  gentle, 
though  unfitted  for  any  active  duty,  and  with  little  knowledge 
of  anything  around  her,  and  survived  till  1892.  The  children 
had  to  be  sent  to  the  grandparents  at  Paris ;  the  house  at  Great 
Coram  Street  was  finally  given  up  in  1843,  and  Thackeray  for 
some  time  lived  as  a  bachelor  at  27  Jermyn  Street,  88  St.  James's 
Street,  and  probably  elsewhere. 

His  short  married  life  had  been  perfectly  happy.  "Though 
my  marriage  was  a  wreck,"  he  wrote  in  1852  to  his  friend  Synge,  - 
"  I  would  do  it  over  again,  for  behold  love  is  the  crown  and 
completion  of  all  earthly  good."  In  spite  of  the  agony  of  sus- 
pense he  regained  cheerfulness,  and  could  write  playful  letters, 
although  the  frequent  melancholy  of  this  period  may  be  traced 
in  some  of  his  works.  Part  of  "Vanity  Fair"  was  written  in 
1841.  He  found  relief  from  care  in  the  society  of  his  friend^ 
and  was  a  member  of  many  clubs  of  various  kinds.  He  hacn 
been  a  member  of  the  Garrick  Club  from  1833,  and  in  March, 
1 840,  was  elected  to  the  Reform  Club.  He  was  a  frequenter  of 
"  Evans's,"  described  in  many  of  his  works,  and  belonged  at 
this  and  later  periods  to  various  sociable  clubs  of  the  old- 
fashioned  style,  such  as  the  Shakespeare,  the  Fielding  (of  which 

*  For  the  following  period,  se6  Introduction  to  "  Sketch  Books," 


698        THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.   THACKERAY 

he  was  a  founder),  and  "  Our  Club."  There  in  the  evenings  he 
met  literary  comrades,  and  gradually  became  known  as  an  emi- 
nent member  of  the  fraternity.  Meanwhile,  as  he  said,  although 
he  could  suit  the  magazines,  he  could  not  hit  the  public. 

In  1840,  just  before  his  wife's  illness,  he  had  published  the 
"Paris  Sketch  Book,"  using  some  of  his  old  material;  and 
in  1841  he  published  a  collection  called  "Comic  Tales  and 
Sketches,"  which  had  previously  appeared  in  Fraser  and  else- 
where. It  does  not  seem  to  have  attracted  much  notice.  In 
September  of  the  same  year  the  "  History  of  Samuel  Titmarsh," 
and  the  "  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond,"  which  had  been  refused 
by  Blackwood,  began  to  appear  in  Fraser.  His  friend  Ster- 
ling read  the  first  two  numbers  "  with  extreme  delight,"  and 
asked  what  there  was  better  in  Fielding  or  Goldsmith.  Thack- 
eray, he  added,  with  leisure  might  produce  masterpieces.  The 
opinion,  however,  remained  esoteric,  and  the  "Hoggarty  Dia- 
mond "  is  said  to  have  been  cut  short  at  the  editor's  request. 
He  was  contemplating  a  Life  of  Talleyrand  about  this  time, 
which,  however,  came  to  nothing.  His  next  book  records  a 
tour  made  in  Ireland  in  the  later  half  of  1842.  He  there  made 
Lever's  acquaintance,  and  advised  his  new  friend  to  try  his  fort- 
unes in  London.  Lever  declared  Thackeray  to  be  the  "  most 
good-natured  of  men,"  but,  though  grateful,  could  not  take  help 
offered  by  a  man  who  was  himself  struggling  to  keep  his  head 
above  water.  The  "Irish  Sketch  Book"  (1843),  in  which  his 
experiences  are  recorded,  is  a  quiet  narrative  of  some  interest  as 
giving  a  straightforward  account  of  Ireland  as  it  appeared  to  an 
intelligent  traveller  just  before  the  famine.  A  preface  in  which 
Thackeray  pronounced  himself  decidedly  against  the  English 
government  of  Ireland  was  suppressed,  presumably  in  deference 
to  the  fears  of  the  publisher.  Thackeray  would  no  doubt  have 
/Been  a  Home  Ruler.  In  1840  he  tells  his  mother  that  he  is 
"  not  a  Chartist,  only  a  Republican,"  and  speaks  strongly  against 
aristocratic  government.  "  Cornhill  to  Cairo  "  (1846),  which  in 
a  literary  sense  is  decidedly  superior,  records  a  two  months' 
tour  made  in  the  autumn  of  1844,  during  which  he  visited 
Athens,  Constantinople,  Jerusalem,  and  Cairo.*  The  directors 
of  the  "  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Company,"  as  he  gratefully 
records,  gave  him  a  free  passage.  During  the  same  year  the 
"Luck  of  Barry  Lyndon,"  which  probably  owed  something  to 
his  Irish  experiences,  was  coming  out  in  Fraser.  All  later  critics 
have  recognised  in  this  book  one  of  his  most  powerful  perform- 

*  A  diary  during  this  tour  is  given  in  Introduction  to  "  Sketch  Books," 


THE    LIFE    OF   W.   M.    THACKERAY        699 

ances.  In  directness  and  vigour  he  never  surpassed  it.  At  the 
time,  however,  it  was  still  unsuccessful,  the  popular  reader  of  the 
day  not  hking  the  company  of  even  an  imaginary  blackguard, 
ihackeray  was  to  obtain  his  first  recognition  in  a  difEerent 
capacity.  ^ 

Punch  had  been  started  with  comparatively  little  success  on 
July  17,  1841.*  Among  the  first  contributors  were  Douglas 
Jerrold  and  Thackeray's  schoolfellow,  John  Leech,  both  his 
friends,  and  he  naturally  tried  to  turn  the  new  opening  to  ac- 
count. FitzGerald  apparently  feared  that  employment  in  a  comic 
paper  would  involve  a  lowering  of  his  literary  status.  He  be- 
gan to  contribute  in  June  1842,  his  first  article  being  the  "Le- 
gend of  Jawbrahim  Heraudee."  His  first  series,  "  Miss  Tickle- 
toby's  Lectures  on  English  History,"  began  in  June  1842. 
They  ran  for  ten  numbers,  but  failed  to  attract  notice  or  to  give 
satisfaction  to  the  proprietors.  Thackeray,  however,  persevered, 
and  gradually  became  an  invaluable  contributor,  having  in  par- 
ticular the  unique  advantage  of  being  skilful  both  with  pen  and 
pencil.  In  the  course  of  his  connection  with  Punch  he  con- 
tributed 380  sketches.  One  of  his  drawings  is  famous  because 
nobody  has  ever  been  able  to  see  the  point  of  it,  though  a  rival 
paper  ironically  offered  £500  for  an  explanation.!  This,  how- 
ever, is  a  singular  exception.  His  comic  power  was  soon  ap- 
preciated, and  at  Christmas  1843  he  became  an  attendant  at  the 
regular  dinner  parties  which  formed  Punches  cabinet  council. 
The  first  marked  success  was  "  Jeames's  Diary,"  which  began  in 
November  1845,  and  satirised  the  railway  mania  of  the  time. 
The  "  Snobs  of  England,  by  One  of  Themselves,"  succeeded, 
beginning  on  February  28,  1846,  and  continued  for  a  year;  and 
after  the  completion  of  this  series  the  "  Prize  Novelists,"  in- 
imitably playful  burlesques,  began  in  April  and  continued  till 
October  1847.  The  "Snob  Papers"  were  collected  as  the 
"  Book  of  Snobs "  (issued  from  the  Punch  ofiice).  Seven, 
chiefly  political,  were  omitted,  but  have  been  added  to  the  last 
volume  of  the  collected  works. 

The  "  Snob  Papers  "  had  a  very  marked  effect,  and  may  be 
said  to  have  made  Thackeray  famous.  He  had  at  last  found 
out  how  to  reach  the  public  ear.  The  style  was  admirable,  and 
the  freshness  and  vigour  of  the  portrait  painting  undeniable.  It 
has  been  stated  that  Thackeray  got  leave  to  examine  the  com- 
plaint books  of  several  clubs,  in  order  to  obtain  materials  for  his 

*  See  for  this  connection  Introduction  to  "  Contributions  to  Punch." 
f  Some  explanation  ia  now  given  in  Introduction  to  "  Contributions  to 
Punch"  p.  xxvi. 


700        THE    LIFE   OF  W.   M.   THACKEEAY 

description  of  club  snobs.  He  was  speaking,  in  any  case,  upon 
'^  very  familiar  topic,  and  the  vivacity  of  his  sketches  naturally 
suggested  identification  with  particular  individuals.  These  must 
be  generally  doubtful,  and  the  practice  was  against  Thackeray's 
artistic  principles.  Several  of  his  Indian  relatives  are  mentioned 
as  partly  originals  of  Colonel  Newcome.  He  says  himself  that 
his  Amelia  represented  his  wife,  his  mother,  and  Mrs.  Brook- 
field,  and  he  describes  to  the  same  correspondent  a  self-styled 
Blanche  Amory.  Foker,  in  "  Pendennis,"  is  said  to  have  been 
in  some  degree  a  portrait — according  to  Mr.  Jeaffreson,  a  flatter- 
ing portrait — of  an  acquaintance.  The  resemblances  can  only 
_b§,  taken  as  generic,  but  a  good  cap  fits  many  particular  heads. 
The  success  of  the  "  Snob  Papers"  perhaps  led  Thackeray  to 
insist  a  little  too  frequently  upon  a  particular  variety  of  social 
infirmity.  He  was  occasionally  accused  of  sharing  the  weakness 
which  he  satirised,  and  would  playfully  admit  that  the  charge 
was  not  altogether  groundless.  It  is  much  easier  to  make  such 
""statements  than  to  test  their  truth.  They  indicate,  however, 
one  point  which  requires  notice.  Thackeray  was  at  this  time, 
as  he  remarks  in  "  Philip,"  an  inhabitant  of  "  Bohemia,"  and  en- 
joyed the  humours  and  unconventional  ways  of  the  region.  But 
he  was  a  native  of  his  own  "  Tyburnia,"  forced  into  "  Bohemia" 
by  distress,  and  there  meeting  many  men  of  the  Bludyer  type, 
who  were  his  inferiors  in  refinement  and  cultivation.  Such  peo- 
ple were  apt  to  show  their  "  unconventionality  "  by  real  coarse- 
ness, and  liked  to  detect  "  snobbishness  "  in  any  taste  for  good 
society.  To  wear  a  dress-coat  was  to  truckle  to  rank  and  fash- 
ion. Thackeray,  an  intellectual  aristocrat,  though  politically  a 
Liberal,  was  naturally  an  object  of  some  suspicion  to  the  rougher 
among  his  companions.  If  he  appreciated  refinement  too  keenly, 
no  accusation  of  anything  like  meanness  has  ever  been  made 
against  him.  Meanwhile  it  was  characteristic  of  his  humour 
that  he  saw  more  strongly  than  any  one  the  bad  side  of  the 
society  which  held  out  to  him  the  strongest  temptations,  and 
emphasised,  possibly  too  much,  its  "  mean  admiration  of  mean 
things." 

Thackeray  in  1848  received  one  proof  of  his  growing  fame 
by  the  presentation  of  a  silver  inkstand  in  the  shape  of  "  Punch" 
from  eighty  admirers  at  Edinburgh,  headed  by  Dr.  John  Brown, 
author  of  "Rab  and  his  Friends,"  afterwards  a  warm  friend 
and  appreciative  critic.  His  reputation  was  spreading  by  other 
works  which  distracted  his  energies  from  Punch.  He  contin- 
ued to  contribute  occasionally.  The  characteristic  "  Bow  Street 
Ballads"  in  1848  commemorate,  among  other  things,  his  friend- 


The  life  of  w.  m.  thackeray      701 

ship  for  Matthew  James  Higgin,  famous  as  "  Jacob  Omnium," 
one  of  whose  articles,  "  A  Plea  for  Plush,"  was  erroneously  in- 
cluded in  the  last  volume  of  Thackeray's  works.  Some  final 
contributions  appeared  in  1854;  but  his  regular  connection 
ceased  after  1851,  in  which  year  he  contributed  forty-one  articles 
and  twelve  cuts.  Thackeray  had  by  this  time  other  occupations'" 
which  made  him  unwilling  to  devote  much  time  to  journalism. 
He  wrote  a  letter  in  1855  to  one  of  the  proprietors,  explaining 
the  reasons  of  his  retirement.  He  was  annoyed  by  the  political 
line  taken  by  Punch  in  1851,  especially  by  denunciations  of 
Napoleon  III.,  which  seemed  to  him  unpatriotic  and  dangerous 
to  peace.  He  remained,  however,  on  good  terms  with  his  old 
colleagues,  and  occasionally  attended  their  dinners.  A  sentence 
in  his  eulogy  upon  Leech  (1854)  appeased  to  disparage  the  rel- 
ative merits  of  other  contributors.  Thackeray  gave  an  "  atone- 
ment dinner"  at  his  own  house,  and  obtained  full  forgiveness.* 
The  advantages  had  been  reciprocal,  and  were  cordially  admitted 
on  both  sides.  "  It  was  a  good  day  for  himself,  the  journal,  and 
the  world  when  Thackeray  joined  Punch"  said  Shirley  Brooks, 
afterwards  editor ;  and  Thackeray  himself  admitted  that  he 
"  owed  the  good  chances  which  had  lately  befallen  him  to  his 
connection  with  Punch." 

From  1846  to  1850  he  published  yearly  a  "  Christmas  Book," 
the  last  of  which,  "  The  Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine,"  was  at- 
tacked in  the  Times.  Thackeray's  reply  to  this  in  a  preface  to 
the  second  edition  is  characteristic  of  his  own  view  of  the  com- 
mon tone  of  criticism  at  the  time.  Thackeray's  "  May  Day  Ode  " 
on  the  opening  of  the  Exhibition  of  1851  appeared  in  the  Times 
of  April  30,  and  probably  implied  a  reconciliation  with  the  ' 
"  Thunderer." 

Thackeray  had  meanwhile  made  his  mark  in  a  higher  depart- 
ment of  literature.  His  improving  position  had  now  enabled 
him  to  make  a  home  for  himself.  In  1846  he  took  a  house  at  13 
Young  Street,  whither  he  brought  his  daughters,  and  where  he 
afterwards  received  long  visits  from  the  Smyths.  There  he 
wrote  "  Vanity  Fair."  Dickens's  success  had  given  popularity 
to  the  system  of  publishing  novels  in  monthly  numbers.  The 
first  number  of  "Vanity  Fair"  appeared  in  January  1847,  and 
the  last  (a  double  number)  in  July  1848.  Thackeray  says  that 
he  offered  it  to  "  three  or  four  publishers."!  There  are  reasons 
for  doubting  whether  this  was  not  a  slip  of  the  pen.      It  was 

*  See  letter  referring  to  this  in  Introduction  to  "  Contributions  to  Pwihch," 
p.  xxxiv. 

f  Introduction  to  "  Philip,"  p.  xxxiii. 


703        THE   LIFE   OF   W.    M.    THACKERAY 

certainly  published  by  Bradbury  and  Evans,  to  whom  his  connec- 
tion with  Punch  would  naturally  lead  him  in  the  first  place.  He 
is  said  to  have  received  fifty  guineas  a  number,  including  the 
illustrations.*  The  first  numbers  were  comparatively  unsuccess- 
ful, and  the  book  for  a  time  brought  more  fame  than  profit. 
The  success  is  said  to  have  been  stimulated  by  the  popularity  of 
his  Christmas  book,  "  Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball."  In  any  case  it  gradu- 
ally became  popular,  and  before  it  was  ended  his  position  as  one 
of  the  first  of  English  novelists  was  generally  recognised.  On 
September  16,  1847,  Mrs.  Carlyle  wrote  to  her  husband  that  the 
last  four  numbers  were  "very  good  indeed  " — he  "beats  Dickens 
out  of  the  world." 

Abraham  Hay  ward,  an  old  friend,  had  recommended  Thackeray 
to  Macvey  Napier  in  1845  as  a  promising  recruit  for  the  Edin- 
hurgh  Review.  Thackeray  had  accordingly  written  an  article 
upon  N.  P.  Willis's  "  Dashes  at  Life,"  which  Napier  mangled  and 
Jeffrey  condemned.  Hayward  now  reviewed  the  early  numbers 
of  "Vanity  Fair"  in  the  Edinburgh  for  January  1848.  It  is 
warmly  praised  as  "immeasurably  superior"  to  all  his  known 
works,  and  the  review  no  doubt  helped  the  success,  though, it 
did  little  more  than  confirm  the  general  opinion.  Edward  Fitz- 
Gerald  speaks  of  its  success  a  little  later,  and  says  that  Thackeray 
has  become  a  great  man  and  goes  to  Holland  House.  Monckton 
Milnes  writes  (May  19)  that  Thackeray  is  "  winning  great  social 
success,  dining  at  the  Academy  with  Sir  Robert  Peel,"  and  so 
forth.  Milnes  was  through  life  a  very  close  friend  ;  he  had  been 
with  Thackeray  to  see  the  second  funeral  of  Napoleon,  and  had 
accompanied  him  "to  see  a  man  hanged  "  (an  expedition  de- 
scribed by  Thackeray  in  Eraser's  Magazine,  August  1840).  He 
tried  to  obtain  a  London  magistracy  for  Thackeray  in  1849.  It 
was  probably  with  a  view  to  such  an  appointment,  in  which  he 
would  have  succeeded  Fielding,  that  Thackeray  was  called  to  the 
bar  at  the  Middle  Temple  on  May  26,  1848.  As,  however,  a 
magistrate  had  to  be  a  barrister  of  seven  years'  standing,  the 
suggestion  came  to  nothing.  TroUope  says  that  in  1848  Lord 
Clanricarde,  then  Postmaster-General,  proposed  to  make  him 
Assistant  Secretary  at  the  Post  Ofiice,  but  had  to  withdraw'  an 
ofier  which  would  have  been  unjust  to  the  regular  staff.  Thaek- 
eray,  in  any  case,  had  become  famous  outside  of  fashionable 
circles.  In  those  days  youthful  critics  divided  themselves  into 
two  camps  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray  worshippers..  Both  were 
popular  authors  of  periodical  publications,  but  otherwise  a  "  com- 

*  See  Vizetelly's  "Glances  Back  through  Seventy  Years,'"  i.  281,  &c. 


THE    LIFE   OF  W.   M.   THAOKERAY        703 

parison"  was  as  absurd  as  most  comparisons  of  disparate  quali-  ' 
ties.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dickens  had  an  incomparably  larger 
circulation,  as  was  natural  to  one  who  appealed  to  a  wider  au- 
dience. Thackeray  had  as  many  or  possibly  more  adherents 
among  the  more  cultivated  critics ;  but  for  some  years  the  two 
reigned  supreme  among  novelists.  Among  Thackeray's  warm\ 
est  admirers  was  Miss  Bronte,  who  had  published  "Jane  Eyre  "\ 
anonymously.  The  second  edition  was  dedicated  in  very  en- 
thusiastic terms  to  the  "  Satirist  of  Vanity  Fair."  He  was  com- 
pared to  a  Hebrew  prophet,  and  said  to  "  resemble  Fielding  as  an 
eagle  does  a  vulture."  An  absurd  story  to  the  effect  that  Miss 
Bronte  was  represented  by  Becky  Sharp  and  Thackeray  by  Mr. 
Rochester  became  current,  and  was  mentioned  seriously  in  a 
review  of  "Vanity  Fair"  in  the  Quarterly  for  January  1849. 
Miss  Bronte  came  to  London  in  June  1850,  and  was  introduced 
to  her  hero.  She  met  him  at  her  publisher's  house,  and  dined 
at  his  house  on  June  12.  Miss  Bronte's  genius  did  not  include 
a  sense  of  humour,  and  she  rebuked  Thackeray  for  some  "errors 
of  doctrine,"  which  he  defended  by  "worse  excuses."  They 
were,  however,  on  excellent  terms,  though  the  dinner  to  which 
he  invited  her  turned  out  to  be  so  oppressively  dull  that  Thack- 
eray sneaked  ofE  to  his  club  prematurely.*  She  attended  one 
of  his  lectures  in  1851,  and,  though  a  little  scandalised  by  some 
of  his  views,  cordially  admired  his  great  qualities. 

"  Vanity  Fair  "  was  succeeded  by  "  Pendennis,"  the  first  num- 
ber of  which  appeared  in  November  1848.  The  book  has  more 
autobiography  than  any  of  the  novels,  and  clearly  embodies  the 
experience  of  Thackeray's  early  life  so  fully  that  it  must  be  also 
pointed  out  that  no  stress  must  be  laid  upon  particular  facts. 
Nor  is  it  safe  to  identify  any  of  the  characters  with  originals, 
though  Captain  Shandon  has  been  generally  taken  to  represent 
Maginn ;  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  gives  a  lively  account  in  January 
1851  of  a  young  lady  whom  she  supposed  to  be  the  original  of 
Blanche  Amory.f  When  accused  of  "fostering  a  baneful 
prejudice  against  literary  men,"  Thackeray  defended  himself  in 
a  letter  to  the  Morning  Chronicle  of  January  12,  1850,  and 
stated  that  he  had  seen  the  bookseller  from  whom  Bludyer 
robbed  and  had  taken  money  "  from  a  noble  brother  man  of 
letters  to  some  one  not  unlike  Captain  Shandon  in  prison." 
Hannav  says  that  it  is  "certain"  that  he  gave  Maginn  £500 
The  state  of  Thackeray's  finances  up  to  Maginn's  death  (1842) 

*  See  Mrs  R  Ritohie'a  "  Chapters  from  Some  Memoirs,"  p.  62, 
f  "  Memorials  of  Janet  Welsh  Carljle,"  ii.  141,  147. 
18 


704        THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.    THACKEUAY 

seems  to  make  this  impossible,  though  the  statement  (see  above) 
made  by  Father  Prout  suggests  that  on  some  pretext  Maginu 
may  have  obtained  such  a  sum  from  Thackeray.  Anyway,  the 
book  is  a  transcript  from  real  life,  and  shows  perhaps  as  much 
power  as  "Vanity  Fair,"  with  less  satirical  intensity.  A  severe 
illness  at  the  end  of  1849  interrupted  the  appearance  of  "  Pen- 
dennis,"  which  was  not  concluded  till  December  1850.  The 
book  is  dedicated  to  Dr.  John  Elliotson,  who  would  "  take  no 
other  fee  but  thanks,"  and  to  whose  attendance  he  ascribed  his 
recovery. 

On  February  25,  1851,  Thackeray  was  elected  member  of  the 
Athenseum  Club  by  the  committee.  An  attempt  to  elect  him 
in  1850  had  been  defeated  by  the  opposition  of  one  member. 
Macaulay,  Croker,  Dean  Milman,  and  Lord  Mahon  had  sup- 
ported his  claims.  He  was  never,  as  has  been  said,  "  black- 
balled." He  was  henceforward  a  familiar  figure  at  the  club. 
The  illness  of  1849  appears  to  have  left  permanent  efEects.  He 
was  afterwards  liable  to  attacks  which  caused  much  suffering. 
Meanwhile,  although  he  was  now  making  a  good  income,  he 
was  anxious  to  provide  for  his  children  and  recover  what  he 
had  lost  in  his  youth.*  He  resolved  to  try  his  hand  at  lectur- 
ing, following  a  precedent  already  set  by  such  predecessors  as 
Coleridge,  Hazlitt,  and  Carlyle.  He  gave  a  course  of  six  lect- 
ures upon  the  "English  Humourists"  at  Willis's  Rooms  from 
May  22  to  July  3,  1851.  The  first  (on  Swift),  though  attended 
by  many  friends,  including  Carlyle,  Kinglake,  Hallam,  Macaulay, 
and  Milman,  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  failure.  The  lectures  soon 
became  popular,  as  they  deserved  to  be.  Thackeray,  though  he 
read  widely  in  a  desultory  fashion,  was  not  given  to  systematic 
antiquarian  research,  and  his  facts  and  dates  require  some  cor- 
rection. But  his  delicate  appreciation  of  the  congenial  writers 
and  the  finish  of  his  style  give  the  lectures  a  permanent  place 
in  criticism.  His  "  light-in-hand  manner,"  as  Motley  remarked 
of  a  later  course,  "  suits  well  the  delicate  hovering  rather  than 
superficial  style  of  his  composition."  Without  the  slightest 
attempt  at  rhetorical  effect  his  delivery  did  fall  justice  to  the 
peculiar  merits  of  his  own  writing.  The  lectures  had  appar- 
ently been  prepared  with  a  view  to  an  engagement  in  America. 
Before  starting  he  published  "Esmond,"  of  which  FitzGerald 
says  (June  2,  1852)  that  "it  was  finished  last  Saturday."  The 
book  shows  even  more  than  the  lectures  how  thoroughly  he  had 

*  For  the  following  period,  see  Introduction  to  "  Esmond  "  and  the  "  Lect- 


THE    LIFE    OP  W.   M.  THACKERAY        705 

imbibed  the  spirit  of  the  Queen  Anne  writers.  His  style  had 
reached  its  highest  perfection,  and  the  tenderness  of  the  feeling 
has  won  perhaps  more  admirers  for  this  book  than  for  the  more 
powerful  and  sterner  performances  of  the  earlier  period.  The 
manuscript,  now  in  the  library  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
shows  that  it  was  written  with  very  few  corrections,  and  in 
great  part  dictated  to  bis  eldest  daughter  and  Mr.  Crowe. 
Earlier  manuscripts  show  much  more  alteration,  and  he  clearly 
obtained  a  completer  mastery  of  his  art  by  long  practice.  He 
took  much  pains  to  get  correct  statements  of  fact,  and  read  for 
that  purpose  at  the  libraries  of  the  British  Museum  and  the 
Athenteum.*  The  book  had  a  good  sale  from  the  first,  although 
the  contrary  has  been  stated.  For  the  first  edition  of  "  Esmond  " 
Thackeray  received  £1200.  It  was  published  by  Messrs.  Smith 
and  Elder,  and  the  arrangement  was  made  with  him  by  Mr.  George 
Smith  of  that  firm,  who  became  a  warm  friend  for  the  rest  of 
his  life.  The  acquaintance  had  already  begun  in  1850,  when 
the  same  firm  had  published  the  "  Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine." 

On  October  30,  1852,  Thackeray  sailed  for  Boston,  U.S.A., 
in  company  with  Clongh  and  J.  R.  Lowell.  He  lectured  at 
Boston,  New  York,  Philadelphia  (where  he  formed  a  friend- 
ship with  W.  B.  Reed,  who  has  described  their  intercourse), 
Baltimore,  Richmond,  Charleston,  and  Savannah.f  He  was 
received  with  the  characteristic  hospitality  of  Americans,  and 
was  thoroughly  pleased  with  the  people,  making  many  friends 
in  the  Southern  as  well  as  in  the  Northern  States — a  circum- 
stance which  probably  affected  his  sympathies  during  the  sub- 
sequent Civil  War.  He  returned  in  the  spring  of  1853  with 
about  £2500.  Soon  after  his  return  he  stayed  three  weeks  in 
London,  and  after  spending  a  month  with  the  Smyths,  went 
with  his  children  to  Switzerland.^  There,  as  he  says,  he  strayed 
into  a  wood  near  Berne,  where  the  story  of  "  The  Newcomes  " 
was  "  revealed  to  him  somehow."  The  story,  like  those  of  his 
other  longer  novels,  is  rather  a  wide  section  of  family  history 
than-  the  development  of  a  definite  "  plot."  Colonel  Newcome, 
no  doubt  drawn  in  part  from  his  stepfather,  may  be  taken  as 
embodying  the  Anglo-Indian  traditions  in  which  the  family  was 
so  rich.  For  "  The  Newcomes  "  he  apparently  received  £4000. 
It  was  again  published  in  numbers,  and  was  illustrated  by  his 
friend  Richard  Doyle,  who  had  also  illustrated  "  Rebecca  and 

*  See  "  With  Thackeray  in  America,"  pp.  1-6. 

f  For  letters  written  during  this  tour,  see  Introduction  to  "Esmond  and 
the  "  Lectures." 

t  See  Introduction  to  "The  Newcomes." 


706        THE    LIFE    OF  W.    M.    THACKERAY 

Eowcna"  (1850).  At  Christmas,  1853,  Thackeray  went  with 
his  daughters  to  Rome.  There,  to  amuse  some  children,  he 
made  the  drawings  which  gradually  expanded  into  the  delight- 
ful burlesque  of  "  The  Rose  and  the  Ring,"  published  with 
great  success  in  1854.*  He  sueffred  also  from  a  Roman  fever, 
from  which,  if  not  from  the  previous  illness  of  1849,  dated  a 
series  of  attacks  causing  much  suffering  and  depression.  In 
1854  he  moved  from  Young  Street  to  36  Onslow  Square.  The 
last  number  of  "  The  New  comes "  appeared  in  August  1855, 
and  in  October  Thackeray  started  for  a  second  lecturing  tour 
in  the  United  States.  Sixty  of  his  friends  gave  him  a  farewell 
dinner  (October  11),  at  which  Dickens  took  the  chair.  The 
subject  of  this  new  series  was  "  The  FourGeorges."f  Over-scrupu- 
lous Britons  complained  of  him  for  laying  bare  the  weaknesses 
of  our  monarchs  to  Americans,  who  were  already  not  predis- 
posed in  their  favour.  The  Georges,  however,  had  been  dead 
for  some  time.  On  this  occasion  his  tour  extended  as  far  as 
New  Orleans.J  An  attempt  on  his  return  journey  to  reproduce 
the  "  English  Humourists  "  in  Philadelphia  failed,  owing  to  the 
lateness  of  the  season.  Thackeray  said  that  he  could  not  bear 
to  see  the  "sad,  pale-faced  young  man"  who  had  lost  money 
by  undertaking  the  speculation,  and  left  behind  him  a  sum  to 
replace  what  had  been  lost.  He  returned  to  England  in  April 
1856.  The  lectures  upon  the  Georges  were  repeated  at  various 
places  in  England  and  Scotland.  He  received  from  thirty  to 
fifty  guineas  a  lecture.  Although  they  have  hardly  the  charm 
of  the  more  sympathetic  accounts  of  the  "  Humourists,"  they 
show  the  same  qualities  of  style,  and  obtained  general  if  not 
equal  popularity. 

~  Thackeray's  hard  struggle,  which  had  brought  fame  and  social 
success,  had  also  enabled  him  to  form  a  happier  home.  His 
children  had  lived  with  him  from  1846 ;  but  while  they  were  in 
infancy,  the  house  without  a  mistress  was  naturally  grave  and 
quiet.  Thackeray  had  the  strongest  love  for  all  children,  and 
was  a  most  affectionate  father  to  his  own.  He  did  all  that  he 
could  to  make  their  lives  bright.  He  took  them  to  plays  and 
concerts,  or  for  long  drives  into  the  country,  or  children's  parties 
at  the  Dickenses'  and  elsewhere.  They  became  known  to  his 
friends,  grew  up  to  be  on  the  most  easy  terms  with  him,  and 
gave  him  a  happy  domestic  circle.     About  1853  he  received  as 

*  See  Introductions  to  "  The  Newcomes  "  and  to  "  Christmas  Books.'' 
f  For  passages  from  Thackeray's  notebooks  for  "  The  Four  Georges,"  see 
Introduction  to  "  Ballads  and  Miscellanies." 

I  For  letters  during  this  tour,  see  Introduction  to  "  The  Virginians." 


THE    LIFE   OF    W.   M.  THACKERAY         707 

an  inmate  of  his  household  Amy  Crowe,  daughter  of  Eyre 
Evans  Crowe,  who  had  been  a  warm  friend  at  Paris.  She  be- 
came a  sister  to  his  daughters,  and  in  1862  married  his  cousin, 
now  Sir  Edward  Talbot  Thackeray,  V.C.  His  old  college  friend 
Brookfield  was  settled  as  a  clergyman  in  London,  and  had  mar- 
ried a  very  charming  wife.  The  published  correspondence 
shows  how  much  value  Thackeray  attached  to  this  intimacy. 
Another  dear  friend  was  John  Leech,  to  whom  he  was  specially 
attached.  He  was  also  intimate  with  Richard  Doyle  *  and  other 
distinguished  artists,  including  Landseer  and  Mr.  G.  F.  Watts. 
Another  friend  was  Henry  Thoby  Prinsep,  who  lived  in  later 
years  at  Little  Holland  House,  which  became  the  centre  of  a 
delightful  social  circle.  Herman  Merivale  and  his  family,  the 
Theodore  Martins,  the  Coles  and  the  Synges,  were  other  friends 
of  whose  relation  to  him  some  notice  is  given  in  the  last  chapter 
of  Mr.  Merivale's  memoir.  Thackeray  was  specially  kind  to 
the  younger  members  of  his  friends'  families.  He  consid- 
ered it  to  be  a  duty  to  "tip"  schoolboys,  and  delighted  in 
giving  them  holidays  at  the  play.  His  old  friendships  with 
Monckton  Milnes  (Lord  Houghton),  Venables,  Kinglake,  and 
many  other  well-known  men  were  kept  up  both  at  his  clubs  and 
at  various  social  meetings.  The  Carlyles  were  always  friendly, 
in  spite  of  Carlyle's  severe  views  of  a  novelist's  vocation.  Thack- 
eray's time,  however,  was  much  taken  up  by  lecturing  and  by 
frequent  trips  to  the  Continent  or  various  country  places  in 
search  of  relaxation.  His  health  was  far  from  strong.  On 
November  11,  1854,  he  wrote  to  Reed  that  he  had  been  pre- 
vented from  finishing  "  The  Newcomes "  by  a  severe  fit  of 
"  spasms,"  of  which  he  had  had  about  a  dozen  in  the  year.  This 
decline  of  health  is  probably  to  be  traced  in  the  comparative 
want  of  vigour  of  his  next  writings.  ^ 

In  July,  1851,  Thackeray  stood  for  the  city  of  Oxford,  the 
member,  Charles  Neate  (1806-1879),  having  been  unseated  on  . 
petition.'f  Thackeray  was  always  a  decided  Liberal  in  politics, 
though  never  much  interested  in  active  agitation.  He  promised  to 
vote  for  the  ballot  in  extension  of  the  sufErage,  and  was  ready 
to  accept  triennial  parliaments.  His  opponent  was  Mr.  Edward 
(afterwards  Viscount)  Cardwell,  who  had  lost  the  seat  at  the  pre- 
vious election  for  opposing  Palmerston  on  the  Chinese  question. 
Thackeray  seems  to  have  done  better  as  a  speakerthan  might  have 
been  expected,  and  Cardwell  only  won  (July  21)  by  a  narrow 

*  For  some  notices  of  Doyle,  see  Introduction  to  "  Christmas  Books, "  p.  li. ,  &c. 
\  See  Introduction  to  "  The  Virginians,"  p.  xxjt. 


708        THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.    THACKERAY 

majority— 1085  to  1018.  Thackeray  had  fought  the  contest 
with  good  temper  and  courtesy.  "  I  will  retire,"  he  said  in  a 
farewell  speech,  "and  take  my  place  at  my  desk,  and  leave  to 
Mr.  Cardwell  a  business  which  I  am  sure  he  understands  better 
than  I  do."  "  The  Virginians,"  the  first-fruits  of  this  resolution, 
came  out  in  monthly  numbers  from  November  1857  to  October 
1859.*  It  embodied  a  few  of  his  American  recollections,  and 
"continued  with  less  than  the  old  force  the  history  of  the  Esmond 
family.f  Thackeray  told  Motley  that  he  contemplated  a  grand 
novel  of  the  period  of  Henry  V.,  in  which  the  ancestors  of  all 
his  imaginary  families  should  be  assembled.  He  mentions  this 
scheme  in  a  letter  to  FitzGerald  in  1841.  He  had  read  many 
of  the  chronicles  of  the  period,  though  it  may  be  doubted  wheth- 
er he  would  have  been  as  much  at  home  with  Henry  V.  as  with 
Queen  Anne. 

In  June  1858  Edmund  Yates  published  in  a  paper  called  Town 
Talk  a  personal  description  of  Thackeray,  marked,  as  the  author 
afterwards  allowed,  by  "  silliness  and  bad  taste."  Thackeray 
considered  it  to  be  also  "  slanderous  and  untrue,"  and  wrote  to 
Yates,  saying  so  in  the  plainest  terms.  Yates,  in  answer,  refused 
to  accept  Thackeray's  account  of  the  article,  or  to  make  any 
apology.  Thackeray  then  laid  the  matter  before  the  committee 
of  the  Garrick  Club,  of  which  both  he  and  Yates  were  members, 
on  the  ground  that  Yates's  knowledge  was  only  derived  from 
meetings  at  the  Club.  A  general  meeting  of  the  Club  in  July 
passed  resolutions  calling  upon  Yates  to  apologise  under  penalty 
of  further  action.  Dickens  warmly  took  Yates's  part.  Yates 
afterwards  disputed  the  legality  of  the  Club's  action,  and  coun- 
sel's opinion  was  taken  on  both  sides.  In  November  Dickens 
oflEered  to  act  as  Yates's  friend  in  a  conference  with  a  represent- 
ative of  Thackeray  with  a  view  to  arranging  "  some  quiet  ac- 
commodation." Thackeray  replied  that  he  had  left  the  matter 
in  the  hands  of  the  committee.  Nothing  came  of  this.  Yates 
had  to  leave  the  club,  and  he  afterwards  dropped  the  legal  pro- 
ceedings on  the  ground  of  their  costliness. 

Thackeray's  disgust  will  be  intelligible  to  every  one  who  holds 
that  journalism  is  degraded  by  such  personalities.  He  would 
have  been  fully  justified  in  breaking  off  intercourse  with  a  man 
who  had  violated  the  tacit  code  under  which  gentlemen  associ- 
ate.    He  was,  however,  stung  by  his  excessive  sensibility  into 

*  See  Introduction  to  "  The  Virginians,"  p.  xxxiii.,  &c. 
f  A  careful  account  of  the  genealogies  in  Thackeray's  novels  is  given  by 
ilr.  E.  G.  K.  Gonuer  in  Time  for  1889, 


THE    LIFE    OF  W.    M.    THACKERAY         709 

injudicious  action.  Yates,  in  a  letter  suppressed  by  Dickens's 
advice,  had  at  first  retorted  that  Thackeray  in  his  youth  had 
been  equally  impertinent  to  Bulwer  and  Lardner,  and  had  cari- 
catured members  of  the  Club  in  some  of  his  fictitious  characters. 
Thackeray's  regrettable  freedoms  did  not  really  constitute  a  par- 
allel offence.  But  a  recollection  of  his  own  errors  might  have 
suggested  less  vehement  action.  There  was  clearly  much  ground 
for  Dickens's  argument  that  the  Club  had  properly  no  right  to 
interfere  in  the  matter.  The  most  unfortunate  result  was  an 
alienation  between  the  two  great  novelists.  Thackeray  was  no 
doubt  irritated  at  Dickens's  support  of  Yates,  though  it  is  im- 
possible to  accept  Mr.  Jefferson's  view  that  jealousy  of  Dickens 
was  at  the  bottom  of  this  miserable  affair.  An  alienation  be- 
tween the  two  lasted  till  they  accidentally  met  at  the  Athenasum 
a  few  days  before  Thackeray's  death  and  spontaneously  shook 
hands.  Though  they  had  always  been  on  terms  of  courtesy, 
they  were  never  much  attracted  by  each  other  personally.  Dick- 
ens could  not  really  sympathise  with  Thackeray's  modes  of 
thought.  Thackeray,  on  the  other  hand,  though  making  certain 
reserves,  expressed  the  highest  admiration  of  Dickens's  work 
both  in  private  and  public,  and  recognised  ungrudgingly  the 
great  merits  which  justified  Dickens's  wider  popularity. 

Thackeray's  established  reputation  was  soon  afterwards  rec- 
ognised by  a  new  position.  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder  started 
the  Cornhill  Magazine  in  January  I860.*  With  Macmillan's 
Magazine,  begun  in  the  previous  month,  it  set  the  new  fashion 
of  shilling  magazines.  The  Cornhill  was  illustrated,  and  a1> 
tracted  many  of  the  rising  artists  of  the  day.  Thackeray's  edi- 
torship gave  it  prestige,  and  the  first  numbers  had  a  sale  of  over 
a  hundred  thousand.  His  acquaintance  with  all  men  of  liter- 
ary mark  enabled  him  to  enlist  some  distinguished  contributors ; 
Tennyson  among  others,  whose  "Tithonus"  first  appeared  in 
the  second  number.  One  of  the  first  contributors  was  Anthony 
Trollope,  to  whom  Thackeray  had  made  early  application.  "  Jus- 
tice compelled  "  Trollope  to  say  that  Thackeray  was  "  not  a  good 
editor."  One  reason  was  that,  as  he  admitted  in  his  "  Thorns 
in  a  Cushion,"  he  was  too  tender-hearted.  He  was  pained  by 
the  necessity  of  rejecting  articles  from  poor  authors  who  had  no 
claim  but  poverty,  and  by  having  to  refuse  his  friends — such  as 
Mrs.  Browning  and  Trollope  himself — from  deference  to  absurd 
public  prejudices.  An  editor  no  doubt  requires  on  occasion 
thickness  of  skin  if  not  hardness  of  heart.     Trollope,  however, 

*  See  Introduction  to  "  Pbilip  "  for  this  period. 


710        THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.    THACKERAY 

makes  the  move  serious  complaint  that  Thackeray  was  unme- 
thodical and  given  to  procrastination.  As  a  criticism  of  Thack- 
eray's methods  of  writing,  this  of  course  tells  chiefly  against  the 
critic.  Trollope's  amusing  belief  in  the  virtues  of  what  he  calls 
"  elbow-grease"  is  too  characteristic  of  his  own  methods  of  pro- 
duction. But  an  editor  is  certainly  bound  to  be  business-like, 
and  Thackeray  no  doubt  had  shortcomings  in  that  direction. 
Manuscripts  were  not  considered  with  all  desirable  punctuality 
and  despatch.  His  health  made  the  labour  trying ;  and  in  April 
]  862  he  retired  from  the  editorship,  though  continuing  to  con- 
tribute up  to  the  last.  His  last  novels  appeared  in  the  magazine. 
"  Lovel  the  Widower"  came  out  from  January  to  June  1860, 
and  was  a  rewriting  of  a  play  called  "  The  Wolves  and  the 
Lamb,"  which  had  been  written  in  1854  and  refused  at  a  the- 
atre. The  "  Adventures  of  Philip"  followed  from  January  1861 
till  August  1862,  continuing  the  early  "  Shabby  Genteel  Story," 
and  again  containing  much  autobiographical  material.  In  these, 
as  in  "  The  Virginians,"  it  is  generally  thought  that  the  vigour 
shown  in  their  predecessors  has  declined,  and  that  the  tendency 
to  discursive  moralising  has  been  too  much  indulged.  It  was 
illustrated  by  Frederick  Walker,  then  beginning  his  brilliant 
career.*  "  Denis  Duval,"  on  the  other  hand,  of  which  only  a 
part  had  been  written  at  his  death,  gave  great  promise  of  a  re- 
turn to  the  old  standard.  His  most  characteristic  contributions, 
however,  were  the  "  Roundabout  Papers,"  which  began  in  the 
first  number,  and  are  written  with  the  ease  of  consummate  mastery 
of  style.  They  are  models  of  the  essay  which,  without  aiming 
at  profundity,  gives  the  charm  of  playful  and  tender  conversa- 
tion of  a  great  writer. f 

In  1861  Thackeray  built  a  house  at  2  Palace  Green,  Kensing- 
ton, upon  which  is  now  placed  the  commemorative  tablet  of  the 
Society  of  Arts.J  It  is  a  red-brick  house  in  the  style  of  the 
Queen  Anne  period,  to  which  he  was  so  much  attached ;  and 
was  then,  as  he  told  an  American  friend,  the  "  only  one  of  its 
kind  "  in  London.  The  "  house-warming  "  took  place  on  Feb- 
ruary 24  and  25,  1862,  when  "  The  Wolves  and  the  Lamb  "  was 
performed  by  amateurs.  Thackeray  himself  only  appeared  at 
the  end  as  a  clerical  father  to  say  in  pantomime,  "  Bless  you, 
my  children !"  His  friends  thought  that  the  house  was  too 
large  for  his  means ;  but  he  explained  that  it  would  be,  as  in 

*  See  Introduction  to  "  Philip,"  p.  xlii.,  &c. 

f  See  Introduction  to  "Roundabout  Papers"  and  "Denis  Duval." 

i  See  Introduction  to  "Philip,"  p.  xxxiv.,  &c. 


THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.   THACKERAY         711 

fact  it  turned  out  to  be,  a  good  investment  for  his  children. 
His  income  from  the  Cornhill  Magazine  alone  was  about  £4000 
a  year.  Thackeray  had  appeared  for  some  time  to  be  older  than 
he  really  was,  an  effect  partly  due  perhaps  to  his  hair,  originally 
black,  having  become  perfectly  white.  His  friends,  however, 
had  seen  a  change,  and  various  passages  in  his  letters  show  that 
he  thought  of  himself  as  an  old  man,  and  considered  his  life  to 
be  precarious.  In  December  1863  he  was  unwell,  but  attended 
the  funeral  of  a  relative.  Lady  Rodd,  on  the  21st.  Feeling  ill 
on  the  2.3rd  with  one  of  his  old  attacks,  he  retired  at  an  early 
hour,  and  next  morning  was  found  dead,  the  final  cause  being 
an  eSusion  into  the  brain.  Few  deaths  were  received  with  more 
general  expressions  of  sorrow.  He  was  buried  at  Kensal  Green 
on  December  30,  where  his  mother,  who  died  a  year  later,  is 
also  buried.  A  subscription,  first  suggested  by  Shirley  Brooks, 
provided  for  a  bust  by  Marochetti  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
Thackeray  left  two  daughters :  Anne  Isabella,  now  Mrs.  Rich- 
mond Ritchie;  and  Harriet  Marian,  who  in  1867  became  Mrs. 
Leslie  Stephen,  and  who  died  November  28,  1875.  — " 

Nothing  need  be  said  here  of  Thackeray's  place  in  English 
literature,  which  is  discussed  by  all  the  critics.  In  any  case,  he 
is  one  of  the  most  characteristic  writers  of  the  first  half  of  the 
Victorian  period.  His  personal  character  is  indicated  by  his 
life.  "  He  had  many  fine  qualities,"  wrote  Carlyle  to  Monckton 
Milnes  upon  his  death ;  "  no  guile  or  malice  against  any  mortal ; 
a  big  mass  of  a  soul,  but  not  strong  in  proportion  ;  a  beautiful 
vein  of  genius  lay  struggling  about  him. — Poor  Thackeray, 
adieu,  adieu!"  Thackeray's  want  of  "strength"  meant  the 
excess  of  sensibility  of  a  strongly  artistic  temperament,  which 
in  his  youth  led  him  into  extravagance  and  too  easy  compliance 
with  the  follies  of  young  men  of  his  class.  In  later  years  it 
produced  some  foibles,  the  more  visible  to  his  contemporaries 
because  he  seems  to  have  been  at  once  singularly  frank  in  re- 
vealing his  feelings  to  congenial  friends,  and  reticent  or  sarcastic 
to  less  congenial  strangers.  His  constitutional  indolence  and 
the  ironical  view  of  life  which  made  him  a  humourist  disqualified 
him  from  being  a  prophet  after  the  fashion  of  Carlyle.  The 
author  of  "  A  Novel  Without  a  Hero "  was  not  a  "  hero-wor- 
shipper." But  the  estimate  of  his  moral  and  intellectual  force 
will  be  increased  by  a  fair  view  of  his  life.  If  naturally  indo- 
lent, he  worked  most  energetically  and  under  most  trying  con- 
ditions through  many  years  full  of  sorrow  and  discouragement. 
The  loss  of  his  fortune  and  the  ruin  of  his  domestic  happi- 
ness  stimulated   him  to  sustained  and  vigorous  efforts.     He 


713         THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.    THACKERAY 

worked,  as  he  was  bound  to  work,  for  money,  and  took  his 
place  frankly  as  a  literary  drudge.  He  slowly  forced  his  way 
to  the  front,  helping  his  comrades  liberally  whenever  occasion 
ofEered.  TroUope  only  confirms  the  general  testimony  by  a  story 
of  the  ready  generosity  with  which  he  would  assist  a  friend  in 
distress.  He  kept  all  his  old  friends  ;  he  was  most  affectionate 
to  his  mother,  and  made  a  home  for  her  in  later  years ;  and  he 
was  the  tenderest  and  most  devoted  of  fathers.  His  "social 
success"  never  distracted  him  from  his  home  duties,  and  he 
found  his  chief  happiness  in  his  domestic  affections.  The 
superficial  weakness  might  appear  in  society,  and  a  man  with 
so  keen  an  eye  for  the  weaknesses  of  others  naturally  roused 
some  resentment.  But  the  moral  upon  which  Thackeray  loved 
to  insist  in  his  writings  gives  also  the  secret  which  ennobled  his 
life.  A  contemplation  of  the  ordinary  ambitions  led  him  to 
emphasise  the  "  vanity  of  vanities,"  and  his  keen  perception  of 
human  weaknesses  showed  him  the  seamy  side  of  much  that 
passes  for  heroic.  But  to  him  the  really  valuable  element  of 
life  was  in  the  simple  and  tender  affections  which  do  not  flourish 
in  the  world.  During  his  gallant  struggle  against  difficulties, 
he  emphasised  the  satirical  vein  which  is  embodied  with  his 
greatest  power  in  "  Barry  Lyndon  "  and  "  Vanity  Fair."  As 
success  came  he  could  give  freer  play  to  the  gentler  emotions 
which  animate  "  Esmond,"  "  The  Newcomes,"  and  the  "  Round- 
about Papers,"  and  in  which  he  found  the  chief  happiness  of 
his  own  career. 

Thackeray  was  6  feet  3  inches  in  height.  His  head  was  very 
massive,  and  it  is  stated  that  the  brain  weighed  58^  ounces. 
His  appearance  was  made  familiar  by  many  caricatures  intro- 
duced by  himself  as  illustrations  of  his  own  works  and  in  Punch. 
Portraits  are  as  follows :  A  plaster  bust  from  a  cast  taken  from 
life  about  1825,  by  J.  Devile  (Mrs.  Ritchie:  replica  in  National 
Portrait  Gallery).  Two  drawings  by  Maclise  dated  1832  and 
1833  (Garrick  Club).  Another  drawing  by  Maclise  of  about 
1840  was  engraved  from  a  copy  made  by  Thackeray  himself  for 
the  "  Orphan  of  Pimlioo."  Painting  by  Frank  Stone  about 
1836  (Mrs.  Ritchie).  Two  chalk  drawings  by  Samuel  Laurence, 
the  first  in  1853,  a  full  face,  engraved  in  1864  by  Francis  Hall, 
and  a  profile,  reading.  Laurence  made  several  replicas  of  the 
last  after  Thackeray's  death,  one  of  which  is  in  the  National 
Portrait  Gallery.  Laurence  also  painted  a  posthumous  portrait  for 
the  Reform  Club.  Portrait  of  Thackeray,  in  his  study  at  Onslow 
Square  in  1854,  by  E.  M.  Ward  (Mr.  R.  Hurst).  Portrait  by 
Sir  John  Gilbert,  posthumous,  of  Thackeray  in  the  smoking- 


THE    LIFE    OF  W.  M.   THACKERAY        713 

room  of  the  Garrick  Club  (Garrick  Club;  this  is  engraved  in 
"  Maclise's  Portrait  Gallery,"  where  is  also  the  portrait  of  Thack- 
eray among  the  "  Frasereans").  A  sketch  from  memory  by 
Millais  and  a  drawing  by  F.  Walker — a  back  view  of  Thackeray, 
done  to  show  the  capacity  of  the  then  unknown  artist  to  illus- 
trate for  the  Cornhill — belong  to  Mrs.  Ritchie.  The  bust  by 
Marochetti  in  Westminster  Abbey  is  not  thought  to  be  satis- 
factory as  a  likeness.  A  statuette  by  Edgar  Boehm  was  begun 
in  1860  from  two  short  sittings.  It  was  finished  after  Thack- 
eray's death,  and  is  considered  to  be  an  excellent  likeness. 
Many  copies  were  sold,  and  two  were  presented  to  the  Garrick 
Club  and  the  Athenfeum.  A  bust  by  Joseph  Durham  was  pre- 
sented to  the  Garrick  Club  by  the  artist  in  1864  ;  and  a  terra- 
cotta replica  from  the  original  plaster  mould  is  in  the  National 
Portrait  Gallery.  A  bust  by  J.  B.  Williamson  was  exhibited  at 
the  Royal  Academy  in  1864  ;  and  another,  by  Nevill  Northey 
Burnard,  is  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery.  For  further  details 
see  article  by  F.  G.  Kitton  in  the  Magazine  of  Art  for  July  1891. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  Thackeray's  works  in  the  order  of 
their  independent  publication,  with  references  to  the  places  in 
which  they  first  appeared,  and  to  the  volume  in  this  edition  in 
which  they  are  now  arranged : — 

1.  "Flore  et  Zephyr:  Ballet  Mythologique,  par  Theophile 
Wagstaff "  (eight  plates,  lithographed  by  E.  Morton  from 
sketches  by  Thackeray),  fol.  1836  (vol.  ix.).  2.  "The  Paris 
Sketch  Book,  by  Mr.  Titmarsh,"  2  vols.  12mo,  1840,  includes 
"  The  Devil's  Wager,"  from  the  National  Standard,  "  Mary 
Ancel,"  from  the  ,New  Monthly  (1838),  "Cartouche,"  "The 
Little  Poinsinet,"  aW  the  "French  School  of  Painting,"  from 
Fraser,  1839,  and  "(An  Invasion  of  France,"  "  Mme.  Sand,  &c.," 
and  the  "  F6tes  of  jVly,"  from  The  Corsair,  a  New  York  paper, 
1839  (vol.  v.).  "The  Student's  Quarter,"  published  by  J.  C. 
Hotten,  professes  to  be  from  "  papers  not  included  in  the  col- 
lected writings,"  but  is  made  up  of  this  and  one  other  letter  in 
The  Corsair  (see  Athenceum  1  and  14  August  1886).  3.  |'  Essay 
on  the  Genius  of  George  Cruikshank,  with  numerous  illustra- 
tions of  his  works,"  1840  —  reprinted  from  the  Westminster 
Review — (vol.  xiii.).  4.  Sketches  by  Spec.  No.  1 :  "  Britannia 
Protecting  the  Drama"  (1840);  Facsimile  by  Autotype  Com- 
pany from  unique  copy  belonging  to  Mr.  C.  P.  Johnson.  5. 
"Comic  Tales  and  Sketches,  edited  and  illustrated  by  Mr. 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,"  2  vols.  8vo,  1841,  contains  the  "  Yel- 
lowplush  Papers,"  from  Fraser,  1838  and  1840  (vol.  iii.); 
"  Some  Passages  in  the  Life   of  Major  Gahagan,"   from  New 


n4        THE  LIFE    OF  W.   M.   THACKERAY 

Monthly,  1838-9  (vol.  iii.) ;  "The  Professor,"  from  Bentley's 
Miscellany,  1837  (vol.  xiii.)  ;  "The  Bedford  Row  Conspiracy," 
from  the  New  Monthly,  1840  (vol.  iii.) ;  and  "  The  Fatal  Boots," 
from  Cruikshank's  Comic  Almanack  for  1839  (vol.  iii.).  6. 
"  The  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon,  in  Three  Letters  to  Miss 
Smith,  of  Londoa  " — reprinted  in  Cornhill  Magazine  for  January 
1866— (vol.  iv.),  and  "  The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum,"  16mo,  1841 
(vol.  xiii.).  v.  "The  Irish  Sketch  Book,"  2  vols.  12mo,  1843 
(vol.  v.).  8.  "  Notes  of  a  Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Cairo  by 
Way  of  Lisbon,  Athens,  Constantinople,  and  Jerusalem,  by  Mr. 
M.  A.  Titmarsh,"  12mo,  1846  (vol.  v.).  9.  "Mrs.  Perkins's 
Ball,  by  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,"  4to,  1847— (i.e.  Christmas,  1846) 

(vol.  ix.).     10.  "Vanity  Fair:  a  Novel  Without  a  Hero,  with , 

Illustrations  by  the  Author,"  1  vol.  8vo,  1848— monthly  numbers 
from  January  1847  to  July  1848  ;  last  number  double — (vol.  i.). 
11.  "The  Book  of  Snobs,"  8vo,  1848;  reprinted  from  "The 
Snobs  of  England,  by  One  of  Themselves,"  in  Punch,  1846-7 — 
omitting  7  numbers— (vol.  vi.).  12.  "  Our  Street,  by  Mr.  M.  A. 
Titmarsh,"  4to,  1848— Christmas,  1847— (vol.  ix.).  13.  "The 
History  of  Pendennis,  his  Fortunes  and  Misfortunes,  his  Friends 
and  his  Greatest  Enemy,  with  Illustrations  by  the  Author,"  2 
vols.  8vo,  1849-50 — in  monthly  numbers  from  November  1848 
to  December  1850,  last  number  double;  suspended,  owing  to 
the  author's  illness,  for  the  three  months  after  September  1849 — 
(vol.  ii.).  14.  "  Dr.  Birch  and  bis  Young  Friends,  by  Mr.  M.  A. 
Titmarsh,"  16mo,  1849  {i.e.  Christmas,  1848)— (vol.  ix.).  15. 
"The  History  of  Samuel  Titmarsh  and  the  Great  Hoggarty 
Diamond,"  from  Fraser's  Magazine  of  1841,  8vo,  1849  (vol.  iii.). 
16.  "Rebecca  and  Rowena:  a  Romance  upon  Romance,"  illus- 
trated by  R.  Doyle,  8vo,  1850  {i.e.  Christmas,  1849) — (vol.  ix.) ; 
enlarged  from  "  Proposals  for  a  Continuation  of  '  Ivanhoe  '  '*  in 
Fraser,  August  and  September,  1846.  17.  "Sketches  after 
English  Landscape  Painters,  by  S.  Marvy,  with  Short  Notices 
by  W.  M.  Thackeray,"  fol.  1850.  18.  "The  Kickleburys  on 
the  Rhine,  by  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,"  4to,  1850  ;  Second  Edition 
with  Preface  (January  5,  1851),  being  an  "Essay  on  Thunder 
and  Small  Beer,"  1851  (vol.  ix.).  19.  "The  History  of  Henry 
Esmond,  Esq.,  a  Colonel  in  the  Service  of  Her  Majesty  Queen 
Anne,  Written  by  Himself,"  3  vols.  8vo,  1852  (vol.  vii.).  20. 
"  The  English  Humourists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century :  a  Series 
of  Lectures  Delivered  in  England,  Scotland,  and  the  United 
States  of  America,"  8vo,  1853  (vol.  vii.).  The  notes  were 
written  by  James  Hannay  (see  his  "  Characters,"  ifcc,  p.  55  n.). 
21.  ''  Preface  to  a  Collection  of  Papers  from  Punch,"  printed 


THE    LIFE    OF   W.   M.   THACKERAY        715 

at  New  York,  1852.  22.  "  The  Newcoraes  :  Memoirs  of  a  Most 
Respectable  Family,  Edited  by  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esq.,"  2  vols. 
8vo,  1854-5,  illustrated  by  R.  Doyle— twenty-four  monthly 
numbers  from  October  1853  to  August  1855— (vol.  viii.).  23. 
"  The  Rose  and  the  Ring ;  or.  The  History  of  Prince  Giglio  and 
Prince  Bulbo :  a  Fireside  Pantomime  for  Great  and  Small  Chil- 
dren, by  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,"  8vo,  1855,  illustrated  by  the 
author  (vol.  ix.).  24.  "Miscellanies  in  Prose  and  Verse,"  4 
vols.  8vo,  1855,  contains  all  the  "Comic  Tales  and  Sketches" 
(except  "The  Professor"),  "The  Book  of  Snobs"  (1848),  "The 
Hoggarty  Diamond"  (1849),  and  "Rebecca  and  Rowena" 
(1850).  It  also  contains  the  first  reprints  of  "Ballads"  (vol. 
xiii.);  "Cox's  Diary,"  from  the  Comic  Almanack  of  1840  (vol. 
iii.) ;  the  "  Diary  of  Jeames  de  la  Pluche,"  from  Punch,  1845-6 
(vol.  iii.) ;  "  Sketches  and  Travels  in  London,"  from  Punch, 
1847  (vol.  vi.),  and  "Going  to  See  a  Man  Hanged,"  from  Fraser, 
August  1840  (vol.  iii.);  "Novels  by  Eminent  Hands,"  from 
Punch,  I  Si'?  (vol.  vi.)  ;  "  Character  Sketches,"  from  "Heads 
of  the  People,"  drawn  by  Kenny  Meadows,  1840-1  (vol.  iii.); 
"  Barry  Lyndon,"  from  Fraser,  1844  (vol.  iv.)  ;  "  Legend  of  the 
Rhine,"  from  Cruikshank's  "Tablebook,"  1845  (vol.  iii.);  "A 
Little  Dinner  at  Timmins's,"  from  Punch,  1848  (vol.  vi.) ;  the 
"Fitzboodle  Papers,"  from  Fraser,  1842-3  (vol.  iv.) ;  "Men's 
Wives,"  from  Fraser,  1843  (vol.  iv.)  ;  and  "  A  Shabby  Genteel 
Story,"  from  Fraser,  1840  (vol.  xi.).  25.  "  The  Virginians :  a 
Tale  of  the  Last  Century  "  (illustrated  by  the  author),  2  vols. 
8vo,  1868-9 — monthly  numbers  from  November  1857  to  Oc- 
tober 1859 — (vol.  X.).  26.  "  Lovel  the  Widower,"  8vo,  1861, 
from  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  1860— illustrated  by  the  author — 
(vol.  xii.).  27.  "  The  Four  Georges,"  1861,  from  Cornhill  Mag- 
azine, 1860  (vol.  vii. :  notebook  extracts  in  vol.  xiii.).  28.  "The 
Adventures  of  Philip  on  his  Way  through  the  World  ;  showing 
who  Robbed  him,  who  Helped  him,  and  who  Passed  him  by," 
3  vols.  8vo,  1862,  from  Cornhill  Magazine,  1861-2  (vol.  xi.). 
29.  "  Roundabout  Papers,"  8vo,  1863,  from  Cornhill  Magazine, 
1860-3  (vol.  xii.).  30.  "  Denis  Duval,"  8vo,  1867,  from  Corn- 
hill Magazine,  1864  (vol.  xii.).  31.  "  The  Orphan  of  Pimlico, 
and  Other  Sketches,  Fragments,  and  Drawings,  by  W.  M.  Thack- 
eray, with  some  Notes  by  A.  T.  Thackeray,"  4to,  1876.  32. 
"  Etchings  by  the  Late  W.  M.  Thackeray  while  at  Cambridge," 
1878.  33.  "  A  Collection  of  Letters  by  W.  M.  Thackeray,  1847- 
1855  "  (with  introduction  by  Mrs.  Brookfield),  8vo,  1887  ;  first 
published  in  Scribner's  Magazine.  34.  "  Sultan  Stork,"  from 
AinswortKs  Magazine,  1842  (vol.  v.),  and  "other  stories  now 


716        THE    LIFE    OF   W.    M.    THACKERAY 

first  collected  " — includes  "  Dickens  in  France,"  from  Fraser's 
Magazine,  1842  (vol.  v.),  to  which  is  added  the  bibliography  of 
Thackeray "  (by  R.  H.  Shepherd),  "  revised  and  considerably 
enlarged,"  8vo,  ISSY.  35.  "Loose  Sketches.  An  Eastern  Ad- 
venture," &c.  (contributions  to  The  Britannia  in  1841,  and  to 
Punch's  Pochet-Book  for  1847),  London,  1894  (vol.  xiii.). 

The  first  collective  or  "  library  "  edition  of  the  works  appeared 
in  22  vols.  8vo,  1867-9  ;  the  "popular"  edition  in  12  vols, 
crown  8vo,  1871-2  ;  the  "  cheaper  illustrated  edition  "  in  24  vols. 
8vo,  1877-9  ;  the  edition  de  luxe  in  24  vols.  imp.  8vo,  1878-9  ; 
and  the  "standard"  edition  in  26  vols.  8vo,  1883-5.  All  the 
collective  editions  include  the  works  (Nos.  1-30)  mentioned 
above  (except  Nos.  4  and  17),  and  add  "The  History  of  the 
Next  French  Revolution,"  from  Punch,  1844  (vol.  vi.)  ;  "Cath- 
erine," from  Fraser,  1 839-40  (vol.  iv.)  ;  "  Little  Travels  and 
Roadside  Sketches,"  from  Fraser,  1844-5  (vol.  vi.)  ;  "John 
Leech,"  from  Quarterly  Review,  December  1854  (vol.  xiii.)  ; 
and  "  The  Wolves  and  the  Lamb  " — first  printed — (vol.  xii.). 
"  Little  Billee"  first  appeared  as  the  "Three  Sailors  "  in  Be  van's 
"Sand  and  Canvas,"  1849  (vol.  xiii.).  A  facsimile  from  the 
autograph  of  these  lines  sent  to  Bevan  is  in  the  Autographic 
Mirror,  December  1,  1864,  and  another  from  Shirley  Brooks's 
album  in  the  Fditor's  Box,  1880. 

The  last  two  volumes  of  the  "  standard "  edition  contain 
additional  matter.  Vol.  xxv.  supplies  most  of  the  previously 
uncollected  Fraser  articles  and  a  lecture  upon  "  Charity  and 
Humour,"  given  at  New  York  in  1852  (vol.  vii.) ;  the  letter  de- 
scribing Goethe ;  "  Timbuctoo,"  from  the  Snob;  and  a  few  trifles. 
Vol.  xxvi.  contains  previously  uncollected  papers  from  Punch, 
including  the  suppressed  "  Snob "  papers,  chiefly  political. 
These  additions  are  also  contained  in  vols.  xxv.  and  xxvi.  added 
to  the  edition  de  luxe  in  1886.  Two  volumes,  with  the  same 
contents,  were  arfded  at  the  same  time  to  the  "  library  "  and  the 
"  cheaper  illustrated,"  and  one  to  the  "  popular  "  edition.  The 
"  pocket  "  edition,  1886-8,  has  a  few  additions,  including  "  Sul- 
tan Stork  "  (see  No.  34  above),  and  some  omissions.  Vol.  xiii.  of 
this  edition  contains  these  miscellanea  (except  the  contributions 
to  Punch  printed  in  vol.  vi.,  and  "  Charity  and  Humour,"  print- 
ed in  vol.  vii.),  and  the  contributions  to  The  Britannia  in  1841 
and  Punch's  Pocket-Book  for  1847,  first  reprinted  in  1894  (see 
No.  35  above). 

The  "  Yellowplush  Correspondence "  was  reprinted  from 
Fraser  at  Philadelphia  in  1838.  Some  other  collections  were 
also  published  in  America  in  1852  and  1853,  one  volume  in- 


THE    LIFE    OF   W.   M.   THACKERAY        717 

eluding  for  the  first  time  the  "  Prize  Novelists,"  the  "  Fat  Con- 
tributor," and  "  Travels  in  London,"  and  another,  "  Mr.  Brown's 
Letters,"  &c.,  having  a  preface  by  Thackeray  (see  above).  "  Early 
and  Late  Papers  "  (1867)  is  a  collection  by  J.  T.  Fields.  "  L'Ab- 
baye  de  Peninarch  "  has  been  erroneously  attributed  to  W.  M. 
Thackeray  from  confusion  with  a  namesake. 

The  above  includes  all  such  writings  of  Thackeray  as  he 
thought  worth  preservation  ;  and  the  last  two  volumes,  as  the 
publishers  state,  were  intended  to  prevent  the  publication  of 
more  trifles.  The  "Sultan  Stork"  (1881)  includes  the  doubt- 
ful "Mrs.  Brownrigge"  from  Fraser  of  1832.  For  further  de- 
tails see  the  bibliography  appended  to  "Sultan  Stork."  See 
also  the  earlier  bibliography  by  R.  H.  Shepherd  (1880),  the 
bibliography  appended  to  Merivale  and  Marzials,  and  Mr.  C.  P. 
Johnson's  "  Hints  to  Collectors  of  First  Editions  of  Thackeray's 
Works." 

,L.  S. 


A    BIBLIOGRAPHY 

OF   THE   WORKS    OF 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 
BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION 

ARRANGED   IN   THE   ORDER   OF   THEIR   FIRST 
APPEARANCE   IN   BOOK-FORM 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

OF  THE   WORKS   OF   W.  M.  THACKERAY* 


1836. 

Flore  et  Z£phye:  Ballet  Mythologique  dedi^  k  (Sketch  of 
Flore),  par  TMophile  WagstafiF  (Autograph).  London,  pub- 
lished March  1st,  1836,  by  J.  Mitchell,  Library,  33  Old 
Bond  St. ;  k  Paris,  chez  Rittner  &  Goupil,  Boulevard  Mont- 
martre.  Printed  by  Graf  &Soret.  Folio.  Nine  plates  including 
title,  all  except  title  on  India  paper,  lithographed  by  Edward 
Morton. 
Vignette  Title. 

1.  La  Danse  fait  ses  offrandes  sur  I'autel  de  rHarmonie. 

2.  Jeux  Innocens  de  Zephyr  et  Flore. 

3.  Flore  deplore  I'absence  de  Zephyr. 

4.  Dans  un  pas-seul  il  exprime  son  extreme  desespoir. 

5.  Triste  et  abattu,  les  seductions  des  Nymphes  le  tentent  en  vain. 

6.  Reconciliation  de  Flore  &  Zephyr. 

7.  La  Eetraite  de  Flore. 

8.  Les  Belassements  de  Zephyr. 

1838. 
The  Yellowpltjsh  Correspondence.     Philadelphia :  E.  L.  Carey 
&  A.  Hart.     1838.     12mo,  pp.  238. 

No.       I.  Fashnable  Fax  and  Polite  Annygoats. 
,        II.   Miss  Shum's  Husband. 
,      III.  Dimond  cut  Dimond. 

,      IV.  Skimmings  from  "  The  Dairy  of  George  IV." 
,        V.  Foring  Parts. 

VI.  Mr.  Deuoeace  at  Paris  (Chaps,  i.-iv.). 
\    VII.  „  „  (Chaps,  v.-vii.). 

,  VIII.  The  End  of  Mr.  Deuceace's  History  (Chaps.  viiL-x.). 
Fraser's  Magazine. 
Nov.  1837,  Jan.  to  July  1838  (Vol.  16,  pp.  644-9  ;  Vol.  17,  pp.  39-49, 

24.3-50,  353-9,  404-8,  616-27,  734-41 ;  Vol.  18,  pp.  59-71). 
See  also  "Comic  Tales  and  Sketches,"  Vol.  1,  1841. 


*  This  Bibliography,  with  the  Index  foUowiiig,  is  duo  to  Mr.  W,  J.  Williams. 


722  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1840. 

An  Essay  on  the  Genius  of  Geoege  Oruikshank,  with 
numerous  illustrations  of  his  works  (from  the  Westminster 
Review,  No.  LXVI.),  with  additional  etchings.  Henry 
Hooper,  13  Pall  Mall  East,     mdcccxl.     8vo,  pp.  ii-59. 

Westmimster  Review. 

June  1840  (No.  LXVI. ,  Vol.  xxxiv.  pp.  1-60).     London  :  Henry  Hooper, 
13  Pall  Mall  East.     1841. 

1840. 

The  Paeis  Sketch  Book.  By  Mr.  Titmarsh,  with  numerous 
designs  by  the  author  on  copper  and  wood.  2  vols.  London  : 
John  Macrone,  1,  St.  Martin's  Place,  Trafalgar  Square. 
1840.     12mo. 

Contents  of  Vol.  1,  pp.  viii-304. 

An  Invasion  of  France.  Cartouche. 

The  Corsair,  New  York,  1839.  Frmer's  Magazine,  Oct.  1839  (Vol. 

A  Caution  to  Travellers.  20,  pp.  447-53). 

The  Fetes  of  July.  On  some  French  Fashionable  Novels. 

The  Corsair,  New  York,  1839.  A  Gambler's  Death. 

On  the  French  School  of  Painting.  Napoleon  and  his  System. 

Fraser's  Magazine,  Dec.  1839  (Vol.  The  Story  of  Mary  Ancel. 
20,  pp.  679-88).  The  New  Monthly  Magazine,  Oct. 

The  Painter's  Bargain.  1838  (Vol.  54,  pp.  185-97). 

Beatrice  Merger. 

Contents  of  Vol.  2,  pp.  iv-298. 

Caricatures  and  Lithography  in  Paris.  Madame  Sand  and  the  New  Apocalypse. 

Little  Poinsinet.  The  Corsair,  New  York,  1839. 

Fraser's  Magazine,  Oct.   1839  (Vol.  The  Case  of  Peytel. 

20,  pp.  453-9).  Imitations  of  Beranger — The  King  of 

The  Devil's  Wager.  Brentford. 

The   National   Standard,    Aug.    10  Fraser's  Magazine,  May  1834  (Vol. 

and  24,   1833   (Vol.   2,   pp.  85-6,  9,  pp.  617-18). 

121-2).  French  Dramas  and  Melodramas. 

Meditations  at  Versailles. 

1841. 

Comic  Tales  and  Sketches.  Edited  and  Illustrated  by  Mr. 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  author  of  "  The  Paris  Sketch  Book," 
etc.  In  two  volumes.  London :  Hugh  Cunningham,  St. 
Martin's  Place,  Trafalgar  Square.     1841.     12mo. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  723 

Contents  of  Vol.  1,  pp.  viii-299,  and  six  plates. 
The  Yellowplush  Papers:— 

1.  Miss  Shum's  Husband.  4.  Foring  Parts. 

2.  The  Amours  of  Mr.  Deueeace :      5.  Mr.    Deuceace    .it    Paris   (in   ten 

Dimond  cut  Dimond.  chapters). 

3.  Skimmings  from  the  "Dairy  of      6.  Mr.  Yellowplush's  A  jew 

George  IV."  7.  Epistles  to  the  Literati. 

Fraser's  Magazine. 

Nos.  1  to  5  first  reprinted  in  "  The  Yellowplush  Correspondence  "  18.38 
Nos.  6  and  7,  Aug.  1838,  Jan.  1840  (Vol.  18,  pp.   195-200 ;  Vol    21 
pp.  71-80). 

Contents  of  Vol.  2,  pp.  iT-370,  and  six  plates. 

Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Majob  Gahagan:— 

The  New  Monthly  Magazine  (London:   Colburn),  Feb.,  March,  Nov., 
Dec.  1838,  and  Feb.  1839  (Vol.  52,  pp.  174-82,  374-8:  Vol.  54 
pp.  319-28,  543-52  ;  Vol.  55,  pp.  266-81). 
The  Professor  :  — 

Bentley's  Miscellany,  Sept.  1837  (Vol.  2,  pp.  277-88). 
The  Bedford  Row  Conspiracy  : — 

The  New  Monthly  Magazine,  Jan.,  March,  and  April  1840  (Vol.  58, 
pp.  99-111,  416-25,  547-57). 
Stubbs's  Calendar  ;  or,  The  Fatal  Boots  :— 

The  Comic  Almana,ck  for  1839.     London  :  Charles  Tilt. 


1841. 

The  Second  Funeral  op  Napoleon  :  In  three  Letters  to  Miss 
Smith  of  London,  and  The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum,  by  Mr. 
M.  A.  Titmarsh.  London  :  Hugh  Cnnningham.  1841.  16mo, 
pp.  122. 

Reprinted  (with  prefatory  note)  in  The  Cornhill  Magazine. 
London:   Smith,  Elder  &   Co.,  Jan.   1866   (Vol.  13, 
pp.  48-80). 
A  portion  of  the  original  manuscript  is  facsimiled  in  The 
Autographic  Mirror,  Feb.  20,  1864  (Vol.  1,  p.  6). 

1843. 

The  Irish  Sketch-Book.  By  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  with 
numerous  engravings  on  wood,  drawn  by  the  author.  2  vols. 
12mo.  London:  Chapman  and  HaU,  186  Strand,  mdcccxliii. 
Vol.  1,  pp.  vi-311 ;  Vol.  2,  pp.  vi-327. 


724,  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1846. 

Notes  of  a  Journey  peom  Coenhill  to  Grajid  Cairo,  by- 
way of  Lisbon,  Athens,  Constantinople,  and  Jerusalem : 
Performed  in  the  Steamers  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental 
Company.  By  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  Author  of  "  The  Irish 
Sketch  Book,"  &c.  London  :  Chapman  and  Hall,  186  Strand. 
MDCCCXLVI.     12mo,  pp.  xiv-301,  and  Frontispiece. 

1847. 

Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball.  By  [Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  Mrs.  Perkins 
At  Home,  Friday  Evening,  19  Dec''.  Pocklington  Square.] 
London :  Chapman  &  Hall,  186  Strand,  mdcccxlvii.  4to, 
pp.  ii-46. 

1848. 

"  Our  Street.''  By  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh.  London  :  Chapman 
and  Hall,  186  Strand,  mdcccxlviii.  8vo,  pp.  54,  and  15 
Full-page  Illustrations. 

1848. 

Vanity  Fair  :  A  Novel  without  a  Hero.     By  William  Make- 
peace Thackeray.     With  Illustrations  on  Steel  and  Wood  by 
the   Author.     London :    Bradbury  and   Evans,   11,   Bbuverie 
Street.     1848.     8vo,  pp.  xvi-624,  and  40  Pull-page  Plates. 
First  published  in  twenty  numbers,  with  yellow  wrappers, 
monthly,  under   the  title  : — "  Vanity  Fair  :   Pen  and 
Pencil    Sketches    of    Enghsh    Society.      By    W.    M. 
Thackeray."     Number    1,    Jan.    1847 ;   Numbers    19 
and  20  (double  number),  July  1848. 

1848."^ 

The  Book  op  Snobs.      By  W.   M.    Thackeray,    Author   of  "A 

Journey  from  CornhiU  to  Grand  Cairo,"  of  "  Jeames's  Diary," 

in  Pwnch,   "  Our  Street,"   "  Vanity  Fair,"  &c.  &c.     London  : 

Punch  Office,  85  Fleet  Street,     mdcccxlviii.     pp.  vi-180. 

First  published   as  "The   Snobs   of  England,  by  One   of 

Themselves." 

Punch. 

Prefatory  Remarks 1846.  Vol.  10,  p.  101 

Chapter    1.  The  Snob  playfully  dealt  with  .         .         .  „             „           111 

2.  The  Snob  Royal „            „            115 

„           3.  The  Influence  of  the  Aristocracy  on  Snobs  ,,             ,,            125-6 


BIBLIOGEAPHY 

Punch,  continued ; — 
Chapter  ,4.   "The  Court  Circular"  and  its  Influence 
on  Snobs 

5.  What  Snobs  admire 

6.  On  some  Bespectable  Snobs 


10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 
15. 
16. 
17. 
18. 
19. 
20. 
21. 
22. 
23. 
24. 
25. 
26. 
27. 
28. 
29. 
30. 
31. 
32. 
33. 
34. 
35. 
30. 
37. 
38. 
39. 
40. 
41. 
42. 
43. 
44. 
Chapter  Last 


Great  City  Snobs 

On  some  Military  Snolis   . 

Military  Snobs . 

On  Clerical  Snobs 

On  Clerical  Snobs  and  Snobbishness 

On  Clerical  Snobs 

On  University  Snobs 

»>  ))         •         • 

On  Literary  Snobs    . 
A  Little  about  Irish  Snobs 
Party-giving  Snobs  . 
Dining-out  Snobs 
Dinner-giving  Snobs  further  considered 
Some  Continental  Snobs  . 
Continental  Snobbery  continued 
English  Snobs  on  the  Continent 
On  some  Country  Snobs   . 
A  Visit  to  some  Country  Snobs 
On  some  Country  Snobs  . 
A  Visit  to  some  Country  Snobs 
On  some  Country  Snobs  . 
A  Visit  to  some  Country  Snobs 
On  some  Country  Snobs   . 
A  Visit  to  some  Country  Snobs 
Snobbium  gatherum 
Snobs  and  Marriage 


Club  Snobs 


1846.  Vol.  10,  p. 


Vol, 


1847.     Vol.  12 


11 


725 


137-8 

147 

157-8 

167 

177-8 

197 

207 

217 

227-8 

238-9 

250-1 

261 

271 
63 
81 

91-2 
95-6 

105 

115 

125 

141 

148-9 

157-8 

167 

177-8 

187 

197 

215 

225-0 

229 

247-8 

251-2 

261-2 
7-8 
11-2 
23-4 
34-5 
43-4 
53 
72-3 
81-2 
85-6 


1849. 

Doctor  Biech  and  his  Young  Friends.  By  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh. 
London:  Chapman  and  Hall,  186  Strand.  1849.  8vo,  pp. 
vi-49,  and  16  Full-page  Illustrations. 


726  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1849. 

The  History  op  Samuel  Titmaesh  and  The  Great  Hoggarty 
Diamond.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of  "Pendennis," 
"Vanity  Fair,"  &c.  &c.  London:  Bradbury  &  Evans,  11, 
Bouverie  Street.  mdcccxlix.  8vo,  pp.  xii-189,  and  9 
Full-page  Plates. 

Fraser's  Magazine,  Sept.,  Oct.,  Nov.,  and  Dec.  1841  (Vol. 
24,  pp.'324-43,  389-99,  594-611,  717-34),  where  it 
appeared  under  the  title  : — The  History  of  Samuel 
Titmarsh  and  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond.  Edited 
and  Illustrated  by  Sam's  Cousin,  Micliael  Angelo. 

1849-50. 

The  History  of  Pendennis  :  His  Fortunes  and  Misfortunes, 
His  Friends  and  His  Greatest  Enemy.  By  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray.  With  Illustrations  on  Steel  and  Wood 
by  the  Author.  2  Vols.,  8vo.  London :  Bradbury  and 
Evans,  11,  Bouverie  Street.  Vol.  1,  1849,  pp.  viii-384,  and 
24  Full-page  Plates;  Vol.  2,  1850,  pp.  xii-372,  and  24  Full- 
page  Plates. 

First  published  in  twenty-four  numbers,  with  yellow 
wrappers,  monthly.  Numbers  1  to  11,  Nov.  1848 
to  Sept.  1849;  Numbers  12  to  23  and  24  (double 
number),  Jan.  to  Dec.  1850. 

1850. 

Rebecca  and  Rowena  :  A  Romance  upon  Romance.     By  Mr. 

M.    A.    Titmarsh.      With   Illustrations    by    Richard   Doyle. 

London:   Chapman  and  Hall,  186  Strand.      1850.     8vo,  pp. 

viii-102,  and  8  Full-page  Illustrations. 

Reprinted  from  Fraser's  Magazine,  where  the  substance  of 
\t  appeared,  Aug.  and  Sept.  1846  (Vol.  34,  pp. 
237-45,  359-67),  under  the  title :— Proposals  for  a 
Continuation  of  Ivanhoe.  In  a  Letter  to  Monsieur 
Alexander  Dumas,  by  Monsieur  Michael  Angelo 
Titmarsh. 

1850. 

The  Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine.  By  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh. 
London :  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.,  65  Oornhill.  mdcccl.  4to, 
pp.  vi-87,  and  15  Full-page  Illustrations. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  727 

Second  Edition,  with  Preface,  being  an  Essay  on  Thunder  and 
Small  Beer.  London  :  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.  1851.  4to, 
pp.  xv-87. 

1852. 

The  History  op  Henry  Esmond,  Esq.,  A  Colonel  in  the  service 
of  Her  Majesty  Q.  Anne.  Written  by  Himself.  Servetur 
ad  imum  Qualis  ab  incepto  processerit,  et  sibi  constet.  In 
three  volumes.  London :  Printed  for  Smith,  Elder  &  Com- 
pany, over  against  St.  Peter's  Church  in  Cornhill.  1852. 
Vol.  1,  pp.  344;  Vol.  2,  pp.  vi-319;  Vol.  3,  pp.  vi-324. 


1852-3. 

The  Luck  of  Barry  Lyndon  :  A  Romance  op  the  Last 
Century.  By  William  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of  "Vanity 
Fair,"  "  Pendennis,"  "Men's  Wives,"  "Book  of  Snobs,'" 
"Yellowplush  Papers,''  etc.  etc.  New  York:  D.  Appleton 
&  Company,  200  Broadway.  Vol.  1,  1852,  pp.  267 ;  Vol.  2, 
1853,  pp.  260.  16mo.  (Appleton's  Popular  Library  of  the 
Best  Authors.) 

Fraser's  Magazine. 

Jan.  to  Sept.,  Nov.,  Deo.  1844  (Vol.  29,  pp.  35-51,  187-202,  318-30, 
391-410,  548-63,  723-38;  Vol.  30,  pp.  93-108,  227-42,  353-64, 
584-97,  666-83). 

1853. 

The  Conpessions  of  Fitzboodle  and  Some  Passages  in  the 
Life  of  Major  Gahagan.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author 
of  "  Pendennis,"  "  The  Luck  of  Barry  Lyndon,"  "  The  Book  of 
Snobs,"  "Men's  Wives,"  etc.  New  York:  D.  Appleton  & 
Company,  200  Broadway,  mdcccliii.  pp.  276.  (Appleton's 
Popular  Library  of  the  Best  Authors.) 

Fraser's  Magazine. 

Confessions  of  Fitzboodle  :— 

Preface  I  June  1842.  Vol.  25,  pp.  707-21 

Fitzboodle's  Confessions  .         .  )  -,r  ,    „,.  .a  en 

Professions  by  George  Fitzboodle       .     July     „  Vol.26,  «-bU 

rottr  •        ■        •        :        :    Sn.  1843.     V01.-2,       '" 

Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Major  Gahagan  :- 
See  "Comic  Tales  and  Sketches,"  Vol.  2,  1841, 


728  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1853. 

Men's  Wives.  By  William  M.  Thackeray.  New  York:  D. 
Appleton  &  Company,  200  Broadway.  1853.  pp.  274.  16mo. 
(Appleton's  Popular  Library  of  the  Best  Authors.) 

Frasers  Magazine. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Berry,  two  chapters.  Mar.  1843  (Vol.  27,  pp.  349-61). 
The  Ravenswing,  eight  chapters,  April  to  June,  Aug.  and  Sept.  1843 

(Vol.  27,  pp.  465-75,  597-608,  723-33 ;  Vol.  28,  188-205,  321-37). 
Dennis  Haggarty's  Wife,  Oct.  1843  (Vol.  28,  pp.  494-504). 


1853. 

A  Shabby-Genteel  Stoey  and  Other  Tales.  By  William  M. 
Thackeray.  New  York :  D.  Appleton  &  Company,  200 
Broadway.  1853.  pp.  283.  (Appleton's  Popular  Library 
of  the  Best  Authors.) 

A  Shabby-Genteel  Story: — 

Frasers  Magasine,  June  to  Aug. ,  Oct.  1840  (Vol.  21,  pp.  677-89 ;  Vol. 

22,  pp.  90-101,  226-37,  399-414). 
Reprinted  in  The  MisceUomies  (Vol.  4,  1857,  with  a  note  added  at  the 
end). 
The  Professok  : — 

See  "Comic  Tales  and  Sketches"  (Vol.  2,  1841). 
The  Bedford  Row  Conspiracy:— 

See  "  Comic  Tales  and  Sketches  "  (Vol.  2,  1841). 
A  Little  Dinner  at  Timmins's  : — 

Punch,  May  27,  June  17,  24,  July  1,  8,  22,  and  29,  1848  (Vol.  14,  pp. 
219-23,  247,  258-9  ;  Vol.  15,  pp.  5,  13,  33-4,  43). 

1853. 

Jeames's  Diary,  A  Legend  of  the  Rhine,  and  Rebecca  and 
RowENA.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of  "Vanity  Fair," 
"  Me.  Brown's  Letters  to  a  Young  Man  about  Town," 
etc.  New  York :  D.  Appleton  &  Company,  200  Broadway. 
1853.  pp.  295.  (Appleton's  Popular  Library  of  the  Best 
Authors.) 

PuTieh, 
Jeames's  Diary  : — 

tea:::^^ofruX%we,  \^^^-  2>  1««  (Vol.  9,  p.  59). 

A  Letter  from  "  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square,"  Aug.l6, 1845  (Vol.  9,  p.  76). 

The  Diary,  Nov.  8^9,  Dec.  6,  13,  27,  1845 ;  Jan.  3,  10, 17,  31,  Feb.  7, 

1846  (Vol.  9,  207-8,  210,  227,  233,  242-3,  251;  Vol.  10,  10-11,  13, 

30-1,  35,  54-5,  72-3). 


BIBLIOGEAPHY  729 

A  Legend  op  the  Rhine  :— 

George  Cruikshank's  "Table-Book," — London:  Punch  Office,  92  Fleet 
Street,  1845-(Parts  6-12)  pp.  119-25,144-52, 167-75,193-200,224-8, 
24t-5,  267-70. 
Rebecca  and  Rowbna— See  1850. 

1853. 
Me.  Beown's  Lettbes  to  a  Young  Man  about  Town;  with 
the  "  Proser  "  and  other  papers.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author 
of  "  Vanity  Fair,"  "  Jeames's  Diary,"  "  The  Prize  Novelists," 
"  The  Book  of  Snobs,"  etc.  etc.  iSTew  York  :  D.  Appleton  & 
Company,  200  Broadway,  mdcccliii.  pp.  256.  (Appleton's 
Popular  Library  of  the  Best  Authors.)  With  Preface  by  the 
author,  dated  New  York,  December  1852. 

Pwnck. 
Mr.  Brown's  Letteus  to  a  Young  Man  about  Town:— 

Introductory Mar.  24,  1849.    Vol.  16,  p.  115 

On    Tailoring — and    Toilettes    in  1  „^                                 j25 

General ^  »         '     i> 

The   Influence   of   Lovely   Woman  1  ^     jj    „                                 135-6 

upon  Society    .         .         .         .  f 

Some  more  Words  about  the  Ladies  ,,     14,      .,  ,,            145-6 

(  „     28,  1                         (   165-6, 

On  Friendship        .        .        .        .\  May  5,  i  "  "1    184-5 

„.    1  r  187-8, 

Mr.   Brown  the  Elder  takes   *l^'- (ji^y  12-26-      ,  „      <  197  8, 

Brown  the  Younger  to  a  Club  J  '      "  "        l    207-8 

A  Word  about  Balls  in  Season        .        June    9,     ,,  „          229-30 

A  Word  about  Dinners  ...            „     16,      „  „           239-40 

On  some  Old  Customs  of  the  Dinner  1                gj  249-50 

Table /        »        .     .. 

Great  and  Little  Dinners        .        .        July   7,     „     Vol.  17,         1-2 

On    Love,    Marriage,    Men,    and  i  July  14,21,  )  J   13-14, 

Women ]      Aug.   4,  ]  "  "       1    23,  43 

Out  of  Town Aug.  11-18,     „  „       53,66-9 

The  Prosbr  :—  „  ,  ,  „  ^  ei  o 

On  a  Lady  in  an  Opera  Box   .        .  1850.  Vol.  18,  pp.  151-2 

On  the  Pleasures  of  being  a  Fogey  „  ,.               ^Ita, 

On  the  Benefits  of  being  a  Fogey  .  „  ,.               >-■''  ° 

Miscellanies:—  ,„,„   ,         Tt  ^d 

Child'sPartiesandaRemonstrancef  Jan.     13,    27,     1849.1    pp.  i.3  J-*, 

Concerning  them     .        .        .1     Vol.16,  I  35-b 

Science  at  Cambridge     .'  Nov.  11,  1848.   Vol.  15,  201 


Irish  Gems 


^^^^ _        .  .        .  April,      „      Vol.14,  153 

TTeVblries  the  Second  Ball .        .  May,  1851.    Vol  20,  221 

The  Georges Oct.  11,  1845.    Vol.    9,  159 


730 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


1853. 
Punch's  Prize  Novelists,  The  Fat  Oontributoe,  and  Travels 
IN  London.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of  "  Vanity  Fair," 
"Mr.  Brown's  Letters  to  a  Young  Man  about  Town,"  etc. 
New  York:  D.  Appleton  &  Company,  200  Broadway.  1853. 
pp.  306.     (Appleton's  Popular  Library  of  the  Best  Authors.) 

PwncJi. 
Punch's  Prize  Novelists  :— 


George  de  Barnwell 
Phil  Fogarty 
Barbazure     . 
Lords  and  Liveries 


{ap.»-17,1847.   Vol.  12, 1  PP- 136-7 


Codlingsby 


Aug.  7-21, 
July  10-24, 
June  12-26, 


146-7, 155 
v„i  ia  I  49-50, 
^"'■^^•t56-7,67-i 
j    2,  12-13, 


I 


21-2 


(     April  24,    1  ( 

1  May  15-29,  r'^''    "     1 


Vol.  12, 1        237-8, 
'  \     247,  257 
166,198-9, 
213-14, 
223 


See  also  "  Burlesques,"  1869. 
The  Fat  CoNTRiBnToii : — 

Brighton Oct.  11, 

Meditations  over  Brighton  .         .  ,,     25, 

A  Brighton  Night  Entertainment  „     18,     „  ,, 

Brighton  inl847  (in  two  chapters)      Oct.  23,  30, 1847.    Vol.  13, 
Travelling  Notes : — 

1.  By  our  Fat  Contributor 

2.  The  Ship  at  Sea— Dolores    . 

3.  From  my  Log-book  at  Sea   . 
Punch  in  the  East : — 

1.  From  our  Fat  Contributor   . 

2.  On  the  Prospects  of  Punch  1 

in  the  East        .         .         .  ) 

3.  Athens 

4.  Punch  at  the  Pyramids 

5.  ,,  ,,     concluded 
Travels  in  London  :— 


Vol.  9, 


Nov.  30, 1844.    Vol.  7, 
Dec.    7,     „ 

„  14,  „    ;; 

Jan.  11,  1845.  Vol.  8, 
,.     18,     „ 

5)    25,     ,,         ,, 
Feb.  1,     „ 


p.  158 

187 

168 

f      153, 

I    157-8 

237 

256-7 

265-6 

31-2 

35-6 

45 
61 
75 


The  Curate's  Walk  (in  two  parts)   \  ^"^  ^'/  1 1847.  Vol.  13,  /  PP'  ^^}-^' 

ADinnerintheCity(inthreeparts)i^^^- i^!.  ,,      i         ^23-4, 

'^       'I    25,  31,  f   "  "      1247-8,251 

A  Club  in  an  Uproar    .         .              Mar.  11, 1848.  Vol.  14,               95-6 

Waiting  at  the  Station         .        .     Mar.  9,  1850.  Vol.  18,             92-3 


A  Night's  Pleasure  (in  six 


Going  to  See  a  Man  Hanged:— 
fraser's  Magazine 


fJan.  8, 15,22,1  ("11,19,29, 

lix  parts)  .<     29  ;  Feb.  12,  VVol.  14, <  35-6,61-2, 

<•    19,  1848.       J  I  65-6 


Aug.  1840.    Vol.  22,  pp.  150-8 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  731 

1853. 

The  English  Humourists  op  the  Eighteenth  Century  :  A 
Series  of  Lectures  delivered  in  England,  Scotland,  and  the 
United  States  of  America.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of 
"  Esmond,"  "Vanity  Fair,"  &o.  London:  Smith,  Elder  &  Co., 
65  Oornhill.  Bombay :  Smith,  Taylor  &  Co.  1853.  [The 
Author  of  this  work  reserves  to  himself  the  right  of  authorising 
a  translation  of  it.]     Pp.  ii-322. 

An  American  edition  published  in  the  same  year  by  Meissrs. 
Harper  and  Bros.,  New  York,  contains  in  addition  the 
lecture  on  "Charity  and  Humour,"  which  was  first 
delivered  in  New  York  on  behalf  of  a  charity. 

1854-5. 

The  Newcomes  :  Memoirs  of  a  most  respectable  Family.  Edited 
by  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esq.  With  illustrations  on  steel  and 
wood  by  Eichard  Doyle.  2  vols.  London:  Bradbury  and 
Evans,  11,  Bouverie  Street.  Vol.  1,  1854,  pp.  viii-380,  and 
24  Plates;  Vol.  2,  1855,  pp.  viii-375,  and  24  Plates. 

First  published  in  twenty-four  numbers,  with  yellow  wrappers, 
monthly.  Number  1,  Oct.  1853;  Numbers  23  and  24 
(double  number),  Aug.  1855. 

1855. 

The  Rose  and  the  Ring  ;  or,  The  History  op  Prince  Giglio 
AND  Prince  Bulbo.  A  Fire-side  Pantomime  for  Great  and 
Small  Children.  By  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  Author  of  "  The 
Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine,"  "Mrs.  Perkins's  BaU,"  &c.  &c. 
London :  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  65,  Cornhill.  1855.  pp.  iv- 
128,  and  8  Full-page  Illustrations. 

1855-7. 
Miscellanies  :  Prose  and  Verse.     By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author 
of  "Vanity  Fair,"  "  The  Newcomes,"  &c.    London:  Bradbury 
&  Evans,  11,  Bouverie  Street.     Vol.  1,  1855;  Vols.  2  and  3, 
1856;  Vol.  4,  1857. 

Contents  of  Vol.  1,  1S55,  pp.  viii-510. 

Ballads:—  „,o^i 

The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum—"  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon,    1841. 
The  King  of  Brentford's  Testament— George  Cruikshank's  Omnibus, 

December  1841,  No.  8,  pp.  244-6. 
The  White  Squall— "  Cornhill  to  Cairo,"  Chap.  9,  1846. 
Peg  of  Limavaddy—"  Irish  Sketch  Book,"  Chap.  30,  1843. 


732  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Ballads,  continued ; — 

May-Day  Ode— Times,  April  30,  1851,  p.  5,  ool.  3,  dated  April  29. 
The  Ballad  of  BouiUabaisse— PwncA,  Feb.  17,  1849  (Vol.  16,  p.  67). 
The  Mahogany  Tree— PmtccA,  Jan.  9,  1847  (Vol.  12,  p.  13). 
The  Yankee  Volunteers— Pujic/i,  Jan.  1,  1851  (Vol.  20,  p.  2). 
The  Pen  and  the  A\b\]Ta— Keepsake,  1853,  pp.  48-50. 
Lucy's  Birthday— Keepsake,  1854,  p.  18,  dated  New  York,  April  15. 
The  Cane-bottom'd  Chair— PimcA,  March  27,  1847  (Vol.  12,  p.  125). 
*Piscator  and  Piscatrix. 
Ronsard  to  his  Mistress — Fraser's  Magazine,  Jan.  1846  (Vol.  33,  p.  120). 
At  the  Church  Gate—"  Pendennis,"  Chap.  31,  1849-50. 
The  Age  of  Wisdom—"  Rebecca  and  Rowena,"  Chap.  4,  1850. 
*Sorrows  of  Werther. 
*The  Last  of  May. 
Love  Sonqs  Made  East:— 

What  makes  my  Heart  to  Thrill  and  Glow  l—Pimch,  March  6,  1847 

(Vol.  12,  p.  101). 
The  Ghazul,  or  Oriental  Love-Song : — 

The  Rocks— PmwoA,  June  5,  1847  (Vol.  12,  p.  227). 
The  Merry  Bard  „  ,,  „ 

The  Caique  ,,  ,,  „ 

*FonR  German  Ditties  : — 
A  Tragic  Story. 
The  Chaplet. 
The  King  on  the  Tower. 
To  a  very  Old  Woman 
'    Imitation  op  Horace  : — 

To  his  Serving  Boy — administram — "  Memorials  of  Gormandising,"  1841. 
An  Old  Friend  with  a  New  Face  : — 
*The  Knightly  Guerdon. 
*The  Almack's  Adieu. 
The  Legend  of  St.  Sophia  of  Kioff — Fraser's  Magazine,  Dec.  1839  (Vol. 

20,  pp.  715-27). 
Titmarsh's  Carmen  Lilliense — Fraser's  Magazine,  March  1844  (Vol.  29 
pp.  361-3). 
Ltra  Hibernica: — 

The  Pimlico  Pavilion— P««c*,  Aug.  9,  1845  (Vol.  9,  p.  66). 

The  Crystal  Palace— 185L 

Molony's  Lament— PitncA,  1850  (Vol.  18,  p.  113),  under  the  title  "  Mr. 

Finigan's  Lament." 
Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the  Ball— Pumc/j,  Aug.  3, 1850  (Vol.  19,  p.  53). 
The  Battle  of  Limerick— PimcA,  May  13,  1848  (Vol.  14,  p.  195). 
The  Ballads  of  Policeman  X : — 

The  Wofle  new  Ballad  of  Jane  Roney  and  Mary  Brown — Punch,  May  25, 

1850  (Vol.  18,  p.  209). 
The  Three  Christmas  Waits— PimcA,  Dec.  23,  1848  (Vol.  15,  p.  265). 
Lines  on  a  Late  Hospioious  Ewent — Punch,  May  18,  1850  (Vol.  18, 
p.  189). 

*  These  do  not  appear  to  have  been  published  anywhere  previously. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  733 

The  Ballads  of  Policeman  X,  continued  ;— 

The  Ballad  of  Eliza  Hams— Punch,  Feb.  9,  1850  (Vol.  18,  p.  53). 
Damages,   Two   Hundred   Pounds— P-imcft,   Aug.   24,   1850  (Vol.   19, 

p.  88). 
The  Knight  and  the  Lady— PwrecA,  Nov.  25,  1848  (Vol.  15,  p.  229), 

under  the  title  "  A  Bow  Street  Ballad." 
Jacob  Homnium's  Hoss— PuncA,  Deo.  9,  1848  (Vol.  15,  p.  251). 
*The  Speculators. 

The   Lamentable   Ballad  op  the  Foundling  of  Shoreditch— From 
the  Times  of  Feb.  14  :— 
Punch,  Feb.  23,  1850  (Vol.  18,  p.  73). 

The  End  of  the  Plat— Dr.  Birch  and  his  Young  Friends,  1849. 

The  Book  op  Snobs— See  1848. 

The  Tremendous  Adventures  op  Major  Gahagan  : — 
See  "Comic  Tales  and  Sketches,"  Vol.  2, 1841. 

The  Fatal  Boots  : — 

See  "  Comic  Tales  and  Sketches,"  Vol.  2, 1841. 

Cox's  Dlary  : — 

The  Comic  Almamack,  1840,  under  the  title  "Barber  Cox,  and  the 
Cutting  of  his  Comb. " 

1855-7. 

Contents  op  Vol.  2,  1856,  pp.  iv-494. 
The  following  appear  in  book  form  for  the  first  time : — 
Character  Sketches: — 

Captain  Rook  and  Mr.  Pigeon. 
The  Fashionable  Authoress. 
The  Artists. 

Heads  of  the  People;  or.  Portraits  of  the  English:— 
Drawn  by  Kenny  Meadows.     With  Original  Essays  by  Distinguished 
Writers.     London  :  Robert  Tyas,  50  Cheapside.     1840,  pp.  305-20  ; 
1841,  pp.  73-84,  161-76. 

1858-9. 

The  Virginians:  a  Tale  of  the  Last  Century.  By  W.  M. 
Thackeray,  Author  of  "Esmond,"  "Vanity  Fair,"  "The 
Newcomes,"  &c.  &c.  With  Illustrations  on  Steel  and  Wood 
by  the  Author.  2  Vols.  London:  Bradbury  &  Evans,  11, 
Bouverie  Street.  Vol.  1,  18g8,  pp.  viii-382,  Vignette  Title 
and  23  Plates;  Vol.  2,  1859,  pp.  vih.-376,  Vignette  Title 
and  23  Plates.  . 

First  published  in  twenty-four  numbers,  with  yellow  wrappers, 
monthly.     Nov.  1857  to  Oct.  1859. 


734  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1861. 
The  Four  Georges.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of  "  Lectures 
on  the  English  Humourists,"  etc.  etc.  With  Illustrations. 
London:  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  65  Cornhill.  mdccclxi.  [The 
right  of  translation  is  reserved.]  Pp.  iv-226,  and  2  Full- 
page  Illustrations. 

The  Gomhill  Magazine. 

George  the  First— July      1860,  Vol.  2,  pp.  1-20 
George  the  Second — Aug.     ,,  ,,  175-01 

George  the  Third— Sept.      ,,  „         257-77 

George  the  Fourth— Oct.     „  „        385-406 

1861. 

LovEL  THE  Widower.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray.  With  Illustrations. 
London :  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  65,  Cornhill.  mdccclxi.  [The 
right  of  translation  is  reserved.]  Pp.  iv-258,  and  6  Full- 
page  Plates. 

The  Cornhill  Magazine. 
Jan.  to  June  i860  (Vol.  1,  pp.  44-60,  233-47,  330-45,  385-402,  583-97, 

652-68). 
See  also  1869.     Thackeray's  Works,  Library  Edition,  Vol.  22. 

1862. 

The  Adventures  op  Philip  on  his  Way  through  the  World  : 
Shewing  who  Bobbed  him,  who  Helped  him,  and  who  Passed 
him  by.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of  "Esmond,"  "Vanity 
Fair,"  "  Virginians,"  etc.  In  three  volumes.  London  :  Smith, 
Elder  and  Co.,  65,  Cornhill.  mdccclxii.  Vol.  1,  pp.  viii- 
329;  Vol.  2,  pp.  iv-304;  Vol.  3,  pp.  iv-301. 

The  Cornhill  Magazine. 

Jan.  1861  to  Aug.  1862  (Vol.  3,  pp.  1-24,  166-89,  270-93,  385-408, 
556-83,  641-65  ;  Vol.  4,  pp.  1-24,  129-52,  257-80,  385-408,  513-36, 
641-64  ;  Vol.  5,  pp.  1-25,  129-52,  257-80,  385-408,  513-36,  641-64  ; 
Vol.  6,  pp.  121-44,  217-40). 

1863. 

Roundabout  Papers.  Reprinted  from  The  Cornhill  Magazine. 
With  Illustrations  by  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of  "  Esmond," 
"  The  Four  Georges,"  "  Adventures  of  Philip,"  etc.  London  : 
Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  65,  Cornhill.  mdccclxiii.  [The  right 
of  translation  is  reserved.]  Pp.  iv-352,  and  5  Full-page 
Illustrations. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  735 

T/ie  Cornhill  Magazine. 
On  a  Lazy,  Idle  Boy— Jan.  1860  (i.  124-8). 
On  Two  Children  in  Black— March  1860  (i.  380-4). 
On  Ribbons— May  1860  (i.  631-40). 
On  Some  Late  Great  Victories— June  1860  (i.  755-60). 
Thorns  in  the  Cushion— July  1860  (ii.  122-8). 
On  Screens  in  Dining-rooms— Aug.  1860  (ii.  2S2-6). 
Tunbridge  Toys— Sept.  1860  (ii.  380-4). 
De  Juventute— Oct.  1860  (ii.  501-12). 
On  a  Joke  I  once  Heard  from  the  late  Thomas  Hood— Dec.  1860  (ii 

752-60).  ^  ■ 

Round  about  the  Christmas  Tree- Feb.  1861  (iii.  250-6). 
On  a  Chalk-mark  on  the  Door— April  1861  (iii.  504-12). 
On  being  Found  Out— May  1861  (iii.  636-40). 
On  a  Hundred  Years  hence— June  18K1  (iii.  755-60). 
Small-beer  Chronicle— July  1861  (iv.  122-8). 
Ogres— Aug.  1861  (iv.  251-6). 
On  two  Roundabout  Papers  which  I  intended  to  Write— Sept.   1861 

(iv.  377-84). 
A  Mississippi  Bubble— Dec.  1861  (iv.  754-60). 
On  Letts's  Diary— Jan.  1862  (v.  122-8). 
Notes  of  a  Week's  Holiday-  Nov.  1860  (ii.  623-40). 
Nil  Nisi  Bonum— Feb.  1860  (i.  129-34). 

See  also  "Roundabout  Papers,"  1869. 

1867. 

Denis  Duval.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Author  of  "  Vanity  Fair,'' 
"  The  Adventures  of  Philip,"  etc.  London :  Smith,  Elder 
and  Co.,  65,  Cornhill.     1867.     pp.  iv-275. 

The  Cornhill  Magazine. 

March,  April,  May,  and  June  1864  (Vol.  i.i.,  pp.  257-91,  385-409, 
513-36,  641-65).  The  notes  at  the  end  ai-e  by  Frederick  Greenwood, 
at  that  time  editor  of  the  magazine. 

1867. 

Early  and  Late  P.vpees,  Hitherto  Uncollected.  By  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray.  Boston :  Ticknor  ai'd  Fields.  1867. 
Crown  8vo,  pp.  viii-407. 

Memorials  oe;  Gohmandisino:— 

Fraxers  Magazine,  June  1841  (Vol.  23,  pp.  710-25). 
Men  and  Coats  : — 

Fraser's  Magazine,  Aug.  1841  (Vol.  24,  pp.  208-17). 
Bluebeard's  Ghost  : — 

Frascrs  Magazine,  Oct.  1843  (Vol.  28,  pp.  413-25). 
13  3A 


736  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Dickens  in  France: — 

Fraser's  Mayazine,  March  1842  (Vol.  25,  pp.  342-52). 
John  Leech's  Pictures  op  Life  and  Charactek  : — 

The  Quarterly  Review,  Dec.  1854  (Vol.  96,  pp.  75-86). 

Little  Travels  and  Roadside  Sketches  :— 

No.  1.  From  Richmond  in  Surrey  to  Brussels  in  Belgium.    Fraser's 

Magazine,  May  1844  (Vol.  29,  pp.  517-28). 
No.  2.  Ghent — Bruges.    Fraser's  Magazine,  Oct.  1844  (Vol.  30,  pp. 

465-71). 
No.  3.  Waterloo.     Fraser's  Magazine,  Jan.  1845  (Vol.  31,  pp.  94-6). 

On  Men  and  Pictures  : — 

Fraser's  Magazine,  July  1841  (Vol.  24,  pp.  98-111). 
Picture  Gossip  : — 

Fraser's  Magazine,  June  1845  (Vol.  31,  pp.  713-24). 

Goethe ; — 

A  letter  written  by  Thackeray  in  answer  to  a  request  from  G.  H.  Lewes 
for  some  account  of  his  recollections  of  Goethe.     Dated  London, 
28th  April  1855.     Printed  in  Lewes's  "  Life  and  Works  of  Goethe." 
London :  David  Nutt.     1855.     Vol.  2,  pp.  442-6. 
A  Leaf  out  of  a  Sketch  Book  : — 

The  Victoria  Regia,  a  Volume  of  Original  Contributions  in  Poetry  and 
Prose.     Edited  by  Adelaide  A.  Procter'.     London  :  Emily  Faithful! 
and  Co.,  Great  Coram  Street,  W.C.     1861.     pp.  118-25. 
The  Last  Sketch  : — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  April  1860  (Vol.  1,  pp.  485-7). 
"Strange  to  say  on  Club  Paper"; — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  Nov.  1863  (Vol.  8,  pp.  636-40). 

AUTOUR  DE  MON    ChaPEAU  ; — 

CornhiU  Magazine,  Feb.  1863  (Vol.  7,  pp.  260-7). 
On  a  Peal  of  Bells: — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  Sept.  1862  (Vol.  6,  pp.  425-32). 
On  some  Carp  at  Sans  Souci  : — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  Jan.  1863  (Vol.  7,  pp.  126-31). 
Df.ssein's  : — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  Dec.  1862  (Vol.  6,  pp.  771-9). 
On  a  Pear  Tree : — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  Nov.  ]862  (Vol.  6,  pp.  715-20). 
On  a  Medal  of  George  the  Fourth  : — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  Aug.  1863  (Vol.  8,  pp.  250-6). 
On  Alexandrines  : — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  April  1863  (Vol.  7,  pp.  546-52). 
The  Notch  on  the  Axe  : — 

Cornhill  Magazine,  April,  May,  June  1862  (Vol,  5,  pp.  508-12,  634-40, 
754-60). 
De  Finibus: — 

CornhiU  Magwinc,  Aug,  1862  (Vol,  6,  pp,  282-8), 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  737 

1869. 

Thackeray's  AVorks,  Library  Edition.  24  Vols.  (1867-9). 
Vol.  16.  BuKiESQUES;  Novels  by  Eminent  Hands;  Jeames's 
Diary;  Adventures  of  Major  Gahagan  ;  A  Legend 
OF  THE  Rhine;  Rebecca  and  Rowena  ;  The  History 
OP  the  next  French  Revolution  ;  Cox's  Diary.  By 
W.  M.  Ihackeray.  With  Illustrations  by  the  Author  and 
by  Richard  Doyle.  London:  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  15 
Waterloo  Place,  S.W.  1869.  pp.  viii-448. 
The  following  appear  for  the  first  time  in  book  form  : — 

Novels  by  Eminent  Hands:— 

CriDoMne— Punch,  Aug.  28,  Sept.  4,  11,  1847  (Vol.  13,  pp.  72-3,  82-3, 

97-8). 
The  Stars  and  Stripes— Punch,  Sept.  25,  Oct.  9,  1847. 
A  Plan  tor  a  Prize  Novel— PancA  (Vol.  20,  p.  75). 

See  also  Punch's  "  Prize  Novelists,"  1853. 

The  Diary  of  C.  Jeames  de  la  Pluche,  Esq.,  with  his  Lettehs: — 
Jeames  on  Time  Bargings — Punch,  Nov.  1,  1845  (Vol.  9,  p.  195). 
Jeames  on  the  Gauge  Question — Punch,  Miiy  16,  1846  (Vol.  10,  p.  223). 
Mr.  Jeames  again — Punch,  June  13,  1846  (Vol.  10,  p.  267). 
See  also  1853. 

The  History  ok  the  next  French  Revolution  —  (from  a  forthcoming 
History  of  England) : — 

Punch,  Feb.  24,  JIarch  2-30,  April  6-20,  1844  (Vol.  6,  pp.  90-3,  98-9, 
113-14,  117,  127-8,  137-9,  147-8,  157,  167-8). 

1869. 

Vol.  18.     Ballads  and  Tales.     By  W.  M.  Thackeray.     London  : 
Smith,    Elder   and    Co.,    1.5    Waterloo    Place.      1869.      pp. 
viii-413. 
The  following  ballads  appear  in  a  collected  form  for  the  first 

time : — 

Abd-el-Kader  at  Toulon;    or,   The   Caged  Hawk— /'tM?67i,  Jan.  1848 

(Vol.  14,  p.  14). 
Mrs.  Katherine's  Lantern  (written  by  Thackeray  in  a  lady's  album)— 

Cornhill  Magazine,  Jan.   1867  (Vol.   15,  pp.    117-18).     The  lady 

referred  to  in  the  poem  is   Mrs.  Perugini,  younger  daughter  if 

Charles  Dickens. 
The  Rose  upon  my  Balcony—"  Vanity  Fair,"  Chapter  51,  1848. 
A  Doe  in  the  City— PunoA,  Nov.  1,  1845  (Vol.  9,  p.  191). 
"Ah   Bleak  and  BaiTen  was  the  Moor  " — "Vanity  Fair,"  Chap.  4,  1848. 
Song'of  the  Violet— "A  Shabby-Gfenteel  Story,"  Chapter  5,  1840. 
Fairy  Days — "Fitzboodle  Papers" — Ottilia,  Chapter  2,  1843, 
Pocahontas — "Virginians,"  Chapter  80,  1859. 
From  Pocahontas — "Virginians,"  Chapter  80,  1859. 


Paris  Sketch  Book,"  Vol.  2,  1840. 


738  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Love  Songs  made  EA^^Y ; — 

My     Nora— "Fitzboodle    Papers "  — Fitzboodle's    Third    Profession, 

1842. 
To  Mary— "Book  of  Snobs"  (Club  Snobs,  No.  4),  1847. 
Serenade— "  Paris  Sketch  Book,"  Vol.  2— The  Devil's  Wager,  1833. 
The  Minaret  Bells — "Men's  Wives  " — Raveiiswing,  Chapter  1,  1843. 
Come  to  the  Greenwood  Tree—"  Men's  Wives  "— Ravenswing,  Chapter 

2,  1843. 

German  Ditty  : — 

A  Credo— "  Philip,"  Chapter  7,  1861. 

Four  Imitations  ok  Behanger  : — 
Le  Roi  d'Yvetot.  "\ 

The  King  of  Yvetot. 
The  King  of  Brentford. 
Le  Grenier. 
The  Garret. 
Roger  Bontemps. 
Jolly  Jack. 

Old  Friends  with  New  Faces  : — 

When  the  Gloom  is  on  the  Glen  )  "Sketches  and  Travels"— A  Night's 

The  Red  Flag  )      Plea-sure,  Chapter  5,  1848. 

Dear  Jack—"  Novels  by  Eminent  Hands  "— "  Phil  Fogarty,"  1847. 

Commanders  of  the  Faithful — "Rebecca  and  Rowena,"  1846. 

When  Moonlike  ore  the  Hazure  Seas — "  Jeames's  Diary,"  1845. 

King  Canute— "Miss  Tickletoby's  Lectures,"  1842,  and  "  Rebecca  and 

Rowena,"  1849. 
Friar's  Song— "Paris  Sketch  Book,"  Vol.  2 -The  Devil's  Wager,  1833. 
Atra  Cura — "Rebecca  and  Rowena,"  1841). 
Requiescat — "  Rebecca  and  Rowena,"  1849. 
Lines  upon  my  Sister's  Portrait  -"Jeames's  Diary,"  1845. 
The  Willow-Tree—"  Fitzboodle  Papers  "—Ottilia,  1843. 
The    Willow-Tree    (another    version) — "Fitzboodle    Papers" — Ottilia, 

1843. 

Lyra  Hibernica  : — 

Larry    O'Toole— "Novels    by    Eminent    Hands"  —  "Phil    Fogarty," 

1847. 
The  Rose  of  Flora—"  Barry  Lyndon,"  Chap.  1,  1844. 
The  Last  Irish  Grievance— PancA,  Nov.  22,  1851  (Vol.  21,  p.  223). 

The  Ballads  or  Policeman  X  :— 

A  Woeful  new  Ballad  of  the  Protestant  Conspiracy  to  take  the  Pope's 

Ufe— Punch,  Mar.  15,  1851  (Vol.  20,  p.  113). 
The  Organ  Boy's  Appeai— Punch,,  Oct.  1853  (Vol.  25,  p.  141). 
Little   BiUee— North   British   Review,   Feb.    1864   (Vol.    40,    p.    254). 
Originally  published  as  "The  Three  Sailors  "  in  Bevan's  "Sand  and 
Canvas,"  1849,  pp.  336-42. 
Vanitas  Vanitatum — Cornhill  Magazine.  July  1860  (Vol.  2,  pp.  59-60). 
See  also  "Miscellanies,"  Vol.  1, 1855. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  739 

Vol.  20.  RouND.iBouT  Papees  (from  The  Cornhill  Magazine), 
to  which  is  added  The  Second  Funeeal  of  Napoleon.  By 
W.  M.  Thackeray.  With  Illustrations  by,  the  Author. 
London :  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  15  Waterloo  Place.  1869. 
pp.  vi-428. 
The  following  Roundabout  Paper  from  The  Cornhill  Magazine 

appears  in  book  form  with  the  others  for  the  first  time  :— 

On  Halt  a  Loaf— A  Letter  to  Messrs.  Broadway,  Battery  and  Co.,  of  New 
York,  Bankers,  Feb.  1862  (Vol.  5,  250-6). 

See  also  "  Roundabout  Papers,"  1863. 

1869. 

Vol.  22.  Catherine  :  A  Stoey  ;  Little  Travels  ;  The 
FiTZBOODLE  Papers,  etc.  etc.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
With  Illustrations  by  the  Author,  and  a  Portrait.  Lon- 
don :  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  15  Waterloo  Place.  1809.  pp. 
viii-390. 
The  following  appear  for  the  first  time  in  book  form  : — 

Catherine:  A  Story:— 

Fraser's  Magazine,  May  to  Aug.,  Nov.  1839  ;  Jan.,  Feb.  1840  (Vol.  19, 
pp.  604-17,  694-709 ;  Vol.  20,  pp.  98-112,  224-32,  531-48 ;  Vol.  21, 
pp.  106-15,  200-12). 

The  Wolves  and  the  Lamb:— 

Written  for  the  stage  about  1854.     It  is  the  original  of  the  story  of 
"  Lovel  the  Widower. "     See  1861. 

1876. 

The  Orphan  op  Pimlico  and  other  Sketches,  Fragments, 
AND  Drawings.  By  William  Makepeace  Thackeray.  With 
some  Notes  by  Anne  Isabella  Thackeray.  London :  Smith, 
Elder  &  Co.,  15  Waterloo  Place.     1876.     Royal  4to. 

1877-9. 

Thackeray's  Works,  Cheaper  Illustrated  Edition,  26  Vols. 
Vol.  14.     The  Book  of  Snobs  and  Sketches  and  Travels  in 
London.    By  William  Makepeace  Thackeray.     With  Illustra- 
tions by  the  Author.      London:    Smith,   Elder,   &  Co.,   15 
Waterloo  Place.     1878.     pp.  xii-396. 

The  following  appear  for  the  first  time  in  book  form  : — 

On  a  Good-looking  Young  hady— Punch,  1850  (Vol.  18,  pp.  223-4). 
On  the  Press  and  the  Public— P«ncA,  1850  (Vol.  19,  p.  59). 


740  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Vol.  21.  Ballads  and  The  Rose  and  the  Ring.  By  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray.  With  Illustrations  by  the  Author, 
Mrs.  Butler  (Miss  Elizabeth  Thompson),  George  du  Maurier, 
John  Collier,  H.  Furniss,  G.  G.  Kilburne,  Mr.  FitzGerald, 
and  J.  P.  Atkinson.  London :  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.,  15 
Waterloo  Place.  1879.  pp.  xii-410. 
The  under-mentioned  is  included  here  among  the  other  Ballads 

for  the  first  time  : — 

Jeames  of  Buckley  Square  :   A  Helegy — See  "  Jeames's  Diary,"  1853. 

1885. 

Thackeray's  Works,  Standard  Edition,  26  vols.  (1883-6). 
Vol.  25.    Miscellaneous  Essays,  Sketches,  and  Reviews.    By 
William    Makepeace    Thackeray.     With  Illustrations  by   the 
Author.     London  :  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  15  Waterloo  Place. 
1885.     pp.  x-485. 

Critical  Reviews. 

Fashnable  Fax  and  Polite  Annygoats — See  "Tlie  Yellowplush  Cor- 
respondence," 1838. 

Jerome  Paturot ;  with  Considerations  on  Novels  in  General — Fraser's 
Magazine,  Sept.  1843  (Vol.  28,  pp.  349-62). 

A  Box  of  Novels— Fraser's  Magazine,  Feb.  1844  (Vol.  29,  pp.  153-69). 

A  Brother  of  the  Press  on  the  History  of  a,  Literary  Man,   Laman 

Blanohard,  and  the  Chances  of  the  Literary  Profession — Fraser's 

Magazine,  March  1846  (Vol.  33,  pp.  332-42). 
Strictures  on  Pictures — Fraser's  Magazine,  June  1838  (Vol.   17,   pp. 

758-64). 
A  Second  Lecture  on  the  Fine  Arts — Fraser's  Magazine,  June  18.39 

(Vol.  19,  pp.  74S-50). 
A  Pictorial  Ehapsoa/— i^Vaser's  Magazine,   June   1840  (Vol.  21,  pp. 

720-32). 
A  Pictorial  Rhapsody  concluded— ii'i'aseT-'s  Magazine,  July  1840  (Vol.  22, 

pp.  112-26). 
On  Men  and  Pictures — "  See  Early  and  Late  Papers,"  1867. 
May  Gambols— i^raser's  Magazine,  June  1844  (Vol.  29,  pp.  700-16). 
Picture  Gossip — See  "  Early  and  Late  Papers,"  1867. 

Tales. 

The  Professor— See  "  Comic  Tales  and  Sketches  "  (Vol.  2,  1841). 
Miss  Lowe — See  "  The  Confessions  of  Fitzboodle,"  &c,,  1853. 
Bluebeard's  Ghost — See  "  Early  and  Late  Papers,"  1867. 

Lecture. 
Charity  and  Humour— See  "The  English  Humourists,"  1853. 


BlBLlOGKAPHY  741 

Various  Essays,  Letters,  Sketches,  Sc. 

Memorials  of  Gormandising — See  "Early  and  Late  Papers,"  1867. 

Men  and  Coats — See  "Early  and  Late  Papers,"  1867. 

Greenwich — Whitebait— JVew  Monthly.  Magazine,  July  1844  (Vol.  71, 

pp.  416-21). 
A  Leaf  out  of  a  Sketch  Book— See  "Early  and  Late  Papers,"  1867. 
The  Dignity  of  Literature — Letter,  dated  Reform  Club,  Jan.  8 — The 

Morning  Chronicle,  Jan.  12,  1850  (p.  4,  cols.  1-2). 
Mr.  Thackeray  in  the  United  States — Fraser's  Magazine,  Jan.  1853 

(Vol.  47,  pp.  100-3). 
Goethe  in  his  Old  Age — See  "  Early  and  Late  Papers,"  1867. 
Timbuctoo— Me  Snob  (Cambridge  1829,  12mo),  No.  4,  April  30,  1829. 
Dr.    Johnson  and   Goldsmith — The  North  British  Review,  Feb.   1864 

(Vol.  40,  p.  256),  in  an  article  on  Thackeray  by  Dr.  John  Brown. 
The  History  of  Dionysius  Diddler — First  published  in  The  Autographic 

Mirror,  1864,  Feb.  20  to  June  1  (Vol.  1,  pp.  6,  15,  28,  39,  40,  60, 

68,  76).     The  drawings  were  made  about  1838  for  The  Whitey 

Brown  Paper  Magazine,  suggested  to  be  issued  in  1838-9  as  a 

weekly  publication. 

1886. 

Thackeray's  Works,  Standard  Edition,  26  vols.  (1883-6). 
Vol.  26.    Contributions  to  "  Punch  "  (not  previously  reprinted). 
By  William   Makepeace   Thackeray.     With  Illustrations  by 
the  Author.     London:    Smith,   Elder   &   Co.,  15   Waterloo 
Place.     1886.     pp.  xii-431. 

Miss  Tickletobt's  Leotukes  on  English  Histokt:  A  Character  (to 
Introduce  another  Character).  Lectures  1-10.  1842  (Vol.  3,  pp.  8-9, 
12-13,  28-30,  58-9,  70-2,  84-5,  91-2,  116-17,  121-2,  131-3,  142-3). 

Papers  by  the  Fat  Contributor  : — 

1.  Wanderings  of  our  Fat  Contributor— Aug.  3  (Vol.  7,  pp.  61-2). 

2.  The  Sea— Aug.  10,  17  (Vol.  7,  pp.  66-7,  83-4). 

Miscellaneous  Contributions  to  "Punch":— 

Mr.  Spec's  Remonstrance— Feb.  1843  (Vol.  4,  pp.  69-70). 

Singular  Letter  from  the  Regent  of  Spain— Deo.  1843  (Vol.  5,  pp.  267-8). 

The  Georges — See  "Mr.  Brown's  Letters,"  &c.,  1853. 

Titmarsh  v.  Tait— Mar.  14, 1846  (Vol.  10,  p.  124). 

Royal  Academy— May  1846  (Vol.  10,  p.  214). 

Professor  Byle's  Opinion  of  the  Westminster  Hall  Exhibition— July  1847 

(Vol.  13,  pp.  8-9). 
Punch  and  the  Influenza-Dec.  1847  (Vol.  13,  p.  238). 
The  Persecution  of  Briti.*  Footmen  (in  two  parts)— April  1  and  8,  1848 

(Vol.  14,  pp.  131,  143-4). 
Irish  Gems— See  "Mr.  Brown's  Letters,"  &c.,  1853. 
Mr  Snob's  Remonstrance  with  Mr.  Smith— May  27, 1848  (Vol.  14,  p.  217). 
Yesterday  •  A  Tale  of  the  Pohsh  Ball— June  1848  (Vol.  14,  p.  237). 


742  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Miscellaneous  Contributions  to  "Punch,"  rontinueat :— 

Science  at  Cambridge — See  "  Mr.  Brown's  Letters,"  &c.,  1853. 

The  Great  Squattleborough  Soiree— Deo.  16,  1848  (Vol.  15,  pp.  253-4). 

Paris  revisited— Feb.  10,  1849  (Vol.  16,  pp.  .55-6). 

Two  or  Three  Theatres  at  Paris— Feb.  24,  1849  (Vol.  16,  p.  75). 

On  some  Dinners  at  Paris— Mar.  3,  1S49  (Vol.  16,  pp.  92-3). 

Hobson's  Choice  ;  or.  The  Tribulations  of  a  Gentleman  in  search  of  a 

Manservant— Jan.  1850  (Vol.  18,  pp.  11-12,  21-2,  and  32-3). 
Thoughts  on  a  new  Comedy— Feb.  1850  (Vol.  18,  pp.  49-50). 
The  Sights  of  London— April  1850  (Vol.  18,  p.  132). 
The  Lion  Huntress  of  Belgravia — Aug.  and  Sept.  1850  (Vol.  19,  pp. 

89-91  and  123-4). 
Why  can't  they  Leave  us  Alone  in  the  Holidays? — Jan,  1851  (Vol.  20,  p.  23). 
A  Strange  Man  just  Discovered  in  Germany — April  1851  (Vol.  20,  p.  155). 
What  I  remarked  at  the  Exhibition— May  1851  (Vol.  20,  p.  189). 
M,  Gobemouche's  Authentic  Account  of  the  Grand  Exhibition — May 

1851  (Vol.  20,  p.  198). 
The  Charles  the  Second  Ball— See  "Mr.  Brown's  Letters,"  &e.,  1853. 
Panorama  of  the  Ingleez— Sept.  1851  (Vol.  21,  pp.  138-9). 
An  Ingleez  Family— Oct.  1851  (Vol.  21,  p.  147). 
Poor  Puggy— Oct.  1851  (Vol.  21,  p.  167). 
Portraits  from  the  late  Exhibition— Nov.  1851  (Vol.  21,  pp.  190-1). 


The  Flying  Duke— Nov.  1843  (Vol.  5,  p.  207). 
Mr.  Smith  and  Moses— Mar.  1848  (Vol.  14,  p.  127). 
The  Froddylent  Butler— Feb.  1849  (Vol.  16,  p.  62). 

Travels  in  London— Nov.  20,  1847  (Vol.  13,  p.  193). 

A  Club  in  an  Uproar — See  JPimck's  "Prize  Novelists,"  &c.,  1853. 

A  Roundabout  Ride— Mar.  25,  1848  (Vol.  14,  p.  119). 
The  Proser:  Essays  and  Discourses  by  De.  Solomon  Pacimco:- 

On  an  Interesting  French  Exile— June  1850  (Vol.  18,  pp.  234-5). 

On  an  American  Traveller— July  1850  (Vol.  19,  pp.  '7-8). 


Caricatures. 

Authors'  Miseries- 

-No.  1               1848. 

Vol. 

15.  p.  105. 

2 

115. 

3 

127. 

4 

144. 

5 

154. 

6 

198. 

7 

240. 

Various  Caricatures  : — 

One  who  can  Minister  to  a  Mind  Diseased — 1846.     Vol.  11,  p.  50. 

A  Tea-Table  Tragedy—  1840.  Vol.  11,  p.  63. 

Half-an-hour  before  Dinner  ,,  ,,          92. 

The  Heavies  „  ,,       103. 

A  Scene  in  St.  James's  Park  ,,  ,,        180. 

Literature  at  a  Stand  1847.  Vol.  12,     113. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  743 

1887. 
Sultan  Stork  and  other  Stories  and  Sketches.  By  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray  (1829-1844).  Now  first  collected,  to 
which  is  added  The  Bibliography  of  Thackeray,  revised  and 
considerably  enlarged.  London  :  George  Redway,  York  Street, 
Covent  Garden.     1887. 

Sultan  Stork  :  Being  the  one  thousand  and  second  Night,  translated 
from  the  Persian,  by  Major  G.  O'G.  Gahagan,  U.EJ.C.S.—Ainswortns 
Magazine,  Feb.  and  May  1842  (Vol.  1,  pp.  33-8,  233-37). 

Dickens  m  France  : — 

See  "  Early  and  Late  Papers,"  1867. 

Caeltle's  "French  Revolution": — 
Times,  Aug.  3,  1837  (folio  6,  col.  4-6). 


1891. 

Reading  a  Poem.  By  Wm.  Makepeace  Thackeray,  communicated 
by  Brother  Charles  Plumtre  Johnson  to  the  sette,  at  a  meeting 
holden  at  Limmer's  Hotel,  on  Friday  the  1st  of  May,  1891. 
Imprinted  at  the  Ghiswick  Press,  Tooks  Court,  Chancery  Lane, 
London,     mdcccxci.     pp.  xii-66. 

(No.  xxvii.     The  Sette  of  Odd  Volumes — Privately  printed.) 
The  Britannia,  a  weekly  journal,  May  1  and  8,  1841. 

1894. 

Loose  Sketches,  An  Eastern  Adventure,  &c.  By  W.  M. 
Thackeray.  With  a  Frontispiece  by  John  Leech.  London : 
Frank  T.  Sabin.     mdcccxoiv.     pp.  xii-113. 

Reprinted  from  The  Britanni  i,  a  weekly  journal : — 
Reading  a  Poem — See  1891. 

A  St.  Philip's  Day  at  Paris— May  15  and  22, 1841. 
Shrove  Tuesday  in  Paris — June  5,  1841. 

Reprinted  from  Punch's  Pocket  Book  for  1847  (London  :  Punch  Office,85  Fleet 
Street,  pp.  148-56,  with  plate  by  Leech) ; — 
An  Eastern  Adventure  of  the  Fat  Contributor. 

1899. 

"The  Ballad  of  Catherine  Hayes"  is  included  among  the  other 
Ballads  for  the  first  time  in  this  volume.  See  the  Introduc- 
tions to  Vol.  4,  p.  xix,,  and  Vol.  13,  p.  xxii. 


INDEX 

TO    THE    WORKS    OF 

W.  M.  THACKERAY:    BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION 


The  two  first  numbers  indicate  the  volume  and  page  in  which  the  works  will 
be  found,  while  the  last  number  gives  the  page  of  the  Bibliography  in 
Volume  13  in  which  each  work  is  mentioned. 


Abd-el-Kader  at  Toulon,  xiii.  56.  737. 

Ad  Ministram,  xiii.  151.  732. 

Adventures  of  Major  Gahagan,  The 
Tremendous,  iii.  lia.  723. 

Adventures  of  Philip,  The,  xi.  99.  734. 

Age  of  Wisdom,  The,  xiii.  50.  732. 

"Ah!  bleak  and  barren  was  the 
moor,"  xiii.  54.  737. 

Almack's  Adieu,  The,  xiii.  173.  732. 

Amours  of  Mr.  Deuceace,  The,  iii.  256. 
723. 

An  Eastern  Adventure  of  the  Fat  Con- 
tributor, xiii.  621.  743. 

An  Essay  on  Thunder  and  Small-Beer, 
ix.  161.  727. 

An  Ingleez  Family,  vi.  207.  742. 

An  Invasion  of  France,  v.  7.  722. 

Artists,  The,  iii.  .'523.  733. 

At  the  Church  Gate,  xiii.  58.  732. 

Atra  Cura,  xiii.  165.  738. 

Author's  Miseries,  vi.  735.  742. 

Autour  de  mon  Chapeau,  xii.  409.  736. 

Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,  The,  xiii.  62. 

732. 
Ballad  of  Catherine  Hayes,  The,  xiii. 

107.  743.  .. 

BalLid  of  Eliza  Davis,  The,  xui.  211. 

733. 
Ballads,  xiii.  3.  (731  and  737). 


Ballads  of  Policeman  X,  The,  xiii.  201. 

(732  and  738). 
Barbazure,  vi.  501.  730. 
Barrv  Lyndon,  The  Memoirs  of,  iv.  3. 

727. 
Battle  of  Limerick,  The,  xiii.  182.  732. 
Beatrice  Merger,  v.  136.  722. 
Bedford  Kow  Conspiracy,  The,  iii.  591. 

723. 
Beranger,  Four  Imitations  of,  xiii.  135. 

722. 
Berry,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank,   iv.   476. 

728. 
Bibliography   of    Thackeray's  Works, 

xiii.  721. 
Bluebeard's  Ghost,  xiii.  508.  735. 
Book  of  Snobs,  The,  vi.  303.  724. 
Box  of  Novels,  A,  xiii.  398.  740. 
Brentford,  The  King  of,  xiii.  139.  722. 
Brighton,  vi.  88.  730. 
Brighton  in  1847,  vi.  97.  730. 
Brighton  Night  Entertainment,  A,  vi. 

90.  730. 
Brother  of  the  Press  on  the  History  of 

a  Literary  Man,  &c.,  xiii.  465.  740. 


Caique,  The,  xiii.  122.  732. 
Cane-bottom'd  Chair,  The,  xiii.  52.  732. 
Captain  Book  and  Mr.  Pigeon,  iii.  495. 
733. 


745 


746 


INDEX 


Caricatures,  vi.  735.  742. 

„  Various,  \i.  749.  742. 

Caricatures  and  Lithography  in  Paris, 

V.  142.  722. 
Carlyle's  French  Revolution,  xiii.  239. 

743. 
Cartouche,  v.  70.  722. 
Case  of  Peytel,  The.  v.  209.  722. 
Catherine  :  A  Story,  iv.  519.  739. 
Catherine  Hayes,  xiii.  107.  743. 
Caution  to  Travellers,  A,  v.  18.  722. 
Chaplet,  The,  xiii.  128.  732. 
Character  Sketches,  iii.  495.  733. 
Charity  and  Humour,  vii.  711.  731. 
Charles  the  Second  Ball,  The,  vi.  200. 

729. 
Child's  Parties,  vi.  591.  729. 
Christmas  Books,  ix.  1.  (724-6,  731). 
Chronicle  of  the  Drum,  The,  xii.  4.  731. 
Club  in  an  Uproar,  A,  vi.  583.  730. 
Codlingsby,  vi.  478.  730. 
Come  to  the  Greenwood  Tree,  xiii.  115. 

738. 
Commanders  of  the  Faithful,  xiii.  ICC. 

738. 
Congreve  and  Addison,  vii.  456.  731. 
Contributions  to  Punchy  vi.  1.  741. 
Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo,   Notes  of  a 

Journey  from,  v.  585.  724. 
Cox's  Diary,  iii.  189.  733. 
Credo,  A,  xiii.  131.  738. 
Crinoline,  vi.  519.  737. 
Critical  Reviews,  xiii.   239.   (736,  740, 

and  743). 
Cruikshank,  George,  xiii.  285.  722. 
Crystal  Palace,  The,  xiii.  191.  732. 
Curate's  Walk,  The,  vi.  545.  730. 


Damages,  Two  Hundred  Pound.=f,  xiii. 

224.  733. 
Dear  Jack,  xiii.  1C8.  738. 
De  Finihus,  xii.  369.  736. 
De  Juventute,  xii.  229.  735. 
Denis  Duval,  xii.  443.  735. 

,,         „       Notes  on,  xii.  555.  735. 
Dennis  Haggarty's  Wife,  iv.  497.  728. 
Dessein's,  xii.  393.  736. 
Deuceaoe,  Amours  of  Mr. ,  iii.  256.  723. 
Deuceace,  Mr.,  at  Paris,  iii.  279.  721. 
Devil's  Wager,  The,  v.  178.  722. 


Diary  of  C.  Jeames  de  la  Pluche,  Tlie, 

iii.  381.  737. 
Dickens  in  France,  v.  753.  736. 
Dignity  of  Literature,  The,  xiii.  629. 

741. 
Dimond  cut  Dimond,  iii.  256.  721. 
Dinner  in  the  City,  A,  vi.  553.  730. 
Dionysius  Diddler,  The  History  of,  xiii. 

652.  741. 
Doe  in  the  City,  A,  xiii.  42.  737. 
Dorothea,  iv.  312.  727. 
Dr.  Birch  and  his  Young  Friends,  ix. 

73.  725. 
Dr.  Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  xiii.  648. 

741. 


Eastern  Adventure  of  the  Fat  Contri- 
butor, An,  xiii.  621.  74.3. 

End  of  the  Play,  The,  xiii.  59.  733. 

End  of  Mr.  Deuceace's  History,  The, 
iii.  315.  721. 

English  Humorists,  The,  vii.  423.  731. 

Epistles  to  the  Literati,  iii.  360.  723. 

Esmond,  The  History  of  Henry,  vii.  1. 
727. 

Essay  on  Thunder  and  Small- Beer,  An, 
ix.  161.  727. 


Faikt  Days,  xiii.  27.  737. 

Fashionable  Authoress,  The,  iii.    511. 
733. 

Fashnable  Fax  and  Polite  Annygoats, 
xiii.  251.  721. 

Fat  Contributor,  An  Eastern  Adven- 
ture of  the,  xiii.  621.  743. 

Fat  Contributor,  Papers  by  the,  vi.  53. 
(730  and  741). 

Fatal  Boots,  The,  iii.  541.  723. 

Fetes  of  July,  The,  v.  33.  722. 

Fine  Arts,   A  Second  Lecture  on  the, 
xiii.  272.  740. 

Fitzboodle  Confessions,  iv.  273.  727. 
,,  Professions,  iv.  341.  727. 

Five  German  Ditties,    xiii.   127.   (732 
and  738). 

Flore  et  Zephyr,  ix.  Ix.  721. 

Flying  Duke,  The,  vi.  223.  742. 

Foring  Parts,  iii.  270.  721. 

Four  Georges,  The,  vii.  621.  734. 


INDEX 


747 


Four  Imitations  of  Beranger,  xiii.  135. 

(722  and  738). 
French   Dramas   and    Melodramas,    v. 

235.  722. 
French    Revolution,     History    of    the 

next,  vi.  233.  737. 
Friar's  Song,  xiii.  155.  738. 
Froddylent  Butler,  The,  vi.  228.  742. 
From  Pocahontas,  xiii.  99.  737. 
From  Richmond  in  Surrey  to  Brussels 

in  Belgium,  vi.  267.  736. 


Gahagan,    Major,    The    Tremendous 

Adventures  of,  iii.  119.  723. 
Gambler's  Death,  A,  v.  98.  722. 
Garret,  The,  xiii.  142.  738. 
George  de  Barnwell,  vi.  467.  730. 
George  IV. ,  Skimmings  from  the  Dairy 

of,  iii.  348.  721. 
Georges,  The,  vi.  110.  729. 
Georges,  The  Four,  vii.  621.  734. 
German  Ditties,    Five,   xiii.    127.    (732 

and  738). 
Ghazul,  or  Oriental   Love  Son;;,  The, 

xiii.  120.  732. 
Ghent— Bruges,  vi.  285.  736. 
Gobemouche's   Authentic   Account    of 

the  Grand  Exhibition,  vi.  197.  742. 
Goethe  in  his  Old  Age,  xiii.  640.  736. 
Going  to  See  a  Man  Hanged,  iii.  033, 

730. 
Gormandising,  Memorials  of,  xiii.  573. 

735. 
Great  and  Little  Dinners,  vi.  652.  721). 
Great  Squattleborough  i;oiree.  The,  vi. 

142.  742. 
Greenwich — Whitebait,  xiii.  614.  741. 

Half-AN-HOUU  before  Dinner,  vi.  753. 

742. 
Hayes,  Catherine,  xiii.  107.  743. 
Heavies,  The,  vi.  755.  742. 
History  of  Dionysius  Diddler,  xiii.  652. 

741. 
History  of  Henry  Esmond,  The,  vn.  1. 

727. 
History  of  Pendennis,  The,  n.  1.  726. 
History  of  Samuel  Titmarsh  and  the 

Great  Hoggarty  Diamond,  iii.  3.  726. 


History  of  the  next  French  Revolution, 

vi.  233.  737. 
Hobson's  Choice,  vi.  159.  742. 
Hogarth,  Smollett,  and  Fielding,  vii. 

657.  731. 
Hoggarty   Diamond,    The   History   of 

Samuel   Titmarsh   and   the   Great, 

iii.  3.  726. 
Horace,  Imitation  of,  xiii.  151.  732. 

Imitation  of  Horace,  xiii.  151.  732. 
Imitations  of  BtSranger,  Four,  xiii.  135. 

(722  and  738). 
Influence     of     Lovely    Woman    upon 

Society,  The,  vi.  611.  729. 
Invasion  of  France,  An,  v.  7.  722. 
Irish  Gems,  vi.  129.  729. 
Irish  Sketch  Book  of  1842,  The,  v.  271. 

723. 

Jacob  Homnium's  Hoss,  xiii.  201.  733. 
Jeames  de  la  Pluche,  The  Diary  of  C, 

iii.  381.  (728  and  737). 
Jeames  on  "rime  Bargings,  iii.  424.  737. 
Jeames  on  the  Gauge  Question,  iii.  426. 

737. 
Jeames  of  Buckley  Square  :  A  Heligy, 

xiii.  38.  (728  and  740). 
Jerome  Paturot,  xiii.  384.  740. 
John    Leech's    Pictures    of    Life    and 

Character,  xiii.  480.  736. 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  xiii.  648.  74 1 . 
Jolly  Jack,  xiii.  146.  738. 

KicKLEBUBYS  on  the  Rhine,  The,  ix. 

169.  726. 
King  of  Brentford,  xiii.  139.  (722  and 

738). 
King  of  Brentford's  Testament,  The, 

xiii.  19.  731. 
King  of  Yvetot,  xiii.  137.  738. 
King  Canute,  xiii.  156.  738. 
King  on  the  Tower,  The,  xiii.  129.  732. 
Knight  and  the  Lady,  The,  xiii.  232. 733. 
Knightly  Guerdon,  The,  xiii.  171.  732. 

LaMAN  Blanohard,  a  Brother  of  the 
Press  on  the  History  of  a  Literary 
Man,  xiii.  465.  740. 


748 


INDEX 


Lamentable  Ballad  of  the  Foundling  of 

Shoreditoh,  The,  xiii.  215.  733. 
Larry  O'Toole,  xiii.  181.  738. 
Last  Irish  Grievance,   The,  xiii.  189. 

738. 
Last  of  May,  The,  xiii.  79.  732. 
Last  Sketch,  The,  xii.  186.  736. 
Leaf  out  of  a  Sketch  Book,  A,  xiii.  643. 

736. 
Lectures,  The,  vii.  423.  (731  and  734). 
Leech's  Pictures  of  Life  and  Charaeter, 

John,  xiii.  480.  736. 
Legend   of  St.   Sophia  of  Kioff,  The, 

xiii.  80.  732. 
Legend  of  the  Rhine,  A,  iii.  435.  729. 
Le  Grenier,  xiii.  141.  738. 
Le  Roi  d'Yvetot,  xiii.  135.  738. 
Life  of   W.    M.  Thackeray,   by  Leslie 

Stephen,  xiii.  689. 
Lines  on  a  Late  Hospicious  Ewent,  xiii. 

218.  732. 
Lines  upon  my  Sister's  Portrait,  xiii. 

41.  738. 
Lion  Huntress  of  Belgravia.  The,  vi. 

179.  742. 
Literature  at  a  Stand,  vi.  759.  742. 
Little  Billee,  xiii.  103.  738. 
Little  Dinner  at  Timmins's,  A,  vi.  707. 

728. 
Little  Poinsinet,  v.  166.  722. 
Little  Tr.ivels  and  Roadside  Sketches, 

vi.  267.  736. 
London,  Sketches  and  Travels  in,  vi. 

541.  730. 
Lords  and  Liveries,  vi.  510.  730. 
Lovel  the  Widower,  xii.  53.  734. 
Love  Songs  made  Easy,  xiii.  113.   (732 

and  738). 
Lucky  Speculator,  A,  iii.  381.  728. 
Lucy's  Birthday,  xiii.  72.  732. 
Lyra  Hibernica,  xiii,  177.  (732  and  738). 


Madame  Sand  and  the  New  Apoca- 
lypse, >'.  187.  722. 

Mahogany  Tree,  The,  xiii.  51.  732. 

Major  Gahagan,  The  Tremendous  Ad- 
ventures of,  iii.  119.  723. 

May-day  Ode,  xiii.  65.  732. 

May  Gambols,  xiii.  419.  740. 

Meditations  at  Versailles,  v.  253.  722. 


Meditations  over  Brighton,  vi.  94.  730. 
Memoirs  of  Barry  Lyndon,  Esq.,  The, 

iv.  3.  727. 
Memoirs  of  Mr.  C.  J.  Yellowplush,  The, 

iii.  237.  721. 
Memorials  of  Gormandising,  xiii.  573. 

735. 
Men  and  Coatsi,  xiii.  598.  735. 
Men's  Wives,  iv.  367.  728. 
Merger,  Beatrice,  v.  136.  722. 
Merry  Bard,  The,  xiii.  121.  732. 
Minaret  Bells,  The,  xiii.  114.  738. 
Miscellaneous  Contributions  to  Punch, 

vi.  107.  741. 
Miscellaneous    Essays,    Sketches,    and 

Reviews,  xiii.  239.  740. 
Mississippi  Bubble,  A,  xii.  325.  735. 
Miss  Lowe,  iv.  292.  727. 
Miss  Shum's  Husband,  iii.  237.  721. 
Miss  I'ickletoby's  Lectures  on  Engli-h 

History,  vi.  3.  741. 
Molony's  Lament,  xiii.  196.  732. 
Mr.   and  Mrs.    Frank  Berry,  iv.   476. 

728. 
Mr.  Brown  the  Elder  takes  Mr.  Brown 

the  Younger  to  a  Club,  vi.  627.  729. 
Mr.  Brown's  Letters  to  his  Nephew, 

vi.  604.  729. 
Mr.  Deuceace  at  Paris,  iii.  279.  721. 
M.  Gobemouche's  Authentic  Account 

of  the  Grand  Exhibition,    vi.  197. 

742. 
Mr.  Jeames  again,  iii.  429.  737. 
Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the  Ball,  xiii. 

186.  732. 
Mr.  Smith  and  Moses,  vi.  226.  742. 
Mr.    Snob's    Remonstrance   with    Mr. 

Smith,  vi.  133.  741. 
Mr.  Spec's  Remonstrance,  vi.  107.  741. 
Mr.  Thackeray  in  the  United  States, 

xiii.  634.  741. 
Mr.  Yellowplush's  Ajew,  iii.  338.  723. 
Mrs.    Katherine's   Lantern,    xiii.    105. 

737. 
Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball,  ix.  3.  724. 
My  Nora,  xiii.  123.  738. 


Napoleoh  and  his  System,  v.  107.  722. 
,,         The  Second  Funeral  of,  iv. 
673.  723. 


INDEX 


749 


Newcomes,  The,  viii,  1.  731. 
Night's  'Pleasure,  A,  vi.  5ti4.  730. 
Nil  Nisi  Bonum,  xii.  373.  735. 
Notch  on  the  Axe,  The,  xii.  348.  73G. 
Notes  of  a  Journey  from  (Jornhill  to 

Grand  Cairo,  v.  585.  724. 
Notes  of  a,  Week's  Holiday,  xii.  242. 

735. 
Novels   by  Eminent   Hands,   vi.  4B7. 

(730  and  737). 


Ogres,  xii.  309.  735. 

Old  Friends  with  New  Faces,  xiii.  155. 

(732  and  738). 
On   a   Chalk-Mark  on  the  Door,    xii. 

279.  735. 
On   a  Good-looking  Young  Lady,  vi. 

687.  739. 
On  a  Hundred  Years  Hence,  xii.  295. 

735. 
On  a  Joke  I  once  Heard  from  the  Late 

Thomas  Hood,  xii.  261.  735. 
On  a  Lady  in  an  Opera-Box,  vi.  675. 

729. 
On  a  Lazy  Idle  Boy,  xii.  167.  735. 
On  a  Medal  of  George  IV.,   xii.  426. 

736. 
On  a  Peal  of  Bells,  xii.  377.  736. 
On  a  Pear  Tree,  xii.  3S6.  736. 
On  Alexandrines,  xii.  418.  736. 
On   an   American   Traveller,    vi.    696. 

742. 
On  an   Interesting  French  Exile,    vi. 

691.  742. 
On  Being  Found  Out,  xii.  289.  735. 
On  Friendship,  vi.  619.  729. 
On  Halt  a  Loaf,  xii.  341.  739. 
On  Letts's  Diary,  xii.  333.  735. 
On  Love,  Marriage,  Men,  and  Women, 

vi.  656.  729. 
On  Men  and  Pictures,  xiii.  361.  736. 
On  Eibbons,  xii.  190.  735. 
On  Screens  in  Dining-rooms,  xii.  217. 

735. 
On  some  Carp  at  Sans  Souci,  xii.  403. 

736. 
On  some  Dinners  at  Pans,    vi.   154. 

742. 
On  some  French  Fashionable  Novels, 
v.  80.  722. 


On  some  Late  Great  Victories,  xii.  202. 

735. 
On  some  Old  Customs  of  the  Dinner 

Table,  vi.  648.  729. 
On  Tailoring,  vi.  607.  729. 
Ou  the  Benefits  of  being  a  Fogey,  vi. 

683.  729. 
On  the  French  School  of  Painting,  v. 

41.  722. 
On  the  Pleasures  of  being  a  Fogey,  vi. 

680.  729. 
On  the  Press  and  the  Public,  vi.  701. 

739. 
On  Two  Children  in  Black,   xii.   180. 

735. 
On  Two  Roundabout  Paper.s  which  1 

intended  to  Write,  xii.  316.  735. 
One    '*  who  can   minister   to    a   mind 

diseased,"  vi.  749.  742. 
Organ   Boy's   Appeal,    The,  xiii.   230. 

738. 
Orphan  of  Pimlico,  The,  xiii.  672.  739. 
Ottilia,  iv.  324.  727. 
Our  Street,  ix.  35.  724. 
Out  of  Town,  vi.  666.  729. 


Paintbk's  Bargain,  The,  v.  58.  722. 
Panorama  of  the  Ingleez,  vi.  204.  742. 
Papers  by  the  Fat  Contributor,  vi.  53. 

741. 
Paris  Eevisited,  vi.  146.  742. 
Paris  Sketch  Book,  The,  v.  1.  722. 
Peg  of  Limavaddy,  xiii.  29.  731. 
Pen  and  the  Album,  The,  xiii.  69.  732. 
Pendennis,  The  History  of,  ii.  1.  726. 
Perkins's  Ball,  Mrs.,  ix.  3.  724. 
Persecution  of  Bi-itish  Footmen,  The, 

vi.  122.  741. 
Peytel,  The  Case  of,  v.  209.  722. 
Phil  Fogarty,  vi.  489.  730. 
Philip,  The  Adventures  of,  xi.  99.  7.">I. 
Pictorial  Rhapsody,  A,  xiii.  320.  740 
,,  ,,  (concluded),    xiii. 

341.  740. 
Picture  Gossip,  xiii.  446.  736. 
Pictures,  Strictures  on,  xiii.  261.  740. 
Pimlico  Pavilion,  The,  xiii.  178.  732. 
Piscator  and  Piscatrix,  xiii.  76.  732. 
Plan  for  a  Prize  Novel,  A,  vi.  535.  737. 
Pocahontas,  xiii.  98.  737. 


750 


INDEX 


Poor  Puggy,  Ti.  212.  742. 

Portraits  from  the  Late  Kxhibition,  vi. 

215.  742. 
Piior,  Gay,  and  Pope,  vii.  520.  731. 
Professor,  The,  xiii.  493.  723. 
Professor  Byles's  Opinion  of  tlie  We.st- 

minster  Hall   Exhibition,    vi.    117. 

741. 
Proser,  The,  vi.  675.  (720  and  742). 
Punch  and  the  Iniiuenza,  vi.  120.  741. 

,,      Contributions  to,  vi.  i.  741. 

„      in  the  East,  vi.  73.  730. 

,,      Miscellaneous  Contributions  to, 

vi.  107.  741. 


Ravenswing,  The,  iv.  367.  728. 
Reading  a  Poem,  xiii.  534.  743. 
Rebecca  and  Rowena,  ix.  105.  726. 
Red  Flag,  The,  xiii.  170.  738. 
Requiescat,  xiii.  167.  738. 
Rooks,  The,  xiii.  120.  732. 
Roger-Bontemps,  xiii.  144.  738. 
Ronsard  to  his  Mistress,  xiii.  44.  732. 
Rose  and  the  Ring,  The,  ix.  217.  731. 
Rose  of  Flor.^,  The,  xiii.  177.  738. 
Rose  upon  my  Balcony,  The,  xiii.  55. 

737. 
Roundabout  Papers,  The,  xii.  167.  (734 

and  739). 
Roundabout  Ride,  A,  vi.  587.  742. 
Round  about  the  Christmas  Tree,  xii. 

271.  735. 
Royal  Academy,  vi.  114.  741. 


St.  Philip's  Day  at  Paris,  A,  xiii.  552. 

743. 
^Sand,  Madame,  and  the  New  Apoca- 
~  "~lypse,  V.  187.  722. 
Scene  in  St.  James's  Park,  vi.  757.  742. 
Science  at  Cambridge,  vi.  139.  729. 
Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon,  The,  iv. 

673.  723. 
Second  Lecture  on  the  Fine  Arts,  A, 

xiii.  272.  740. 
Serenade,  xiii.  113.  738. 
Shabby  Genteel  Story,  A,  xi.  3.  728. 
Shrove    Tuesday  in    Paris,   xiii.   566. 

743. 
Sights  of  London,  The,  vi.  175.  742. 


Singular  Letter  from  the  Regent  of 
Spain,  vi.  109.  741. 

Sketches  and  Travels  in  London,  vi. 
541.  730. 

Skimmings  from  the  Dairy  of  George 
IV.,  iii.  .348.  721. 

Small-Beer  Chronicle,  xii.  302.  735. 

Snobs,  The  Book  of,  vi.  303.  724. 

Some  more  Words  about  the  Ladies, 
vi.  615.  729. 

Song  of  the  Violet,  xiii.  3.  737. 

Sorrows  of  Werther,  xiii.  78.  732. 

Speculators,  The,  xiii.  235.  733. 

Stars  and  Stripes,  The,  vi.  528.  737. 

Steele,  vii.  488.  731. 

Stephen,  Leslie,  Life  of  W.  M.  Thacke- 
ray, xiii.  689. 

Sterne  and  Goldsmith,  vii.  587.  731. 

Story  of  Mary  Ancel,  The,  v.  119.  722. 

Strange  Man  just  Discovered  in  Ger- 
many, A,  vi.  193.  742. 

Strange  to  Say  on  Club  Paper,  xii.  434. 
736. 

Strictures  on  Pictures,  xiii.  261.  740. 

Sultan  Stork,  v.  737.  743. 

Swift,  vii.  423.  73L 


Tales,  xiii.  493.  740. 

Tea-Table  Tragedy,  A,  vi.  7.11.  742. 

Thackeray,  Mr.,  in  the  United  States, 

xiii.  634.  741. 
Thackeray,  The  Life  of  W.  M. ,  xiii.  089. 
Thorns  in  the  Cushion,  xii.  209.  735. 
Thoughts  on  a  New  Comedy,  vi.  171. 

742. 
Three  Christmas  Waits,  The,  xiii.  206. 

732. 
Thunder  and  Small-Beer,  An  Essay  on, 

ix.  161.  727. 
Tickletoby's,  Miss,  Lectures  on  English 

History,  vi.  3.  741. 
Timbuctoo,  xiii.  531.  741. 
Timmins's,  A  Little  Dinner  at,  vi.  707. 

728. 
Titmarsh's,  Carmen  Lillien.se,  xiii.  34, 

732. 
Titmarsh  v.  Tait,  vi.  112.  741. 
To  a  very  Old  Woman,  xiii.  130.  732. 
To  his  Serving  Boy,  xiii.  151.  732. 
To  Mary,  xiii.  116.  738. 


INDEX 


751 


Tragic  Story,  A,  xiii.  127.  732. 
Travels  in  London,  vi.  541.   (730  and 

742). 
Tremendous     Adventures     of     Major 

Gahagan,  The,  iii.  119.  723. 
Tunbridge  Toys,  xii.  223.  735. 
Two  or  Three  Theatres  at  Paris,  vi.  150. 

742. 


V ANITAS  Vanitatum,  xiii.  100.  738. 
Vanity  Fair,  i.  1.  724. 
Various  Caricatures,  vi.  749.  742. 
Various  Essays,  Letters,  Sketches,  xiii. 

531.  741. 
Versailles,  Meditations  at,  v.  253.  722. 
Verses,  vi.  223.  742. 
Virginians,  The,  x.  1.  733. 


Waiting  at  the  Station,  vi.  599.  730. 
Wanderings  of   our  Fat   Contributor, 

vi.  53.  741. 
Waterloo,  vi.  294.  736. 
What  I  Remarked  at  the  Exhibition, 

vi.  195.  742. 
What  Makes  my  Heart  to  Thrill  and 

Glow  ?  xiii.  117.  732. 


When  Mooiilike  orj  the  Hazure  Seas, 

xiii.  164.  738. 
When  the  Gloom  is  on  the  Glen,  xiii. 

169.  738. 
White  Squall,  The,  xiii.  46.  731. 
Why  can't  they  Leave  us  Alone  in  the 

Holidays,  vi.  191.  742. 
Willow  Tree,  The,  xiii.  159.  738. 

,,  (another  version),   xiii. 

161.  738. 
Woeful  New  Ballad  of  the  Protestant 

Conspiracy,  A,  xiii.  227.  737. 
Wofle  New  Ballad  of  Jane  Roney  and 

Mary  Brown,  The,  xiii.  222.  732. 
Wolves  and  the  Lamb,  The,  xii.  3.  739. 
Word  about   Balls  in  Season,  A,  vi. 

639.  729. 
Word  about  Dinners,  A,  vi.  644.  729. 


Yankee  Volunteers,  The,  xiii.  73.  732. 
Yellowplush,  Memoirs  of  Mr.  C.  J.,  iii. 

237.  721. 
Yellowplush's     Ajew,     Mr.,    iii.    338. 

723. 
Yesterday :  A  Tale  of  the  Polish  Ball, 

vi.  136..  741. 
Yvetot,  The  King  of,  xiii.  137.  738. 


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