ENGLISH PROSE
(1137-1890)
SELECTED BY
JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY, PH.D.
PROFESSOR AND HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO
GINN AND COMPANY
BOSTON • NEW YORK • CHICAGO • LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1909. BY
XA/V
JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY
ALL klGHTS RESERVED
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flfil
i94L
ggfre
G1NN AND COMPANY' PRO-
PRIETORS • BOSTON • U.S.A.
PREFACE
This volume and its companion, ENGLISH POETRY, 1170-1892, were suggested some
twelve years ago by the experience of Professors Bronson, Dodge, and myself with an
introductory course in English Literature in Brown University. Our plan was to have
the students read English classics in the same manner and spirit in which they would read
interesting contemporary poems, novels, speeches, essays, etc., and then to discuss with
them what they had read. No attention was given to linguistic puzzles, unessential allu-
sions, or any other minutiae. Such things are of course a legitimate and indispensable
part of the study of literature, but it seemed well not to confuse and defeat our principal
aim by dealing with them in this course. Literary history, however, was not neglected,
and care was taken to supply such information in regard to the setting of each piece in
life or literature as seemed necessary for the interpretation of its subject, purpose, and
method.
The greatest difficulty we had to contend with was the lack of cheap texts. No single
volume on the market contained what we needed, and separate texts, even when accessible
at very low prices, cost in the aggregate more than students could afford to pay. I there-
fore attempted to bring together in the volume of English Poetry such a collection of poems,
important either historically or for their intrinsic merits, as would permit every teacher to
make his own selection in accordance with his tastes and the needs of his class. The
present volume is, in like manner, intended to be used by teachers as a storehouse or treas-
ury of prose.
In the Preface of the volume of poetry, I tried to make it clear that I did not suppose
that any teacher would require his pupils to read all the poems contained in it. This
would indeed be absurd. That volume contains between fifty-five and sixty thousand
lines, and, as there are in the ordinary school year only about thirty weeks of three recita-
tions each, the pupil would have to read more than six hundred lines — between fifteen
and twenty pages of an ordinary book — for each recitation. Yet some teachers have
attempted this and have been surprised to find the attempt unsuccessful. It will be well
to bear in mind that this prose book, also, contains much more than at first sight it may
seem to contain. Each page, it may be noted, contains about as much as three ordinary
octavo pages of medium size.
As to the manner in which the choice shall be made for the use of a class, the teacher
may of course confine the work to as few authors as he chooses, or may require only the
most interesting parts of the long selections, or may in both ways reduce to reasonable
limits the amount of reading required. Some teachers will wish a large number of short
passages illustrating the characteristics of as niany authors as possible ; others will prefer
to study a smaller number of authors in selections long enough to show, not merely what
heights of excellence each writer could occasionally attain, but also what qualities and what
degree of sustained power each possessed. This volume, it is believed, provides materials
for both kinds of study.
iii
iv PREFACE
It need hardly be said that, after leaving the earlier periods of English Literature, in
which unknown words and forms confront the reader in every sentence, the main diffi-
culties that a student meets in reading the English classics arise not so much from internal
as from external causes. And these can easily be removed. Simple and clear presenta-
tion by the teacher of the theme of the writer, of his attitude toward his theme, of the
relations of writer and theme to contemporaneous life and art, and of other matters neces-
sary to intelligent reading, should precede the student's reading of each piece, whether of
prose or verse. Great literature is usually great no less because of its content than be-
cause of its form, and it will generally be found that students are prepared to appreciate
fine thoughts before they are able to understand grace or beauty of form in literature. And
certainly, if, as Spenser tells us,
Soul is form and doth the body make,
we must understand the soul, the content, and aim, of a piece of literature before we can
judge whether or not it has created for itself an appropriate and beautiful body or form.
To expect a student who has not the knowledge implied or assumed in a bit of prose or
verse to read it sympathetically is as grave an error as that ancient one — now happily
abandoned — of causing students of English composition to spin out of their entrails vast
webs of speculation upon subjects lying far beyond their knowledge or experience. If the
teacher will attempt to make every selection as real and vital to his students as if it were
concerned with some subject of the life of to-day, the study of English Literature will be-
come a new and interesting thing for himself as well as for his pupils. And although this
is theoretically a counsel of perfection not easily fulfilled, it will be found in practice not
difficult to secure a large measure of success.
In this volume, as in its predecessor, the remarks in the Introduction are not intended
to take the place of a history of English Literature. Here and there they furnish informa-
tion not usually found in elementary text-books; here and there they have not even that
excuse for existence, being often merely hints or suggestions or explanations which the
editor wished to make ; in a few instances it may be thought that their proper place is the
Preface rather than the Introduction.
In printing the earlier texts — that is, all before Sidney's Arcadia — the old spelling is
preserved, except that /, />, 3, i, j, u, v, have been reduced to modern forms and usage.
Such inconsistencies as appear are due to variations in the texts themselves or to variant
editorial methods in the standard editions. The punctuation of the earlier texts has been
modernized, sometimes by me, sometimes by the editor whom I follow.
In the later texts, the spelling and punctuation of standard editions has usually been
retained, even where they differ from modern usage; but in a few instances, where the
older punctuation was not only faulty but seriously misleading, I have not scrupled to
change it. In no such instance, however, was there any doubt as to the author's meaning.
The division of the book into periods is of course not altogether satisfactory. Not to
mention general difficulties, Ben Jonson's relations with Shakspere and Bacon induced
me to put him in the same period with Bacon, though it would doubtless have been better
to put both him and Dekker in the following period. Again, in the Nineteenth Century,
it seems hardly justifiable to put Stevenson in the same period with Newman, Borrow,
Thackeray, and Dickens; but I found that I had room for him and him only among the
departed masters of his generation, and it seemed undesirable to put him alone in a sepa-
rate division.
No attempt has been made to apportion the space given to a writer in close accordance
with his importance. My plan originally was that every piece, whether essay, letter, speech,
or chapter of a book, should be given as a whole composition, in its entirety. But lack of
PREFACE v
space made it necessary to make many cuts, — though none, I hope, that affect the essen-
tial qualities of any selection or interfere with its intelligibility. The attempt to present
whole selections rather than brilliant scraps of course made proportional representation
impossible, and the cuts that were made did not better the adjustment, as they were made
where they would cause the least loss of formal and material excellences.
In spite of careful calculations, far too large an amount of copy was sent to the printer.
Nor did such cutting as is mentioned above suffice to reduce it to the necessary limits. It
became necessary, while the book was going through the press, to omit several writers
altogether, — some of them, no doubt, writers whom I shall be criticised for omitting. I
can only say that my regret is perhaps greater than that which will be felt by any one else.
I now feel that, as I was obliged to omit Henley and some other recent writers, it might
have been well to omit Stevenson also and let the book end with Walter Pater.
The selection from the so-called Mabinogion in the Appendix was added at the sug-
gestion of Professor Cunliffe of the University of Wisconsin. Many teachers will no
doubt wish to use it in connection with the study of mediaeval romances, and will join me
in thanks to Professor Cunliffe.
For aid in collating the copy for the printer and in reading proofs I am indebted to my
sister, Annie Manly.
J. M. M.
CONTENTS
EARLY MIDDLE ENGLISH
INTRODUCTION xi
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE (extract from
An. 1137)
(by a Monk of Peterborough) i
AN OLD ENGLISH HOMILY (extract)
(by an unknown author) i
RICHARD POORE (?), Bishop of Chichester,
Salisbury, and Durham
The Ancren Riwle (Speech; Nuns May
Keep No Beast but a Cat) 2
ENGLISH PROCLAMATION OF HENRY III 4
RICHARD ROLLE (of Hampole)
Epistle III : The Commandment of Love
to God 5
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE
The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John
Maundevile, Kt, Capp. IV, XVII,
XXVII 6
JOHN WICLIF
The Gospel of Mathew (Both versions) ... 9
JOHN DE TREVISA
Higden's Polychronicon, Bk. I, Cap. LIX n
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
A Treatise on the Astrolabe ; Prologus. . . . 12
Translation of Boethius, Bk. Ill, Prose IX,
and Metre IX 13
REGINALD PECOCK, Bishop of St. Asaph, and
Chichester
The Represser of Over Much Blaming of
the Clergy, Pt. I, Cap. XIII 16
THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES
SIR THOMAS MALORY
Le Morte Darthur, Bk. XXI, Capp. IV-
VI 18
WILLIAM CAXTON
Preface to the Booke of Eneydos 21
SIR JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD BERNERS
The Cronycle of Syr John Froissart, Capp.
CCCLXXXIII, CCCLXXXIIII 22
THE TRANSITION TO MODERN TIMES
SIR THOMAS MORE
A Dialogue of Syr Thomas More, Kt., Bk.
Ill, Cap. XVI 29
WILLIAM TYNDALE
The Gospell of S. Mathew, Cap. V 34
HUGH LATIMER
The First Sermon before King Edward
VI 36
ROGER ASCHAM
The Scholemaster : The First Booke for
the Youth 38
JOHN FOXE
Acts and Monuments of these Latter and
Perillous Dayes: The Behaviour of
Dr. Ridley and Master Latimer at
the Time of their Death 41
THE AGE OF ELIZABETH
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
Arcadia (from Bk. I) 45
RICHARD HOOKER
Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity (ex-
tract from Bk. I) 54
JOHN LYLY
Euphues and his England (extract) 57
THOMAS LODGE
Rosalynde : Euphues' Golden Legacy (ex-
tract) 60
ROBERT GREENE
A Groat's Worth of Wit, bought with a
Million of Repentance (extract) 64
The Art of Cony-Catching (extract) 67
Greene's Never Too Late; The Palmer's
Tale (extract) 69
FRANCIS BACON, Viscount St. Albans
Essays (I, Of Truth,!). 745 n» Of Death, u
p. 75; IV, Of Revenge, 75; V, Of
Adversity, p. 76; VIII, Of Maniage
and Single Life, p. 76; X, Of Love,
p. 77; XI, Of Great Place, p. 78;
XVI, Of Atheism, p. 79; XXIII, Of
Wisdom for a Man's Self, p. 80 ; XXV,
Of Dispatch, p. 81; XXVII, Of
Friendship^ p. 82; XLII, Of Youth
and Age, p. 85; XLIII, Of Beauty,
P- 85) 74
THOMAS NASHE
The Unfortunate Traveller (or Jack Wil-
ton) (extract) 86
THOMAS DEKKER
The Gull's Hornbook, Capp. VI-VIII. ... 89
BEN JONSON
Timber: or Discoveries made upon Men
and Matter (LXIV, De Shakespeare
Nostrati, p. 94; LXXI, Dominus
Verulamius, p. 94; C, De Bonis et
Malis; De Innocentia, p. 95; CXV,
De Stilo, et Optimo Scribendi Genere,
P- 95) 94
Vlll
CONTENTS
•
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
ROBERT BURTON
The Anatomy of Melancholy, Pt. Ill, Sec.
II, Mem. I, Subs. 1 97
THOMAS HOBBES
Leviathan, Pt. I, Cap. XIII (Of the
Natural Condition of Mankind) 102
IZAAK WALTON
The Complete Angler (extract) 104
SIR THOMAS BROWNE
Religio Medici: Charity in
Hydriotaphia : Urn-Burial, Chap. V 115
THOMAS FULLER
The Holy State, Bk. II, Chap. XXII:
The Life of Sir Francis Drake 117
JOHN MILTON
Of Education 120
Areopagitica : A Speech for the Liberty
of Unlicensed Printing (extract) 126
JEREMY TAYLOR
The Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying,
Chap. I, Sec. II 136
JOHN BUNYAN
The Pilgrim's Progress: The Fight with
Apollyon (p. 139); Vanity Fair
(P- J4i) 139
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE
Observations upon the United Provinces
of the Netherlands, Chap. VIII 143
JOHN DRYDEN
An Essay of Dramatic Poesy (extract) 146
JOHN LOCKE
Of the Conduct of the Understanding
(extract) 163
SAMUEL PEPYS
His Diary (extract) 168
ROBERT SOUTH
A Sermon: Of the Fatal Imposture and
Force of Words (extract) 173
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
DANIEL DEFOE
The Life, Adventures, and Piracies of the
Famous Captain Singleton (extract) . 176
ONATHAN SWIFT
The Tale of a Tub: The Preface and
Sections II and IX 184
A Modest Proposal 193
ANTHONY ASHLEY COOPER, Earl of Shaftes-
bury
Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opin-
ions, Times, etc., Pt. Ill, Sec. Ill 197
JOSEPH ADDISON
The Spectator (No. 10, Aims of the Spec-
tator, p. 198; 26, Thoughts in West-
minster Abbey, p. 200; 98, The
Head-Dress, 201 ; 159, The Vision of
Mirza, p. 203 ; 584, Hilpa and Sha-
lum, p. 205; 585, The Same, con-
tinued, p. 206) 198
SIR RICHARD STEELE
The Tatler (Nos. 82, 95, 167, 264) 207
SIR RICHARD STEELE (Continued)
The Spectator (No. n) 214
• ^GEORGE BERKELEY, Bishop of Cloyne
A Proposal for a College to be erected in
•^ the Summer Islands 216
> SAMUEL RICHARDSON
The History of Clarissa Harlowe, Letter
XVI 22I
HENRY FIELDING
Tom Jones, Bk. I, Chap. I; Bk. II,
Chap. I; Bk. V, Chap. I; Bk. VIII,
Chap. I; Bk. X, Chap. 1 226
^SAMUEL JOHNSON
Congreve 234
The Rambler (Nos. 68, 69) 239
DAVID HUME
An Inquiry concerning the Principles of
Morals, Sec. V, Pt. II 243
LAURENCE STERNE
Tristram Shandy, Vol. VIII, Chaps.
XXIII-XXX 247
•^TOBIAS SMOLLETT
Humphry Clinker (Letter to Sir Watkin
Phillips) 251
-^OLIVER GOLDSMITH
Letters from a Citizen of the World to
his Friends in the East, XXI, XXVI-
XXX 255
EDMUND BURKE
Speech on the Nabob of Arcot's Debts
(extract) 267
Reflections on the Revolution in France
(extract) 270
JAMES MACPHERSON (?)
The Poems of Ossian: Cath-Loda,
Duan III 275
JAMES BOSWELL
The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.,
Chap. XIII 277
JUNIUS [? Sir Philip Francis]
Letters XII and XV, to the Duke of
Grafton 292
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, I
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Preface to the "Lyrical Ballads" 298
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Wandering Willie's Tale (from Redgaunt-
let) 308
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Biographia Literaria, Chap. XIV 317
FRANCIS JEFFREY, LORD JEFFREY
The White Doe of Rylstone 320
ROBERT SOUTHEY
The Life of Nelson, Chap. V (extract),
the Battle of the Nile 321
JANE AUSTEN
Pride and Prejudice, Chaps. I- VI 328
CHARLES LAMB
The Two Races of Men 337
Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist 340
A Chapter on Ears 343
CONTENTS
IX
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
Imaginary Conversations: ^Esop and
Rhodope 345
WILLIAM HAZLITT
Mr. Coleridge 349
LEIGH HUNT
The Daughter of Hippocrates 354
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
The Confessions of an English Opium-
Eater (extract) 357
THOMAS CARLYLE
Sartor Resartus, Chaps. VI-IX 366
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, Baron Ma-
caulay
The History of England, Vol. I, Chap.
Ill (extract) 382
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, II
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, CARDINAL
The Idea of a University, Discourse VI
(extract) 409
GEORGE BORROW
Lavengro, Chaps. LXX, LXXI 417
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The English Humourists: Sterne 425
Vanity Fair, Chaps. XII, XIII 430
CHARLES DICKENS
A Child's Dream of a Star 440
CHARLES DICKENS (Continued)
Our Mutual Friend: Chap. V, Boffin's
Bower 441
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
Caesar, Chap. XIII 450
"GEORGE ELIOT," Mary Ann Evans (Cross)
The Mill on the Floss, Bk. VII, Chap. V,
The Last Conflict 458
JOHN RUSKIN
The Stones of Venice, Vol. II, Chaps. I,
IV, V (extracts) 463
The Crown of Wild Olive, Preface 473
MATTHEW ARNOLD
Culture and Anarchy: Sweetness and
Light 478
SIR LESLIE STEPHEN
Newman's Theory of Belief (extract). . . . 489
WALTER PATER
Style 492
The Child in the House 502
ROBERT Louis STEVENSON
Francois Villon, Student, Poet, and
Housebreaker 509
APPENDIX
The Mabinogion: Peredur the Son of Ev-
rawc (translated by Lady Charlotte
Guest) 521
INTRODUCTION
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE (p. i) belongs for the most part, of course, to the
history of English literature before the Norman Conquest ; but the later records, especially
those of the Peterborough version, from which our selection is taken, are of great im-
portance for the study of modern English prose. The Chronicle seems to have been
begun in the reign of Alfred the Great, perhaps in consequence of his efforts for the edu-
cation of his people. It exists in six versions, differing more or less from one another both
as to the events recorded and the period of time covered, but together forming, in a man-
ner, a single work. The early entries, beginning with 60 B.C., were compiled from various
sources and are, for the most part, very meager and uninteresting. Here are the complete
records for two years: "An. DCCLXXII. Here (that is, in this year) Bishop Milred
died;" "An.DCCLXXIII. Here a red cross appeared in the sky after sunset ; and in
this year the Mercians and the men of Kent fought at Otford; and wondrous serpents
were seen in the land of the South-Saxons." For long, weary stretches of years, there are,
with the notable exception of the vivid account of the death of Cynewulf, few more excit-
ing entries than these. Even when great events are recorded, no effort is made to tell
how or why they occurred, no attempt to produce an interesting narrative. In the time
of King Alfred, however, a change appears, and, though the records still have the character
of annals rather than of history, the narrative is often very detailed and interesting, espe-
cially in regard to the long and fierce contest with the Danes. After the Norman Con-
quest, one version of the Chronicle, that kept by the monks of Peterborough, contains
entries of the greatest importance both for the history of the times and for the state of the
English language then. The latest of these entries is for the year 1154, when the turbu-
lent reign of the weak Stephen was followed by the strong and peaceful administration of
Henry II. The selection we have chosen is from the entry for 1137, and gives a startling
picture of the terrors of the time. It is almost astounding to recall that it was just at this
time that Geoffrey of Monmouth started the story of King Arthur on its long and brilliant
career in literature. The most notable things about the passage, considered as English
prose, are its simplicity and straightforwardness and its strong resemblance to modern
English in sentence structure and word order. These features are probably to be ac-
counted for by the fact that, though the writer doubtless understood Latin, he did not feel
that he was producing literature, but only making a plain record of facts, and conse-
quently did not attempt the clumsy artificialities so often produced by those who tried to
imitate Latin prose in English.
The OLD ENGLISH HOMILY (p. i) may serve to illustrate the kind of sermons preached
in the twelfth century. The homilies that have come down to us show scarcely any
originality of conception or expression. All are reproductions of older English homilies
or are based upon similar compositions in Latin by such writers as St. Anselm of Canter-
bury, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, Hugo of St. Victor, and Radulphus Ardens. In both
matter and manner they follow closely their chosen models. The short extract here given
has been selected principally because of the curious and amusing anecdote of the young
crab and the old, which is its sole touch of freshness or originality. Very noticeable in
all of these homilies is the allegorical interpretation of Scripture, which was in vogue for
so many centuries; and, in some of them, the mysticism which was rapidly developing
xii INTRODUCTION
under the influence of the ideals and sentiments of chivalry. The style is determined
largely by the fact that they were intended to be read aloud to a congregation. The
symbol ii here and in other early texts is to be pronounced like French u, German u, or,
less accurately, like Latin i.
THE ANCREN RIWLE (p. 2), as its name indicates, is a treatise for the guidance and
instruction of some nuns. We learn from the book itself that it was written, at their
special request, for three young ladies of gentle birth, — "daughters of one father and one
mother," who had forsaken the world for the life of religious contemplation and medi-
tation. There has been some discussion as to the author, but he is generally believed
to have been Richard Poore, or Le Poor, bishop successively of Chichester, Salisbury, and
Durham, who was born at Tarrent, where these nuns probably had their retreat, and
whose heart was buried there after his death in 1237. At any rate, the author was evi-
dently a man in whom learning and no little knowledge of the world were combined with
a singularly sweet simplicity, which has often been taken for naivete. His learning
appears abundantly from his familiarity with the writings of the great Church Fathers
and the classical Latin authors who were known in his day; his knowledge of the world
appears partly in his sagacious counsels as to the more serious temptations of a nun's
life, and partly in his adaptation of courtly romantic motives to spiritual themes; while
the sweet simplicity of his character is constantly and lovably revealed in -the tone of all
that he says — even in its sly and charming humor — and in his solicitude about infinite
petty details, which are individually insignificant, to be sure, but mean much for the
delicacy and peace of life. Of the eight parts or books into which the work is divided
only two are devoted to external, material matters, the other six to the inner life ; and this
proportion is a true indication of the comparative values which the good counselor sets
upon these things. The style, for all the learning displayed, is simple and direct, with
few traces of Latin sentence structure or word order — a fact due perhaps to the nature
and destination of the book no less than to the character of the author.
The ENGLISH PROCLAMATION or HENRY III (p. 4) has, of course, no place in the
history of literature, though it has in the history of prose style. As the first royal procla-
mation in the English language after the Conquest its importance is great, but may be
easily misunderstood or exaggerated. It does not mark the real beginning of the use of
the English language for such purposes; that did not come until many years later. It
was issued in English as a political measure, to secure for the king support against his
enemies from the large portion of the commonwealth who understood no Latin or French,
and as such it is an important evidence of the power of the English-speaking people and
the value of their support. In view of its peculiar nature its spelling has been retained
without modification. The only features worthy of special notice are the sign J>, which
means th, the sign 3, which represents a spirant g that has become in modern English
either g, gh, y, or w, and the use of v for u and u for v.
RICHARD ROLLE (p. 5), the greatest of the English mystics, was both a poet and a
writer of Latin and English prose. His favorite theme of meditation was the love of
Christ, a subject which so exalted him that he heard in his meditations music of unearthly
sweetness and felt that he had tasted food of heavenly savor. It is in the descriptions
of these mystical experiences that he is most interesting and most poetical, but unfortu-
nately for us they are written in Latin. His English prose is, however, more remarkable
than his verse. The note of mysticism is unmistakable in the extract here given from
one of his epistles. His importance in the history of English religious thought is very
great, especially in emphasizing the significance of the inner life in contrast to the mere
externals of religious observance — a tendency which we have already noted in English
literature in connection with The Ancren Riwle.
THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE or SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILE, KT. (p. 6), is one of the
INTRODUCTION xiii
greatest and most successful literary impostures ever perpetrated. It seems first to have
been issued about 1371 in French, from which it was very soon translated into Latin,
English, and many other languages. Its popularity was enormous, as is attested by the
immense number of Mss. which have come down to us, and by the frequency with which
it has been reprinted ever since 1475, the date of the first printed edition. Incredible as
are many of the stories it contains, the apparent simplicity and candor of the author, his
careful distinction between what he himself had seen and what he reported only on hear-
say, his effort to avoid all exaggeration even in his most> absurd statements, gained ready
belief for his preposterous fabrications, and this was confirmed by the fact that some of
the statements which at first seemed most incredible — such as the roundness of the
earth — • were actually true and were proved to be so by the discoveries of the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries. The book was really compiled from many sources, principally
the travels of William of Boldensele, a German traveler of the previous century, and
Friar Odoric of Pordenone, an Italian who visited Asia in 1316-1320, the Speculum
Historiale of Vincent of Beauvais, a great mediaeval compilation of history and legend,
and Pliny's Natural History, that great storehouse of the marvelous. As to the identity
of the author, he is now believed to have been one Jean de Bourgogne, an Englishman
who fled from England after the execution of his lord, John baron de Mowbray, in 1322,
but it is not certainly known whether Mandeville or Bourgogne was his real name. Two
witnesses of the sixteenth century record having seen at Liege a tomb to the memory of
Dominus Johannes de Mandeville, on which was an epitaph giving the date of his death
as Nov. 17, 1371, and some verses declaring him to have been the English Ulysses. In
any event, the book is one of the most fascinating books of marvels ever written, and the
English version, although a translation, is of the highest importance for the history of
English prose.
Of JOHN WICLIF (p. 9) no account is necessary here. Whatever may have been his
own part in the translations of the Bible which go under his name, these translations are
of great importance for the history of English prose style. The same selection (the fifth
chapter of St. Matthew) has therefore been given from both the earlier and the later ver-
sion. The differences between them are very striking and instructive. In order to afford
opportunity for further study of the gradual development of the matchless style of the
Authorized Version of the English Bible, the same chapter is given from Tyndale's ver-
sion (p. 34, below). Both the Authorized and the Revised versions are so easily accessible
that it seems unnecessary to print the same chapter from them, but they should not be
neglected in the comparison.
JOHN DE TREVISA (p. n) translated into English in 1387 the Polychronicon of Ranulph
Higden, a sort of universal history and geography written about half a century earlier.
Higden's work is largely a compilation from other authors, whose names he often gives, —
sometimes wrongly, to be sure, — but he added a good deal from his own personal knowl-
edge. Trevisa, in his turn, made some additions in his translation. The chapter here
given is interesting as a specimen of fourteenth-century English prose, but still more so
for the glimpses it affords as to the state of the language in the time of Higden and the
changes that took place between then and the time when Trevisa wrote.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER (p. 12) is also too well known to require an additional note. It
may, however, be remarked that the simplicity of the Prologue to the Astrolabe and the skill
shown in the translation of Boethius indicate that, had prose been regarded as a proper
medium for literary art in his day, Chaucer could have told his tales in a prose as simple,
as musical, and as flexible as his verse, for he obviously could have wrought out such a
prose had there been the incentive to do so.
THE REPRESSOR OF OVER MUCH BLAMING OF THE CLERGY (p. 16) is the most im-
portant monument of English prose in the first two thirds of the fifteenth century. It is
xiv INTRODUCTION
clear and vigorous in style, and well organized and arranged as a discussion. It was
intended as a defense of the practices of the Church of England against the criticisms of
the Lollards, and is distinguished by great ingenuity and subtlety. Its author, Reginald
Pecock, bishop successively of St. Asaph and Chichester, was very proud of his skill as
a logician and delighted to undertake a difficult discussion. In this book he alienated
some of the officials of the Church by the arguments used to defend it, and completed this
alienation by the publication of heretical doctrines, such as his denial of the authenticity
of the Apostles' Creed. He was seized and compelled to recant his opinions and to see
his books burnt as heretical. He died a disappointed and broken man.
The Morte Darthur of SIR THOMAS MALORY (p. 18) has long been famous, not only
as the source of most of the modern poems about King Arthur and his Knights, but also
as one of the most interesting books in any language. It has recently been shown by
Professor Kittredge that Sir Thomas was not, as some have supposed, a pj-iest, but, as the
colophon of his book tells us, a soldier, with just such a career as one would wish for the
compiler of such a volume. He was attached to the train of the famous Richard Beau-
champ, Earl of Warwick, and perhaps was brought up in his service. As Professor Kit-
tredge says, " No better school for the future author of the Morte Darthur can be imagined
than a personal acquaintance with that Englishman whom all Europe recognized as em-
bodying the knightly ideal of the age." The Emperor Sigismund, we are informed on
excellent authority, said to Henry V, "that no prince Cristen for wisdom, norture, and
manhode, hadde such another knyght as he had of therle Warrewyk; addyng therto that
if al curtesye were lost, yet myght hit be founde ageyn in hym; and so ever after by the
emperours auctorite he was called the 'Fadre of Curteisy.' " Sir Thomas derived his
materials from old romances, principally in French, which he attempted to condense and
reduce to order. His style, though it may have been affected to some extent by his originals,
is essentially his own. Its most striking excellence is its diction, which is invariably
picturesque and fresh, and this undoubtedly must be ascribed to him. The syntax,
though sometimes faulty, has almost always a certain na'ive charm. On the whole, re-
garding both matter and manner, one can hardly refuse assent to Caxton when he says,
"But thystorye (i.e. the history) of the sayd Arthur is so gloryous and shynyng, that he is
stalled in the fyrst place of the moost noble, beste, and worthyest of the Cristen men."
WILLIAM CAXTON (p. 21) of course rendered his greatest services to English literature
as a printer and publisher, but the charming garrulity of his prefaces, as well as their
intrinsic interest, richly entitles him to be represented here. The passage chosen is, in
its way, a classic in the history of the English language. I have tried to make it easier
to read by breaking up into snorter lengths his rambling statements, — they can hardly
be called sentences, — but I somewhat fear that, in so doing, a part, at least, of their
quaint charm may have been sacrificed.
THE CRONYCLE OF SYR JOHN FROISSART (p. 22), written in French in the fourteenth
century, is as charming in manner and almost as romantic in material as Le Morte Darthur
itself. Sir John was intimately acquainted with men who were actors or eyewitnesses of
nearly all the chivalric deeds performed in his day in England and France, and indeed in
the whole of western Europe, and his chronicle has all the interest of a personal narrative
combined with the charm of his shrewd simplicity and his fine enthusiasm for noble deeds.
The age in which he lived was one of the most picturesque in history. Chivalry had
reached the height of its splendid development, and, though doomed by the new forces
that had come into the world, — gunpowder, cannon, and the growing importance of
commerce, — its ideals were cherished with perhaps a greater intensity of devotion than
ever before. It was the age of Chaucer and the author of Gawain and the Green Knight
in literature, and of Edward III and the Black Prince with their brilliant train of follow-
ers in tourney and battle. Froissart wrote professedly "to the intent that the honourable
INTRODUCTION xv
and noble adventures of feats of arms, done and achieved by the wars of France and
England, should notably be enregistered and put in perpetual memory, whereby the
prewe (noble) and hardy may have ensample to encourage them in their well-doing."
His accounts of events are sometimes colored by this pious intention, as well as by the
prejudices of his informants; and that is the case with the selection here given. It appears
from other sources that the young king did not act as nobly and bravely at Mile-end Green
as Froissart represents him, but no doubt his friends persuaded themselves and Froissart
that he did, and it seemed a fine example to record for the encouragement of high-spirited
young men. The interest and importance of the passage may excuse its length; it has
been quoted or paraphrased by every historian who has written about the famous Revolt
of 1381. The style of the translator, Lord Berners, is admirable in its simple dignity and
its wonderful freshness and vividness of diction.
SIR THOMAS MORE (p. 29) is one of the most striking and charming figures in the
brilliant court of Henry VIII, and is known to all students of literature as the author of
Utopia. Unfortunately for our purposes that interesting book was written in Latin and,
though soon translated into English, cannot represent to us the author's English style.
I have chosen a selection from his Dialogues rather than from the History of Richard III,
partly because the style seems to me more touched with the author's emotion, and partly
because the passage presents the attitude of the writer on a question which may interest
many modern readers. It is characteristic in its mixture of dignity, good sense, prejudice,
enlightenment, spiritual earnestness, and playfulness of temper.
The Sermon by HUGH LATIMER, an extract from which is here given (p. 36), represents
English pulpit oratory of the middle of the sixteenth century at its very best. Latimer
was famous for his sound learning, his sturdy common sense, his pithy colloquial style,
and his intellectual and spiritual fearlessness. A very fair conception of the man may be
obtained from this sermon and Foxe's account of his death (p. 41, below).
ROGER ASCHAM, tutor to Queen Elizabeth and one of the most learned men of his
time, declared that he could more easily have written his Scholemaster (p. 38) in Latin
than in English, and no doubt he could ; but, fortunately, other considerations than ease
induced him to write in English. The book is intensely interesting, because of the thor-
oughly wholesome attitude towards learning, not as of value for its own sake, but as a
means for the cultivation of mind and spirit and an aid toward the development of the
perfect man, perfect in body, in mind, and in soul, in agility and strength, in intellectual
power and knowledge, in courtesy and honor and religion, which was the finest ideal of
the leaders of that great intellectual and spiritual awakening which we call the Renaissance.
The same attitude is displayed in his other interesting book, the Toxophilus, which is also
well worth reading, especially by all who care both for learning and for outdoor sports.
The methods of training children and of teaching Latin outlined in the Scholemaster are
so humane and sane and effective, that it is hard to believe that, having once been practiced
or even suggested, they could have been forgotten and neglected, and needed to be redis-
covered within our own time, — indeed have not yet been discovered in their entirety by
all teachers. In spite of Ascham's facility in Latin, his English is simple, clear, and idio-
matic, and is permeated by the attractiveness of his nature.
FOXE'S Acts and Monuments of these latter and perillous Dayes (p. 41), better known
as Foxe's Book of Martyrs, was for many years one of the most popular books in the Eng-
lish language and was reprinted many times. It is, of course, in many respects a barba-
rous book, the product of an age when scarcely any one, Catholic or Protestant, doubted
that cruel torture was a proper means of inculcating the true faith, and death a proper
penalty for refusing to accept it. The book long kept alive the bitter and distorted memo-
ries of that time. The style is usually plain and a trifle stiff, but occasionally rises to
eloquence.
XVI
INTRODUCTION
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S famous book, The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia (p. 45), is too
leisurely in movement and too complicated in structure to be well illustrated by a con-
tinuous selection, except as to its style, but the passage here presented seems better suited
than any other of similar length to convey an idea of the nature of the story and the
sources of its charm for Sidney's contemporaries.
The selection from JOHN LYLY'S Euphues and his England (p. 57) may seem to some
teachers shorter than is warranted by Lyly's reputation and his indubitable services to
English prose. But the characteristics of his style are such as can be exhibited in com-
paratively small compass; and its excessive ornamentation soon becomes monotonous
and unendurable. Moreover, it is not by its ornamental but by its structural features
that it rendered its services to English prose, and the most significant of these, as Pro-
fessor Morsbach has recently shown, is exact balance of accents in correlative phrases
and clauses. This very important feature can easily and quickly be worked out by teacher
or pupils ; and the process, if applied to several authors, cannot fail to be profitable.
ROBERT GREENE (p. 64) is fully discussed in all histories of English Literature. I wish
here only to explain that I have given three selections from works attributed to him, not
because I regard him as more important for the history of English prose than some others
less generously represented, but for other reasons. In the first place, if all three are really
by Greene, they deserve attention as presenting three different styles and kinds of writing;
in the second place, at least two of them are of special interest to historians of literature
and are often quoted for the illustration of Elizabethan life. I confess that, in my opinion,
the most famous of the three, the Groat's Worth of Wit, is, as some of Greene's friends
declared when it was published (after his death), not the product of Greene's pen, but
the work of Henry Chettle. Professor Vetter's arguments against Greene's authorship 1
seem to me conclusive, and it would not be difficult to add to them.
The length of the extract from DEKKER'S Gull's Hornbook (p. 89) will no doubt be
excused, even by the student, for the sake of its vivid picture of the way in which the
" young bloods " of Shakspere's day and those who wished to be thought such conducted
themselves. The advice is of course ironical throughout, but, like many another humor-
ist who has poked fun at men with a grave face, Dekker has been supposed by some
readers to have written a serious guide for frivolous men.
ROBERT BURTON (p. 97) will doubtless be little to the taste of the ordinary modern
reader, not only because of his love for Latin phrases and quotations with uncouth refer-
ences, but also because of the quaint style and fantastic humor which have endeared him
to so many of the greatest lovers of literature. His book is, as might be expected, the
product of an uneventful life of studious leisure, passed in the quiet shades of the Uni-
versity of Oxford. The best way to learn to love it is to read it in the same circum-
stances in which it was produced; the leisure of a long and lazy summer day or a quiet
winter night is almost indispensable for a full appreciation of its shrewd sense and whimsical
humor. The passage here given contains not only the brief anecdote from which Keats
developed his beautiful poem Lamia, but also, if not the sources, at least analogues, of
Balzac's remarkable story, A Passion in the Desert, and F. Anstey's A Tinted Venus.
The notes not in brackets are those of the author himself. They have been retained in
their original form because, not only in their range, but even in their occasional vagueness,
they are characteristic of the author.
Leviathan (p. 102) is the strange title given by THOMAS HOBBES to his book on govern-
ment, or, as he calls it, "the matter, form, and power of a commonwealth." The most
distinguishing features of Hobbes are his entire freedom from mysticism, his conviction
that all error and all ignorance are the results of a failure to reason clearly and sensibly,
1 Abhandl. d. 44ten Sammlung d. deut. Schulmanner (Teubner, 1897).
INTRODUCTION xvii
and his thoroughgoing application of his principle that "there is no conception in a man's
mind which hath not, totally or by parts, been begotten upon the organs of sense." His
own thought is always clear and simple ; all that he could see in the world he could under-
stand, and all that he could understand he could express in its entirety. He conceived of
all men (and of God) as made in his own image, differing from himself only in that some are
very foolish and none so clear and consistent in reasoning as he. His style is very charac-
teristic, clear, vigorous, rapid, and full of phrases that stick in the memory.
THOMAS FULLER (p. 117) is famous as antiquary, biographer, historian, pulpit orator,
and wit. His wit — the quality which has most effectively kept his work alive for modern
lovers of literature — is displayed at its best, not in the limning of a picture or the develop-
ment of a theme, but by flashes, in quaint and impressive phrases or in glances at unnoted
aspects of a subject. It therefore does not appear so strikingly in a continuous extract as
in such a collection of brief paragraphs as Charles Lamb made for the delectation of him-
self and spirits akin to his. The short biographical sketch of Sir Francis Drake here
given does not, indeed, illustrate the versatility of his genius, but it presents a good speci-
men of his sustained power as a writer of English prose.
JEREMY TAYLOR (p. 136) was a master of elaborate and involved prose rhythms and
as such will always retain his place in the history of English literature. Whether his
fondness for themes of decay and death was due to a morbid liking for the subjects them-
selves, or to the value which religious teachers in general at that time attached to the
contemplation of physical corruption, or whether such themes offered a specially favor-
able opportunity for lyrical movements in prose ending in minor cadences, may admit of
discussion. Certainly one hears even in the most soaring strains of his eloquence the
ground tone of the futility and vanity of life.
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE (p. 143) was not a great writer, but his prose is so good in technique
that it may serve to call attention to the fact that the secrets of prose style had been mastered
and a flexible and effective instrument of expression had been created by the long line of
writers who had wrought at the problem. Henceforth, while great writing was, as always,
possible only to that special temperamental organization which we call genius, clear and
graceful prose was within the scope of any intelligent man of good taste and good train-
ing, as is distinctly shown by the high level maintained in the eighteenth century even by
writers of mediocre ability.
The Diary of SAMUEL PEPYS (p. 168) is probably the most honest and unsophisticated
self-revelation ever given to the world. This is due partly to the fact that Pepys did not
suppose that it would ever be read by any one but himself, and partly to an intellectual
clearness and candor which enabled him to describe his actions and feelings without self-
deception. Other autobiographies — even the most famous — have, without exception,
been written with half an eye on the public; either the author has, consciously or half-
consciously, posed to excite admiration for his cleverness or to shock by his unconven-
tionalities, or he has become secretive at the very moment when he was beginning to be
most interesting. But the reader would judge unjustly who estimated Pepys's character
solely on the basis of the diary. He was in his own day regarded as a model of propriety
and respectability and a man of unusual business capacity. He may be said, indeed, with
little exaggeration, to have created the English navy; when he became Secretary to the
Generals of the Fleet, the Admiralty Office was practically without organization, before
the close of his career he had organized it and, as a recent Lord of the Admiralty says,
provided it with "the principal rules and establishments in present use." That he was
not altogether averse to what we now call "graft, "is true; but in an age of universal
bribery he was a notably honest and honorable official, and he never allowed his private
interests to cause injury or loss to the service. No document of any sort gives us so full
and varied and vivid an account of the social life and pursuits of the Restoration period;
xviii INTRODUCTION
Pepys is often ungrammatical, but he is never dull in manner or unprovided with interest-
ing material. The carelessness of his style is due in no small measure to the nature of
his book. He wrote for his own eye alone, using a system of shorthand which was not
deciphered until 1825. That he was a man of cultivation is proved by the society in which
he moved, by his interest in music and the drama, by the valuable library of books and
prints which he accumulated and bequeathed to Magdalene College, Cambridge, by his
interest in the Royal Society, and by the academic honors conferred upon him by the
universities.
SHAFTESBURY'S Characteristics (p. 197) is another notable example of the high develop-
ment which English prose style had obtained at the beginning of the eighteenth century.
His philosophy, like most of the philosophy of the time, seems to us of the present day to
be singularly lacking in breadth, depth, and solidity of content, but there can be no question
of the clearness and grace of his presentation of it. Occasionally, to be sure, Shaftesbury's
style becomes florid and acquires a movement inappropriate to prose, but such occasions
are rare and in the main his prose will bear comparison with the best of its time.
In such a volume as this it is, of course, impossible to illustrate the work of the novel-
ists as novelists ; and considerations of space have made necessary the omission of all but
a few of the most notable. In some cases it has been necessary to choose an extract from
a novel in order to present the writer at his best ; but wherever it is possible a selection
has been chosen with a view to presenting the writer only as a writer of prose, leaving
the more important aspect of his work to be presented in some other way. Thus from
Fielding chapters have been chosen which give his theory of narrative art.
Whatever may have been the real basis for MACPHERSON'S so-called translation of the
Poems of Ossian (p. 275), the work exercised a great, and, indeed, almost immeasurable,
influence upon English and other literatures. Some persons may be disposed to criticise
the inclusion of an extract from this translation in this volume rather than in the volume
of poetry, but the translation itself is rhythmical prose, and it would not be difficult to show
that it has exercised an equal or even greater influence upon prose than upon poetry.
The question as to Macpherson's responsibility for the poems will probably never be
entirely resolved. Celtic poems bearing considerable resemblance to his translations
undoubtedly existed in considerable number, but it seems certain that his work was in no
case merely that of a translator.
The long chapter from BOSWELL'S Life of Johnson is full of the prejudice and injus-
tice of the author toward Oliver Goldsmith, whose ideas were often too advanced for
such stanch worshipers of the established order as both Boswell and his master, John-
son, were, and whose personal sensitiveness made him, despite his intellectual independ-
ence, constantly the victim of the great dictator's methods of argument. That this
chapter has had no little influence in the formation of false opinion about Goldsmith
and even in promoting misunderstanding of his work, there can be little doubt; but it
illustrates Boswell's method so well and presents Johnson so interestingly that I have not
hesitated to print it.
THE LETTERS OF JUNTOS (p. 292) produced in their day a very great sensation, and
their fame has been heightened by the mystery surrounding their authorship. Many of
the prominent men of the time were accused of writing them and not a few either shyly
admitted or boldly claimed the credit and the infamy. The reason why the real author
did not appear and establish his claims was, as De Quincey long ago pointed out, that he
could not assert his right to the literary fame without at the same time convicting himself
of having made improper use of his official position under the government to obtain the
information which made his attacks so effective. Historians of English literature have
long accustomed us to believe that these letters depended for their success solely upon their
literary style, their bitterness of invective, and their sardonic irony; but, although they
INTRODUCTION xix
are remarkable as literature, the special feature which aroused the fears of the govern-
ment was the fact that no state secret seemed safe from the author and that he might at
any moment reveal matters which it was important to keep unknown. Recent researches
have made it practically certain that Junius was Sir Philip Francis, who was a clerk in
the war office during the period of the publication of the letters.
If FRANCIS JEFFREY (p. 320) was unjust in his reviews of Wordsworth, lovers of Words-
worth — and who is not ? — have been at least equally unjust in their treatment of Jeffrey.
Sentences have been quoted, often in garbled form and always without the context, to
illustrate the unfairness and stupidity and poetic insensibility of Jeffrey. Most sane
critics of the present day differ from Jeffrey mainly in emphasis, they recognize that Words-
worth really had the defects which Jeffrey pointed out, and that they are grave. But in
literature only the successes count, the failures fall away and should be forgotten. The
selection here printed presents Jeffrey in his most truculent mood; another selection, the
review of the Excursion, was planned for this volume, but the limitation of our space
necessitated its omission.
LEIGH HUNT (p. 354) hardly deserves to be retained in a book from which it has
been necessary, on account of lack of space, to exclude so many of his betters, but the
interest of comparing his version of the Daughter of Hippocrates with Sir John Mande-
ville's prose (p. 6) and William Morris's poem (English Poetry, p. 551) was too great for
my powers of resistance. Mandeville's version is a masterpiece of simple vivid narration,
Morris's a wonder of visualized color and form and action, while Hunt's is a bit of clever
but feeble prettiness, the work of a man totally deficient in distinction and power. These
versions may help the student to understand when borrowing is not plagiarism — a task
apparently too difficult for many who are sincerely interested in the problem.
The long selection from MACAULAY'S famous chapter on the state of England at the
time of the Revolution of 1688 (p. 382) is of course out of proportion to his importance
among writers of English prose ; but teachers who are tired of reading over and over again
his biographical sketches will doubtless welcome it as a change, and both teachers and
pupils will surely find it valuable for the vivid picture it gives of the physical and social
background against which so large a part of English literature must be seen if it is to be
seen truly. Moreover, in style it presents Macaulay at his best.
The title Mabinogion (p. 521) was given by LADY CHARLOTTE GUEST to the Welsh
tales which she translated from the Red Book of Hergest, a collection of bardic materials.
The Red Book was apparently written in the fourteenth century, but all of the stories
probably took their present form earlier, and some of them are, in some form, of great
antiquity. The term Mabinogion, though it has been generally accepted, does not properly
include the tale here given. A young man who aspired to become a bard was called a
Mabinog and was expected to learn from his master certain traditional lore called Mabi-
nogi. Four of the tales included in the Red Book are called "branches of the Mabinogi."
Lady Charlotte Guest treated Mabinogi as a singular, meaning a traditional Welsh tale,
and from it formed the plural Mabinogion, which has since been widely used as she used
it. Her translation was published in 1838-1849, and has been greatly admired for its
preservation of the simplicity and charm of the originals. The story here printed is not
purely Welsh, but has been affected in greater or less degree by the form and ideas of
Arthurian romance as developed in France and England under the influence of chivalry.
ENGLISH PROSE
EARLY MIDDLE ENGLISH
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE
(c. 1154)
(FROM THE RECORD FOR 1137)
This gaere l for 2 the king Stephne ofer sae 3
to Normandi, and ther wes 4 underfangen,5
forthithat 8 hi 7 uuenden 8 that he sculde 9
ben 10 alsuic u alse 12 the eom 13 wes, and for 8
he hadde get his tresor; 14 ac 15 he to-deld 16 it
and scatered sotlice.17 Micel 18 hadde Henri
king gadered gold and sylver, and na 19 god 20
ne dide me 21 for his saule 2Z tharof.23
Tha M the king Stephne to Englalande com,25
tha M macod 27 he his gadering 28 aet Oxeneford;
and thar he nam 29 the biscop Roger of Sere-
beri 30 and Alexander biscop of Lincol and te 31
Canceler Roger his neves,32 and dide 33 aelle in
prisun til hi 7 iafen 34 up here x castles. Tha 24
the suikes x undergaston 37 that he milde man
was and softe and god 20 and na 19 justise 38 ne
dide, tha 28 diden hi 7 alle wunder.39 Hi 7 had-
den him 40 manred 41 maked 27 and athes °
suoren,43 ac 15 hi nan 19 treuthe ne heolden.44
Alle he 7 waeron 45 forsworen and here x treothes
forloren ; w for aevric 47 rice 48 man his castles
makede,49 and agaenes 50 him heolden,51 and
fylden 52 the land ful of castles. Hi suencten M
suythe 54 the uurecce M men of the land mid M
castel weorces.57 Tha M the castles uuaren45
1 year 2 went 3 sea 4 was B received 8 because
7 they 8 weened, thought 9 should 10 be u just
such 12 as :3 uncle 14 treasure 18 but 1B dispersed
17 foolishly 18 much 19 no x good 21 anyone a soul
23 on account of it 24 when 2S came x then ^ made
28 assembly ^ seized ^ Salisbury 31 the 32 nephews
(i.e. the son and nephew of Roger of Salisbury)
83 put 34 gave 35 their M traitors ** perceived
38 justice, punishment 39 strange things, evils 40 to
him 41 homage 42 oaths 43 sworn 44 kept 45 were
48 entirely abandoned 47 every 48 powerful 49 fortified
80 against 51 held 62 filled 83 oppressed *4 greatly
55 wretched 66 with 87 works
maked, tha 1 fylden hi mid deovles and yvele 2
men. Tha * namen 3 hi tha 4 men the 5 hi
wen den 8 that ani god 7 hefden,8 bathe ' be 10
nihtes and be daeies, carlmen n and wimmen,
and diden n heom 13 in prisun efter u gold and
sylver, and pined15 heom untellendlice 18 pining,17
for ne uuaeren18 naevre19 nan martyrs swa20 pined
alse21 hi waeron. Me22 henged23 up bi the fet 24
and smoked heom mid ful 25 smoke. Me
henged bi the thumbes, other 28 bi the hefed,27
and hengen28 bryniges29 on her30 fet. Me
dide 12 cnotted strenges 3I abuton 32 here 30
haeved27 and uurythen 33 to34 that it gaede 35
to the haernes.38 Hi dyden heom in quarterne 37
thar 38 nadres39 and snakes and pades 40 waeron
inne, and drapen 4l heom swa.20 . . .
I ne can ne I ne mai ° tellen alle the wun-
der43 ne alle the pines44 that hi diden wrecce48
men on 48 this land ; and that lastede tha .xix.
wintre 47 wile 48 Stephne was king, and aevre 49
it was uuerse 50 and uuerse.
FROM AN OLD ENGLISH HOMILY
(BEFORE 1200)
(Unknown Author)
Missus est Jeremias in puteum et stetit ibl
usque ad os, etc.
(See Jeremiah 38 : 6-13)
Leofemen,5' we vindeth62 in Halie Boc53 thet
Jeremie the prophete stod in ane 54 piitte 55 and
thet58 in the venne57 up to his muthe;58 and
1 then 2 evil 3 seized * those 8 who 6 weened,
thought 7 property 8 had 9 both 10 by u men 12 put
13them I4 after (i.e. to obtain) 18 tortured 16 unspeakable
17 torture 18were 19 never 20so 2las ^one (i.e., they
indefinite) Changed 24 feet 28 foul » or 27 head
28 hung 29 corselets (as weights) 3°'their ai cords
32 about 33 twisted 34 till 3* went, penetrated
36 brains 37 prison 38 where 39 adders 40 toads
41 killed ** may 43 evils 44 tortures 48 wretched
46 in 47 years 4S while 49 ever 80 worse 81 beloved
82 find 83 holy book = the Bible *4 a 8S pit
86 that (emphatic) 87 fen, mire 88 mouth
RICHARD POORE
tha l he hefede z ther ane 3 hwile istonde,4
tha 5 bicom 8 his licome 7 swithe 8 feble, and
me ' nom 10 rapes n and caste in to him for
to draghen l2 hine 13 ut of thisse piitte. Ah 14
his licome 1 wes se 1S swithe 8 feble thet he ne
mihte noht 18 itholie 17 the herdnesse 18 of the
rapes. Tha 5 sende me 9 clathes 19 ut of thes 20
kinges huse for to bi-winden 21 the rapes, thet
his licome,7 the22 feble wes, ne sceolde 23
noht 18 wursien.24 Leofemen,25 theos 28 ilke 27
weord 28 the 22 5c 2B habbe 30 her i-seid 31 hab-
beth muchele 32 bi-tacnunge,33 and god 34
ha 35 beoth 38 to heren and muchele betere to
et-halden.37 . . .
Bi Jeremie the prophete we aghen 38 to
understonden iilcne39 mon siinfulle40 thet lith
in hevie sunne and thurh sothe 41 scrift 42 his
siinbendes 43 niile 44 slakien.46 Funiculi amari-
tudines penetencie significant. The rapes the 22
weren i-cast to him bi-tacneth 48 the herdnesse
of scrifte 42 ; for nis 47 nan 48 of us se 16 strong
the 49 hefde idon 60 thre hefed 51 siinnen thet
his licome nere 52 swithe feble er M he hefde
i-dreghen M thet B5 scrift the 22 ther-to bi-
limpeth.68 Thas kinges hus bi-tacneth Hali
Chirche. Tha clathes thet weren i-sende ut of
thes kinges huse for to binden the rapes mid57
bi-tacnet 58 the halie 5' ureisuns 60 the 81 me °
singeth in halie chirche and the halie sacra-
mens the 81 me 62 sacreth 63 in 84 a-lesnesse K of
alia siinfulle. Leofemen, nu ye 88 habbeth i-herd
of this piitte the bi-tacninge the ic habbe embe 37
i-speken 68 and the bi-tacninge of the prophete
and thet 89 the rapes bi-tacneth, and hwat 69
tha clathes bi-tacneth the 49 the rapes weren
mide57 bi-wunden. I-hereth70 nuthe'1 whiilche72
thinges wunieth 73 in thisse piitte. Ther
wunieth fower 74 ciinnes 76 wiirmes 7e inne,77 thet
for-doth 78 nuthe 71 al theos midelard.79 Ther
1 when 2 had 3 a * stood 6 then 8 became 7 body
8 very 9 one, they (indefinite) l°took " ropes 12draw
13 him 14 but 18 so 18 not 17 endure ls hardness
19 cloths 20the (gen. s.) 21 wind about 22 which
23 should ™ grow worse, suffer M beloved 2* these
27 same 28 words 29 I 30 have 81 said, spoken
82 much 33 meaning, significance 84 good 3S they M are
37 keep 38 ought 39 each 40 sinful 41 true 42 confes-
sion, penance 43 sin-bonds 44 will not 48 loosen
48 signify 47 there is not 48 none 4B that *° done
51 head, chief *2 were not, would not become 83 ere,
before M endured, performed *8 the 88 belongs
87 with 58 signifies *9 holy ao orisons, prayers 81 that
82 one, they (indefinite) 63 celebrate(s) M for M re-
lease * ye 87 about 88 spoken 89 what 70 hear
71 now 72 what sort of 73 dwell 74 four 78 kinds
79 reptiles 7r in (to be taken with Ther) 78 destroy
" world
wunieth inne1 faghe2 neddren,3 and beoreth4
atter5 under heore • tunge; blake tadden,7
and habbeth atter uppon heore heorte ; yeluwe 8
froggen, and crabben.
Crabbe is an manere 9 of fissce 10 in there u
sea. This fis 10 is of swiilc 12 ciinde 13 thet ever
se 14 he mare 16 strengtheth him to swimminde
mid18 the watere, se " he mare swimmeth
abac.18 And the aide crabbe seide to the
yunge,19 " Hwi ne swimmest thu forthward in
there11 sea alse " other fisses doth?" And
heo 20 seide, "Leofe 21 moder, swim thu foren22
me and tech me hu 2S ic seal 24 swimmen forth-
ward." And heo20 bigon to swimmen forth-
ward mid the streme, and swam hire25 ther-
ayen.28 Thas 27 faghe neddre s bi-tacneth this
faghe2 folc28 the29 wuneth in thisse weorlde,
[etc.]
RICHARD POORE? (D. 1237)
FROM THE ANCREN RIWLE30
SPEECH
On alre-erest,31 hwon 32 ye schulen 33 to oure 34
parlures x thiirle,36 iwiteth 37 et 38 ower 34 meiden 39
hwo hit 40 beo 41 thet is icumen,42 vor 43 swiich 44
hit mei ** beon 48 thet ye schulen 47 aschunien 48
ou ; 49 and hwon ye alles 80 moten 51 vorth,52
creoiseth 53 ful yeorne 54 our 34 muth,55 earen,
and eien,58 and te 57 breoste eke ; and goth 58
forth mid Godes drede to preoste.59 On erest 60
siggeth 81 confiteor,*2 and ther-efter benedicite.*3
Thet64 he ouh 8S to siggen,88 hercneth his
wordes, and sitteth al stifle, thet,87 hwon 32 he
parteth vrom ou,88 thet he ne cunne 89 ower
god 70 ne ower iivel 71 nouther; ne he ne cunne
ou nouther 72 blamen ne preisen. Sum 73 is so
1 in (to be taken with Ther) 2 spotted 3 adders
4 bear 8 poison 8 their 7 toads * yellow 9 kind
10 fish u the 12 such 13 nature 14 as l6 more
18 with 17 so 18 aback 19 young 20 she 21 dear
22 before " how 24 shall M her (reflexive) x against
it 27 these 28 folk 29that 30 The Nuns' Rule
31 first of all 32 when 33 shall [go] 34 your
88 parlor's w window 87 know, learn 88 from
89 maid 40 it 41 is ** come 48 for 44 such 4S may
48 be 47 shall, ought to *8 shun, avoid 49 you (re-
flexive, not to be translated) 80 by all means or
necessarily 8I must [go] *2 forth, i.e. out of your
dwelling M cross, i.e. bless with the sign of the cross
64 zealously *8 mouth *" eyes *7 the, i.e. your 58 go
(Imper.) 8B the priest 80 first 81 say (Imperative,
as are some of the other verbs in -eth) 82 the formula
of confession M a canticle or hymn: "Bless ye the
Lord!" 64 what 68 ought K say 87 that, in order
that M you 69 know 70 good 71 evil 72 neither 73 one
THE ANCREN RIWLE
wel ilered ' other 2 se 3 wis-iworded, thet heo 4
wolde5 thet he 8 wiiste 7 hit;8 the9 sit10 and
speketh touward him, and yelt n him word
ayein 12 word, and bicumeth meister,13 the
schulde beon ancre ; and leareth u him thet is
icumen u to leren 16 hire:17 wolde18 bi hire
tale sone 19 beon mit 20 te wise iciid 21 and
icnowen.22 Icnowen heo 4 is wel, vor 23 thurh
thet ilke M thet heo 4 weneth 25 to beon w wis
iholden, " he understont 28 thet heo is sot.29 Vor
heo hunteth efter pris,30 and keccheth lastunge.31
Vor et 32 te 33 laste, hwon 34 he is iwend K a-wei,
"Theos36 ancre," he wiile 37 siggen,38 "is of
muchele 3B speche." Eve heold ine parai's 40
longe tale 4l mid 20 te neddre,42 and tolde hire 17
al thet lescun 43 thet God hire hefde ** ilered a
and Adam of then 33 epple ; and so the veond 48
thurh hire word understod an-on-riht 47 hire
wocnesse,48 and ivond49 wei touward hire of
hire vorlorenesse.50 Ure51 Lefdi,52 Seinte Marie,
diide 53 al M an other wise : ne tolde heo then 33
engle w none tale, auh 56 askede him thing
scheortliche 57 thet heo 4 ne kuthe.58 Ye, mine
leove59 siistren, voleweth80 Ure51 Lefdi, and
nout 81 the kakele 62 Eve. Vor-thi M ancre,
hwat-se 64 heo beo,85 alse M muchel 39 ase heo
ever con 87 and mei, holde hire 88 stille : nabbe 69
heo nout henne 70 kiinde.71 The hen, hwon heo
haveth 72 ileid, ne con 67 buten 58 kakelen.73
And hwat biyit 74 heo ther-of? Kumeth75 the
coue78 anon-riht47 and reveth 77 hire hire eiren,78
and fret 7tt al thet of hwat 80 heo schulde vorth-
bringen hire cwike 81 briddes ; 82 and riht also M
the liithere84 coue, deovel,85 berth88 a-wei vrom
the kakelinde 87 ancren and vorswoluweth 88 al
thet 33 god 89 thet heo istreoned 90 habbeth,91 thet
schulden ase92 briddes beren 93 ham M up tou-
1 taught 2 or 3 so 4 she * would B i.e. the
priest 7 should know 8it » who 10 sits "yields
12 against, for 13 master l4 teacheth 1S come 18 teach
17 her is she Would 19 soon *> with 21 recognized
22 known 23 for 24 very thing 25 thinks, expects x be
27 held 28 understands w foolish 30 praise 31 blame
82 at 33 the 34 when 3* turned * this 37 will
38 say 39 much *° paradise 41 talk a adder, ser-
pent 43 lesson 44 had " taught « fiend 47 at
once 48 weakness 49 found 80 perdition 81 Our
52 Lady M did 84 all, entirely M angel 56 but 87 briefly
58 knew M dear 80 follow 81 not M chattering
63 therefore M what-so, i.e. whosoever M be, may
be M as 67 can S8 herself K have not (hortative
Sub].) 70 hen's 7l nature 72 hath 73 cackle 74 ob-
tains 7* cometh 76 chough 77 takes from 78 eggs
79 eats *° which 8I live, living 82 young birds 83 so
84 wicked 86 the devil M bears 87 cackling 88 swal-
lows up 89 good *° produced 91 has w as *3 bear
94 them
ward heovene, yif hit nere * icakeled. The
wrecche peoddare 2 more noise he maketh to
yeien 3 his sope 4 then 5 a riche mercer al his
deorewurthe 8 ware. To summe 7 gostliche 8
monne 9 thet ye beoth trusti uppen, ase 10 ye
muwen u beon of liit,12 god 13 is thet ye asken
red 14 and salve,15 thet he teche ou toyeines w
fondunges,17 and ine schrifte 18 scheaweth l9
him, yif he wiile iheren,20 ower 21 greste 22 and
ower lodliikeste 23 siinnen,24 vor-thi-thet him
areowe ou ; 25 and thurh the bireounesse 28 crie
Crist inwardliche 27 merci vor ou, and habbe 28
ou ine miinde 29 and in his bonen.30 Sed multi
veniunt ad vos in vestimentis ovium; intrin-
secus autem sunt lupi rapaces. " Auh 3I witeth 32
ou, and beoth 33 iwarre," M he seith, ure 35
Loverd, "vor monie M cumeth to ou ischrud37
mid lombesfleose,38 and beoth39 wode40wulves."
Worldliche men ileveth 41 liit ; 42 religiuse yet
lesse. Ne wilnie 43 ye nout to muchel hore **
kuthlechunge.45 Eve withute drede spec 48 mit
te neddre. Ure M Lefdi 47 was ofdred 48 of
Gabrieles speche.
*******
Ure deorewurthe 8 Lefdi, Seinte Marie, thet
ouh 49 to alle wiimmen beon vorbisne,50 was of
so liite a speche thet nouhware 51 ine Holi Write
ne ivinde 62 we thet heo spec ** bute vor B3 si then ; 54
auh 3l for 55 the seldspeche M hire wordes weren
hevie,57 and hefden 68 muche mihte. Hire
vorme B9 wordes thet we redeth of weren tho 80
heo onswerede then81 engle Gabriel, and theo82
weren so mihtie thet mid tet w thet M heo seide,
Ecce ancilla Domini; fiat mihi secundum ver-
bum tuum, et tisse K worde Godes sune
andsoth88 God bicom67 mon; and the Loverd,
thet al the world ne miihte 68 nout bivon,89 bi-
tiinde70 him71 withinnen the meidenes72 wombe
Marie. Hire othre 73 wordes weren thoa 60 heo
com and grette 74 Elizabeth hire mowe; 75 and
hwat mihte, wenest-tu,78 was iciid 77 ine theos 82
1 were not 2 peddler 3 cry 4 soap B than 8 precious
7 some 8 spiritual 9 man l° as " may 12 few l3 good
14 counsel 18 remedy 18 against "temptations ^confes-
sion le show x hear 21 your K greatest 2S most hateful
24 sins 28 in order that he may pity you (areowe is
impersonal) * pity ^ sincerely x have 29 mind,
memory *° prayers 31 but 32 guard 33 be 34 cautious
38 our 38 many ^ clothed M fleece 39 are 40 wild
41 believe (Imperative) 42 little 43 desire 44 their
48 acquaintance 48 spoke 47 Lady 48 afraid 49 ought
80 example 81 nowhere 82 find 83 four 84 times
88 because of 86 seldom-speaking 8r weighty 88 had
59 first DO when « the' ffi these M that M which
68 at this "* true 67 became M might 89 encompass
70 enclosed 71 himself 72 maiden's 73 second 74 greeted
75 kinswoman 76 thinkest thou 77 manifested
RICHARD POORE
wordes? Hwat,1 thet a child bigon vor to
pleien 2 toyeines 3 ham 4 — thet was Sein
Johan — in his moder wombe ! The thridde
time thet heo spec,5 thet was et te neoces,6
and ther, thurh hire bone,7 was water iwend 8
to wine. The veorthe time was thoa9 heo
hefde10 imist u hire sune,12 and eft13 hine "
ivond.15 And hu muchel wunder voluwede-18
theos wordes ! Thet God almihti beih 17 him 18
to one 19 monne,20 to one 19 smithe, and to ane 19
wummone,21 and foluwude 18 ham,4 ase 22 hore,23
hwiider-so 24 heo 25 ever wolden.26 Nimeth 27
nu 28 her 29 yeme,30 and leorneth yeorne 3l her-bi
hu 32 seldcene 33 speche haveth muche strencthe.
NUNS MAY KEEP No BEAST BUT A CAT
Ye, mine leove 34 siistren,35 ne schulen 38 hab-
ben37 no best,38 bute kat one.39 Ancre 40 thet
haveth eihte 4l thiincheth ° bet 43 husewif,44 ase
Marthe was, then ancre ; 40 ne none-weis 45 ne
mei heo ** beon 47 Marie mid grithfulnesse 48 of
heorte. Vor theonne 49 mot 50 heo thenchen 8l
of the kues 52 foddre, and of heordemonne 53
huire,54 oluhnen 56 thene 5S heiward,57 warien 68
hwon 59 me 60 punt 61 hire, and yelden,62 thauh,63
the hermes.84 Wat85 Crist, this is lodlich 68
thing hwon 89 me 90 maketh mone 87 in tune 88
of ancre89 eihte.41 Thauh,83 yif 70 eni mot50
nede habben 7l ku, loke n thet heo ** none
monne ne eilie,73 ne ne hermie; 74 ne thet hire
thouht ne beo 75nout ther-on ivestned.78 Ancre
ne ouh77 nout to habben71 no thing thet drawc78
utward hire heorte. None cheffare 79 ne drive
ye. Ancre thet is cheapild,80 heo cheapeth 81
hire soule the chepmon 82 of helle. Ne wite w
ye nout in cure 84 huse 85 of other monnes
thinges, ne eihte,41 ne clothes; ne nout ne
undervo86 ye the chirche vestimenz, ne thene "
1 behold 2 play • 3 against, at the sound of
4 them 8 spoke 6 marriage 7 prayer, request 8 turned
9 when 10 had u missed l2 son 13 again l4 him ls found
"followed 17 bowed, humbled 18 himself 19 a
20 man 21 woman ^ as K theirs 24 whitherso
28 they M would 27 take (Imperative) 28 now M here
80 heed 81 well 32 how 33 rare 34 dear 38 sisters
36 shall K have 38 beast 89 only 40 a nun 41 property
42 seems 43 rather 44 housewife 4S no-ways 46 she
47 be 48 peacefulness 49 then 80 must 81 think
82 cow's M herdsmen's 84 hire 88 flatter ** the
87 heyward, bailiff 88 curse 89 when 60 one
81 impounds 62 pay M nevertheless M damages
68 knows M hateful 67 complaint e8 town, farm
69 a nun's 70 if 71 have 72 look 73 disturb
74 harm 7B be 78 fastened 77 ought 78 may draw
79 bargain 80 bargainer 81 sells 82 tradesman
83 keep, take care of 84 your 88 house 88 receive 87 the
caliz,1 bute-yif 2 strencthe 3 hit makie,4 other 8
muchel eie; 8 vor of swiiche7 witunge8 is iku-
men9 muchel iivel 10 ofte-sithen.11
ENGLISH PROCLAMATION OF
HENRY III (1258)
Hear', burs I2 godes fultume 13 king on 14
Engleneloande, Lhoauerd on Yrloand', Duk
on Norm', on Aquitain', and eorl on Aniow,
Send 15 igretinge 18 to alle hise holde,17 ilaerde 1S
and ileawede 19 on Huntendon'schir'. baet 20
witen21 36 22 wel alle, baet we willen and vnnen 23
)>aet baet 24 vre 25 raedesmen 28 alle, ober 5 J>e 27
moare 28 dael 29 of heom 30 baet beob 31 ichosen
J>urs 12 vs and burs baet 27 loandes 32 folk on
vre kuneriche,33 habbeb 34 idon 35 and schullen 38
don 37 in be worbnesse 38 of gode 39 and on vre
treowbe 40 for be freme 41 of be loande burs be
besiste 42 of ban 27 to-foreniseide 43 redesmen,28
beo stedefaest and ilestinde 44 in alle binge
a45 buten48 aende.47 And we hoaten48 alle vre
treowe,49 in 12 be treowbe 40 >aet heo50 us osen,51
J>aet heo stedefaestliche heal den52 and sweren
to healden and to werien 53 bo 27 isetnesses 84
J>aet beon 31 imakede and beon to makien 55
)>urs l2 ban 27 to-foren-iseide ** raedesmen ober 5
burs be moare 28 dael 29 of heom,30 alswo B8
alse 57 hit 58 is biforen iseid.59 And baet aehc 80
ober B1 helpe baet for to done 37 bi ban 27 ilche 82
obe 83 asenes 84 alle men Rist for to done 37
and to foangen.85 And noan 88 ne nime 87 of
loande ne 88 of este 89 wherburs bis besiste 42
muse 70 beon ilet 71 ober iwersed 72 on onie 73
wise. And sif 74 oni 75 ober 5 onie 78 cumen
her-onsenes,77 we willen and hoaten 48 baet alle
vre treowe 49 heom healden deadliche ifoan.78
And for baet we willen baet bis beo stedefaest
and lestinde,44 we sended79 sew80 bis writ
1 chalice 2 unless 3 strength, necessity
4 make, cause 8 or 8 fear 7 such 8 guarding
9 come 10 evil " oft-times 12 by 13 aid 14 in
18 sends 18 greeting 17 faithful 18 learned
19 unlearned 20 that 21 know M ye 23 grant
24 what 2S our 26 counselors " the 28 greater
29 part 80 them 31 are 82 land's 33 kingdom 34 have
38 done M shall 37 do 88 honor 39 God 40 loyalty
41 benefit 42 provision 43 aforesaid 44 lasting 48 ever
48 without 47 end 48 command 49 loyal B0 they 81 owe
82 hold 83 defend M laws 5<s to make, to be made
88 just 87as 88 it 89said «° each 61 the other M same
63 oath M towards 68 receive M none 6T take (subj. of
command) 68 nor a9 property 70 may 71 hindered
72 injured 7S any 74 if 78 any one 7« any (pi.) 77 here
against, i.e. against this proclamation 78 foes 79 send
EPISTLE III
open, iseined ' wi|> vre seel to halden 2 amanges
3e\v ine hord.3 Witnesse vs-seluen 4 set
Lunden' bane5 Estetenbe8 day on J>e Monbe
of Octobr' In )>e Two and fowertisbe7 scare
of vre cruninge.8
RICHARD ROLLE (i29o?-i349)
FROM EPISTLE III
THE COMMANDMENT OF LOVE TO GOD
The lufe of Jhesu Criste es 9 ful dere I0
tresure, ful delytabyl " joy, and ful syker 12 to
trayst IS man on. For-thi,14 he wil not gyf it to
folys,15 that kan noght hald 18 it and kepe it
tenderly; hot17 til18 thaim he gese 19 it the
whilk 20 nowther 21 for wele ne for wa 22 wil lat 23
it passe fra tham, hot are 24 thai wil dye or 25
thai wolde wrath Jhesu Criste. And na 28 wyse
man dose 27 precyous lycor in a stynkand ves-
sell, hot in a clene. Als 28 Criste dose " noght
his lufe in a foule hert in syn and bownden in
vile lust of flesche, bot in a hert that es fayre
and clene in vertues. Noght-for-thi,29 a fowle
vessel may be made sa clene that a ful dere
thyng savely 30 may be done 3I tharin.32 And
Jhesu Criste oft-sythes 33 purges many synfull
mans sawle 34 and makes it abyl 3S thurgh his
grace to receyve the delitabel u swetnes of hys
luf, and to be his wonnyng-stede 38 in halynes; 37
and ay 38 the clennar it waxes, the mare 39 joy'
and solace of heven Criste settes thar-in. For-
thi,14 at the fyrst tyme when a man es 9 turned
to God, he may not fele 40 that swete lycor til
he have bene wele used in Goddes servys 41
and his hert be purged thorow ° prayers and
penance and gode thoghtes in God. For he
that es slaw 43 in Goddes servyce may noght be
byrnand 44 in lufe, bot-if 45 he do al his myght
and travell 48 nyght and day to fulfill Goddes
will. And when that blyssed lufe es in a mans
hert, it will not suffer hym be ydel,47 bot ay it
stirres hym to do som gode that myght be
lykand 48 til God, as in praying, or in wirkyng
1 signed 2 hold * safe-keeping * ourselves * the
8 eighteenth 7 fortieth 8 crowning 9 is 10 precious
11 delightful 12 secure 13 trust 14 therefore IS fools
16 hold 17 but »8 to 19 gives 20 which 21 neither
22 woe 23 let 24 sooner 2S ere » no " puts 28 so
29 nevertheless 30 safely 31 put 32 therein 33 oft-times
84 soul 36 able w dwelling-place 37 holiness 38 ever
39 more 40 feel 41 service *2 through 43 slow
44 burning 46 unless *8 labor *7 idle 48 pleasing
profitabel thynges, or in spekyng of Cristes
passyon ; * and principally in thoght, that the
mynde 2 of Jhesu Criste passe noght fra his
thoght. For if thou lufe hym trewly, thou
wil 3 glad the6 in hym and noght in other
thyng ; and thou wil thynk on hym, kastand 4
away al other thoghtes. Bot if thou be
fals, and take other than hym, and delyte
the in erthly thyng agaynes his wille, wit 5
thou wele he will forsake the 8 as thou
hase 7 done hyme, and dampne the for thi
synne.
Wharfore, that thou may lufe hym trewly,
understand that his lufe es proved in thre
thynges; in thynkyng, in spekyng, in wirkyng.
Chaunge thi thoght fra the worlde, and kast it
haly 8 on hym, and he sail norysche the.8
Chaunge thi mowth fra unnayte 9 and warldes l°
speche, and speke of hym, and he sail ll corn-
forth 12 the. Chaunge thi hend 13 fra the
warkes 14 of vanitese, and lyft tham 15 in his
name, and wyrke anly 18 for hys lufe, and he
sail ll receyve the. Do thus, and than lufes 17
thou trewly and gase 18 in the way of perfitenes.
Delyte the sa 19 in hym that thi hert receyve
nowther20 worldes joy ne worldes sorow, and
drede no anguys 21 ne noy 22 that may befalle
bodyly on the8 or on any of thi frendes; bot
betake 23 all in-til Goddes will and thank hym
ay of all hys sandes,24 swa19 that thou may have
rest and savowre in hys lufe. For if thi hert
owther 25 be ledde with worldes drede or worldes
solace, thou ert 28 full fer27 fra the swetnes of
Cristes lufe. . . . Wasche thi thoght clene
wyth lufe-teres28 and brennand29 yernyng,30
that he fynd na 31 thyng fowle in the, for his
joy es that thou be fayre and lufsom 32 in his
eghen.33 Fayrehede 34 of thi sawle, that he
covaytes, es that thou be chaste and meke,
mylde and sufferand, never irk 35 to do his
wille, ay hatand all wykkednes. In al that
thou dose,38 thynk ay to com to the syght of
his fairehede,34 and sett al thine entent 37
thar-in, that thou may com thar-til 38 at thine
endyng; for that aght 39 to be the ende of al
oure traveyle, that we evermare, whils we lyve
here, desyre that syght, in all oure hert, and
1 passion, suffering 2 memory 3 wilt 4 casting
5 know 6 thee 7 hast 'wholly 9 vain I0 world's,
worldly n shall 12 comfort l3 hands 14 works 16them
18 only I7 lovest la goest I9 so 20 neither
21 anguish 2Z annoy, injury M commit 24 sendings,
dispensations 2S either *• art 27 far 28 love-tears
901 ; an • j _ • 91 a9i ui_
"• oniy •• lovest *° goest •" so -" nenner
21 anguish 2Z annoy, injury M commit 24 sendings,
dispensations 2S either x art 27 far 28 love-tears
29 burning 30 yearning, desire 31 no 32 lovable
83 eyes 84 fairness 35 weary M dost 87 intent
88 thereto «9 ought
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE
that we thynk ay lang thar-till.1 Als sa 2
fasten 3 in thi hert the mynd 4 of his passyon
and of his woundes: grete delyte and swetnes
sal thou feie if thou halde thi thoght in mynde 4
of the pyne 5 that Cryst sufferd for the. . . .
I wate 6 na thyng that swa 7 inwardly sal take
thi hert to covayte Goddes lufe and to desyre
the joy of heven and to despyse the vanitees
of this worlde, as stedfast thynkyng of the
myscheves and grevous woundes and of the
dede 8 of Jhesu Criste. It wil rayse thi
thoght aboven erthly lykyng,9 and make
thi hert brennand 10 in Cristes lufe, and
purches in thi sawle delitabelte " and savoure
of heven.
Bot per-aunter 12 thou will say: "I may
noght despyse the worlde, I may not fynd it in
my hert to pyne 5 my body, and me behoves 13
lufe my fleschly frendes and take ese when it
comes." If thou be temped14 with swilk 15
thoghtes, I pray the that thou umbethynk 18
the,17 fra the begynnyng of this worlde, whare 18
the worldes lovers er l8 now, and whare the
lovers er of God. Certes thai war 20 men and
wymen as we er, and ete and drank and logh ; 21
and the wreches that lofed 22 this worlde toke
ese til 2S thair body and lyved as tham lyst,24
in likyng of thair wikked will, and led thair
dayes in lust and delyces;25 and in a poynt 28
thai fel intil hell. Now may thou see that thai
wer 20 foles and fowle glotons, that in a few
yeres 27 wasted endles joy that was ordand 28
for tham if thai walde 29 have done penance for
thair synnes. Thou sese 30 that al the ryches
of this world and delytes vanys 31 away and
commes til noght. Sothely,32 swa dose 33 al
the lofers 34 thar-of ; for nathyng may stande
stabely on a fals gronde. Thair bodys er gyn 35
til wormes in erth, and thair sawles til the devels
of hell. Bot all that forsoke the pompe and
the vanite of this lyfe and stode stalworthly 39
agaynes all temptacions and ended in the lufe
of God, thai ar now in joy and hase 37 the
erytage 38 of heven, thar to won 39 with-owten
end, restand 40 in the delyces 41 of Goddes
syght. . . .
1 thereto 2 also 3 fasten * memory * torture 8 know
7 so 8 death ' liking, desire 10 burning u delight
12 peradventure ia behooves (impersonal) 14 tempted
16 such 18 consider 17 Reflexive, not to be translated.
18 where 19 are 20 were 21 laughed 22 loved 23 to
24 pleased (impersonal) 2S pleasures x moment
27 years 28 ordained 29 would 30 seest 31 vanish
82 truly 88 do 34 lovers 35 given ** steadfastly 37 have
88 heritage 39 dwell *° resting 41 joys
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE? (D. 1371)
THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR
JOHN MAUNDEVILE, KT.
FROM CHAP. IV
And from Ephesim Men gon l throghe many
lies in the See, unto the Cytee of Paterane,
where Seynt Nicholas was born, and so to
Martha, where he was chosen to ben 2 Bis-
schoppe; and there growethe right gode Wyn
and strong; and that Men callen Wyn of
Martha. And from thens 3 gon Men to the
He of Crete, that the Emperour yaf 4 somtyme 5
to Janeweys.8 And thanne passen Men thorghe
the Isles of Colos and of Lango ; of the whiche
lies Ypocras was Lord offe. And some Men
seyn,7 that in the He of Lango is yit 8 the
Doughtre of Ypocras, in forme and lykeness
of a gret Dragoun, that is a hundred Fadme 9
of lengthe, as Men seyn : For I have not seen
hire. And thei of the Isles callen hire, Lady
of the Lond.10 And sche lyethe in an olde
castelle, in a Cave, and schewethe " twyes or
thryes in the Yeer. And sche dothe none
harm to no Man, but-yif 12 Men don hire
harm. And sche was thus chaunged and trans-
formed, from a fair Damysele, in-to lyknesse
of a Dragoun, be13 a Goddesse, that was
clept u Deane.15 And Men seyn, that sche
schalle so endure in that forme of a Dragoun,
unto the tyme that a Knyghte come, that is
so hardy, that dar come to hire and kiss
hire on the Mouthe: And then schalle sche
turne ayen 18 to hire owne Kynde,17 and ben a
Woman ayen: But aftre that sche schalle not
liven longe. And it is not long siththen,18 that
a Knyghte of the Rodes, that was hardy and
doughty in Armes, seyde that he wolde kyssen
hire. And whan he was upon his Coursere,
and wente to the Castelle, and entred into the
Cave, the Dragoun lifte up hire Hed ayenst IB
him. And whan the Knyghte saw hire in that
Forme so hidous and so horrible, he fleyghe 20
awey. And the Dragoun bare 21 the Knyghte
upon a Roche,22 mawgre his Hede;23 and from
that Roche, sche caste him in-to the See: and
so was lost bothe Hors and Man. And also
a yonge24 Man, that wiste 25 not of the Dragoun,
1 go 2 be 3 thence 4 gave * formerly, once upon a
time a the Genoese 7 say 8 yet 9 fathom 10 land
11 appears 12 unless 13 by 14 called 15 Diana "> again,
back 17 nature ls since 19 against 20 fled 21 bore
22 rock 23 despite his head ( = despite all he could do)
24 young 28 knew
THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILE 7
wente out of a Schipp, and wente thorghe the
He, til that he come to the Castelle, and cam
in to the Cave; and wente so longe, til that he
fond a Chambre, and there he saughe * a
Damysele, that kembed 2 hire Hede, and
lokede in a Myrour; and sche hadde meche 3
Tresoure abouten hire: and he trowed,4 that
sche hadde ben a comoun Woman, that dwelled
there to receyve Men to Folye. And he
abode, tille the Damysele saughe the Schadewe
of him in the Myrour. And sche turned hire
toward him, and asked hym, what he wolde.
And he seyde, he wolde ben hire Limman 5
or Paramour. And sche asked him, yif8
that he were a Knyghte. And he seyde, nay.
And than sche seyde, that he myghte not ben
hire Lemman:5 But sche bad him gon
ayen 7 unto his Felowes, and make him
Knyghte, and come ayen upon the Morwe, and
sche scholde come out of the Cave before him;
and thanne come and kysse hire on the mowthe,
and have no Drede; "for I schalle do the no
maner harm, alle be it that thou see me in
Lyknesse of a Dragoun. For thoughe thou
see me hidouse and horrible to loken onne, I
do 8 the to wytene,9 that it is made be En-
chauntement. For withouten doute, I am non
other than thou seest now, a Woman; and
therfore drede the noughte. And yif thou
kysse me, thou schalt have alle this Tresoure,
and be my Lord, and Lord also of alle that
He." And he departed fro hire and wente to
his Felowes to Schippe, and leet 10 make him
Knyghte, and cam ayen upon the Morwe, for
to kysse this Damysele. And whan he saughe
hire comen n out of the Cave, in forme of a
Dragoun, so hidouse and so horrible, he hadde
so grete drede, that he fleyghe 12 ayen to the
Schippe; and sche folewed him. And whan
sche saughe, that he turned not ayen, sche
began to crye, as a thing that hadde meche 3
Sorwe: and thanne sche turned ayen, in-to
hire Cave; and anon the Knyghte dyede.
And siththen 13 hidrewards,14 myghte no
Knyghte se hire, but that he dyede anon.
But whan a Knyghte comethe, that is so
hardy to kisse hire, he schalle not dye; but
he schalle turne the Damysele in-to hire
righte Forme and kyndely 15 Schapp, and he
schal be Lord of alle the Contreyes and
lies aboveseyd.
1 saw
* lover
2 combed ' much
• if 7 back
* believed, thought
10 let " come
u natural
12 fled " since
» know
14 till now
FROM CHAP. XVII
Also yee have herd me seye that Jerusalem
is in the myddes l of the World ; and that may
men preven 2 and schewen there be a Spere
that is pighte 3 in-to the Erthe, upon the hour of
mydday, whan it is Equenoxium, that schew-
ethe no schadwe on no syde. And that it
scholde ben in the myddes1 of the World,
David wytnessethe it in the Psautre, where he
scythe, Deus operatus est salute[m\ in media
Terre* Thanne thei that parten 5 fro the
parties' of the West for to go toward Jeru-
salem, als many jorneyes 7 as thei gon upward
for to go thidre, in als many jorneyes may thei
gon fro Jerusalem, unto other Confynes of
the Superficialtie of the Erthe beyonde. And
whan men gon beyonde tho 8 journeyes toward
Ynde and to the foreyn Yles, alle is envyronynge
the roundnesse of the Erthe and of the See,
undre oure Contrees on this half. 9 And ther-
fore hathe it befallen many tymes of o10 thing
that I have herd cownted n whan I was yong:
how a worthi man departed somtyme from
oure Contrees for to go serche the World. And
so he passed Ynde and the Yles beyonde Ynde,
where ben mo 12 than 5000 Yles; and so longe
he wente be 13 See and Lond and so enviround
the World be many seysons, that he fond an
Yle where he herde speke his owne Langage,
callynge on Oxen in the Plowghe, suche Wordes
as men speken to Bestes in his owne Contree;
whereof he hadde gret Mervayle,14 for he knewe
not how it myghte be. But I seye, that he
had gon so longe be Londe and be See that he
had envyround alle the Erthe, that he was
comen ayen 15 envirounynge, that is to seye,
goynge aboute, unto his owne Marches,16 yif
he wolde have passed forthe til he had founden
his Contree and his owne knouleche.17 But he
turned ayen from thens, from whens he was
come fro; and so he loste moche peynefulle
labour, as him-self seyde a gret while aftre
that he was comen horn. For it befelle aftre,
that he wente in to Norweye ; and there Tem-
pest of the See toke him ; and he arryved in an
Yle; and whan he was in that Yle, he knew
wel that it was the Yle where he had herd
speke his owne Langage before and the callynge
of the Oxen at the Plowghe; and that was
possible thinge. But how it semethe to symple
1 middle 2 prove 3 stuck * God has wrought sal-
vation in the middle of the earth. * depart 6 parts
7 journeys (i.e. days' travel) 8 those 9 side 10 one
11 recounted, told 12 more 1S by u wonder 18 back
18 boundaries, borders I7 acquaintances
8
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE
men unlerned that men ne mowe * not go undre
the Erthe, and also that men scholde falle
toward the Hevene from undre ! But that
may not be, upon lesse than wee mowe falle
toward Hevene fro the Erthe where wee ben.2
For fro what partie of the Erthe that men
duelle,3 outher4 aboven or benethen, it semethe
alweys to hem 5 that duellen that thei gon more
righte than ony other folk. And righte as it
semethe to us that thei ben undre us, righte so
it semethe hem that wee ben undre hem. For
yif a man myghte falle fro the Erthe unto the
Firmament, be grettere resoun, the Erthe and
the See, that ben so grete and so hevy, scholde
fallen to the Firmament : but that may not be ;
and therefore seithe oure Lord God, Non
timeas me, qui suspendi Terrain] ex nichilo? 9
And alle be it that it be possible thing that men
may so envyronne alle the World, natheles 7
of a 1000 persones on 8 ne myghte not hap-
pen to returnen in -to his Contree. For 9 the
gretnesse of the Erthe and of the See, men may
go be a 1000 and a 1000 other weyes, that no
man cowde redye 10 him perfitely toward the
parties that he cam fro, but-yif n it were be
aventure and happ or be the grace of God. For
the Erthe is fulle large and fulle gret, and holt l2
in roundnesse and aboute envyroun, be aboven
and be benethen, 20425 Myles, aftre the
opynyoun of the olde wise Astronomeres. And
here Seyenges I repreve l3 noughte. But aftre
my lytylle wytt, it semethe me, savynge here u
reverence, that it is more.
FROM CHAP. XXVII
In the Lond of Prestre John ben many
dyverse thinges and many precious Stones, so
grete and so large that men maken of hem 5
Vesselle ; 15 as Plateres, Dissches, and Cuppes.
And many other marveylles ben there; that
it were to 16 combrous and to 18 long to putten
it in scripture 17 of Bokes.
But of the princypalle Yles and of his
Estate and of his Lawe I schalle telle you
som partye.18 This Emperour Prestre John is
Cristene ; and a gret partie of his Contree also :
but yit thei have not alle the Articles of oure
Feythe, as wee have. Thei beleven wel in the
1 may 2 are 3 dwell, inhabit 4 either 5 them
8 Dost thou not fear me who have suspended the earth
upon nothing ? 7 nevertheless 8 one e because of
10 direct u unless 12 holds, contains 13 reprove,
criticise u their 16 vessels 16 too 17 writing
18 part
Fadre, in the Sone, and in the Holy Gost: and
thei ben fulle devoute and righte trewe on * to
another. And thei sette not be 2 no Barettes,3
ne be Cawteles,4 ne of no Disceytes.5 And he
hathe undre him 72 Provynces; and in every
Provynce is a Kyng. And theise Kynges han 6
Kynges undre hem ; and alle ben tributaries to
Prestre John. And he hathe in his Lordschipes
many grete marveyles. For in his Contree is
the See that men clepen 7 the Gravely 8 See,
that is alle Gravelle and Sond 9 with-outen ony
drope of Watre; and it ebbethe and flowethe
in grete Wawes 10 as other Sees don; and it is
never stille ne in pes u in no maner a cesoun.13
And no man may passe that See be Navye 14 ne
be no maner of craft : 15 and therfore may no man
knowe what Lond is beyond that See. And
alle-be-it that it have no Watre, yit men
fynden 16 there-in and on the Bankes fulle gode
Fissche of other maner of kynde and schappe
thanne men fynden in ony other See ; and thei
ben of right goode tast and delycious to mannes
mete.
And a 3 journeys long fro that See, ben gret
Mountaynes; out of the whiche gothe 17 out a
gret Flood,18 that comethe out of Paradys; and
it is fulle of precious Stones, withouten ony
drope of Water; and it rennethe 19 thorghe the
Desert, on that^o1 syde, so that it makethe
the See gravely; and it berethe 17 in-to that See,
and there it endethe. And that Flome18 ren-
nethe also 3 dayes in the Woke,21 and bryngethe
with him grete Stones and the Roches 22 also
therewith, and that gret plentee. And anon
as thei ben entred in-to the gravely See, thei
ben seyn 23 no more, but lost for evere more.
And in tho 3 dayes that that Ryvere rennethe
no man dar24 entren in-to it: but in the other
dayes men dar entren wel ynow.25 Also
beyonde that Flome,18 more upward to the
Desertes, is a gret Pleyn alle gravelly betwene
the Mountaynes; and in that Playn every day
at the Sonne risynge begynnen to growe smale
Trees; and thei growen til mydday, berynge
Frute; but no man dar taken of that
Frute, for it is a thing of Fayrye.26 And
aftre mydday thei discrecen 27 and entren
ayen 28 in-to the Erthe; so that at the goynge
doun of the Sonne thei apperen no more ; and so
thei don every day : and that is a gret marvaylle.
every day : ana tnat is a gret marvaylle
1 one 2 set not by (= do not practice) 3 frauds
* tricks 6 deceits B have 7 call 8 gravelly 9 sand
10 waves n peace 12 kind of 13 season 14 ship
"device 16 find 17 goes, flows I8 river 19 runs
20 the 21 week a rocks 23 seen 24 dare ** enough
29 magic 27 decrease 28 again
JOHN WICLIF
JOHN WICLIF (D. 1384)
THE GOSPEL OF MATHEW (FIRST VERSION)
CHAP. V
Jhesus forsothe,1 seynge 2 cumpanyes, wente
up in-to an hill; and when he hadde sete,3 his
disciplis camen nighe to hym. And he,
openynge his mouthe, taughte to hem, sayinge,
"Blessid be the pore in spirit, for the kingdam
in hevenes is heren.4 Blessid be mylde men, for
thei shuln 5 welde 6 the eerthe. Blessid be thei
that mournen, for thei shuln 5 be comfortid.
Blessid be thei that hungren and thristen right-
wisnesse,7 for thei shuln ben fulfillid. Blessid
be mercyful men, for thei shuln gete mercye.
Blessid be thei that ben 8 of clene herte, for
thei shuln see -God. Blessid be pesible men,
for thei shuln be clepid 9 the sonys of God.
Blessid be thei that suffren persecucioun for
rightwisnesse,7 for the kyngdam of hevenes is
herun.4 Yee shulen 5 be blessid, when men
shulen curse you, and shulen pursue you, and
shulen say al yvel 10 ayeins n you leezing,12 for
me. Joye 13 yee with-yn-forth,14 and glade yee
with-out-forth, for youre meede 15 is plente-
vouse 16 in hevenes; forsothe so thei han 17
pursued and 18 prophetis that weren before
you. Yee ben 8 salt of the erthe ; that yif 19
the salt shal vanyshe awey, wherynne shal it be
saltid? To no thing it is worth over,20 no21
bot 22 that it be sent out, and defoulid of men.
Ye ben8 light of the world; a citee putt on an
hill may nat be hid; nether men tendyn 2S a
lanterne, and putten it undir a busshel, but on
a candilstike, that it yeve 24 light to alle that
ben in the hous. So shyyne 25 youre light
before men, that thei see youre good werkis,
and glorifie youre Fadir that is in hevens.
Nyle M ye gesse, or deme,27 that Y came to
undo, or distruye, the lawe, or the prophetis;
I came not to undo the lawe, but to fulfille.
Forsothe 28 I say to you trewthe, til heven and
erthe passe, oon 29 i, that is leste 30 lettre, or titil,
shal nat passe fro the lawe, til alle thingis be
don. Therfore he that undoth, or breketh,
oon of these leste 30 maundementis,31 and techith
thus men, shal be clepid 32 the leste in the
rewme 33 of hevenes ; forsothe, this 34 that doth,
and techith, shal be clepid grete in the kyng-
dame of hevenes. Forsothe Y say to you,
no-but-yif 35 youre rightwisnesse shal be more
1 indeed z seeing * sat * theirs * shall 8 rule
7 righteousness 8 are ° called 10 evil n against
12 lying l3 rejoice u with-yn-forth = inwardly 1S re-
THE GOSPEL OF MATHEU
(SECOND VERSION)
CAP. V
And Jhesus, seynge 2 the puple, wente up in-
to an hil ; and whanne he was set, hise disciplis
camen to hym. And he openyde his mouth,
and taughte hem, and seide, " Blessed ben pore
men in spirit, for the kyngdom of hevenes is
herne.4 Blessid ben mylde men, for thei
schulen 5 welde8 the erthe. Blessid ben thei
that mornen, for thei schulen be coumfortid.
Blessid ben thei that hungren and thristen
rightwisnesse, for thei schulen be fulfillid.
Blessid ben merciful men, for thei schulen gete
merci. Blessid ben thei that ben of clene herte,
for thei schulen se God. Blessid ben pesible
men, for thei schulen be clepid 9 Goddis chil-
dren. Blessid ben thei that suffren persecu-
sioun for rightfulnesse, for the kingdam of
hevenes is herne.4 Ye schulen be blessid,
whanne men schulen curse you, and schulen
pursue you, and shulen seie al yvel 10 ayens "
you liynge, for me. Joie 13 ye, and be ye glad
for youre meede 15 is plentevouse l6 in hevenes;
for so thei han 17 pursued also profetis that
weren bifor you. Ye ben salt of the erthe;
that if the salt vanysche awey, whereynne schal
it be saltid? To no thing it is worth overe,20
no 21 but 22 that it be cast out, and be defoulid
of men. Ye ben light of the world; a citee
set on an hil may not be hid; ne me teendith 23
not a lanterne, and puttith it undur a busschel,
but on a candilstike, that it yyve light to alle
that ben in the hous. So schyne youre light
befor men, that thei se youre goode werkis,
and glorifie youre Fadir that is in hevenes.
Nil 26 ye deme,27 that Y cam to undo the lawe,
or the profetis; Y cam not to undo the lawe,
but to fulfille. Forsothe Y seie to you, til
hevene and erthe passe, o29 lettir or o29 titel shal
not passe fro the lawe, til alle thingis be doon.
Therfor he that brekith oon of these leeste*0
maundementis,31 and techith thus men, schal
be clepid 32 the leste in the rewme 33 of hevenes;
but he that doith, and techith, schal be clepid
greet in the kyngdom of hevenes. And Y seie
to you, that but your rightfulnesse be more
plentevouse than of scribis and of Farisees, ye
ward 16 plenteous 17 have 18 also 19 if *° besides
21 not ^ but 23 light M give m Subj. of command. *• do
not, literally, wish not (Lat. nolite) ** think 28 verily
29 one 80 least 31 commandments 32 called 33 king-
dom 34 he M unless
10
JOHN WICLIF
plentevouse than of scribis and Pharisees, yee
shulen not entre in-to kyngdam of hevenes.
Yee han ' herde that it is said to olde men,
Thou shal nat slea ; forsothe he that sleeth, shal
be gylty of dome.2 But I say to you, that
evereche 3 that is wrothe to his brother, shal
be gylty of dome; forsothe he that shal say to
his brother, Racha, that is, a word of scorn,
shal be gylty of counseile ;4 sothly he that shal
say, Fool, that is, a word of dispisynge, shal be
gylti of the fijr 5 of helle. Therfore yif thou
offrist thi yift6 at the auter,7 and there shalt
bythenke,8 that thi brother hath sum-what
ayeins * thee, leeve there thi yift before the
auter, and go first for to be recounseilid, or
acordid, to thi brother, and thanne thou cum-
mynge shalt offre thi yifte. Be thou consent-
ynge to thin adversarie soon, the whijle thou
art in the way with hym, lest peraventure thin
adversarie take thee to the domesman,10 and
the domesman take thee to the mynystre,11 and
thou be sente in-to prisoun. Trewely I say to
thee, Thou shalt not go thennes, til thou yelde 12
the last ferthing. Ye han herd for it was said
to olde men, Thou shalt nat do lecherye. • For-
sothe Y say to you, for-why 13 every man that
seeth a womman for to coveite hire, now he
hath do lecherie by hire in his herte. That
yif thi right eiye sclaundre 14 thee, pulle it out,
and cast it fro thee; for it speedith15 to thee,
that oon16 of thi membris perishe, than al thi
body go in-to helle. And yif thi right hond
sclaundre thee, kitt17 it awey, and cast it fro
thee; for it spedith to thee, that oon of thi
membris perishe, than that al thi body go in-to
helle. Forsothe it is said, Who-evere shal leeve
his wyf, yeve18 he to hir a libel, that is, a litil
boke, of forsakyng. Sothely Y say to you, that
every man that shal leeve his wyf, outaken l9
cause of fornicacioun, he makith hire do lecherie
and he that weddith the forsaken wijf, doth
avoutrie.20 Efte-soonys 21 yee han herd, that it
was said to olde men, Thou shalt not forswere,
sothely22 to the Lord thou shalt yeeld23 thin
cethis.2* Forsothe Y say to you, to nat swere
on al manere; neither by hevene, for it is the
trone of God; nether by the erthe, for it is the
stole of his feet ; neither by Jerusalem, for it is
the citee of a greet kyng; neither thou shalt
swere by thin heved,25 for thou maist not make
oon heer whyt or blak ; but be youre word yea,
yea; Nay, nay; forsothe that that is more
schulen not entre into the kyngdom of hevenes.
Ye han 1 herd that it was seid to elde men,
Thou schalt not slee ; and he that sleeth, schal
be gilti to doom.2 But Y seie to you, that ech
man that is wrooth to his brothir, schal be
gilti to doom; and he that seith to his brother,
Fy ! schal be gilti to the counseil ; 4 but he
that seith, Fool, schal be gilti to the fier of helle.
Therfor if thou offrist thi yifte * at the auter,7
and ther thou bithenkist, that thi brothir hath
sum-what ayens 9 thee, leeve there thi yifte
bifor the auter, and go first to be recounselid
to thi brothir, and thanne thou schalt come,
and schalt offre thi yifte. Be thou consentynge
to thin adversarie soone, while thou art in the
weie with hym, lest peraventure thin adver-
sarie take thee to the domesman,10 and
the domesman take thee to the mynystre,11
and thou be sent in-to prisoun. Treuli Y seie
to thee, thou shalt not go out fro thennus, til
thou yelde 12 the last ferthing. Ye han herd
that it was seid to elde men, Thou schalt do no
letcherie. But Y seie to you, that every man
that seeth a womman for to coveite hir, hath
now do letcherie bi hir in his herte. That if
thi right iye sclaundre 14 thee, pulle hym out,
and caste, fro thee ; for it spedith 15 to thee, that
oon16 of thi membris perische, than that al thi
bodi go in-to helle. And if thi right hond
sclaundre thee, kitte 17 hym aweye, and caste
fro thee ; for it spedith to thee that oon 18 of
thi membris perische, than that al thi bodi go
in-to helle. And it hath be seyd, Who-evere
leeveth his wiif, yyve he to hir a libel of for-
sakyng. But Y seie to you, that every man
that leeveth his wiif, outtakun cause of forny-
cacioun, makith hir to do letcherie, and he that
weddith the forsakun wiif, doith avowtrye.
Eftsoone ye han herd, that it was seid to elde
men, Thou schalt not forswere, but thou schalt
yelde thin othis to the Lord. But Y seie to
you, that ye swere not for ony thing ; nethir bi
hevene, for it is the trone of God ; nether bi the
erthe, for it is the stole of his feet; nether bi
Jerusalem, for it is the citee of a greet kyng;
nether thou shalt not swere bi thin heed, for
thou maist not make oon heere white ne blacke ;
but be youre word, yhe, yhe; Nay, nay; and
that that is more than these, is of yyel. Ye
han herd that it hath be seid, Iye for iye, and
tothe for tothe. But Y seie to you, that ye
ayenstonde28 not an yvel man; but if ony
'have
council
8 against
2 judgment
8 fire « gift
10 judge n officer
3 every one 4 the
7 altar 8 remember
12 pay n tn;il
14 slander I4 profiteth 16 one 17 cut
command) 19 except 2e adultery 21
23 pay 24 oaths 2fi head ^resist
16 one 17 cut 18 give (subj. of
21 again 22 truly
JOHN DE TREVISA
ii
than this, is of yvel. Yee han herde that it is
said, Eiye J for eiye,1 toth for toth. But Y say
to you, to nat ayein-stonde 2 yvel; but yif any
shal smyte thee in the right cheeke, yeve to hym
and 3 the tother; and to hym that wole stryve
with thee in dome,4 and take awey thi coote,
leeve thou to hym and 3 thin over-clothe ; and
who-evere constrayneth thee a thousand pacis,
go thou with hym other tweyne. Forsothe
yif 5 to hym that axith of thee, and turne thou
nat awey fro hym that wol borwe 6 of thee.
Yee han herd that it is said, Thou shalt love
thin neighbore, and hate thin enmy. But Y
say to you, love yee youre enmyes, do yee wel
to hem 7 that haten 8 you, and preye yee for
men pursuynge, and falsly chalengynge 9 you;
that yee be the sonys of youre Fadir that is in
hevenes, that makith his sune to springe up
upon good and yvel men, and rayneth upon
juste men and un juste men. For yif ye loven
hem that loven you, what meed 10 shul n yee
have ? whether and 3 puplicans don nat this
thing? And yif yee greten, or saluten, youre
bretheren oonly, what more over 12 shul yee
don ? whether and 3 paynymmys 13 don nat
this thing ? Therfore be yee parfit,14 as and 3
youre hevenly Fadir is parfit. Take yee hede,
lest ye don your rightwisnesse before men,
that yee be seen of hem, ellis 15 ye shule nat han
meed at youre Fadir that is in hevenes. Ther-
fore when thou dost almesse,16 nyle 17 thou synge
by fore thee in a trumpe, as ypocritis don in
synagogis and streetis, that thei ben maad
worshipful of men; forsothe Y saye to you,
thei han resceyved her 18 meede. But thee
doynge almesse,18 knowe nat the left hond what
thi right hond doth, that thi almes be in hidlis,19
and thi Fadir that seeth in hidlis, shal yelde 20 to
thee."
smyte thee in the right cheke, schewe to him
also the tothir; and to hym that wole stryve
with thee in doom,4 and take awey thi coote,
leeve thou to him also thi mantil ; and who-ever
constreyneth thee a thousynde pacis, go thou
with hym othir tweyne. Yyve 5 thou to hym
that axith of thee, and turne not awey fro hym
that wole borewe 8 of thee. Ye han herd that
it was seid, Thou shalt love thi neighbore, and
hate thin enemye. But Y seie to you, love ye
youre enemyes, do ye wel to hem that hatiden
ycu, and preye ye for hem 7 that pursuen, and
sclaundren you; that ye be the sones of your
Fadir that is in hevenes, that makith his sunne
to rise upon goode and yvele men, and reyneth
on just men and unjuste. For if ye loven hem 7
that loven you, what mede 10 schulen ye han?
whether pupplicans doon not this? And if ye
greten youre britheren oonli, what schulen ye
do more? ne doon not hethene men this?
Therfore be ye parfit, as youre hevenli Fadir is
parfit."
[It will be observed that the Second Version agrees
•with the Authorized Version in the division
into chapters, while the First Version con-
tains a few verses usually assigned to Chapter
VI.]
1 eye 2 resist 8 also * a lawsuit " give
6 borrow 7 them 8 hate 9 accusing 10 reward
11 shall 12 besides 13 heathen u perfect 1S else
16 alms 17 do not 18 their 19 secret 20 pay
JOHN DE TREVISA (1326-1412)
HIGDEN'S POLYCHRONICON
BOOK I. CHAPTER LIX
As it is i-knowe 1 how meny manere peple
beeth 2 in this ilond,3 there beeth also so many
dyvers Ion gages 4 and tonges; notheles 5
Walsche men and Scottes, that beeth nought
i-medled 8 with other naciouns, holdeth wel
nyh hir 7 firste longage and speche ; but -yif 8
1 known 2 are 3 island * languages B nevertheless
6 mixed 7 their 8 except
the Scottes that were somtyme confederat and
wonede * with the Pictes drawe 2 somwhat after
hir speche; but the Flemmynges that woneth 3
in the weste side of Wales haveth i-left her4
straunge speche and speketh Saxonliche i-now.6
Also Englische men, they6 thei hadde from
the bygynnynge thre manere speche, northeme,
1 dwelt 2 incline 8 dwell 4 their • enough 8 though
12
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
sowtherne, and middel speche in the myddel of
the lond, as they come of thre manere peple of
Germania, notheles ' by comyxtioun and rriell-
ynge 2 firste with Danes and afterward with
Normans, in meny the contray 3 longage is
apayred,4 and som useth straunge wlafferynge,5
chiterynge,8 harrynge,7 and garrynge 8 gris-
bayting.9 This apayrynge of the burthe of
the tunge is bycause of tweie thinges; oon is
for children in scole ayenst the usage and man-
ere of alle othere naciouns beeth compelled for
to leve 10 hire n owne langage, and for to con-
strue hir n lessouns and here u thynges in
Frensche, and so they haveth 12 seth 13 the
Normans come w first in-to Engelond. Also
gentil-men children beeth i -taught to speke
Frensche from the tyme that they beeth
i-rokked in here cradel, and kunneth 15 speke
and playe with a childes broche ; 16 and uplond-
isshe 17 men wil likne hym-self to gentil-men,
and fondeth18 with greet besynesse for to speke
Frensce, for to be i-tolde 19 of. Trevisa.20
This manere was moche i-used to-for 21 [the]
Firste Deth 22 and is siththe 13 sumdel 23
i-chaunged; for John Comwaile, a maister
of grammer, chaunged the lore in gramer
scole and construccioun of 24 Frensche in-to
Englische; and Richard Pencriche lerned the
manere25 techynge of hym and othere men of
Pencrich; so that now, the yere of oure Lorde
a thowsand thre hundred and foure score and
fyve, and of the secounde kyng Richard after
the conquest nyne, in alle the gramere scoles
of Engelond, children leveth Frensche and
construeth and lerneth an 2<> Englische, and
haveth 12 therby avauntage in oon side and dis-
avauntage in another side ; here u avauntage is,
that they lerneth her11 gramer in lasse 27 tyme
than children were i-woned 28 to doo; dis-
avauntage is that now children of gramer scole
conneth 29 na more Frensche than can80 hir11
lift 31 heele, and that is harme for hem 32 and 33
they schulle passe the see and travaille in
straunge landes and in many other places.
Also gentil-men haveth now moche i-left 34
for to teche here11 children Frensche. ^'.3B Hit
semeth a greet wonder how Englische, that
1 nevertheless a mixing 3 country, native * corrupted
8 stammering 8 chattering 7 snarling 8 howling 9 gnash-
ing of teeth 10 leave, give up u their 12 have 13 since
14 came lt can le brooch (ornament in general) 17 coun-
try "attempt "accounted 20 What follows, to I}., is
Trevisa's addition. 2l before 22 the First Plague,
1348-1349 M somewhat 24 f rom 2* kind of M in
27 less 28 accustomed 2B know 30 knows 31 left 82 them 83 if
34 ceased 8fi What follows, to Trevita, is from Higden.
is the burthe tonge of Englisshe men and her 1
owne langage and tonge, is so dyverse of sown 2
in this oon 3 ilond, and the langage of Nor-
mandie is comlynge 4 of another londe, and
hath oon 3 manere 5 soun 2 among alle men
that speketh hit aright in Engelond. Trevisa.6
Nevertheles there is as many dyvers manere 7
Frensche in the reem 8 of Fraunce as is dyvers
manere Englische in the reem of Engelond.
^.' Also of the forsaide Saxon tonge that is
i-deled 10 athre n and is abide 12 scarsliche 13
with fewe uplondisshe 14 men is greet wonder;
for men of the est with men of the west, as it
were undir the same partie 15 of hevene, acord-
eth more in sownynge 18 of speche than men of
the north with men of the south ; therfore it is
that Mercii, that beeth men of myddel Engelond,
as it were parteners of the endes, understond-
eth bettre the side langages, northerne and
southerne, than northerne and southerne un-
derstondeth either other. Willelmus de Pon-
tifaibus, libra tertio.11 Al the longage18 of the
Northhumbres, and specialliche at York, is so
scharp, slitting, and frotynge 19 and unschape,
that we southerne men may that longage
unnethe 20 understonde. I trowe 21 that that is
bycause that they beeth nyh 22 to straunge men
and naciouns that speketh strongliche,23 and
also bycause that the kynges of Engelond
woneth 24 alwey fer from that cuntrey ; for they
beeth more i-torned 25 to the south contray, and
yif they gooth to the north countray they gooth
with greet help and strengthe.26 ty." The
cause why they beeth more in the south contrey
than in the north, is for 28 hit may be better corne
londe,29 more peple, more noble citees, and more
profitable havenes.30
GEOFFREY CHAUCER (i34o?-i4oo)
A TREATISE ON THE ASTROLABE31
PROLOGUS
Litell Lowis M my sone, I have perceived wel
by certeyne evidences thyn abilite to lerne
1 their 2 sound 8 one 4 comer, immigrant 8 kind of
8 Trei'isa adds a very intelligent observation. 7 kinds of
8 realm ' What follows is from Higden. I0 divided n in
three (dialects) 12 has remained 13 scarcely 14 country
18part 16suunding, pronouncing l7The historian, William
of Malmesbury, is Higden' s authority for what follows
18 language 19 chafing, harsh 20 scarcely 21 believe 22 nigh
23 harshly, or (perhaps) strangely M live 2S turned * i.e.
with a large army 27 Higden adds a remark of his own
to his quotat ion. 28because28 land 30 havens, harbors 31an
astronomical instrument ; consult the dictionary 32 Lewis
TRANSLATION OF BOETHIUS
sciencez touchinge noumbres and proporciouns;
and as wel considere I thy bisy ' preyere 2 in
special to lerne the Tretis of the Astrolabie.
Than,3 for as mechel 4 as a philosofre seith,
"he wrappeth him in his frend, that condescend-
eth to the rightful preyers of his frend," therfor
have I yeven 5 thee a suffisaunt Astrolabie as for
oure orizonte,6 compowned 7 after the latitude
of Oxenford; upon which, by mediacion 8 of
this litel tretis, I purpose to teche thee a cer-
tein nombre of conclusions 9 apertening 10 to
the same instrument. I seye a certein of con-
clusiouns, for three causes. The furste cause
is this: truste wel that alle the conclusiouns
that han " ben founde, or elles 12 possibly
mighten be founde in so noble an instrument
as an Astrolabie, ben 13 unknowe perfitly to any
mortal man in this regioun, as I suppose.
Another cause is this: that sothly,14 in any
tretis of the Astrolabie that I have seyn,15 there
ben 13 some conclusions that wole 16 nat in alle
thinges performen hir 17 bihestes;18 and some
of hem ben 13 to 19 harde to thy tendre age of ten
yeer to conseyve.20 This tretis, divided in fyve
parties,21 wole" I shewe thee under ful lighte 22
rewles23 and naked wordes in English; for
Latin ne canstow 24 yit but smal, my lyte 25
sone. But natheles,26 suffyse to thee thise
trewe conclusiouns in English, as wel as
suffyseth to thise noble clerkes Grekes thise
same conclusiouns in Greek, and to Arabiens
in Arabik, and to Jewes in Ebrew, and to the
Latin folk in Latin; whiche Latin folk han11
hem 27 furst out of othre diverse langages, and
writen in hir 17 owne tonge, that is to sein,28
in Latin. And God wot,29 that in alle thise
langages, and in many mo,30 han11 thise con-
clusiouns ben 31 suffisantly lerned and taught,
and yit by diverse rewles,23 right as diverse
pathes leden diverse folk the righte wey to
Rome. Now wol I prey meekly every discret
persone that redeth or hereth this litel tretis,
to have my rewde 32 endyting 33 for excused,
and my superfluite of wordes, for two causes.
The firste cause is, for-that 34 curious 35 en-
dyting 33 and hard sentence 38 is ful hevy 37
atones 38 for swich 39 a child to lerne. And
1 eager 3 prayer, request 3 then * much * given
8 horizon 7 composed 8 means 9 problems and
their solutions I0 pertaining u have 12 else 18 are
14 truly 15 seen 18 will n their 1S promises 19 too 20 un-
derstand 2I parts ** easy 23 rules 24 knowest thou
24 little ** nevertheless a them 28 say 29 knows
30 more 31 been 32 rude 38 composition ** because
84 elaborate ** meaning, sense 37 difficult 38 at
once 39 such
the seconde cause is this, that sothly l me-
semeth 2 betre to wryten unto a child twyes 3
a good sentence, than he forgete it ones.4
And, Lowis, yif 6 so be that I shewe thee in my
lighte 6 English as trewe conclusiouns touching
this matere, and naught 7 only as trewe but
as many and as subtil conclusiouns as ben 8
shewed in Latin in any commune tretis of the
Astrolabie, con me the more thank; 9 and
preye God save the king, that is lord of this
langage, and alle that him feyth bereth 10 and
obeyeth, everech u in his degree, the more i2 and
the lasse. 3 But considere wel, that I ne usurpe
nat to have founde this werk of my labour or of
myn engin.14 I nam l5 but a lewd 18 compila-
tour 17 of the labour of olde Astrologiens, and
have hit translated in myn English only for thy
doctrine; and with this swerd 18 shal I sleen 19
envye.
BOETHIUS : DE CONSOLATIONE
PHILOSOPHISE
BOOK III
PROSE IX
"It suffyseth that I have shewed hider-to the
forme of false welefulnesse,20 so that, yif 5 thou
loke now cleerly, the order of myn entencioun
requireth from hennes-forth 21 to shewen thee
the verray 22 welefulnesse."
"For-sothe," 1 quod I, "I see wel now that
sufEsaunce 23 may nat comen by richesses, ne
power by reames,24 ne reverence by dignitees,
ne gentilesse 25 by glorie, ne joye by delices." 2a
"And hast thou wel knowen the causes,"
quod she, "why it is?"
"Certes,27 me-semeth," quod I, "that I see
hem right as though it were thorugh a litel
clifte;28 but me were levere 29 knowen hem30
more openly of thee."
"Certes," quod she, "the resoun is al redy.
For thilke 3l thing that simply is o 32 thing,
with-outen any devisioun, the errour and folye
of mankinde departeth and devydeth it, and
misledeth it and transporteth from verray 22
1 truly 2 it seems to me 8 twice * once * if 6 easy
7 not 8 are 9 con thank means thank, be grateful
10 bear ll every one 12 greater 18 less 14 ingenuity
18 am not 18 ignorant 17 compiler 18 sword 19slay
20 happiness 21 henceforth w true M sufficiency
24 kingdoms M good breeding x pleasures 2? cer-
tainly M cleft, crack 29 liefer, preferable 30 them
31 that 82 one
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
and parfit good to goodes that ben l false and
unparfit.2 But sey me this. Wenest 3 thou
that he, that hath nede of power, that him 4 ne
lakketh no-thing?"
"Nay," quod I.
"Certes," quod she, "thou seyst a-right.
For yif B so be that ther is a thing, that in any
partye 6 be febler of power, certes, as in that,
it mot 7 nedes ben nedy of foreine 8 help."
"Right so is it," quod I.
"Suffisaunce and power ben thanne of o 8
kinde?"10
"So semeth it," quod I.
"And demest3 thou," quod she, "that a
thing that is of this manere, that is to seyn,11
suffisaunt and mighty, oughte ben 12 despysed,
or elles that it be right digne 13 of reverence
aboven alle thinges?"
"Certes," quod I, "it nis no doute, that it is
right worthy to ben reverenced."
• "Lat14 us," quod she, "adden thanne rever-
ence to suffisaunce and to power, so that we
demen 15 that thise three thinges ben al o 9
thing."
"Certes," quod I, "lat us adden it, yif we
wolen 18 graunten the sothe." 17
"What demest3 thou thanne?" quod she;
"is that a derk thing and nat noble, that is
suffisaunt, reverent, and mighty, or elles that
it is right noble and right cleer by celebritee
of renoun? Consider thanne," quod she, "as
we han 18 graunted her-biforn,18 that he that
ne hath nede of no-thing, and is most mighty
and most digne13 of honour, yif him nedeth any
cleernesse of renoun, which cleernesse he mighte
nat graunten of him-self, so that, for lakke
of thilke20 cleernesse, he mighte seme the
febeler on any syde or the more out-cast?"
CLOSE:21 This is to seyn, nay; for who-so
that is suffisaunt, mighty, and reverent, cleer-
nesse of renoun folweth of the for sey de™ thinges;
he hath it al redy of his suffisaunce.
Boece. "I may nat," quod I, "denye it; but
I mot 7 graunte, as it is, that this thing be right
celebrable by cleernesse of renoun and no-
blesse."
"Thanne folweth it," quod she, "that we
adden cleernesse of renoun to the three for-
seyde thinges, so that ther ne be amonges hem
no difference?"
"This is a consequence," quod I.
'are 2 imperfect 8 thinkest 4 to him * if 8part
7 must 8 foreign, external 9 one 10 nature
II say 12 to be 13 worthy I4 let 16 consider 18 will
17 truth 18have 1B heretofore 20that 21 an explanation
a aforesaid
"This thing thanne," quod she, "that ne hath
nede of no foreine 1 thing, and that may don
alle thinges by hise strengthes, and that is
noble and honourable, nis nat that a mery2
thing and a joyful?"
"But whennes," 3 quod I, "that any sorwe 4
mighte comen to this thing that is swiche,5
certes, I may nat thinke."
"Thanne moten * we graunte," quod she,
"that this thing be ful of gladnesse, yif ' the
forseyde 8 thinges ben sothe; 9 and certes, also
mote 6 we graunten that suffisaunce, power,
noblesse, reverence, and gladnesse ben only
dyverse by names, but hir 10 substaunce hath
no diversitee."
"It mot * needly u been so," quod I. „
"Thilke 12 thing thanne," 13 quod she, "that
is oon 14 and simple in his 15 nature, the wikked-
nesse of men departeth it and devydeth it;
and whan they enforcen hem 18 to geten 17
partye 18 of a thing that ne hath no part, they
ne geten hem neither thilke 12 partye that nis
non,19 ne the thing al hool 20 that they ne desire
nat."
"In which manere?" quod I.
"Thilke man," quod she, "that secheth 21
richesses to fleen povertee, he ne travaileth B
him nat for to gete 17 power; for he hath
levere 23 ben derk and vyl ; and eek 24 with-
draweth from him-self many naturel delyts,
for he nolde 2B lese 2<t the moneye that he hath
assembled. But certes, in this manere he ne
geteth him nat suffisaunce that power for-
leteth,27 and that molestie 28 prikketh, and that
filthe maketh out-cast, and that derkenesse
hydeth. And certes, he that desireth only
power, he wasteth and scatereth richesse, and
despyseth delyts, and eek 24 honour that is
withoute power, ne he ne preyseth 29 glorie
no-thing.30 Certes, thus seest thou wel, that
manye thinges faylen to him ; for he hath som-
tyme defaute of many necessitees, and many
anguisshes byten 31 him ; and whan he ne may
nat don 32 tho 33 defautes a-wey, he forleteth 27
to ben mighty, and that is the thing that he
most desireth. And right thus may I maken
semblable 34 resouns 35 of honours, and of
glorie, and of delyts. For so as every of thise
forseyde 8 thinges is the same that thise other
1 external 2 pleasant 8 whence * sorrow * such
• must 7 if 8 aforesaid 9 true ie their u necessarily
12 that I3then " one 18 its 16 them 17 get 18part
19 none 2° whole 21 seeks 22 labors 23 liefer, rather
24 also 28 would not x lose 2T forsakes 28 annoyance
29 praises, esteems 30 not at all 31 bite 32 put
8* those 34 similar 3* arguments
TRANSLATION OF BOETHIUS
thinges ben, that is to seyn, al oon thing, who-so
that ever seketh to geten that 1 oon of thise,
and nat that ' other, he ne geteth nat that 2 he
desireth."
Boece. "What seyst thou thanne, yif that a
man coveiteth to geten arlle thise thinges to-
gider?"
Philosophic. "Certes," quod she, "I wolde
seye, that he wolde geten him sovereyn 3 blis-
fulnesse; but that shal he nat finde in tho
thinges that I have shewed, that ne mowen 4
nat yeven 5 that 2 they beheten." °
"Certes, no," quod I.
"Thanne," quod she, "ne sholden men nat
by no wey seken 7 blisfulnesse in swiche thinges
as men wene 8 that they ne mowen 4 yeven 5 but
o * thing senglely 10 of alle that men seken."
"I graunte wel," quod I; "ne11 no sother 12
thing ne may ben sayd."
"Now hast thou thanne," quod she, "the
forme and the causes of false welefulnesse.
Now torne 13 and flitte u the eyen of thy
thought ; for ther shalt thou sen 15 anon 18 thilke
verray17 blisfulnesse that I have bihight18
thee."
"Certes," quod I, "it is cleer and open,
thogh it were to a blinde man ; and that shew-
edest thou me ful wel a litel her-biforn, whan
thou enforcedest thee to shewe me the causes
of the false blisfulnesse. For but-yif 19 I be
bigyled, thanne is thilke 20 the verray blisful-
nesse parfit,21 that parfitly maketh a man
suffisaunt, mighty, honourable, noble, and ful
of gladnesse. And, for thou shalt wel knowe
that I have wel understonden thise thinges
with-in my herte, I knowe wel that thilke blis-
fulnesse, that may verrayly yeven 5 oon of the
forseyde thinges, sin 22 they ben al oon, I
knowe, douteles, that thilke thing is the fulle
blisfulnesse."
Philosophic. "O my norie," 23 quod she,
"by this opinioun I seye 15 that thou art blisful,
yif thou putte this ther-to that I shal seyn." 24
"What is that?" quod I.
"Trowest 25 thou that ther be any thing in
thise erthely mortal toumbling thinges that
may bringen this estat?"
"Certes," quod I, "I trowe it naught; 26 and
thou hast shewed me wel that over27 thilke
good ther nis no-thing more to ben desired."
1 the 2 what 3 supreme 4 may ' give
8 promise 7 seek 8 think 9 one 10 singly n nor
12 truer I3 turn 14 flit, move 1S see l9 at once
17 true I8 promised 19 unless 20 that, that same
21 perfect M since 23 nursling ** say M believest
'* not 27 beyond
"Thise thinges thanne," quod she, "that is
to sey, erthely suffisaunce and power and
swiche 1 thinges, either they semen 2 lykenesses
of verray 3 good, or elles it semeth that they
yeve to mortal folk a maner of goodes that ne
ben nat parfit; but thilke good that is verray
and parfit,4 that may they nat yeven."
"I acorde me wel," quod I.
"Thanne," quod she, "for as mochel 5 as
thou hast knowen which is thilke verray blisful-
nesse, and eek 6 whiche 7 thilke thinges ben
that lyen8 falsly blisfulnesse, that is to seyn,
that by deceite semen 2 verray goodes, now
behoveth thee to knowe whennes 9 and where
thou mowe 10 seke thilke verray blisfulnesse."
"Certes," quod I, "that desire I greetly,
and have abiden " longe tyme to herknen it."
"But for as moche," quod she, "as it lyketh12
to my disciple Plato, in his book of 'in Timeo,'
that in right litel thinges men sholden bisechen13
the help of God, what jugest thou that be now
to done,14 so that we may deserve to finde the
sete 15 of thilke verray good?"
"Certes," quod I, "I deme 16 that we shollen
clepen 17 the Fader of alle goodes; for with-
outen him nis ther no-thing founden a-right."
"Thou seyst a-right," quod she; and bigan
anon to singen right thus : —
METRE IX
"O thou Fader, creator of hevene and of
erthes, that govemest this world by perdur-
able l8 resoun, that comaundest the tymes to
gon19 from20 sin21 that age22hadde beginninge;
thou that dwellest thy-self ay stedefast and
stable, and yevest 23 alle othre thinges to ben
moeved ; 24 ne foreine 25 causes necesseden 28
thee never to compoune27 werk of floteringe 28
matere, but only the forme of soverein29 good
y-set with-in thee with-oute envye, that moevede
thee freely. Thou that art alder-fayrest,30 beringe31
the faire world in thy thought, formedest 32 this
world to the lykenesse semblable of that faire
world in thy thought. Thou drawest al thing
of thy soverein 29 ensaumpler,33 and comaundest
that this world, parfitliche M y-maked,35 have
1 such 2 seem a true 4 perfect * much e also
7 of what sort 8 lie, impersonate 8 whence
10mayst u abided, waited 12 pleases "beseech
14 do 18 seat, dwelling-place I8 judge 17 call
upon, pray to 18 everlasting 19 go 20 forward
21 since M finite time 23 givest 24 moved M external
26 compelled 27 compose 28 fluid 29 supreme 80 fairest
of all 31 bearing 32 didst form 33 model ** perfectly
84 made, formed
i6
REGINALD PECOCK
freely and absolut his parfit parties.1 Thou
bindest the elements by noumbres propor-
cionables, that the colde thinges mowen 2
acorden with the hote thinges, and the drye
thinges with the moiste thinges; that the fyr,
that is purest, ne flee 3 nat over hye, ne that
the hevinesse ne drawe nat adoun over lowe
the erthes that ben plounged in the wateres.
Thou knittest to-gider the mene 4 sowle of
treble kinde, moevinge 5 alle thinges, and
devydest it by membres acordinge; and whan
it is thus devyded, it hath asembled a moe-
vinge 5 in-to two roundes; 6 it goth to torne 7
ayein 8 to him -self, and envirouneth a ful deep
thought, and torneth 9 the hevene by sem-
blable 10 image. Thou by evene-lyke u causes
enhansest the sowles and the lasse 12 lyves, and,
ablinge 13 hem heye 14 by lighte cartes,15 thou
sowest 18 hem in-to hevene and in-to erthe; and
whan they ben converted u to thee by thy
benigne lawe, thou makest hem retorne ayein 18
to thee by ayein-ledinge 19 fyr.
"O Fader, yive 20 thou to the thought to
styen 21 up in-to thy streite 22 sete,23 and graunte
him to enviroune the welle of good; and, the
lighte y-founde, graunte him to ficheh 24 the
clere sightes of his corage 25 in thee. And
scater thou and to-breke 28 thou the weightes
and the cloudes of erthely hevinesse, and
shyne thou by thy brightnesse. For thou art
cleernesse; thou art peysible 27 reste to debo-
naire 28 folk ; thou thy-self art biginninge,
berer, leder, path, and terme ; 29 to loke on
thee, that is our ende." 30
REGINALD PECOCK (i395?-i46o?)
THE REPRESSOR OF OVER MUCH
BLAMING OF THE CLERGY
PART I. CHAP. XIII
A greet cause whi thei of the lay parti which
han 31 usid the hool 32 Bible or oonli the Newe
Testament in her modris 33 langage han 31
holde 34 the seid ® opinioun was this, that the
1 parts 2 may a fly 4 mean, middle * mov-
ing 6 orbs 7 turn 8 back e turns I0 similar
11 like 12 lesser 13 abling, raising 14 high l6 vehi-
cles (for the souls) 18 plantest 17 turned ls again
19 reductive, leading back *> give, grant 21 mount
32 narrow 23 seat 24 fix 26 heart ** break to pieces
87 peaceful K right-thoughted ^ end *° purpose
si ]iavc 32 whole 33 mothers' 34 held 35 said
reeding in the Bible, namelich l in the his-
torial parties of the Oold Testament and of the
Newe, is miche 2 delectable and sweete, and
drawith the reders into a devocioun and a love
to God and fro love and deinte 3 of the world;
as y 4 have had her-of experience upon suche
reders and upon her 5 now-seid 8 disposicioun.
And thanne bi-cause that the seid reeding was
to hem so graceful, and so delectable, and into
the seid 6 eende so profitable, it fil into her 5
conceit 7 forto trowe * ful soone, enformyng
and tising 9 ther-to unsufncient[l]i leerned
clerkis, that God had mad or purveied the
Bible to mennis bihove 10 after u as it were or
bi the utterist 12 degre of his power and kun-
nyng 13 for to so ordeyne, and therfore al the
hoole 14 Bible (or, as summen trowiden,15 the
Newe Testament) schulde conteyne al that is
to be doon in the lawe and service to God bi
Cristen men, withoute nede to have ther-with
eny doctrine.16 Yhe,17 and if y 4 schal seie 18
what hath be 19 seid to myn owne heering,
sotheli 20 it hath be seid to me thus, "that
nevere man errid bi reding or studiyng in the
Bible, neither eny man myghte erre bi reeding
in the Bible, and that for such cause as is now
seid:" notwithstonding that ther is no book
writen in the world bi which a man schal rather
take an occasioun forto erre, and that for ful
gode and open trewe causis, whiche ben spoken
and expressid in the ij. parti 21 of the book
clepid 22 The Just Apprising ofHoli Scripture.23
But certis thei tooken her5 mark amys: for
thei puttiden 24al her motyve25in her affeccioun
or wil forto so trowe ; 8 and not in her 5 intel-
leccioun or resoun; and in lijk maner doon
wommen, for thei reulen hem silf as it were in
alle her governauncis aftir her affeccioun and
not aftir resoun, or more aftir affeccioun than
after doom 26 of resoun ; bicause that affeccioun
in hem is ful strong and resoun in hem is litle,
as for the more parti of wommen.
And therfore even right as a man jugid
amys and were foule begilid and took his
mark amys, if he schulde trowe that in hony
were al the cheer, al the comfort, al the thrift
which is in al other mete, bi-cause that hony is
swettist to him of alle othere metis; so he is
begilid and takith his mark amys, if he therfore
* said
1 especially 2 much, very 3 delight 4I 8 their
lid 7 imagination 8 believe 9 enticing
10 behoof u according 12 uttermost 13 ability
14 whole 15 believed 18 teaching 17 yea ls say
19 been 20 truly 21 part M called 23 a book by
Pecock 24 put 26 motive x decision
THE REPRESSOR OF OVER MUCH BLAMING OF THE CLERGY 17
trowe that in Holi Scripture is al the doctrine
necessarie to man for to serve God and forto
kepe his la we; bi cause that Holi Scripture
is so miche ' delectable, and for 2 that bi thilk 3
delectacioun he bringith yn myche cheer and
coumfort and strengthith the wil forto the more
do and suffre for God. And so me thinkith
to suche men good* counseil were forto seie to
hem, that thei be waar of children ys perel,4
which is that bi-cause children loven sweete
meetis and drinkis ful miche, therfore whanne
thei comen to feestis thei feeden hem with
sweete stonding-potagis 5 and with sweete
bake-metis,8 and leven 7 othere substancial
and necessarie metis; trowing 8 that bi so
miche tho 9 sweete meetis ben the more holsum,
how miche more thei ben swetter than othere
metis: and therfore at the laste thei geten to
hem therbi bothe losse of dewe nurisching and
also sumtyme vilonie.10 Certis in lijk maner y
have wiste suche men, that ban " so over
miche 12 yeven hem 13 to reding in the Bible
aloone, have gete to hem losse 14 of sufficient
and profitable leernyng which in other wheris l5
thei mighten have gete,18 and also vilonie forto
avowe and warante that thei couthen 17 the
trewe sentence 1S and trewe understonding of
the Bible, whanne and where thei not couthen l9
so understonde, neither couthen 19 mentene 20
1 much, very 2 because 3 that same * peril,
danger * A dish made variously of boiled apples,
sweet wine, honey or sugar and currants, almonds,
etc. Recipes are given in Two Fifteenth Century
Cook-books, pp. 15 and 29. 6 pies and pasties
7 neglect 8 thinking 8 those 10 injury n have
12 much 13 devoted themselves 14 loss 1S wheres, i.e.
places 16got 17 knew I8 meaning 19 could 20 maintain
what thei ther ynne understoden, and also
forto avowe and warante that in the Bible
were miche more and profitabiler and of other
soort kunnyng x than can ther-yn be founde.
And therfore to alle suche men mai be seid
what is seid Proverbs XXV. e c.2 in sentence
thus : Thou hast founde hony, ete ther of what
is ynough and no more; lest thou overfillid
caste it up out ayen,3 and thanne is it to thee
vilonie: and what is writen aftif in the same
chapiter there in sentence thus: Forto ete
miche of hony is not good to the eter. So that
whanne-evere thou takist upon thee forto
understonde ferther in the Bible than thi wit 4
may or can therto suffice withoute help of a
substancial clerk, thanne etist thou of hony
more than ynough, and doost ayens 5 the
bidding of Seint Poul, Romans xije. c. soone
after the bigynnyng.6 And whanne thou
. attendist forto leerne Holi Scripture, and
attendist not ther-with forto have eny other
leernyng of philsophie or of divynite, bi thin
owne studie in bookis ther-of maad 7 or bi
teching and informacioun of sum sad clerk 8
yovun 9 to thee, thanne thou etist hony aloon
and feedist thee with hony oonli. And this
feding schal turne into thin 10 unhoolsumnes,11
right as if thou schuldist ete in bodili maner
noon other mete than hony, it schulde not be
to thee hoolsum.
1 knowledge 2 Chap. 25 8 again * intelligence
6 against ° Romans 1 2 : 3-6 7 made 8 trustworth l
scholar 9 given 10 thine u ill health
THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES
SIR THOMAS MALORY (i4oo?-i47o)
LE MORTE DARTHUR
BOOK XXI. CAPITULUM IIIJ
Than were they condesended 1 that kyng
Arthure and Syr Mordred shold mete betwyxte
bothe theyr hoostes, and everyche of them-
shold brynge fourtene persones ; and they came
wyth thys word unto Arthure. Than sayd
he, "I am glad that thys is done." And so he
wente in to the felde. And whan Arthure
shold departe, he warned al hys hoost that,
and2 they see ony swerde drawen, "Look ye
come on fyersly,3 and slee that traytour Syr
Mordred, for I in noo wyse truste hym."
In lyke wyse Syr Mordred warned his hoost
that, "And2 ye see ony swerde drawen, look
that ye come on fyersly,3 and soo slee 4 alle that
ever before you stondeth, for in no wyse I wyl
not truste for thys treatyse ; 5 for I knowe wel
my fader wyl be avenged on me." And soo
they mette as theyr poyntemente 6 was, and
so they were agreyd and accorded thorouly;
and wyn was fette7 and they dranke. Ryght
soo came an adder oute of a lytel hethe 8
busshe, and hyt stonge a knyght on the foot;
and whan the knyght felte hym9 stongen, he
looked doun and sawe the adder, and than he
drewe his swerde to slee the adder, and thought
of none other harme. And whan the hoost on
bothe partyes J0 saw that swerde drawen, than
they blewe beamous,11 trumpettes, and homes,
and shouted grymly.3 And so bothe hoostes
dressyd 12 hem 13 to-gyders.14 And kyng Arthur
took his hors and sayd, "Alias! thys unhappy
day," and so rode to his partye; and Syr
Mordred in like wyse. And never was there
seen a more doolfuller bataylle in no Crysten
1 agreed 2 if 3 fiercely * slay « treaty 8 appoint-
ment 7 fetched 8 heather 9 himself 10 sides » trum-
pets or horns l2 arranged, arrayed 13 themselves
14 together
londe ; for there was but russhyng and rydyng,
fewnyng ' and strykyng, and many a grymme
worde was there spoken eyder 2 to other, and
many a dedely stroke. But ever kyng Arthur
rode thorugh-oute the bataylle of Syr Mordred
many tymes, and dyd ful nobly as a noble
kyng shold, and at al tymes he faynted never,
and Syr Mordred that day put hym in devoyr 3
and in grete perylle.
And thus they faughte alle the longe day, and
never stynted4 tyl the noble knyghtes were
layed to the colde erthe; and ever they faught
stylle tyl it was nere nyghte, and by that tyme
was there an hondred thousand layed deed 5
upon the down. Thenne was Arthure wode 8
wrothe oute of mesure, whan he sawe his peple
so slayn from hym. Thenne the kyng loked
aboute hym, and thenne was he ware,7 of al
hys hoost and of al his good knyghtes were
lefte no moo on lyve 8 but two knyghtes, that
one was Syr Lucan de Butlere, and his broder
Syr Bedwere ; and they were ful sore wounded.
"Jhesu, mercy," sayd the kyng, "where are
al my noble knyghtes becomen? Alas! that
ever I shold see thys dolefull day, for now,"
sayd Arthur, "I am come to myn ende. But
wolde to God that I wyste ' where were that
traytour Syr Mordred that hath caused alle
thys meschyef." Thenne was kyng Arthure
ware where Syr Mordred lenyd 10 upon his
swerde emonge a grete hepe of deed men.
" Now gyve me my spere," sayd Arthur unto
Syr Lucan, "for yonder I have espyed the
traytour that alle thys woo hath wrought."
"Syr, late11 hym be," sayd Syr Lucan, "for
he is unhappy; and yf ye passe thys unhappy
day, ye shalle be ryght wel revengyd upon hym.
Good lord, remembre ye of your nyghtes
dreme, and what the spyryte of Syr Gauwayn
tolde you this nyght, yet God of his grete
goodnes hath preserved you hyderto; therfore
for Goddes sake, my lord, leve of 12 by thys,13
for blessyd by 14 God, ye have wonne the felde ;
1 foining, thrusting 2 either 8 duty * ceased
8 dead 6 crazy 7 aware 8 alive 9 knew
10 leaned " let 12 leave off 13 at this point 14 be
18
LE MORTE DARTHUR
for here we ben thre on lyve,1 and wyth Syr
Mordred is none on lyve. And yf ye leve of 2
now, thys wycked day of desteynye is paste."
"Tyde me deth, betyde me lyf," sayth the kyng,
"now I see hym yonder allone, he shal never
escape myn handes ; for at a better avaylle 3
shal I never have hym." "God spede you
wel," sayd Syr Bedwere. Thenne the kyng
gate hys spere in bothe his handes, and ranne
toward Syr Mordred cryeng, "Tratour, now
is thy deth day come." And whan Syr Mor-
dred herde Syr Arthur, he ranne untyl 4 hym
with his swerde drawen in his hande. And
there kyng Arthur smote Syr Mordred under
the shelde wyth a foyne 5 of his spere thorugh-
oute the body more than a fadom.8 And whan
Syr Mordred felte that he had hys dethes
wounde, he thryst 5 hym self wyth the myght
that he had up to the bur7 of kynge Arthurs
spere. And right so he smote his fader Arthur
wyth his swerde holden in bothe his handes, on
the syde of the heed, that the swerde persyd 8
the helmet and the brayne panne,9 and ther-
wythall Syr Mordred fyl 10 starke deed to the
erthe. And the nobyl Arthur fyl in a swoune
to the erthe, and there he swouned ofte tymes.
And Syr Lucan de Butlere and Syr Bedwere
oftymes heve u hym up; 'and soo waykely 12
they ledde hym betwyxte them bothe to a lytel
chapel not ferre 13 from the see syde. And
whan the kyng was there, he thought hym
wel eased.
Thenne herde they people crye in the felde.
"Now goo thou, Syr Lucan," sayd the kyng,
"and do 14 me to wyte 15 what bytokenes that
noyse in the felde." So Syr Lucan departed,
for he was grevously wounded in many places.
And so as he yede,16 he sawe and herkened by
the mone lyght, how that pyllars and robbers
were comen in to the felde to pylle and robbe
many a ful noble knyghte of brochys and
bedys, of many a good rynge, and of many a
ryche jewel; and who that were not deed al
oute,17 there they slewe theym for theyr harneys18
and theyr rychesse. Whan Syr Lucan under-
stode thys werke, he came to the kyng assone
as he myght, and tolde hym al what he had
herde and seen. "Therfore, be my rede," 19 sayd
Syr Lucan, "it is beste that we brynge you to
somme towne." "I wolde it were soo," sayd
the kyng.
1 alive 2 off 8 opportunity * unto * thrust
•fathom 7 handle 8pjerced » skull 10fell
11 raised 12 weakly, weak 13 far 14 cause 15know
"went 17 entirely 18 armor 19 by my advice
CAPITULUM V
"But I may not stonde, myn hede werches *
soo. A, Syr Launcelot," sayd kyng Arthur,
"thys day have I sore myst the. Alas! that
ever I was ayenst 2 the, for now have I my
dethe, wherof Syr Gauwayn me warned in my
dreme." Than Syr Lucan took up the kyng
the one parte, and Syr Bedwere the other parte,
and in the lyftyng the kyng sowned,3 and Syr
Lucan fyl in a sowne 4 wyth the lyfte, that the
parte of his guttes fyl oute of his bodye. And
therwyth the noble knyghtes herte braste.5
And whan the kyng awake, he behelde Syr
Lucan how he laye foomyng at the mowth, and
parte of his guttes laye at his feet. "Alas!"
sayd the kyng, "thys is to me a ful hevy syght
to see thys noble duke so deye for my sake, for
he wold have holpen me that had more nede
of helpe than I. Alas! he wold not com-
playne hym, hys herte was so sette to helpe
me. Now Jhesu have mercy upon hys soule."
Than Syr Bedwere wepte for the deth of his
brother. "Leve thys mornyng and wepyng,"
sayd the kyng, "for al this wyl not avaylle me;
for wyte 6 thou wel, and 7 1 myght lyve my self,
the deth of Syr Lucan wolde greve me ever
more, but my tyme hyeth 8 fast," sayd the
kyng. "Therfore," sayd Arthur unto Syr
Bedwere, "take thou Excalybur, my good
swerde, and goo with it to yonder water syde,
and whan thou comest there, I charge the9
throwe my swerde in that water, and come
ageyn and telle me what thou there seest."
"My lord," sayd Bedwere, "your commaunde-
ment shal be doon, and lyghtly brynge you
worde ageyn."
So Syr Bedwere departed, and by the waye
he behelde that noble swerde, that the pomel
and the hafte was al of precyous stones; and
thenne he sayd to hym self, "Yf I throwe this
ryche swerde in the water, therof shal never
come good, but harme and losse." And
thenne Syr Bedwere hydde Excalybur under
a tree. And so as sone as he myght he came
ageyn unto the kyng, and sayd he had ben at
the water, and had throwen the swerde in to
the water. "What sawe thou there?" sayd
the kyng. "Syr," he sayd, "I sawe no thygne
but wawes10 and wyndes." "That isuntrewly
sayd of the," 9 sayd the kynge. "Therfore
goo thou lyghtelye11 ageyn, and do my com-
1 aches 2 against 8 swooned 4 swoon 5 burst
6 know 7 if 8 hastens 8 thee 10 waves
11 quickly
20
SIR THOMAS MALORY
maundemente ; as them arte to me leef * and
dere, spare not but throwe it in." Than Syr
Bedwere retorned ageyn, and took the swerde
in hys hande, and than hym thought synne and
shame to throwe awaye that nobyl swerde;
and so efte 2 he hydde the swerde, and retorned
ageyn and tolde to the kyng that he had ben
at the water, and done his commaundemente.
"What sawe thou there?" sayd the kyng.
"Syr," he sayd, "I sawe no thynge but the
waters wappe 3 and wawes wanne." 4 "A,
traytour, untrewe," sayd kyng Arthur, "now
hast thou betrayed me twyse. Who wold have
wente 5 that thou that hast been to me so leef *
and dere, and thou arte named a noble knyghte,
and wold betraye me for the richesse of the
swerde? But now goo ageyn lyghtly, for thy
longe taryeng putteth me in grete jeopardye
of my ly^ for I have taken colde ; and but-yf 8
thou do now as I byd the, yf ever I may see
the I shal slee 7 the 8 myn owne handes, for
thou woldest for my ryche swerde see me
dede." ' Thenne Syr Bedwere departed, and
wente to the swerde, and lyghtly took hit up,
and wente to the water syde, and there he
bounde the gyrdyl aboute the hyltes, and
thenne he threwe the swerde as farre in to the
water as he myght. And there cam an arme
and an hande above the water and mette it,
and caught it, and so shoke it thryse and
braundysshed ; and than vanysshed awaye
the hande wyth the swerde in the water. So
Syr Bedwere came ageyn to the kyng and tolde
hym what he sawe.
"Alas!" sayd the kyng, "helpe me hens,10
for I drede u me I have taryed over longe."
Than Syr Bedwere toke the kyng upon his
backe, and so wente wyth hym to that water
syde, and whan they were at the water syde,
evyn fast " by the banke hoved 13 a lytyl barge
wyth many fayr ladyes in hit, and emonge hem
al was a quene, and al they had blacke hoodes,
and al they wepte and shryked 14 whan they sawe
kyng Arthur. "Now put me in to the barge,"
sayd the kyng; and so he dyd softelye. And
there receyved hym thre quenes wyth grete
mornyng, and soo they sette hem doun, and in
one of their lappes kyng Arthur layed hys
heed, and than that quene sayd, "A, dere
broder, why have ye taryed so longe from me?
Alas! this wounde on your heed hath caught
overmoche colde." And soo than they rowed
1 beloved 3 again * lap, beat * grow dark
'thought "unless 7 slay 8 thee 9dead 10 hence
11 fear I2 close 13 hovered, floated 14 shrieked
from the londe, and Syr Bedwere behelde all
tho 1 ladyes goo from hym.2 Than Syr Bed-
were cryed, "A, my lord Arthur, what shal
become of me, now ye goo from me and leve
me here allone emonge myn enemyes?"
"Comfort thy self," sayd the kyng, "and doo
as wel as thou mayst, for in me is no truste
for to truste in. For I wyl in to the vale of
Avylyon, to hele me of my grevous wounde.
And yf thou here never more of me, praye for
my soule." But ever the quenes and ladyes
wepte and shryched,3 that hit was pyte4 to
here. And assone as Syr Bedwere had loste
the syght of the baarge, he wepte and waylled,
and so took the foreste ; 5 and so he wente al
that nyght, and in the mornyng he was ware 6
betwyxte two holtes hore 7 of a chapel and
an ermytage.8
CAPITULUM VJ
Than was Syr Bedwere glad, and thyder he
wente; and whan he came in to the chapel,
he sawe where laye an heremyte grovelyng on al
foure, there fast by a tombe was newe graven.
Whan the eremyte sawe Syr Bedwere, he knewe
hym wel, for he was but lytel tofore bysshop
of Caunterburye that Syr Mordred flemed.9
"Syr," sayd Syr Bedwere, "what man is there
entred that ye praye so fast fore?"10 "Fayr
sone," sayd the heremyte, "I wote u not
verayly but by my demyyng.12 But thys nyght,
at mydnyght, here came a nombre of ladyes
and broughte hyder a deed cors,13 and prayed
me to berye hym, and here they offeryd an
hondred tapers, and they gaf me an hondred
besauntes." 14 "Alas," sayd Syr Bedwere,
"that was my lord kyng Arthur that here
lyeth buryed in thys chapel." Than Syr
Bedwere swowned, and whan he awoke he
prayed the heremyte he myght abyde wyth
hym stylle 15 there, to lyve wyth fastyng and
prayers: "For from hens18 wyl I never goo,"
sayd Syr Bedwere, "by my wylle, but al the
dayes of my lyf here to praye for my lord
Arthur." "Ye are welcome to me," sayd the
heremyte, "for I knowe you better than ye
wene1' that I doo. Ye are the bolde Bedwere,
and the ful noble duke Syr Lucan de Butlere
was your broder." Thenne Syr Bedwere
tolde the heremyte alle as ye have herde to
1 those 2 i.e. Bedwere 3 shrieked * pity * forest
6 he perceived 7 hoary forests 8 hermitage 9 put to
flight 10 for u know 12 supposition 13 corpse 14 gold
coins 15 always 16 hence 17 think
WILLIAM CAXTON
21
fore. So there bode l Syr Bedwere with the
hermyte that was tofore bysshop of Caunter-
burye, and there Syr Bedwere put upon hym
poure 2 clothes, and servyd the hermyte ful
lowly in fastyng and in prayers.
Thus of Arthur I fynde never more wryton
in boookes that ben auctorysed,3 nor more of
the veray certente 4 of his deth herde I never
redde, but thus was he ledde aweye in a shyppe
wherin were thre quenes: that one was kyng
Arthurs syster quene Morgan le Fay, the other
was the quene of North Galys, the thyrd was
the quene of the Waste Londes. Also there
was Nynyve the chyef Lady of the Lake, that
had wedded Pelleas the good knyght, and this
lady had doon moche for kyng Arthur, for she
wold never suffre Syr Pelleas to be in noo place
where he shold be in daunger of his lyf, and
so he lyved to the uttermest of his dayes wyth
hyr in grete reste. More of the deth of kyng
Arthur coude I never fynde, but that ladyes
brought hym to his buryellys,5 and suche one
was buryed there that the hermyte bare wyt-
nesse, that somtyme was bysshop of Caunter-
burye, but yet the heremyte knewe not in cer-
tayn that he was verayly the body of kyng
Arthur, for thys tale Syr Bedwere, knyght of
the Table Rounde, made it to be wryton.
WILLIAM CAXTON (i422?-i49i)
PREFACE TO THE BOOKE OF ENEYDOS
After dyverse werkes made, translated, and
achieved, havyng noo 6 werke in hande, I
sittyng in my studye, where-as 7 laye many
dyverse paunflettis 8 and bookys, happened that
to my hande cam a lytyl booke in Frenshe,
whiche late 9 was translated oute of Latyn by
some noble clerke of Fraunce; whiche booke
is named Eneydos, made in Latyn by that no-
ble poete and grete clerke Vyrgyle. Whiche
booke I sawe over and redde therin how, after
the generall destruccyon of the grete Troye,
Eneas departed, berynge his olde fader An-
chises upon his sholdres, his lityl son Yolus
on 10 his honde,11 his wyfe wyth moche other
people folowynge; and how he shypped and
departed ; wyth all thystorye 12 of his adventures
that he had or13 he cam to the achievement of
his conquest of Ytalye, as all a-longe shall be
shewed in this present boke. In whiche booke
1 abode 2 poor 3 authorized * certainty 6 tomb
6 no 7 where 8 pamphlets 9 lately 10 in » hand
12 the history 13 before
I had grete playsyr by-cause of the fayr and
honest termes and wordes in Frenshe; whyche
I never sawe to-fore lyke, ne none so playsaunt
ne so wel ordred. Whiche booke, as me
semed, sholde be moche * requysyte 2 to noble
men to see, as wel for the eloquence as the
hystoryes; how wel that, many honderd
yerys passed, was the sayd booke of Eneydos
wyth other werkes made and lerned dayly in
scolis,3 specyally in Ytalye and other places;
whiche historye the sayd Vyrgyle made in
metre. And whan I had advysed me in this
sayd boke, I delybered 4 and concluded to
translate it in to Englysshe, and forthwyth
toke a penne and ynke and wrote a leef or
tweyne, whyche I oversawe agayn to corecte
it; and whan I sawe the fayr and straunge
termes therin, I doubted 6 that it sholde not
please some gentylmen whiche late blamed me,
sayeng that in my translacyons I had over
curyous 6 termes, which coude not be under-
stande 7 of comyn peple, and desired me to use
olde and homely termes in my translacyons.
And fayn wolde I satysfye every man; and,
so to doo, toke an olde boke and redde therin ;
and certaynly the Englysshe was so rude and
brood 8 that I coude not wele understande it ;
and also my lorde abbot of Westmynster ded
so shewe to me late certayn evydences 9 wryton
in olde Englysshe for to reduce it in to our
Englysshe now used, and certaynly it was
wreton in suche wyse that it was more lyke to
Dutche than Englysshe ; I coude not reduce ne
brynge it to be understonden. And certaynly
our langage now used varyeth ferre 10 from that
whiche was used and spoken whsfn I was borne.
For we Englysshe men ben borne under the
domynacyon of the mone, whiche is never
stedfaste but ever waverynge, wexynge one
season and waneth and dyscreaseth n another
season. And that comyn 12 Englysshe that is
spoken in one shyre varyeth from a-nother, in
so moche that in my dayes happened that
certayn marchauntes were in a ship in Tamyse
for to have sayled over the see into Zelande,
and, for lacke of wynde, thei taryed atte 13
Forlond, and wente to lande for to refreshe
them. And one of theym named Sheffelde,
a mercer, cam in to an hows and axed for mete
and specyally he axyd after eggys, and the
goode wyf answerde that she could speke no
Frenshe. And the marchaunt was angry, for
1 very 2 requisite, desirable 8 schools 4 de-
liberated * feared 8 curious, ornate 7 understood
8 broad 9 legal documents 10 far n decreases
12 common >3 at the
22
SIR JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD BERNERS
he also coude speke no Frenshe, but wolde
have hadde egges; and she understode hym
not. And thenne at laste a-nother sayd that
he wolde have eyren.1 Then the good wyf
sayd that she understod hym wel. Loo,2 what
sholde a man in thyse dayes now wryte, egges,
or eyren ? Certaynly it is hard to playse every
man, by-cause of dyversite and chaunge of
langage; for in these dayes every man that is
in ony reputacyon in his countre wyll utter
his commynycacyon and maters in suche maners
and termes that fewe men shall understonde
theym. And som honest and grete clerkes have
ben wyth me and desired me to wryte the moste
curyous 3 termes that I coude fynde. And thus,
betwene playn, rude, and curyous, I stande
abasshed. But in my judgemente the comyn
termes that be dayly used ben lyghter to be
understonde than the olde and auncyent
Englysshe. And, foras-moche as this present
booke is not for a rude uplondyssh4 man to
laboure therein ne rede it, but onely for a clerke
and a noble gentylman that feleth and under-
stondeth in faytes 5 of armes, in love, and in
noble chyvalrye, therfor in a meane bytwene
bothe I have reduced and translated this sayd
booke in our Englysshe, not over rude ne
curyous, but in suche termes as shall be under-
standen, by Goddys grace accordynge to my
copye. And yf ony man wyll entermete 6 in
redyng of hit 4and fyndeth suche termes that
he can not understande, late hym goo rede
and lerne Vyrgyll or the Pystles of Ovyde, and
ther he shall see and understonde lyghtly 7 all,
if he have a good redar and enformer. For this
booke is not for every rude and unconnynge 8
man to see, but to clerkys and very 9 gentyl-
men, that understande gentylnes and scyence.
Thenne I praye all theym that shall rede in
this lytyl treatys to holde me for excused for
the translatynge of hit, for I knowleche my-
selfe ignorant of conynge10 to enpryse u on me
so hie 12 and noble a werke. But I praye
mayster John Skelton, late created poete
laureate in the unyversite of Oxenford, to
oversee and correcte this sayd booke and
taddresse 13 and expowne where-as u shalle be
founde faulte to theym that shall requyre it,
for hym I knowe for suffycyent to expowne and
englysshe every dyffyculte that is therin, for
he hath late translated the Epystlys of Tulle
and the boke of Dyodorus Syculus and diverse
1 eggs 2 lo 3 ornate, artificial * country 6 deeds
6 participate 7 easily 8 ignorant fl true, real 10 ability
11 take 12 high 13 to arrange 14 wherever
other werkes oute of Latyn in-to Englysshe,
not in rude and olde langage, but in polysshed
and ornate termes, craftely,1 as he that hath
redde Vyrgyle, Ovyde, Tullye, and all the other
noble poetes and oratours to me unknowen;
and also he hath redde the IX muses and
understande theyr musicalle scyences and to
whom of theym eche scyence is appropred,2 I
suppose he hath dronken of Elycons well.
Then I praye hym and suche other to correcte,
adde or mynysshe,3 where-as he or they shall
fynde faulte, for I have but folowed my copye
in Frenshe as nygh as me is possyble. And yf
ony-worde be sayd therin well, I am glad; and
yf otherwyse, I submytte my sayde boke to
theyr correctyon. Whiche boke I presente
unto the hye born my tocomynge 4 naturell
and soverayn lord Arthur, by the grace of God
Prynce of Walys, Due of Cornewayll, and Erie
of Chester, fyrst bygoten sone and heyer 5
unto our most dradde 8 naturall and soverayn
lorde and most Crysten Kynge, Henry the VII,
by the grace of God Kynge of Englonde and of
Fraunce and lorde of Irelonde, byseching his
noble grace to receyve it in thanke of me, his
moste humble subget and servaunt; and I
shall praye unto almyghty God for his pros-
perous encreasyng in vertue, wysedom, and
humanyte, that he may be egal 7 wyth the most
renommed 8 of alle his noble progenytours,
and so to lyve in this present lyf that after this
transitorye lyfe he and we alle may come to
everlastynge lyf in heaven. Amen!
SIR JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD
BERNERS (1467-1533)
THE CRONYCLE OF SYR JOHN
FROISSART
CAP. CCCLXXXIII
How the commons of Englande entred into Lon-
don, and of the great yvell 9 that they dyde, and of
the dethe of the ~bysshoppe of Caunterbury and dy-
vers other.
In the mornyng on Corpus Christy day
kynge Rycharde herde masse in the towre of
London, and all his lordes, and than he toke
his barge, with therle 10 of Salisbury, therle of
Warwyke, the erle of Suffolke, and certayn
1 skillfully 2 assigned 3 diminish 4 future
8 heir 6 dread 7 equal 8 renowned fl evil
10 the earl
THE CRONYCLE OF SYR JOHN FROISSART
knightes, and so rowed downe alonge Thames
to Redereth,1 where as was discended downe
the hyll a x.M.2 men to se the kyng and to speke
with him. And whan they sawe the kynges
barge comyng, they beganne to showt, and
made suche a crye, as though all the devylles
of hell had ben amonge them. And they had
brought with them sir Johan Moton, to the
entent that if the kynge had nat come, they
wolde have stryken hym all to peces, and so
they had promysed hym. And whan the kynge
and his lordes sawe the demeanour of the
people, the best assured of them were in drede.
And so the kynge was counsayled by his bar-
ownes nat to take any landynge there, but so
rowed up and downe the ryver. And the kyng
demaunded of them what they wolde, and sayd,
howe he was come thyder to speke with them ;
and they said all with one voyce, "We wolde
that ye shulde come a lande, and than we shall
shewe you what we lacke." Than the erle
of Salisbury aunswered for the kyng and sayd,
" Sirs, ye be nat in suche order nor array that
the kynge ought to speke with you;" and so
with those wordes, no more sayd. And than
the kyng was counsayled to returne agayne to
the towre of London, and so he dyde. And
whan these people sawe that, they were en-
flamed with yre, and retourned to the hyll where
the great bande was, and ther shewed them
what answere they had, and howe the kynge
was retourned to the towre of London. Than
they cryed all with one voyce, "Let us go to
London;" and so they toke their way thyder.
And in their goyng they beate downe abbeyes
and houses of advocates, and of men of the
courte, and so came into the subbarbes of
London, whiche were great and fayre, and ther
bete downe dyvers fayre houses. And specially
they brake up the kynges prisones, as the
Marshalse and other, and delyvered out all
the prisoners that were within, and there they
dyde moche hurt; and at the bridge fote they
thret 3 them of London, bycause the gates of
the bridge were closed, sayenge, howe they
wolde brenne 4 all the subarbes, and so conquere
London by force, and to slee 5 and brenne all
the commons of the cytie. There were many
within the cytie of their accorde,6 and so they
drewe toguyder, and sayde, "Why do we nat
let these good people entre into the cyte?
They are our felowes, and that that they do is
for us." So therwith the gates were opyned,
and than these people entred into the cytie,
and went into houses, and satte downe to eate
and drinke: they desyred nothynge but it was
incontynent l brought to them, for every manne
was redy to make them good chere, and to
gyve them meate and drinke to apease them.
Than the capitayns, as John Ball, Jacke
Strawe, and Watte Tyler wente throughout
London, and a twentie thousande with them,
and so came to the Savoy, in the way to West-
mynster, whiche was a goodlye house, and it
parteyned 2 to the duke of Lancastre. And
whan they entred, they slewe the kepars therof,
and robbed and pylled 3 the house, and whan
they had so done, than they sette fyre on it, and
clene distroyed and brent 4 it. And whan they
had done that outrage, they left 5 nat therwith,
but went streight to the fayre hospytalle of the
Rodes, called saynt Johans, and there they
brent house, hospytall, mynster and all.
Than they went fro strete to strete, and slewe
all the Flemmynges that they coulde fynde,
in churche or in any other place ; ther was none
respyted fro dethe. And they brake up dyvers
houses of the Lombardes and robbed theym,
and toke their goodes at their pleasur, for there
was none that durst saye them nay. And they
slewe in the cytie a riche marchaunt, called
Richarde Lyon, to whome before that tyme
Watte Tyler had done servyce in Fraunce ; and
on a tyme this Rycharde Lyon had beaten hym
whyle he was his varlet; the whiche Watte
Tyler than remembred, and so came to his
house and strake of 9 his heed, and caused it
to be borne on a spere poynt before him all
about the cyte. Thus these ungracyous people
demeaned themselfe, lyke people enraged and
wode,7 and so that day they dyde8 moche
sorowe in London.
And so agaynst 9 night they wente to lodge at
saynt Katherins, before the towre of London,
sayenge howe they wolde never depart thens
tyll they hadde the kynge at their pleasure, and
tyll he had accorded to them all that they
wolde aske, acomptes10 of the chauncellour of
Englande, to knowe where all the good was
become that he had levyed through the realme;
and without he made a good acompte to them
therof, it shulde nat be for his profyte. And so
whan they had done all these yvels to the
straungers all the day, at night they lodged
before the towre.
Ye may well knowe and beleve that it was
1 Rotherhithe
' burn 5 slay
2 ten thousand 3 threatened
6 assent, way of thinking
'immediately 2 belonged 3 pillaged 4 burnt
6 ceased 6off 7 crazy s caused 9 towards I0 accounts
SIR JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD BERNERS
great pytie, for the daunger that the kyng and
suche as were with him were in. For some
tyme these unhappy people showted and cryed
so loude, as thoughe all the devylles of hell
had bene among them. In this evennynge the
kynge was counsayled by his bretherne and
lordes, and by sir Nycholas Walworthe, mayre
of London, and dyvers other notable and riche
burgesses, that in the night tyme they shulde
issue out of the towre and entre into the cyte,
and so to slee * all these unhappy people whyle
they were at their rest and aslepe; for it was
thought that many of them were dronken,
wherby they shulde be slayne lyke flees ; 2
also of twentie of them ther was scant one in
harnes.3 And surely the good men of London
might well have done this at their ease, for they
had in their houses secretely their frendes and
servauntes redy in harnesse ; and also sir Robert
Canolle was in his lodgyng, kepyng his treasure,
with a sixscore redy at his commaundement ;
in likewise was sir Perducas Dalbret, who was
as than in London ; insomoche that ther myght
well [be] assembled togyder an eyght thousande
men, redy in harnesse. Howebeit, ther was
nothyng done, for the resydue of the commons
of the cytie were sore douted,4 leest they shulde
ryse also, and the commons before were a
threscore thousande or mo.5 Than 8 the erle of
Salisbury and the wyse men about the kynge
sayd, "Sir, if ye can apese 7 them with fayr-
nesse,8 it were best and moost profytable, and
to graunt theym every thynge that they desyre ;
for if we shulde begyn a thynge the whiche we
coulde nat acheve, we shulde never recover it
agayne, but we and oure heyres ever to be dis-
heyrited." So this counsaile was taken, and the
mayre countermaunded, and so commaunded
that he shulde nat styrre; and he dyde as he
was commaunded, as reason was. And in the
cytie with the mayre there were xii. aldermen,
wherof nyne of them helde with the kynge, and
the other thre toke parte with these ungraycous
people, as it was after well knowen, the whiche
they full derely bought.
And on the Friday in the mornynge, the
people beyng at saynt Katheryns, nere to the
towre, began to apparell themselfe, and to crye
and shoute, and sayd, without the kyng wolde
come out and speke with them, they wolde
assayle the towre and take it by force, and
slee1 all them that were within. Than the
kyng douted l these wordes, and so was coun-
sailed that he shulde issue out to speke with
them ; and than 2 the knyge sende 3 to them,
that they shulde all drawe to a fayre playne
place, called Myle-ende, wher-as * the people
of the cytie dyde sport them in the somer sea-
son, and there the kyng to graunt them that 5
they desyred. And there it was cryed in the
kynges name, that whosoever wolde speke with
the kyng, let hym go to the sayd place, and
ther he shulde nat fayle to fynde the king.
Than the people began to departe, specially
the commons of the vyllages, and went to the
same place, but all went nat thyder, for they
were nat all of one condycion : 6 for ther were
some that desyred nothynge but richesse and
the utter distinction of the noble men, and to
have London robbed and pylled. That was
the princypall mater of their begynnynge, the
whiche they well shewed; for assoone as the
towre gate opyned, and that the kynge was
yssued out with his two bretherne, and the erle
of Salisbury, the erle of Warwike, the erle of
Oxenforthe, sir Robert of Namure, the lorde
of Bretaygne, the lorde Gomegynes, and
dyvers other, than 2 Watte Tyler, Jacke Strawe,
and Johan Ball, and more than foure hundred
entred into the towre, and brake up chambre
after chambre, and at last founde the arche-
bysshoppe of Caunterbury, called Symon, a
valyant man and a wyse, and chefe chaun-
celler of Englande; and a lytell before he
hadde sayde masse before the kynge. These
glottons toke hym and strake of ' his heed,
and also they beheded the lorde of saynt Jo-
hans, and a Frere Mynour, maister in medicyn
parteyning 8 to the duke of Lancastre : they
slewe hym in dispyte of his maister, and a
sergeant at armes, called John Laige. And
these four heedes were set on foure long
speares, and they made them to be borne before
them through the stretes of London, and at
last set them a highe 9 on London bridge, as
though they had ben traytours to the kyng and
to the realme. Also these glottons entred into
the princes 10 chambre and brake her bed,
wherby she was so sore afrayed that she
sowned,11 and ther she was taken up and borne
to the water syde, and put into a barge and
covered, and so conveyed to a place called the
quenes Warderobe. And there she was all that
daye and night, lyke a woman halfe deed, tyll
1 slay 2 flies a harness, armor 4 frightened ' feared 2 then * sent * where * what 6 state of
5 more 6 then 7 appease, quiet 8 pleasant treat- mind 7 off 8 belonging 9 on high 10 Princess
ment Joan, the king's mother u swooned
THE CRONYCLE OF SYR JOHN FROISSART
she was conforted with * the kyng her sonne,
as ye shall here after.
CAP. CCCLXXXIIII
How the nobles of England were in great paryll3
to have ben dystroyed, and howe these rebels were
punisshed and sende8 home to theyr owne houses.
Whan the kyng came to the sayd place of
Myle-ende without London, he put out of his
company his two bretherne, the erle of Kent
and sir Johan Holande, and the lorde of
Gomegynes, for they durst nat apere before
the people. And whan the kynge and his
other lordes were ther, he founde there a thre-
score thousande men, of dyvers vyllages, and
of sondrie countreis 4 in Englande. So the
kynge entred in amonge them, and sayd to
them swetely, "A! ye good people, I am your
kyng; what lacke ye? what wyll ye say?"
Than suche as understode him sayd, "We wyll
that ye make us free for ever, our selfe, our
heyres, and our landes, and that we be called
no more bonde, nor so reputed." "Sirs,"
sayd the king, "I am well agreed therto; with-
drawe you home into your owne houses, and
into suche villages as ye came fro, and leave
behynde you of every vyllage ii. or thre, and I
shall cause writynges to be made, and scale
theym with my scale, the whiche they shall
have with them, conteyning every thynge that
ye demaunde; and to thentent that ye shal
be the better assured, I shall cause my baners
to be delyvered into every bayliwyke, shyre, and
countreis." These wordes apeased well the
common people, suche as were symple and
good playne men, that were come thyder and
wyste 5 nat why: they sayd, "It was well said;
We desyre no better." Thus these people
beganne to be apeased, and began to withdrawe
them into the cyte of London. And the kyng
also said a worde, the whiche greatlye contented
them. He sayde, "Sirs, amonge you good
men of Kent, ye shall have one of my banners
with you, and ye of Essexe another; and ye
of Sussexe, of Bedforde, of Cambridge, of
Germeney, of Stafforde, and of Lyn, eche of
you one; and also I pardon every thirige that
ye have done hyderto, so that ye folowe my
baners and retourne home to your houses."
They all answered how they wolde so do : thus
these people departed and went into London.
Than the kynge ordayned mo than xxx.
clerkes the same Fridaye, to write with all
1 by 2 danger 3 sent * districts 6 knew
dilygence letters patentes, and sayled l with the
kynges scale, and delyvered them to these
people. And whan they had receyved the
writynge, they departed and retourned into
their owne countreis ; but the great venym 2
remayned styll behynde. For Watte Tyler,
Jacke Strawe, and John Ball sayd, for all that
these people were thus apesed, yet they wolde
nat departe so, and they had of their acorde 3
mo than xxx. thousande: -so they abode styll,
and made no prese 4 to have the kynges writyng
nor scale; for all their ententes was to putte
the cytie to trouble, in suche wyse as to slee
all the riche and honest persons, and to robbe
and pylle 5 their houses. They of London
were in great feare of this, wherfore they kepte 8
their houses previly 7 with their frendes, and
suche servauntes as they had, every man
accordynge to his puyssaunce. And whane
these sayde people were this Fridaye thus
somewhat apeased, and that they shulde
departe assoone as they hadde their writynges,
everye manne home into his owne countrey,
than kynge Rycharde came into the Royall,
where the quene his mother was, right sore
afrayed; so he conforted her as well as he
coulde, and taryed there with her all that
night.
* * * * * * *
The Saturday the kynge departed fro the
Warderobe in the Royall, and went to West-
mynster and harde 8 masse in the churche there,
and all his lordes with hym; and besyde the
churche there was a lytle chapell, with an image
of Our Lady, whiche dyd great myracles, and
in whom the kynges of Englande had ever great
truste and confydence. The kynge made his
orisons before this image, and dyde there his
offryng; and than he lepte on his horse and
all his lordes, and so the kynge rode towarde
London; and whan he had ryden a lytle way
on the lyft hande, there was a way to passe
without London.
The same propre mornynge Watte Tyler,
Jacke Strawe, and John Ball had assembled their
company to comon 9 together, in a place called
Smythfelde, where-as 10 every Fryday there is a
markette of horses. And there were together
all of affinite mo than xx. thousande, and yet
there were many styll in the towne, drynkynge
and makynge mery in the tavernes, and payed
nothyng, for they were happy that made them
1 sealed 2 poison 3 assent, way of thinking
* press, urgent effort ' pillage • defended 7 privately
8 heard 9 commune 10 where
26
SIR JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD BERNERS
beste chere. And these people in Smythfelde
had with theym the kynges baners, the whiche
were delyvered theym the daye before. And all
these glottons were in mynde to overrenne l and
to robbe London the same daye, for theyr
capitaynes sayde howe they had done nothynge
as yet; "These lyberties that the kynge hath
gyven us, is to us but a small profitte ; therfore
lette us be all of one accorde, and lette us over-
renne this riche and puyssaunt citie or 2 they
of Essex, of Sussex, of Cambrydge, of Bed-
forde, of Arundell, of Warwyke, of Reedynge,
of Oxenforde, of Guylforde, of Linne, of
Stafforde, of Germeney, of Lyncolne, of Yorke,
and of Duram, do come hyther; for all these
wyll come hyther, Wallyor and Lyster wyll
bringe them hyther; and if we be fyrst lordes
of London, and have the possession of the
ryches that is therin, we shall nat repent us;
for if we leave it, they that come after wyll
have it fro us." To thys counsayle they all
agreed: and therwith the kynge came the same
waye unware of theym, for he had thought to
have passed that waye withoute London, and
with hym a xl. horse; and whan he came
before the abbaye of saynt Bartilmeus, and
behelde all these people, than 3 the kynge rested
and sayde, howe he wolde go no farther, tyll
he knewe what these people ayled, sayenge, if
they were in any trouble, howe he wold re-
pease 4 them agayne. The lordes that were
with hym taried also, as reason was whan they
sawe the kynge tarye. And whan Watte
Tyler sawe the kynge tary, he sayd to his
people," Syrs, yonder is the kynge, I wyll go and
speke with hym ; styrre nat fro hens without I
make you a signe, and whan I make you that
sygne, come on, and slee all theym, excepte
the kynge. But do the kynge no hurte; he is
yonge, we shall do with hym as we lyst, and
shall leade hym with us all about Englande,
and so shall we be lordes of all the royalme 5
without doubt." And there was a dowblette
maker of London, called John Tycle, and he
hadde brought to these glotons a Ix. doublettes,
the whiche they ware ; 6 than he demaunded of
these 'capitaynes who shulde paye hym for his
doublettes ; he demaunded xxx. marke. Watte
Tyler answered hym and sayd, "Frende, ap-
pease yourselfe, thou shalte be well payed or
this day be ended; kepe the nere me, I shall
be thy credytour." 7 And therwith he spurred
his horse and departed fro his company, and
came to the kynge, so nere hym that his horse
heed touched the crope * of the kynges horse.
And the first worde that he sayd was this:
"Syr kynge, seest thou all yonder people?"
"Ye, truly," sayd the kynge: "wherfore sayest
thou?" "Bycause," sayd he, "they be all at
my commaundement, and have sworne to me
fayth and trouth to do all that I wyll have
theym." "In a good tyme," sayd the kyng, "I
wyll well it be so." Than Watte Tyler sayde,
as he that nothynge demaunded but ryot,
"What belevest thou, kynge, that these people,
and as many mo as be in London at my com-
maundement, that they wyll departe frome the
thus, without havynge thy letters?" "No,"
sayde the kyng, "ye shall have theym, they be
ordeyned for you, and shal be delyvered every
one eche after other; wherfore, good felowes,
withdrawe fayre and easely to your people, and
cause them to departe out of London, for it is
our entent that eche of you by villages and
towneshippes shall have letters patentes, as I
have promysed you." With those wordes
Watte Tyler caste his eyen 2 on a squyer that
was there with the kynge, bearynge the kynges
swerde; and Wat Tyler hated greatlye the
same squyer, for the same squier had displeased
hym before for wordes bytwene theym.
"What," sayde Tyler, "arte thou there?
gyve me thy dagger!" "Nay," sayde the
squier, "that wyll I nat do; wherfore shulde
I gyve it thee?" The kynge behelde the
squyer, and sayd, "Gyve it hym, lette hym
have it." And so the squyer toke 3 it hym
sore agaynst his wyll. And whan this Watte
Tyler had it, he began to play therwith, and
tourned it in his hande, and sayde agayne
to the squyer, "Gyve me also that swerde."
" Naye," sayde the squyer, " it is the kynges
swerde; thou arte nat worthy to have it, for
thou arte but a knave; and if there were no
moo here but thou and I, thou durste nat speke
those wordes for as moche golde in quantite
as all yonder abbaye." "By my faythe," sayd
Wat Tyler, "I shall never eate meate tyll I have
thy heed." And with those wordes the mayre
of London came to the kynge with a xii. horses,
well armed under theyr cootes,4 and so he brake
the prease,6 and sawe and harde 8 howe Watte
Tyler demeaned 7 hymselfe, and sayde to hym,
"Ha! thou knave, howe arte thou so hardy in
the kynges presence to speke suche wordes?
It is to moche for the so to do." Than the
1 overrun 2 before 3 then 4 quiet 6 kingdom 8 wore
7 This seems to be a mistake for debtor.
1 croup, rump 2 eyes 3 delivered * coats 8 press,
throng 6 heard 7 conducted
THE CRONYCLE OF SYR JOHN FROISSART
27
kynge began to chafe, and sayd to the mayre,
"Sette handes on hym." And while the kynge
sayde so, Tyler sayd to the mayre, "A Goddes-
name,1 what have I sayde to displease the?"
"Yes, truely," quod the mayre, "thou false
stynkynge knave, shalt thou speke thus in the
presence of the kynge my naturall lorde? I
commytte 2 never to lyve without thou shalte
derely abye it." And with those wordes the
mayre drewe oute his swerde and strake Tyler
so great a stroke on the heed, that he fell downe
at the feete of his horse; and as soone as he
was fallen, they environed hym all aboute,
wherby he was nat sene of his company. Than
a squyer of the kynges alyghted, called John
Standysshe, and he drewe out his sworde and
put it into Watte Tylers belye, and so he dyed.
Than the ungracious people there assembled,
perceyvynge theyr capytayne slayne, beganne
to mourmure amonge themselfe and sayde,
"A! our capitayne is slayne; lette us go and
slee them all!" And therwith they araynged
themselfe on the place in maner of batayle,
and theyr bowes before theym. Thus the
kynge beganne a great outrage ; 3 howebeit,
all turned to the beste, for as soone as Tyler
was on the erthe, the kynge departed from all
his company, and all alone he rode to these
people, and sayde to his owne men, "Syrs,
none of you folowe me, let me alone." And
so whan he came before these ungracious people,
who put themselfe in ordinaunce 4 to revenge
theyr capitayne, than the kynge sayde to theym,
"Syrs, what ayleth you, ye shall have no
capitayne but me: I am your kynge, be all in
rest and peace." And so the moost parte of
the people that harde 6 the kynge speke, and
sawe hym amonge them, were shamefast,8
and beganne to waxe peasable, and to
departe; but some, suche as were mali-
cious and evyll, wolde nat departe, but
made semblant as though they wolde do
somwhat. Than the kynge returned to his
owne company and demaunded of theym
what was best to be done. Than he was
counsailed to drawe into the feld, for to flye
awaye was no boote.7 Than sayd the mayre,
" It is good that we do so, for I thynke surely
we shall have shortely some comforte of them
of London, and of suche good men as be of
our parte, who are pourveyed,8 and have theyr
frendes and men redy armed in theyr houses."
And in this meane tyme voyce and bruyte *
ranne through London, howe these unhappy
people were lykely to sle ' the kynge and the
maire in Smythfelde; through the whiche
noyse, all maner of good men of the kynges
partye issued out of theyr houses and lodgynges,
well armed, and so came all to Smythfelde, and
to the felde where the kynge was; and they
were anone 2 to the nombre of vii. or viii.
thousande men well armed. And fyrste thyther
came sir Robert Canoll, and sir Perducas
Dalbret, well accompanyed, and dyvers of the
aldermen of London, and with theym a vi.
hundred men, in harneys ; and a pusant man
of the citie, who was the kynges draper, called
Nicholas Membre, and he brought with hym
a great company. And ever as they came, they
raynged them afoote in ordre of bataylle; and
on the other parte these unhappy people were
redy raynged, makynge semblaunce to gyve
batayle; and they had with theym dyvers of
the kynges baners. There the kynge made iii.
knyghtes; the one the mayre of London sir
Nycholas Walworthe, syr Johan Standysshe,
and syr Nycholas Braule. Than the lordes
sayde amonge theymselfe, "What shall we do?
We se here our ennemyes, who wolde gladly
slee us, if they myght have the better hande of
us." Sir Robert Canoll counsayled to go and
fight with them, and slee them all; yet the
kyng wolde nat consent therto, but sayd, "Nay,
I wyll nat so; I wyll sende to theym, com-
maundynge them to sende me agayne my
baners, and therby we shall se what they wyll
do : howbeit, outher 3 by fayrnesse 4 or other-
wise, I wyll have them." "That is well sayd,
sir," quod therle of Salysbury. Than these
newe knightes were sent to them, and these
knightes made token to them nat to shote at
them; and whan they came so nere them that
their speche might be herde, they sayd, "Sirs,
the kyng commaundeth you to sende to him
agayne his baners, and we thynke he wyll have
mercy of you." And incontinent they delyv-
ered agayne the baners, and sent them to the
kyng: also they were commaunded, on payne
of their heedes, that all suche as had letters
of the king to bring them forthe, and to sende
them agayne to the kynge. And so many of
them delyvered their letters, but nat all. Than
the kyng made them to be all to-torne 5 in their
presence: and as soone as the kynges baners
were delyvered agayne, these unhappy people
kept none array, but the moost parte of them
1 in God's name 2 pledge 3 disturbance 4 array
8 heard 8 ashamed 7 remedy 8 provided 9 rumor
1 slay 2 immediately
' torn to pieces
3 either * pleasant means
SIR JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD BERNERS
dyde caste downe their bowes, and so brake
their array, and retourned into London. Sir
Robert Canoll was sore dyspleased in that he
myght nat go to slee them all; but the kyng
wolde nat consent therto, but sayd he wolde
be revenged of them well ynough, and so he
was after.
Thus these folysshe people departed, some
one way and some another; and the kyng and
his lordes and all his company ryght ordynately
entred into London with great joye. And the
firste journey that the kynge made, he wente
to the lady princesse his mother, who was in a
castell in the Royall, called the quenes ward-
robe; and there she hadde taryed two dayes
and two nightes right sore abasshed, as she
had good reasone. And whan she sawe the
kyng her sonne she was greatly rejoysed, and
sayde, "A! fayre sonne, what payne and great
sorowe that I have suffred for you this day!"
Than the kynge answered and sayd, " Certaynly,
madame, I knowe it well ; but nowe rejoyse your-
selfe and thanke God, for nowe it is tyme. I have
this day recovered myne herytage and the
realme of Englande, the whiche I hadde nere
lost." Thus the kyng taryed that day with his
mother, and every lorde went peaseably to their
owne lodgynges. Than there was a crye made
in every strete in the kynges name, that all
maner of men, nat beyng of the cytie of Lon-
don, and have nat dwelt there the space of one
yere, to departe; and if any suche be founde
there the Sonday by the sonne risyng, that
they shuld be taken as traytours to the kyng,
and to lose their heedes. This crye thus made,
there was none that durste breke it; and so
all maner of people departed, and sparcled l
abrode every man to their owne places. Johan
Balle and Jaques Strawe were founde in an olde
house hydden, thinkyng to have stollen away,
but they coulde nat, for they were accused by
their owne men. Of the takyng of them the
kyng and his lordes were gladde, and thanne
strake of their heedes, and Watte Tylers also,
and they were set on London bridge; and the
valyaunt mennes heedes taken downe that they
had sette on the Thursday before. These
tidynges anone spredde abrode, so that the
people of the strange countreis,2 whiche were
comyng towardes London, retourned backe
agayne to their owne houses, and durst come
no farther.
1 scattered 2 distant districts
THE TRANSITION TO MODERN TIMES
SIR THOMAS MORE (1478-1535)
A DIALOGUE OF SYR THOMAS MORE,
KNYGHTE
THE THIRDE BOKE. THE 16. CHAPITER
The messenger rehearseth some causes which he
hath herd laid l by some of the clergie : wherfore the
Scripture should not be suffred in Englishe. And
the author sheweth his mind, that it wer convenient
to have the Byble in Englishe.
"Syr," quod your frende, "yet for al this,
can I see no cause why the cleargie shoulde kepe
the Byble out of ley mennes handes, that can 2
no more but theyr mother tong." "I had
went," 3 quod I, "that I had proved you playnely
that they kepe it not from them. For I have
shewed you that they kepe none from them,
but such translacion as be either not yet ap-
proved for good, or such as be alredi reproved
for naught, as Wikliffes was and Tindals.
For as for other olde ones,4 that wer before
Wickliffes daies, remain lawful, and be in
some folkes handes had and read." "Ye
saye well," quod he. "But yet as weomen saye,
'somewhat it was alway that the cat winked
whan her eye was oute.' Surelye so is it not
for nought that the English Byble is in so few
mens handes, whan so many woulde so fayne
have it." "That is very trouth," quod I;
"for I thinke that though the favourers of a
secte of heretikes be so fervent in the setting
furth of their secte, that they let 5 not to lay
their money together and make a purse among
them, for the printyng of an evill made, or evil
translated booke: which though it happe to
be forboden * and burned, yet some be sold
ere they be spyed, and eche of them lese 7 but
theyr part: yet I thinke ther will no printer
lightly 8 be so hote 9 to put anye Byble in prynte
at hys own charge, whereof the losse shoulde
lye hole in his owne necke, and than 10 hang
1 alleged 2 know 3 weened, thought * This word
is the subject of remain, as well as a part of the phrase
in which it stands; the construction is curious but
common. * hesitate 6 forbidden 7 lose 8 easily ' hot,
ready l° then
upon a doutful tryal, whether the first copy of
hys translacion, was made before Wickliffes
dayes or since. For if it were made synce, it
must be approved before the prynting.
"And surelye howe it hathe happed that in
all this whyle God hath eyther not suffered, or
not provided that any good verteous man hath
hadde the mynde in faithful wise to translate
it, and therupon ether the clergie or, at the
least wise, some one bishop to approve it, thys
can I nothing tell. But howesoever it be, I
have hearde and heare so muche spoken in the
matter, and so muche doute made therin, that
peradventure it would let and withdrawe any
one bishop from the admitting therof, without
the assent of the remenant. And whereas
many thinges be laid against it: yet is ther in
my mind not one thynge that more putteth
good men of the clergie in doubte to suffer it,
than thys : that they see sometime much of the
worse sort more fervent in the calling for it,
than them whom we find farre better. Which
maketh them to feare lest such men desyre it
for no good, and lest if it wer hadde in every
mannes hand, there would great peril arise,
and that sedicious people should doe more
harme therwith than good and honest folke
should take fruite thereby. Whiche feare I
promise you nothyng feareth me, but that
whosoever woulde of theyr malice or folye take
harme of that thing that is of it selfe ordeyned
to doe al men good, I would never for the
avoyding of their harme, take from other the
profit, which they might take, and nothing
deserve to lese.1 For elles 2 if the abuse of a
good thing should cause the taking away therof
from other that would use it well, Christ should
hymself never have been borne, nor brought
hys fayth into the world, nor God should never
have made it neither, if he should, for the losse
of those that would be damned wretches, have
kept away the occasion of reward from them
that would with helpe of his grace endevor
them to deserve it."
"I am sure," quod your frend, "ye doubte
not but that I am full and hole of youre mynde
1 lose
2 else
3°
SIR THOMAS MORE
in this matter, that the Byble shoulde be in
cure Englishe tong. But yet that the clergie
is of the contrary, and would not have it so,
that appeareth well, in that they suffer it not
to be so. And over ' that, I heare in everye
place almost where I find any learned man of
them, their mindes all set theron to kepe the
Scripture from us. And they seke out for that
parte every rotten reason that they can find,
and set them furth solemnely to the shew,
though fyve of those reasons bee not woorth a
figge. For they begynne as farre as our first
father Adam, and shew us that his wyfe and he
fell out of paradise with desyre of knowledge
and cunning. Nowe if thys woulde serve, it
must from the knowledge and studie of Scrip-
ture dryve every man, priest and other, lest it
drive all out of paradise. Than saye they that
God taught his disciples many thynges apart,
because the people should not heare it. And
therefore they woulde the people should not
now be suffered to reade all. Yet they say
further that it is hard to translate the Scripture
"out of one tong into an other, and specially they
say into ours, which they call a tong vulgare
and barbarous. But of all thing specially they
say that Scripture is the foode of the soule.
And that the comen people be as infantes that
must be fedde but with milke and pappe. And
if we have anye stronger meate, it must be
chammed 2 afore by the nurse, and so putte
into the babes mouthe. But me think though
they make us al infantes, they shall fynde many
a shrewde brayn among us, that can perceive
chalke fro chese well ynough, and if they woulde
once take 3 us our meate in our own hand, we
be not so evil-tothed 4 but that within a while
they shall see us cham it our self as well as they.
For let them call us yong babes and 5 they wil,
yet, by God, they shal for al that well fynde in
some of us that an olde knave is no chylde."
"Surely," quod I, "suche thinges as ye
speake, is the thyng that, as I somewhat sayd
before, putteth good folke in feare to suffer
the Scripture in our Englishe tong. Not for
the reading and receiving: but for the busy
chamming 6 therof, and for much medling with
such partes thereof, as least will agree with
their capacities. For undoutedlye as ye spake
of our mother Eve: inordinate appetite of
knowledge is a meane to drive any man out of
paradise. And inordinate is the appetite,
whan men unlerned, though they reade it in
1 besides 2 masticated 3 deliver * ill-toothed
* if • chewing
theyr language, will be busy to enserche and
dyspute the great secret mysteries of Scripture,
whiche thoughe they heare, they be not hable l
to perceve.
"Thys thing is playnely forbode 2 us that be
not appoynted nor instructed therto. And
therfore holi saint Gregory Naziazenus, that
great solemne doctour, sore toucheth and re-
proveth al such bolde, busy medlers in the
Scripture, and sheweth that it is in Exodie by
Moyses ascending up upon the hill where he
spake with God, and the people tarying be-
neath, signified that the people bee forboden 2
to presume to medle with the hygh mysteries
of Holy Scripture, but ought to be contente to
tary beneath, and medle none higher than is
meete for them, but, receivyng fro the height
of the hill by Moyses that that is delivered them,
that is to witte, the lawes and preceptes that
they must kepe, and the poyntes they must
beleve, loke well therupon, and often, and
medle wel therwith: not to dispute it, but to
fulfille it. And as for the high secrete mys-
teries of God, and hard textes of hys Holye
Scripture : let us knowe that we be so unable
to ascende up so high on that hill, that it shall
become us to saye to the preachers appoynted
therto as the people sayd unto Moises: 'Heare
you God, and let us heare you.' And surely
the blessed holy doctour saynt Hierome
greatelye complayneth and rebuketh that
lewde homely maner, that the common ley
peple, men and weomen, wer in his daies so
bold in the medling, disputing, and expowning
of Holi Scripture. And sheweth playnlye that
they shall have evill prefe 3 therein, that will
reken themself to understand it by them selfe
without a reader. For it is a thing that re-
quireth good help, and long time, and an whole
mynde geven greatelye thereto. And surelye,
syth,4 as the holye Apostle Saynt Poule in
divers of hys epistles sayth, God hath by his
Holy Spirite so institute and ordeyned his
churche, that he will have some readers, and
some hearers, some teachers, and some learn-
ers, we do plainly pervert and tourne up so
down the right order of Christes church, whan
the one part medleth with the others office.
"Plato the great phylosopher specially for-
biddeth suche as be not admitted therunto, nor
men mete therefore, to medle much and em-
busie themself in reasoning and dysputyng
upon the temporall lawes of the citie, which
would not be reasoned upon but by folke mete
1 able 2 forbidden 3 experience 4 since
A DIALOGUE OF SYR THOMAS MORE, KNYGHTE
therfore and in place convenient. For elles
they that cannot very wel attain to perceive
them, begin to mislike, disprayse, and con-
temne them. Whereof so foloweth the breche
of the lawes, and dysorder of the people. For
tyll a lawe bee chaunged by authoritie, it rather
ought to be observed than contemned. Or
elles the exaumple of one lawe boldly broken
and sette at naughte, waxeth a precident for
the remenaunte to be used lyke. And com-
mon lye, the best lawes shall woorste lyke l
muche of the common people, which moste
longe (if they myght be heard and folowed)
to live al at libertie under none at all. Nowe
if Plato, so wyse a man, so thought good in
temporall lawes, thynges of mennes makyng,
howe muche is it lesse meete for everye manne
boldelye to meddle with the exposition of
Holye Scrypture, so devysed and endyted by
the hyghe wisedome of God, that it farre ex-
cedeth in many places the capacitie and per-
ceiving of man. It was also provided by the
Emperour in the law civile, that the common
people shoulde never be so bolde to kepe
dispicions2 upon the fayth or Holy Scripture,
nor that anye such thing shoulde be used among
them or before them. And therefore, as I said
before, the special feare in this matter is, lest
we would be to busy in chammyng 3 of the
Scripture our self, whiche ye saye we were
hable 4 ynoughe to dooe. Whiche undoubt-
edlye, the wysest, and the best learned, and he
that therein hathe by manye yeres bestowed
hys whole minde, is yet unable to dooe. And
than 5 farre more unhable muste he nedes be,
that boldly will upon the fyrst reading, because
he knoweth the wordes, take upon him ther-
fore to teche other men the sentence 6 with
peril of his own soule and other mennes too,
by the bringyng men into mad wayes, sectes,
and heresies, suche as heretikes have of olde
brought up and the church hath condemned.
And thus in these matters if the commen peple
might be bold to cham it as ye say, and to dis-
pute it, than5 should ye have, the more blind
the more bold: the more ignoraunt the more
busie: the lesse witte the more inquisitife:
the more foole the more talkatife of great doutes
and hygh questions of Holy Scripture and of
Goddes great and secret misteries, and this
not sobrely of any good affection, but pre-
sumpteouslye and unreverentlye at meate and
at meale. And there, whan the wyne wer
in and the witte out, woulde they take upon
them with foolish wordes and blasphemie to
handle Holie Scripture in more homely maner
than a song of Robin Hode. And some would,
as I said, solemnely take upon them like as
thei wer ordinary readers to interprete the
text at their plesure, and therwith fall themself
and draw doun other with them into sedicious
sectes and heresies, whereby the Scripture of God
should lese1 his honour and reverence, and be by
such unreverente and unsytting2 demeanour,
among muche people, quite and cleane abused,3
unto the contrary of that holye purpose that God
ordayned it for. Where as, if we woulde no
further meddle therewith, but well and de-
voutelye reade it: and in that that is playne
and evident as Gods commaundementes and
his holy counsayls endevour our self to folow
with helpe of his grace asked therunto, and in
his greate and merveilous miracles consider his
God-head: and in his lowly birth, his godly
life, and his bitter passion, exercise our selfe
in suche meditacions, prayer, and vertues, as
the matter shall minister us occasion, know-
ledgeing 4 our owne ignoraunce where we fynd
a dout, and therin leaning to the faythe of the
churche, wrestle with no such text as might
bring us in a doubte and werestye 5 of anye of
those articles wherein every good christen man
is clere : by thys maner of reading can no man
nor woman take hurt in Holy Scripture.
"Nowe than, the thinges on the other syde
that unlearned people can never by themself
attayne, as in the Psalmes and the Prophetes
and divers partes of the Gospell, where the
wordes bee some time spoken as in the parsone 8
of the Prophete himselfe, sometyme as in the
parsone of God, sometime of some other, as
angels, devils, or men, and sometime of our
Savior Christ, not alway of one fashion, but
sometime as God, sometime as man, somtime
as head of this mistical body his church mili-
tant here in earth, sometime as head of his
churche triumphant in heaven, somtime as in
the persone of his sensuall parties of his own
body, otherwhile in the person of some par-
ticular part of his body mystical, and these
thinges with many other oftentimes inter-
changed and sodeinly sundrye thinges of divers
matters diverslye mingled together, al these
thinges which is not possible for unlearned men
to attayn unto, it wer more than madnes for
them to medle withal, but leave al these thinges
1 please
' meaning
disputes
3 chewing * able 6 then 1 lose 2 unbecoming 3 misused * acknowledging
5 uncertainty 6 person
34
WILLIAM TYNDALE
more eth l to make it all newe than mend it.
As it happed forbothe poyntes in the translacion
of Tyndall.
" Now if it so be that it woulde happely be
thought not a thyng metely to be adventured
to set all on a flushe at ones,2 and dashe rashelye
out Holye Scrypture in everye lewde felowes
teeth: yet, thynketh me, ther might such a
moderacion be taken therein, as neither good
verteous ley folke shoulde lacke it, nor rude and
rashe braynes abuse 3 it. For it might be with
diligence well and truely translated by some
good catholike and well learned man, or by
dyvers dividing the labour among them, and
after conferring theyr several parties together
eche with other. And after that might the
worke be alowed and approved by the ordi-
naries, and by theyr authorities so put unto
prent, as all the copies should come whole
unto the bysshoppes hande. Which he may
after his discrecion and wisedom deliver to such
as he perceiveth honest, sad, and verteous, with
a good monicion and fatherly counsell to use
it reverently with humble heart and lowly mind,
rather sekyng therin occasion of devocion than
of despicion.4 And providing as much as
may be, that the boke be after the decease of
the partie brought again and reverently re-
stored unto the ordinarye. So that as nere as
maye be devised, no man have it but of the
ordinaries hande, and by hym thought and re-
puted for such as shalbe likly to use it to Gods
honor and merite of his own soule. Among
whom if any be proved after to have abused it,
than 5 the use therof to be forboden him, eyther
for ever, or till he be waxen wyser."
"By Our Lady," quod your frend, "this
way misliketh not me. But who should sette
the price of the booke?" "Forsoth," quod I,
"that reken I a thing of litle force. For
neither wer it a great matter for any man in
maner 6 to give a grote or twain above the mene 7
price for a boke of so greate profite, nor for
the bysshope to geve them all free, wherin he
myght serve his dyoces with the cost of x. li.,8
I thynke, or xx. markes.9 Which summe, I
dare saye there is no bishop but he wold be glad
to bestow 10 about a thing that might do his hole
dyoces so special a pleasure with such a spiri-
tuall profit." "By my trouth," quod he, "yet
wene u I that the peple would grudge to have
it on this wise delivered them at the bishops
1 easy 2 once * misuse 4 dispute 6 1
0 practically 7 ordinary 8 ten pounds 9 tw(
marks (= £13 6s. 8d.~) l° spend " ween, think
hande, and had lever ! pay for it to the printer
than have it of the byshop free." "It might so
happen with some," quod I. "But yet, in
myne opinion, ther wer in that maner more
wilfulness than wisedom or any good mind in
suche as would not be content so to receive
them. And therfore I wold think in good
faith that it wold so fortune in few. But, for
God, the more dout would be, lest they would
grudge and hold themself sore greved that wold
require it and wer happely denied it: which
I suppose would not often happen unto any
honest housholder to be by his discrecion rever-
ently red in his house. But though it wer not
taken 2 to every lewde lad in his own handes
to rede a litle rudely whan he list, and than
cast the boke at his heles, or among other such
as himselfe to kepe a quotlibet 3 and a pot
parlament 4 upon, I trow there wil no wise
man find a faulte therin.
"Ye spake right now of the Jewes, among
whom the hole peple have, ye say, the Scripture
in their hands. And ye thought it no reason
that we shold reken Christen men lesse worthy
therto than them. Wherin I am as ye see of
your own opinion. But yet wold God, we had
the like reverence to the Scripture of God that
they have. For I assure you I have heard very
worshipfull folke say which have been in their
houses, that a man could not hyre a Jewe to sit
down upon his Byble of the Olde Testament,
but he taketh it with gret reverence in hand
whan he wil rede, and reverently layeth it up
agayn whan he hath doone. Wheras we, God
forgeve us ! take a litle regarde to sit down on
our Byble with the Old Testament and the
New too. Which homely handeling, as it
procedeth of litle reverence, so doth it more and
more engrendre in the mind a negligence and
contempt of Gods holi words. ..."
WILLIAM TYNDALE (D. 1536)
THE GOSPELL OF S. MATHEW. THE
FYFTH CHAPTER
When he sawe the people, he went up into a
mountaine, and wen he was sett, hys disciples
cam unto him, and he opened his mouth, and
taught them sayinge: "Blessed are the poure
in sprete: for thers is the kyngdom of heven.
Blessed are they that mourne: for they shalbe
comforted. Blessed are the meke: for they
1 liefer, rather 2 deliver 3 debate * drunken dis-
cussion
THE GOSPELL OF S. MATHEW
35
shall inheret the erthe. Blessed are they which
hunger and thurst for rightewesnes : for they
shalbe fylled. Blessed are the mercyfull:
for they shall obteyne mercy. Blessed are the
pure in hert: for they shall se God. Blessed
are the maynteyners of peace : for they shalbe
called the chyldren of God. Blessed are they
which suffre persecucion for rightewesnes sake :
for thers is the kyngdom of heven. Blessed are
ye when men shall revyle you, and persecute
you, and shal falsly saye all manner of evle
sayinges agaynst you for my sake. Rejoyce
and be gladde, for greate is youre rewarde in
heven. For so persecuted they the prophettes
which were before youre dayes.
"Ye are the salt of the erthe, but ah ! yf the
salte be once unsavery, what can be salted
there with? it is thence forthe good for noth-
ynge, but to be cast out at the dores, and that
men treade it under fete. Ye are the light of
the worlde. A cite that is sett on an hill
cannot be hyd, nether do men light a candle
and put it under a busshell, but on a candel-
stycke, and it lighteth all those which are in
the housse. Se that youre light so schyne
before men, that they maye se youre good
werkes, and gloryfie youre Father, which is in
heven.
"Ye shall not thynke, that y am come to
disanull the lawe other : the prophettes : no, y
am not come to dysanull them, but to fulfyll
them. For truely y say unto you, tyll heven
and erthe perysshe, one jott, or one tytle of the
lawe shall not scape, tyll all be fulfylled.
"Whosoever breaketh one of these leest
commaundmentes, and shall teche men so, he
shalbe called the leest in the kyngdom of heven.
But whosoever shall observe and teache them,
that persone shalbe called greate in the kyng-
dom of heven.
"For I say unto you, except youre rightewes-
nes excede the rightewesnes of the scrybes and
pharyses, ye cannot entre into the kyngdom
of heven.
"Ye have herde howe it was sayd unto them
of the olde tyme. Thou shalt not kyll. Who-
soever shall kyll, shalbe in daunger of judge-
ment. But I say unto you, whosoever ys
angre with hys brother, shalbe in daunger of
judgement. Whosoever shall say unto his
brother, Racha ! shalbe in daunger of a
counseill. But whosoever shall say unto his
brother, Thou fole ! shalbe in daunger of hell
fyre. Therfore when thou offerest thy gyfte
att the altre, and there remembrest that thy
brother hath eny thynge agaynst the: leve
there thyne offrynge before the altre, and go
thy waye fyrst and reconcyle thy silff to thy
brother, and then come and offre thy gyfte.
"Agre with thine adversary at once, whyles
thou arte in the waye with hym, lest thine
adversary delivre the to the judge, and the
judge delyvre the to the minister,1 and then
thou be cast into preson. I say unto the
verely: thou shalt not come out thence tyll
thou have payed the utmoost forthynge.2
"Ye have herde howe yt was sayde to them
of olde tyme, thou shalt not commytt advoutrie.3
But I say unto you, that whosoever eyeth a
wyfe, lustynge after her, hathe commytted
advoutrie with her alredy in his hert.
" Wherfore yf thy right eye offende the, plucke
hym out and caste him from the, Better hit is
for the, that one of thy membres perysshe then
that thy whole body shuld be caste in to hell.
Also yf thy right honde offend the, cutt hym of
and caste hym from the. Better hit is that
one of thy membres perisshe, then that all thy
body shulde be caste in to hell.
"Hit ys sayd, whosoever put4 awaye his
wyfe, let hym geve her a testymonyall of her
divorcement. But I say unto you: whosoever
put 4 awaye hys wyfe (except hit be for fornica-
cion) causeth her to breake matrimony, And
who soever maryeth her that is divorsed, break-
eth wedlocke.
"Agayne ye have herde, howe it was said to
them of olde tyme, thou shalt not forswere
thysilfe, but shalt performe thine othe to God.
But I saye unto you swere not at all: nether
by heven, for hit ys Goddes seate: nor yet by
the erth, For it is hys fote stole: Nether by
Jerusalem, for it is the cite of the greate kynge :
Nether shalt thou swere by thy heed, because
thou canst not make one heer whyte, or blacke :
But youre communicacion shalbe, ye, ye: nay,
nay. For whatsoever is more then that, com-
meth of evle.
"Ye have herde howe it is sayd, an eye for
an eye: a tothe for a tothe. But I say unto
you, that ye withstond 5 not wronge : But yf a
man geve the a blowe on thy right cheke, turne
to hym the othre. And yf eny man wyll sue
the at the lawe, and take thi coote from the,
lett hym have thi clooke also. And whosoever
wyll compell the to goo a myle, goo wyth him
twayne. Geve to him that axeth: and from
him that wolde borowe turne not away.
1 officer 2 farthing 3 adultery * puts 8 resist
34
WILLIAM TYNDALE
more eth 1 to make it all newe than mend it.
As it happed forbothe poyntes in the translacion
of Tyndall.
" Now if it so be that it woulde happely be
thought not a thyng metely to be adventured
to set all on a flushe at ones,2 and dashe rashelye
out Holye Scrypture in everye lewde felowes
teeth: yet, thynketh me, ther might such a
moderacion be taken therein, as neither good
verteous ley folke shoulde lacke it, nor rude and
rashe brayries abuse 3 it. For it might be with
diligence well and truely translated by some
good catholike and well learned man, or by
dyvers dividing the labour among them, and
after conferring theyr several parties together
eche with other. And after that might the
worke be alowed and approved by the ordi-
naries, and by theyr authorities so put unto
prent, as all the copies should come whole
unto the bysshoppes hande. Which he may
after his discrecion and wisedom deliver to such
as he perceiveth honest, sad, and verteous, with
a good monicion and fatherly counsell to use
it reverently with humble heart and lowly mind,
rather sekyng therin occasion of devocion than
of despicion.4 And providing as much as
may be, that the boke be after the decease of
the partie brought again and reverently re-
stored unto the ordinarye. So that as nere as
maye be devised, no man have it but of the
ordinaries hande, and by hym thought and re-
puted for such as shalbe likly to use it to Gods
honor and merite of his own soule. Among
whom if any be proved after to have abused it,
than 5 the use therof to be forboden him, eyther
for ever, or till he be waxen wyser."
"By Our Lady," quod your frend, "this
way misliketh not me. But who should sette
the price of the booke?" "Forsoth," quod I,
"that reken I a thing of litle force. For
neither wer it a great matter for any man in
maner 6 to give a grote or twain above the mene 7
price for a boke of so greate profite, nor for
the bysshope to geve them all free, wherin he
myght serve his dyoces with the cost of x. li.,8
I thynke, or xx. markes.9 Which summe, I
dare saye there is no bishop but he wold be glad
to bestow 10 about a thing that might do his hole
dyoces so special a pleasure with such a spiri-
tuall profit." "By my trouth," quod he, "yet
wene " I that the peple would grudge to have
it on this wise delivered them at the bishops
1 easy 2 once * misuse 4 dispute B then
8 practically 7 ordinary 8 ten pounds 9 twenty
marks (= £13 6s. 8d.) 10 spend » ween, think
hande, and had lever ' pay for it to the printer
than have it of the byshop free." "It might so
happen with some," quod I. "But yet, in
myne opinion, ther wer in that maner more
wilfulness than wisedom or any good mind in
suche as would not be content so to receive
them. And therfore I wold think in good
faith that it wold so fortune in few. But, for
God, the more dout would be, lest they would
grudge and hold themself sore greved that wold
require it and wer happely denied it: which
I suppose would not often happen unto any
honest housholder to be by his discrecion rever-
ently red in his house. But though it wer not
taken 2 to every lewde lad in his own handes
to rede a litle rudely whan he list, and than
cast the boke at his heles, or among other such
as himselfe to kepe a quotlibet 3 and a pot
parlament * upon, I trow there wil no wise
man find a faulte therin.
"Ye spake right now of the Jewes, among
whom the hole peple have, ye say, the Scripture
in their hands. And ye thought it no reason
that we shold reken Christen men lesse worthy
therto than them. Wherin I am as ye see of
your own opinion. But yet wold God, we had
the like reverence to the Scripture of God that
they have. For I assure you I have heard very
worshipfull folke say which have been in their
houses, that a man could not hyre a Jewe to sit
down upon his Byble of the Olde Testament,
but he taketh it with gret reverence in hand
whan he wil rede, and reverently layeth it up
agayn whan he hath doone. Wheras we, God
forgeve us! take a litle regarde to sit down on
our Byble with the Old Testament and the
New too. Which homely handeling, as it
procedeth of litle reverence, so doth it more and
more engrendre in the mind a negligence and
contempt of Gods holi words. . . ."
WILLIAM TYNDALE (D. 1536)
THE GOSPELL OF S. MATHEW. THE
FYFTH CHAPTER
When he sawe the people, he went up into a
mountaine, and wen he was sett, hys disciples
cam unto him, and he opened his mouth, and
taught them sayinge: "Blessed are the poure
in sprete: for thers is the kyngdom of heven.
Blessed are they that mourne: for they shalbe
comforted. Blessed are the meke: for they
1 liefer, rather 2 deliver 3 debate * drunken dis-
cussion
THE GOSPELL OF S. MATHEW
35
shall inheret the erthe. Blessed are they which
hunger and thurst for rightewesnes : for they
shalbe fylled. Blessed are the mercyfull:
for they shall obteyne mercy. Blessed are the
pure in hert: for they shall se God. Blessed
are the maynteyners of peace : for they shalbe
called the chyldren of God. Blessed are they
which suffre persecucion for rightewesnes sake:
for thers is the kyngdom of heven. Blessed are
ye when men shall revyle you, and persecute
you, and shal falsly saye all manner of evle
sayinges agaynst you for my sake. Rejoyce
and be gladde, for greate is youre rewarde in
heven. For so persecuted they the prophettes
which were before youre dayes.
"Ye are the salt of the erthe, but ah ! yf the
salte be once unsavery, what can be salted
there with? it is thence forthe good for noth-
ynge, but to be cast out at the dores, and that
men treade it under fete. Ye are the light of
the worlde. A cite that is sett on an hill
cannot be hyd, nether do men light a candle
and put it under a busshell, but on a candel-
stycke, and it lighteth all those which are in
the housse. Se that youre light so schyne
before men, that they maye se youre good
werkes, and gloryfie youre Father, which is in
heven.
"Ye shall not thynke, that y am come to
disanull the lawe other 1 the prophettes : no, y
am not come to dysanull them, but to fulfyll
them. For truely y say unto you, tyll heven
and erthe perysshe, one jott, or one tytle of the
lawe shall not scape, tyll all be fulfylled.
"Whosoever breaketh one of these leest
commaundmentes, and shall teche men so, he
shalbe called the leest in the kyngdom of heven.
But whosoever shall observe and teache them,
that persone shalbe called greate in the kyng-
dom of heven.
"For I say unto you, except youre rightewes-
nes excede the rightewesnes of the scrybes and
pharyses, ye cannot entre into the kyngdom
of heven.
"Ye have herde howe it was sayd unto them
of the olde tyme. Thou shalt not kyll. Who-
soever shall kyll, shalbe in daunger of judge-
ment. But I say unto you, whosoever ys
angre with hys brother, shalbe in daunger of
judgement. Whosoever shall say unto his
brother, Racha ! shalbe in daunger of a
counseill. But whosoever shall say unto his
brother, Thou fole ! shalbe in daunger of hell
fyre. Therfore when thou offerest thy gyfte
att the altre, and there remembrest that thy
brother hath eny thynge agaynst the: leve
there thyne offrynge before the altre, and go
thy waye fyrst and reconcyle thy silff to thy
brother, and then come and offre thy gyfte.
"Agre with thine adversary at once, whyles
thou arte in the waye with hym, lest thine
adversary delivre the to the judge, and the
judge delyvre the to the minister,1 and then
thou be cast into preson. I say unto the
verely: thou shalt not come out thence tyll
thou have payed the utmoost forthynge.2
"Ye have herde howe yt was sayde to them
of olde tyme, thou shalt not commytt advoutrie.3
But I say unto you, that whosoever eyeth a
wyfe, lustynge after her, hathe commytted
advoutrie with her alredy in his hert.
" Wherfore yf thy right eye offende the, plucke
hym out and caste him from the, Better hit is
for the, that one of thy membres perysshe then
that thy whole body shuld be caste in to hell.
Also yf thy right honde offend the, cutt hym of
and caste hym from the. Better hit is that
one of thy membres perisshe, then that all thy
body shulde be caste in to hell.
"Hit ys sayd, whosoever put4 awaye his
wyfe, let hym geve her a testymonyall of her
divorcement. But I say unto you: whosoever
put 4 awaye hys wyfe (except hit be for fornica-
cion) causeth her to breake matrimony, And
who soever maryeth her that is divorsed, break-
eth wedlocke.
"Agayne ye have herde, howe it was said to
them of olde tyme, thou shalt not forswere
thysilfe, but shalt performe thine othe to God.
But I saye unto you swere not at all: nether
by heven, for hit ys Goddes seate: nor yet by
the erth, For it is hys fote stole: Nether by
Jerusalem, for it is the cite of the greate kynge:
Nether shalt thou swere by thy heed, because
thou canst not make one heer whyte, or blacke :
But youre communicacion shalbe, ye, ye: nay,
nay. For whatsoever is more then that, com-
meth of evle.
"Ye have herde howe it is sayd, an eye for
an eye: a tothe for a tothe. But I say unto
you, that ye withstond 5 not wronge : But yf a
man geve the a blowe on thy right cheke, turne
to hym the othre. And yf eny man wyll sue
the at the lawe, and take thi coote from the,
lett hym have thi clooke also. And whosoever
wyll compell the to goo a myle, goo wyth him
twayne. Geve to him that axeth: and from
him that wolde borowe turne not away.
1 officer 2 farthing 3 adultery * puts 8 resist
HUGH LATIMER
"Ye have herde howe it is saide: thou shalt
love thyne neghbour, and hate thyne enemy.
But y saye unto you, love youre enemies.
Blesse them that cursse you. Doo good to
them that hate you, Praye for them which doo
you wronge, and persecute you, that ye maye
be the chyldren of youre hevenly Father: for
he maketh his sunne to aryse on the evle and
on the good, and sendeth his reyne on the juste
and on the onjuste. For if ye shall love them,
which love you: what rewarde shall ye have?
Doo not the publicans even so? And if ye
be frendly to youre brethren only: what sin-
guler thynge doo ye? Doo nott the publicans
lyke wyse ? Ye shall therfore be perfecte, even
as youre hevenly Father is perfecte."
HUGH LATIMER (i48s?-isss)
FROM THE FIRST SERMON BEFORE
KING EDWARD VI
And necessary it is that a kyng have a treas-
ure all wayeys in a redines, for that, and such
other affayres, as be dayly in hys handes.
The which treasure, if it be not sufficiente, he
maye lawfully and wyth a salve l conscience
take taxis of hys subjectes. For it were not
mete 2 the treasure shoulde be in the subjectes
purses whan the money shoulde be occupied,3
nor it were not best for themselves, for the lacke
there of, it myght cause both it and all the rest
that they have shold not long be theirs, And so
for a necessarye and expedyent occacion, it is
warranted by Goddes word to take of the sub-
jectes. But if there be sufficyente treasures,
and the burdenynge of subjectes be for a vayne
thyng, so that he wyl require thus much, or so
much, of his subjects, whyche perchaunce are
in great necessitie and penurye, then this covet-
ous intent, and the request thereof, is to muche,
whych God forbiddeth the king her in this place
of scripture to have. But who shal se this
"to much," or tell the king of this "to much"?
Thinke you anye of the Kynges prevye cham-
ber? No. For feare of losse of faver. Shall
any of his sworne chapelins ? No. Thei bee of
the clausset4 and kepe close such matters. But
the Kynge him selfe must se this "to much,"
and that shal he do by no meanes with the
corporal eyes. Wherfore he must have a paier
of spectacles, whiche shall have two cleare
syghtes in them, that is, the one is fayth, not a
seasonable fayeth, which shall laste but a whyle,
but a fayeth whiche is continuynge in God.
The seconde cleare sighte is charitie, whych is
fervente towardes hys Chrysten brother. By
them two must the Kynge se ever whan he
hath to muche. But fewe therbe that useth
these spectacles, the more is theyr dampnacion.
Not wythoute cause Chrisostome wyth admira-
cion1 sayeth, "Mir or si aliquis rectorum potest
salvari. I marvell if anye ruler can be saved."
Whyche wordes he speaketh not of an impos-
sibilitie, but of a great difficultie ; for that their
charge is marvelous great, and that none aboute
them dare shew them the truth of the thing
how it goth. Wei then, if God wyl not alowe
a king to much, whither 2 wyl he alowe a sub-
ject to much? No, that he wil not. Whether
have any man here in England to much? I
doubte most riche men have to muche, for
wythout to muche, we can get nothynge. As
for example, the Phisicion. If the pore man
be dyseased, he can have no helpe without to
much; and of the lawyer the pore man can
get no counsell, expedicion, nor helpe in his
matter, except he geve him to much. At mar-
chandes handes no kynd of wares can be had,
except we geve for it to muche. You lande-
lordes, you rent-reisers, I maye saye you
steplordes, you unnaturall lordes, you have for
your possessions yerely to much. For that3
herebefore went for .xx. or .xl. pound by yere,
(which is an honest porcion to be had gratis in
one Lordeshyp, of a nother mannes sweat and
laboure) now is it let for .1. (fifty) or a .C. (hun-
dred) pound by yeare. Of thys "to muche"
commeth thys monsterous and portentious
dearthis made by man. Not with standynge
God doeth sende us plentifullye the fruites of
the earth, mercyfullye, contrarye unto oure
desertes, not wythstandynge " to muche,"
whyche these riche menne have, causeth suche
dearth, that poore menne (whyche live of theyr
laboure) can not wyth the sweate of their face
have a livinge, all kinde of victales is so deare,
pigges, gese, capons, chickens, egges, etc.
These thinges with other are so unresonably
enhansed. And I thinke verely that if it this4
continewe, we shal at length be constrayned
to paye for a pygge a pounde. I wyl tel you,
my lordes and maysters, thys is not for the
kynges honoure. Yet some wyl saye, k no west
thou what belongeth unto the kinges honoure
better then we? I answere, that the true
honoure of a Kinge, is moost perfectly men-
cioned and painted furth in the scriptures, of
which, if ye be ignoraunt, for lacke of tyme,
1 safe 2 proper •* made use of 4 closet
1 wonder 2 whether
what
thus
THE FIRST SERMON BEFORE KING EDWARD VI
37
that ye cannot reade it, albeit, that your coun-
saile be never so politike, yet is it not for the
kynges honoure. What his honoure meaneth
ye canot tel. It is the kynges honoure that his
subjectes bee led in the true religion. That
all hys prelates and Cleargie be set about their
worcke in preching and studieng, and not to
be interrupted from their charge. Also it is
the Kinges honour that the commen wealth be
avaunsed, that the dearth of these forsaied
thynges be provided for, and the commodities
of thys Realme so emploied, as it may be to the
setting his subjectes on worke, and kepyng
them from idlenes. And herin resteth the
kinges honour and hys office. So doynge, his
accompte before God shalbe alowed, and re-
warded. Furder l more, if the kinges honour
(as sum men say) standeth in the great multi-
tude of people, then these grasiers, inclosers,
and rente-rearers, are hinderers of the kings
honour. For wher as have bene a great meany 2
of householders and inhabitauntes, ther is nowe
but a shepherd and his dogge, so thei hynder
the kinges honour most of al. My lordes and
maisters, I say also that all suche procedynges
which are agaynste the Kynges honoure (as I
have a part declared before) and as far as I
can perceive, do intend plainly, to make the
yomanry slavery and the Cleargye shavery.
For suche worckes are al syngular,3 private
welth and commoditye. We of the cleargye
had to much, but that is taken away; and
nowe we have to little. But for myne owne
part, I have no cause to complaine, for, I
thanke God and the kyng, I have sufficient,
and God is my judge I came not to crave of
anye man any thyng; but I knowe theim that
have to litle. There lyeth a greate matter by
these appropriacions, greate reformacions is to
be had in them. I knowe wher is a great
market Towne with divers hamelets and in-
habitauntes, wher do rise yereli of their labours
to the value of .1. (fifty) pounde, and the vicar
that serveth (being so great a cure) hath but
.xii. or .xiiii. markes by yere, so that of thys
pension he is not able to by him bokes, nor
geve hys neyghboure dryncke, al the great
gaine goeth another way. jMy father was a
Yoman, and had no landes oFnis owne, onlye
he had a farme of .iii. or .iiii. pound by yere at
the uttermost, and here upon he tilled so much
as kepte halfe a dosen men. He had walke 4
for a hundred shepe, and my mother mylked
1 further 2 company 3 for the benefit of an indi-
vidual * pasture
.xxx. kyne. He was able and did find the king
a harnesse, wyth hym selfe, and hys horsse,
whyle he came to the place that he should
receyve the kynges wages. I can remembre
that I buckled hys harnes when he went unto
Blacke-heeath felde. He kept me to schole,
or elles I had not bene able to have preached
before the kinges majestic nowe. He maryed
my systers with v. pounde or .xx. nobles a
pece, so that he broughte them up in godlines,
and feare of God.
He kept hospitalitie for his pore neighbours.
And sum almess ' he gave to the poore, and all
thys did he of the sayd farme. Wher he that
now hath it, paieth .xvi. pounde by yere or
more, and is not able to do any thing for his
Prynce, for himselfe, nor for his children, or
geve a cup of drincke to the pore. Thus al the
enhansinge and rearing goth to your private
commoditie and wealth. So that where ye
had a single " to much," you have that: and
syns the same, ye have enhansed the rente, and
so have encreased an other "to much." So
now ye have doble to muche, whyche is to to
much. But let the preacher preach til his
long be worne to the stompes, nothing is
amended. We have good statutes made for
the commen welth as touching comeners, en-
closers, many metinges and Sessions, but in the
end of the matter their 2 commeth nothing forth.
Wei, well, thys is one thynge I wyll saye unto
you, from whens it commeth I knowe, even,
from the devill. I knowe his intent in it. For
if ye bryng it to passe, that the yomanry be not
able to put their sonnes to schole (as in dede
universities do wonderously decaye all redy)
and that they be not able to mary their daugh-
ters to the avoidyng of whoredome, I say ye
plucke salvation from the people and utterly
distroy the realme. For by yomans sonnes the
fayth of Christ is and hath bene mayntained
chefely. Is this realme taught by rich mens
sonnes? No, no! Reade the Cronicles; ye
shall fynde sumtime noble mennes sonnes
which have bene unpreaching byshoppes and
prelates, but ye shall finde none of them learned
men. But verilye, they that shoulde loke to
the redresse of these thinges, be the greatest
against them. In thyse realm are a great
meany 3 of folkes, and amongest many I knowe
but one of tender zeale, at the mocion of his
poore tennauntes, hath let downe his landes
to the olde rentes for their reliefe. For Goddes
love, let not him be a Phenix, let him not be
1 alms 2 there * company
ROGER ASCHAM
alone, let hym not be an Hermite closed in a
wall, sum good man follow him and do as he
geveth example ! Surveiers l there be, that
gredyly gorge up their covetouse guttes, hande-
makers 2 I meane (honest men I touch not
but al suche as survei 3) ; thei make up 4 their
mouthes but the commens 6 be utterlye undone
by them. Whose ' bitter cry ascendyng up
to the eares of the God of Sabaoth, the gredy
pyt of hel burning fire (without great repent-
aunce) do tary and loke for them.7 A redresse
God graunt! For suerly, suerly, but that .ii.
thynges do comfort me, I wold despaire of the
redresse in these maters. One is, that the
kinges majestic whan he commeth to age wyll
se a redresse of these thinges so out of frame,
geving example by letting doune his owne
landes first and then enjoyne hys subjectes to
folowe him. The second hope I have, is, I
beleve that the general accomptyng 8 daye is
at hande, the dreadfull day of judgement I
meane, whiche shall make an end of al these
calamities and miseries. For as the scryptures
be, Cum dixerint, pax pax, "When they shal
say, Peace, peace," Omnia tuta, " All thynges
are sure," then is the day at hand, a mery day,
I saye, for al such as do in this world studye to
serve and please god and continue in his fayth,
feare and love: and a dreadful, horrible day
for them that decline from God, walking in
ther owne wayes, to whom as it is wrytten in
the xxv of Mathew is sayd: Ite maledicti in
ignem eternum, "Go ye curssed into ever-
lastynge punyshment, wher shalbe waylinge
and gnashing of teeth." But unto the other he
shal saye: Venite benedicti, "come ye blessed
chyldren of my father, possesse ye the kyng-
dome prepared for you from the beginninge of
the worlde." Of the which God make us al
partakers ! Amen.
ROGER ASCHAM (1515-1568)
THE SCHOLEMASTER
FROM THE FIRST BOOKE FOR THE YOUTH
After the childe hath learned perfitlie the
eight partes of speach, let him then learne the
right joyning togither of substantives with
adjectives, the nowne with the verbe, the rela-
tive with the antecedent. And in learninge
farther hys Syntaxis, by mine advice, he shall
1 government officials 2 grafters 3 serve as
overseers * fill 6 commons, common people 6 i.e.
the commons 7 i.e. the surveyors 8 accounting
not use the common order in common scholes,
for making of Latines: wherby the childe
commonlie learneth, first, an evill choice
of wordes, (and right choice of wordes, saith
Caesar, is the foundation of eloquence) than,1
a wrong placing of wordes: and lastlie, an ill
framing of the sentence, with a perverse judge-
ment, both of wordes and sentences. These
faultes, taking once roote in yougthe, be never,
or hardlie, pluckt away in age. Moreover,
there is no one thing, that hath more, either
dulled the wittes, or taken awaye the will of
children from learning, than the care they have,
to satisfie their masters, in making of Latines.
For the scholer is commonlie beat for the mak-
ing, when the master were more worthie to be
beat for the mending, or rather, marring of the
same : The master many times being as igno-
rant as the childe what to saie properlie and
fitlie to the matter. Two scholemasters have
set forth in print, either of them a booke, of
soch kinde of Latines, Horman and Whittington.
A childe shall learne of the better of them,
that, which an other daie, if he be wise, and
cum to judgement, he must be faine to unlearne
againe.
There is a waie, touched in the first booke
of Cicero De Oratore, which, wiselie brought
into scholes, truely taught, and constantly used,
would not onely take wholly away this butcherlie
feare in making of Latines, but would also, with
ease and pleasure, and in short time, as I know
by good experience, worke a true choice and
placing of wordes, a right ordering of sentences,
an easie understandyng of the tonge, a readines
to speake, a facultie to write, a true judgement,
both of his owne, and other mens doinges,
what tonge so ever he doth use.
The waie is this. After the three concord-
ances 2 learned, as I touched before, let the
master read unto hym the Epistles of Cicero,
gathered togither and chosen out by Sturmius
for the capacitie of children. First, let him
teach the childe, cherefullie and plainlie, the
cause, and matter of the letter: then, let him
construe it into Englishe, so oft, as the childe
may easilie carie awaie the understanding of
it: Lastlie, parse it over perfitlie. This done
thus, let the childe, by and by,3 both construe
and parse it over againe; so that it may
appeare that the childe douteth4 in nothing
that his master taught him before. After this,
the childe must take a paper booke, and sitting
1 then 2 See the first sentence of this selection.
3 immediately 4 is at a loss
THE SCHOLEMASTER
39
in some place where no man shall prompe him,
by him self, let him translate into Englishe his
former lesson. Then shewing it to his master,
let the master take from him his Latin booke,
and pausing an houre, at the least, than1 let
the childe translate his owne Englishe into
Latin againe, in an other paper booke. When
the childe bringeth it, turned into Latin, the
master must compare it with Tullies 2 booke,
and laie them both togither: and where the
childe doth well, either in chosing, or true
placing of Tullies wordes, let the master praise
him, and saie, " Here ye do well." For I assure
you, there is no such whetstone to sharpen a
good witte and encourage a will to learninge as
is praise.
But if the childe misse, either in forgetting a
worde, or in chaunging a good with a worse,
or misordering the sentence, I would not have
the master, either froune, or chide with him,
if the childe have done his diligence, and used
no trewandship 3 therin. For I know by good
experience, that a childe shall take more profit
of two fautes 4 jentlie warned of then of foure
thinges rightly hitt. For than5 the master
shall have good occasion to saie unto him,
"N.,* Tullie would have used such a worde,
not this: Tullie would have placed this word
here, not there: would have used this case,
this number, this person, this degree, this
gender: he would have used this moode, this
tens, this simple, rather than this compound:
this adverbe here, not there: he would have
ended the sentence with this verbe, not with
that nowne or participle," etc.
In these fewe lines, I have wrapped up the
most tedious part of Grammer: and also the
ground of almost all the Rewles, that are so
busilie taught by the Master, and so hardlie
learned by the Scholer, in all common Scholes :
which after this sort, the master shall teach
without all error, and the scholer shall learne
without great paine: the master being led by
so sure a guide, and the scholer being brought
into so plaine and easie a waie. And therefore,
we do not contemne Rewles, but we gladlie
teach Rewles: and teach them, more plainlie,
sensiblie, and orderlie, than they be commonlie
taught in common Scholes. For whan the
Master shall compare Tullies booke with his
Scholers translation, let the Master, at the first,
lead and teach his Scholer to joyne the Rewles
of his Grammer booke, with the examples of
1 then 2 Cicero's 8 negligence 4 faults s then
! N stands for the name of the child.
his present lesson, untill the Scholer, by him
selfe, be hable to fetch out of his Grammer
everie Rewle for everie Example: So as the
Grammer booke be ever in the Scholers hand,
and also used of him, as a Dictionarie, for everie
present use. This is a lively and perfite waie
of teaching of Rewles : where the common waie,
used in common Scholes, to read the Grammer
alone by it selfe, is tedious for the Master, hard
for the Scholer, colde and uncumfortable for
them bothe.
Let your Scholer be never afraide to aske you
any dout, but use discretlie the best allurements
ye can to encorage him to the same : lest his
overmoch fearinge of you drive him to seeke
some misorderlie shifte: as, to seeke to be
helped by some other booke, or to be prompted
by some other Scholer, and so goe aboute to
begile you moch, and him selfe more.
With this waie, of good understanding the
mater, plaine construinge, diligent parsinge,
dailie translatinge, cherefull admonishinge,
and heedefull amendinge of faultes: never
leavinge behinde juste praise for well doinge,
I would have the Scholer brought up withall,
till he had red, and translated over the first booke
of Epistles chosen out by Sturmius, with a good
peece of a Comedie of Terence also.
All this while, by mine advise, the childe
shall use to speake no Latine: For, as Cicero
saith in like mater, with like wordes, loquendo,
male loqui discunt. And, that excellent
learned man, G. Budaeus, in his Greeke Com-
mentaries, sore complaineth, that whan he be-
gan to learne the Latin tonge, use of speaking
Latin at the table, and elsewhere, unadvisedlie,
did bring him to soch an evill choice of wordes,
to soch a crooked framing of sentences, that no
one thing did hurt or hinder him more, all the
daies of his life afterward, both for redinesse in
speaking, and also good judgement in writinge.
In very deede, if children were brought up,
in soch a house, or soch a Schole, where the
Latin tonge were properlie and perfitlie spoken,
as Tib. and Ca. Gracci were brought up, in
their mother Cornelias house, surelie than '
the dailie use of speaking were the best and
readiest waie to learne the Latin tong. But,
now, commonlie, in the best Scholes in England,
for wordes, right choice is smallie regarded, true
proprietie whollie neglected, confusion is
brought in, barbariousnesse is bred up so in
yong wittes, as afterward they be, not onelie
marde for speaking, but also corrupted in
1 then
ROGER ASCHAM
judgement : as with moch adoe, or never at all
they be brought to right frame againe.
Yet all men covet to have their children
speake Latin: and so do I verie earnestlie
too. We bothe have one purpose : we agree in
desire, we wish one end : but we differ somewhat
in order and waie, that leadeth rightlie to that
end. Other would have them speake at all
adventures: and, so they be speakinge, to
speake, the Master careth not, the Scholer
knoweth not, what. This is to seeme and not
to bee : except it be to be bolde without shame,
rashe without skill, full of wordes without
witte. I wish to have them speake so as it
may well appeare that the braine doth goverrie
the tonge, and that reason leadeth forth the
taulke. Socrates doctrine is true in Plato, and
well marked, and truely uttered by Horace in
Arte Poetica, that, where so ever knowledge
doth accompanie the witte, there best utterance
doth alwaies awaite upon the tonge : For good
understanding must first be bred in the childe,
which, being nurished with skill, and use of
writing (as I will teach more largelie hereafter)
is the onelie waie to bring him to judgement
and readinesse in speakinge : and that in farre
shorter time (if he followe constantlie the trade *
of this litle lesson) than he shall do, by common
teachinge of the common scholes in England.
But, to go forward, as you perceive your
scholer to goe better and better on awaie,
first, with understanding his lesson more quick-
lie, with parsing more readelie, with translating
more spedelie and perfitlie then he was wonte,
after, give him longer lessons to translate:
and withall, begin to teach him, both in nownes,
and verbes, what is Proprium, and what is
Translatum, what Synonymum, what Di-versum,
which be Contraria, and which be most notable
Phrases in all his lecture: As, Proprium, Rex
Sepultus est magnified; Translatum, Cum illo
Principe, Sepulta est &° gloria et Solus Rei-
publicae; Synonyma, Ensis, Gladius; Laudare,
praedicare; Diversa, Diligere, Amare; Calere,
Exardescere; Inimicus, Hostis; Contraria,
Acerbum & luctuosum bellum, Dulcis &= laeta
Pax; Phrases, Dare verba, abjicere obedientiam.
Your scholer then, must have the third paper
booke; in the which, after he hath done his
double translation, let him write, after this sort
foure of these forenamed sixe, diligentlie marked
out of everie lesson. Or else, three, or two, if
there be no moe: and if there be none of
these at all in some lecture, yet not omitte the
order, but write these: Diversa, nutta; Contra-
ria, nulla; etc.
This diligent translating, joyned with this
heedeful marking, in the foresaid Epistles, and
afterwarde in some plaine Oration of Tullie,
as pro lege Manil: pro Archia Poeta, or in those
three ad C. Caes: shall worke soch a right
choise of wordes, so streight a framing of
sentences, soch a true judgement, both to
write skilfullie, and speake wittielie, as wise men
shall both praise and marvell at.
If your scholer do misse sometimes, in
marking rightlie these foresaid sixe thinges,
chide not hastelie : for that shall, both dull his
witte, and discorage his diligence: but monish
him gentelie : which shall make him, both will-
ing to amende, and glad to go forward in love
and hope of learning. I have now wished,
twise or thrise, this gentle nature, to be in a
Scholemaster: And, that I have done so,
neither by chance, nor without some reason,
I will now declare at large, why, in mine opin-
ion, love is fitter then feare, gentlenes better
than beating, to bring up a childe rightlie in
learninge.
With the common use of teaching and beating
in common scholes of England, I will not great-
lie contend: which if I did, it were but a small
grammaticall controversie, neither belonging to
heresie nor treason,1 nor greatly touching God
nor the Prince : although in very deede, in the
end, the good or ill bringing up of children,
doth as much serve to the good or ill service, of
God, our Prince, and our whole countrie, as
any one thing doth beside.
I do gladlie agree with all good Scholemasters
in these pointes: to have children brought to a
good perfitnes in learning: to all honestie in
maners: to have all fautes 2 rightlie amended:
to have everie vice severelie corrected: but for
the order and waie that leadeth rightlie to these
pointes, we somewhat differ. For commonlie,
many scholemasters, some, as I have seen,
moe,3 as I have heard tell, be of so crooked a
nature, as, when they meete with a hard witted
scholer, they rather breake him than bowe him,
rather marre him then mend him. For whan
the scholemaster is angrie with some other
matter, then will he sonest faul to beate his
scholer: and though he him selfe should be
punished for his folie, yet must he beate some
scholer for his pleasure: though there be no
cause for him to do so, nor yet fault in the
scholer to deserve so. These, ye will say, be
1 practice.
This is a proverbial expression. 2 faults 3 more
THE SCHOLEMASTER
fond * scholem asters, and fewe they be that
be found to be soch. They be fond in deede,
but surelie overmany soch be found everie
where. But this will I say, that even the wisest
of your great beaters, do as oft punishe nature
as they do correcte faultes. Yea, many times,
the better nature is sorer punished : For, if one,
by quicknes of witte, take his lesson readelie,
an other, by hardnes of witte, taketh it not so
speedelie: the first is alwaies commended, the
other is commonlie punished: whan a wise
scholemaster should rather discretelie consider
the right disposition of both their natures,
and not so moch wey 2 what either of them is
able to do now, as what either of them is likelie
to do hereafter. For this I know, not onelie
by reading of bookes in my studie, but also by
experience of life, abrode in the world, that
those which be commonlie the wisest, the best
learned, and best men also, when they be olde,
were never commonlie the quickest of witte,
when they were yonge. The causes why,
amongest other, which be many, that move
me thus to thinke, be these fewe, which I will
recken. Quicke wittes, commonlie, be apte
to take, unapte to keepe: soone hote and
desirous of this and that: as colde and sone
wery of the same againe : more quicke to enter
spedelie, than hable 3 to pearse 4 farre : even
like over sharpe tooles, whose edges be verie
soone turned. Soch wittes delite them selves
in easie and pleasant studies, and never passe
farre forward in hie and hard sciences. And
therefore the quickest wittes commonlie may
prove the best Poetes, but not the wisest
Orators: readie of tonge to speake boldlie,
not deepe of judgement, either for good counsel!
or wise writing. Also, for maners and life,
quicke wittes, commonlie, be, in desire, new-
fangle,5 in purpose unconstant, light to promise
any thing, readie to forget every thing: both
benefite and injurie : and therby neither fast to
frend, nor fearefull to foe : inquisitive of every
trifle, not secret in greatest affaires: bolde,
with any person: busie, in every matter:
sothing 6 soch as be present : nipping any that
is absent: of nature also, alwaies, flattering
their betters, envying their equals, despising
their inferiors: and, by quicknes of witte,
verie quicke and readie, to like none so well as
them selves.
Moreover commonlie, men, very quicke of
witte, be also, verie light of conditions: 7
and thereby, very readie of disposition, to be
1 foolish 2 weigh 3 able * pierce
novelty 6 agreeing with 7 character
' fond of
caried over quicklie, by any light cumpanie,
to any riot and unthriftiness, when they be
yonge: and therfore seldome, either honest
of life, or riche in living, when they be olde.
For, quicke in witte and light in maners,
be, either seldome troubled, or verie sone wery,
in carying a verie hevie purse. Quicke wittes
also be, in most part of all their doinges, over-
quicke, hastie, rashe, headie, and brainsicke.
These two last wordes, Headie, and Brain-
sicke, be fitte and proper wordes, rising natural-
lie of the matter, and tearmed aptlie by the
condition, of over moch quickenes of witte.
In yougthe also they be readie scoffers,
privie mockers, and ever over light and mery.
In aige, sone testie, very waspishe, and alwaies
over miserable: and yet fewe of them cum to
any great aige, by reason of their misordered
life when they were yong: but a great deale
fewer of them cum to shewe any great counte-
nance, or beare any great authoritie abrode in
the world, but either live obscurelie, men know
not how, or dye obscurelie, men marke not
whan. They be like trees, that shewe forth
faire blossoms and broad leaves in spring time,
but bring out small and not long lasting fruite
in harvest time: and that, onelie soch as fall
and rotte before they be ripe, and so, never, or
seldome, cum to any good at all. For this ye shall
finde most true by experience, that amongest
a number of quicke wittes in youthe, fewe be
found, in the end, either verie fortunate for
them selves, or verie profitable to serve trie
common wealth, but decay and vanish, men
know not which way: except a very fewe, to
whom peradventure blood and happie par-
entage may perchance purchace a long standing
upon the stage. The which felicitie, because
it commeth by others procuring, not by their
owne deservinge, and stand by other mens feete,
and not by their own, what owtward brag so
ever is borne by them, is in deed, of it selfe,
and in wise mens eyes, of no great estimation.
JOHN FOXE (1516-1587)
ACTS AND MONUMENTS OF THESE
LATTER AND PERILLOUS DAYES
THE BEHAVIOUR OF DR. RIDLEY AND
MASTER LATIMER AT THE TIME
OF THEIR DEATH
Upon the north-side of the towne, in the ditch
over against Baily ' Colledge, the place of
1 Balliol
JOHN FOXE
execution was appointed; and for feare of any
tumult that might arise, to let l the burning of
them, the Lord Williams was commanded by
the Queenes letters and the householders of the
city, to be there assistant, sufficientlie ap-
pointed. And when every thing was in a
readiness, the prisoners were brought forth by
the maior and the bayliffes. Master Ridley
had a faire blacke gowne furred, and faced with
foines,2 such as he was wont to weare beeing
bishop, and a tippet of velvet, furred likewise,
about his neck, a velvet night-cap upon his head,
and a corner cap upon the same, going in a paire
of slippers to the stake, and going between the
maior and an alderman, etc. After him came
Master Latimer in a poor Bristow freeze 3
frock all worne, with his buttoned cap, and a
kerchiefe on his head all readie to the fire, a
newe long shrowde hanging over his hose 4
downe to the feet ; which at the first sight stirred
mens hearts to rue upon them, beholding on the
one side the honour they sometime had, and
on the other, the calamitie whereunto they were
fallen.
Master Doctour Ridley, as he passed toward
Bocardo,5 looked up where Master Cranmer
did lie, hoping belike to have scene him at the
glass windowe, and to have spoken unto him.
But then Master Cranmer was busie with Frier
Soto and his fellowes, disputing together, so
that he could not see him through that occasion.
Then Master Ridley, looking backe, espied
Master Latimer comming after, unto whom he
said, " Oh, be ye there? " " Yea," said Master
Latimer, "have after as fast as I can follow."
So he following a prettie way off, at length they
came both to the stake, the one after the other,
where first Dr. Ridley entring the place, mar-
vellous earnestly holding up both his hands,
looked towards heaven. Then shortlie after
espying Master Latimer, with a wondrous
cheereful looke he ran to him, imbraced and
kissed him; and, as they that stood neere re-
ported, comforted him saying, "Be of good
heart, brother, for God will either asswage the
furie of the flame, or else strengthen us to abide
it." With that went he to the stake, kneeled
downe by it, kissed it, and most effectuouslie
praied, and behind him Master Latimer kneeled,
as earnestlie calling upon God as he. After
they arose, the one talked with the other a little
while, till they which were appointed to see
1 hinder 2 trimmings of beech-martin fur 3 a
coarse woolen cloth made at Bristol * breeches
8 the old north gate at Oxford, used as a prison
the execution, remooved themselves out of the
sun. What they said I can learn of no man.
Then Dr. Smith, of whose recantation in
King Edwards time ye heard before, beganne
his sermon to them upon this text of St. Paul
in the 13 chap, of the first epistle to the Corin-
thians: Si corpus meum tradam igni, chari-
tatem autem non habeam, nihil inde utilitatis
capio, that is, "If I yeelde my body to the fire
to be burnt, and have not charity, I shall gaine
nothing thereby." Wherein he alledged that
the goodnesse of the cause, and not the order
of death, maketh the holines of the person;
which he confirmed by the examples of Judas,
and of a woman in Oxford that of late hanged
her selfe, for that they, and such like as he
recited, might then be adjudged righteous,
which desperatelie sundered their lives from
their bodies, as hee feared that those men
that stood before him would doe. But he
cried stil 1 to the people to beware of them, for
they were heretikes, and died out of the church.
And on the other side, he declared their diversi-
ties in opinions, as Lutherians, (Ecolampadians,
Zuinglians, of which sect they were, he said,
and that was the worst: but the old church of
Christ and the catholike faith beleeved far
otherwise. At which place they2 lifted uppe
both their hands and eies to heaven, as it were
calling God to witnes of the truth: the which
countenance they made in many other places
of his sermon, whereas they thought he spake
amisse. Hee ended with a verie short ex-
hortation to them to recant, and come home
again to the church, and save their lives and
so'ules, which else were condemned. His ser-
mon was scant in all a quarter of an houre.
Doctor Ridley said to Master Latimer,
"Will you begin to answer the sermon, or shall
I?" Master Latimer said: "Begin you first,
I pray you." "I will," said Master Ridley.
Then the wicked sermon being ended, Dr.
Ridley and Master Latimer kneeled downe
uppon their knees towards my Lord Williams
of Tame, the vice-chancellour of Oxford, and
divers other commissioners appointed for that
purpose, which sate upon a forme 3 thereby.
Unto whom Master Ridley said: "I beseech
you, my lord, even for Christs sake, that I may
speake but two or three wordes." And whilest
my lord bent his head to the maior and vice-
chancellor, to know (as it appeared) whether
he might give him leave to speake, the bailiffes
and Dr. Marshall, vice-chancellor, ran hastily
1 constantly 2 Ridley and Latimer 3 bench
ACTS AND MONUMENTS OF THESE PERILLOUS DAYES
43
unto him, and with their hands stopped his
mouth, and said: "Master Ridley, if you will
revoke your erroneous opinions, and recant
the same, you shall not onely have liberty so
to doe, but also the benefite of a subject; that
is, have your life." "Not otherwise?" said
Maister Ridley. "No," quoth Dr. Marshall.
"Therefore if you will not so doe, then there
is no remedy but you must suffer for your
deserts." "Well," quoth Master Ridley, "so
long as the breath is in my bodie, I will never
deny my Lord Christ, and his knowne truth:
Gods will be done in me ! " And with that he
rose up and said with a loud voice: "Well
then, I commit our cause to almightie God,
which shall indifferently l judge all." To
whose saying, Maister Latimer added his old
posie,2 "Well! there is nothing hid but it shall
be opened." And he said, he could answer
Smith well enough, if hee might be suffered.
Incontinently 3 they were commanded to
make them readie, which they with all meek-
nesse obeyed. Master Ridley tooke his gowne
and his tippet, and gave it to his brother-in-lawe
Master Shepside, who all his time of imprison-
ment, although he might not be suffered to come
to him, lay there at his owne charges to provide
him necessaries, which from time to time he
sent him by the sergeant that kept him. Some
other of his apparel that was little worth, hee
gave away; other the bailiffes took. He gave
away besides divers other small things to gentle-
men standing by, and divers of them pitifullie
weeping, as to Sir Henry Lea he gave a new
groat; and to divers of my Lord Williams
gentlemen some napkins, some nutmegges,
and races 4 of ginger; his diall, and such other
things as he had about him, to every one that
stood next him. Some plucked the pointes
- of his hose. Happie was he that might get
any ragge of him. Master Latimer gave
nothing, but very quickly suffered his keeper to
pull off his hose, and his other array, which
to look unto was very simple : and being stripped
into his shrowd,5 hee seemed as comly a person
to them that were there present as one should
lightly see; and whereas in his clothes hee
appeared a withered and crooked sillie olde
man, he now stood bolt upright, as comely a
father as one might lightly behold.
Then Master Ridley, standing as yet in his
trusse,8 said to his brother: "It were best for
me to go in my trusse still." "No," quoth his
brother, "it will put you to more paine: and
1 impartially 2 motto * immediately * roots 6 shirt
' a padded jacket
the trusse will do a poore man good." Where-
unto Master Ridley said: "Be it, in the name
of God;" and so unlaced himselfe. Then
beeing in his shirt, he stood upon the foresaid
stone, and held up his hande and said: "O
heavenly Father, I give unto thee most heartie
thanks, for that thou hast called mee to be a
professour of thee, even unto death. I be-
seech thee, Lord God, take mercie upon this
realme of England, and deliver the same from
all her enemies."
Then the smith took a chaine of iron, and
brought the same about both Dr. Ridleyes and
Maister Latimers middles; and as he was
knocking in a staple, Dr. Ridley tooke the
chaine in his hand, and shaked the same, for
it did girde in his belly, and looking aside to the
smith, said: "Good fellow, knocke it in hard,
for the flesh will have his course." Then his
brother did bringe him gunnepowder in a bag,
and would have tied the same about his necke.
Master Ridley asked what it was. His brother
said, "Gunnepowder." "Then," sayd he,
"I take it to be sent of God; therefore I will
receive it as sent of him. And have you any,"
sayd he, "for my brother?" meaning Master
Latimer. "Yea, sir, that I have," quoth his
brother. "Then give it unto him," sayd hee,
"betime;1 least ye come too late." So his
brother went, and caried of the same gunne-
powder unto Maister Latimer.
In the mean time Dr. Ridley spake unto my
Lord Williams, and saide: "My lord, I must
be a suter unto your lordshippe in the behalfe
of divers poore men, and speciallie in the cause
of my poor sister; I have made a supplication
to the Queenes Majestie in their behalves. I
beseech your lordship for Christs sake, to be a
mean to her Grace for them. My brother here
hath the supplication, and will resort to your
lordshippe to certifie you herof. There is
nothing in all the world that troubleth my
conscience, I praise God, this only accepted.
Whiles I was in the see of London divfers poore
men tooke leases of me, and agreed with me for
the same. Now I heare say the bishop that
now occupieth the same roome will not allow
my grants unto them made, but contrarie unto
all lawe and conscience hath taken from them
their livings, and will not suffer them to injoy
the same. I beseech you, my lord, be a meane
for them; you shall do a good deed, and God
will reward you."
Then they brought a faggotte, kindled with
1 early
44
JOHN FOXE
fire, and laid the same downe at Dr. Ridleys
feete. To whome Master Latimer spake in this
manner: "Bee of good comfort, Master Ridley,
and play the man. Wee shall this day light
such a candle, by Gods grace, in England, as
I trust shall never bee putte out."
And so the fire being given unto them, when
Dr. Ridley saw the fire flaming up towards him,
he cried with a wonderful lowd voice: "In
manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum
meum: Domine, recipe spiritum meum."
And after, repeated this latter part often in
English, "Lord, Lord, receive my spirit;"
Master Latimer crying as vehementlie on the
other side, "O Father of heaven, receive my
soule!" who received the flame as it were
imbracing of it. After that he had streaked
his face with his hands, and as it were bathed
them a little in the fire, he soone died (as it
appeared) with verie little paine or none.
And thus much concerning the end of this olde
and blessed servant of God, Master Latimer,
for whose laborious travailes,1 fruitfull life,
and constant death the whole realme hath cause
to give great thanks to almightie God.
But Master Ridley, by reason of the evill
making of the fire unto him, because the
wooden faggots were laide about the gosse 2
and over-high built, the fire burned first be-
neath, being kept downe by the wood; which
when he felt, hee desired them for Christes
sake to let the fire come unto him. Which
when his brother-in-law heard, but not well
understood, intending to rid him out of his
paine (for the which cause hee gave attendance),
as one in such sorrow not well advised what
hee did, heaped faggots upon him, so that he
cleane covered him, which made the fire more
vehement beneath, that it burned cleane all his
neather parts, before it once touched the upper;
and that made him leape up and down under
the faggots, and often desire them to let the
fire come unto him, saying, "I cannot burne."
Which ''indeed appeared well; for, after his
legges were consumed by reason of his strug-
ling through the paine (whereof hee had no
release, but onelie his contentation in God),
he showed that side toward us cleane, shirt and
all untouched with flame. Yet in all this
torment he forgate not to call unto God still,
having in his mouth, "Lord have mercy upon
me," intermedling ' this cry, "Let the fire come
unto me, I cannot burne." In which paines he
laboured till one of the standers by with his
bill 2 pulled off the faggots above, and where he
saw the fire flame up, he wrested himself unto
that side. And when the flame touched the
gunpowder, he was seen to stirre no more, but
burned on the other side, falling downe at
Master Latimers feete. Which some said
happened by reason that the chain loosed;
other said that he fel over the chain by reason
of the poise of his body, and the weakness of
the neather lims.
Some said that before he was like to fall from
the stake, hee desired them to hold him to it
with their billes. However it was, surelie it
mooved hundreds to teares, in beholding the
horrible sight ; for I thinke there was none that
had not cleane exiled all humanitie and mercie,
which would not have lamented to beholde
the furie of the fire so to rage upon their bodies.
Signes there were of sorrow on everie side.
Some tooke it greevouslie to see their deathes,
whose lives they held full deare: some pittied
their persons, that thought their soules had no
need thereof. His brother mooved many men,
seeing his miserable case, seeing (I say) him
compelled to such infelicitie, that he thought
then to doe him best service when he hastned
his end. Some cried out of the lucke, to see
his indevor (who most dearelie loved him, and
sought his release) turne to his greater vexation
and increase of paine. But whoso considered
their preferments in time past, the places of
honour that they some time occupied in this
common wealth, the favour they were in with
their princes, and the opinion of learning they
had in the university where they studied, could
not chuse but sorrow with teares to see so great
dignity, honour, and estimation, so necessary
members sometime accounted, so many godly
vertues, the study of so manie yeres, such ex-
cellent learning, to be put into the fire and
consumed in one moment. Well ! dead they
are, and the reward of this world they have
alreadie. What reward remaineth for them in
heaven, the day of the Lords glorie, when hee
commeth with his saints, shall shortlie, I trust,
declare.
1 labors 2 gorse, furze
1 intermingling 2 a kind of weapon consisting of
a curved blade fixed at the end of a pole
THE AGE OF ELIZABETH
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586)
ARCADIA
BOOK I. CHAP. I
And now they were already come upon the
stays,1 when one of the sailors descried a
galley which came with sails and oars directly
in the chase of them, and straight perceived
it was a well-known pirate, who hunted, not
only for goods, but for bodies of men, which
he employed either to be his galley-slaves or
to sell at the best market. Which when the
master understood, he commanded forthwith
to set on all the canvas they could and fly
homeward, leaving in that sort poor Pyrocles,
so near to be rescued. But what did not
Musidorus say? what did he not offer to
persuade them to venture the fight? But fear,
standing at the gates of their ears, put back
all persuasions; so that he had nothing to
accompany Pyrocles but his eyes, nor to suc-
cour him but his wishes. Therefore praying
for him, and casting a long look that way, he
saw the galley leave the pursuit of them and
turn to take up the spoils of the other wreck;
and, lastly, he might well see them lift up the
young man; and, "Alas!" said he to himself,
"dear Pyrocles, shall that body of thine be
enchained? Shall those victorious hands of
thine be commanded to base offices? Shall
virtue become a slave to those that be slaves
to viciousness? Alas, better had it been thou
hadst ended nobly thy noble days. What
death is so evil as unworthy servitude?" But
that opinion soon ceased when he saw the galley
setting upon another ship, which held long and
strong fight with her ; for then he began afresh
to fear the life of his friend, and to wish well
to the pirates, whom before he hated, lest in
their ruin he might perish. But the fishermen
made such speed into the haven that they
absented his eyes from beholding the issue;
1 come upon the stays = go about from one tack to
another
where being entered, he could procure neither
them nor any other as then1 to put themselves
into the sea; so that, being as full of sorrow
for being unable to do anything as void of
counsel how to do anything, besides that sick-
ness grew something upon him, the honest
shepherds Strephon and Claius (who, being
themselves true friends, did the more perfectly
judge the justness of his sorrow) advise him
that he should mitigate somewhat of his woe,
since he had gotten an amendment in fortune,
being come from assured persuasion of his
death to have no cause to despair of his life,
as one that had lamented the death of his
sheep should after know they were but strayed,
would receive pleasure, though readily he
knew not where to find them.
CHAP. II
"Now, sir," said they, "thus for ourselves
it is. We are, in profession, but shepherds,
and, in this country of Laconia, little better
than strangers, and, therefore, neither in skill
nor ability of power greatly to stead you.
But what we can present unto you is this:
Arcadia, of which country we are, is but a little
way hence, and even upon the next confines.
There dwelleth a gentleman, by name Kalan-
der, who vouchsafeth much favour unto us;
a man who for his hospitality is so much
haunted 2 that no news stir but come to his
ears; for his upright dealing so beloved of his
neighbours that he hath many ever ready
to do him their uttermost service, and, by the
great goodwill our Prince bears him, may soon
obtain the use of his name and credit, which
hath a principal sway, not only in his own
Arcadia, but in all these countries of Pelopon-
nesus ; and, which is worth all, all these things
give him not so much power as his nature gives
him will to benefit, so that it seems no music
is so sweet to his ear as deserved thanks.
To him we will bring you, and there you may
1 as then = at the time 2 visited
45
46
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
i
recover again your health, without which you
cannot be able to make any diligent search for
your friend, and, therefore but in that respect,
you must labour for it. Besides, we are sure
the comfort of courtesy and ease of wise counsel
shall not be wanting."
Musidorus (who, besides he was merely 1
unacquainted in the country, had his wits
astonished 2 with sorrow) gave easy consent to
that from which he saw no reason to disagree ;
and therefore, defraying 3 the mariners with a
ring bestowed upon them, they took their
journey together through Laconia, Claius
and Strephon by course carrying his chest for
him, Musidorus only bearing in his counte-
nance evident marks of a sorrowful mind sup-
ported with a weak body; which they per-
ceiving, and knowing that the violence of sor-
row is not, at the first, to be striven withal
(being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with
following than overthrown by withstanding)
they gave way unto it for that day and the next,
never troubling him, either with asking ques-
tions or finding fault with his melancholy,
but rather fitting to his dolour dolorous dis-
courses of their own and other folk's 'misfor-
tunes. Which speeches, though they had not
a lively entrance to his senses, shut up in sor-
row, yet, like one half asleep, he took hold of
much of the matters spoken unto him, so as
a man may say, ere sorrow was aware, they
made his thoughts bear away something else
beside his own sorrow, which wrought so in
him that at length he grew content to mark
their speeches, then to marvel at such wit in
shepherds, after to like their company, and
lastly to vouchsafe conference; so that the
third day after, in the time that the morning
did strow roses and violets in the heavenly
floor against the coming of the sun, the nightin-
gales, striving one with the other which could
in most dainty variety recount their wrong-
caused sorrow, made them put off their sleep;
and, rising from under a tree, which that night
had been their pavilion, they went on their
journey, which by and by welcomed Musi-
dorus' eyes, wearied with the wasted soil of
Laconia, with delightful prospects. There
were hills which garnished their proud heights
[with stately trees; humble valleys whose
iase estate seemed comforted with refreshing
of silver rivers; meadows enamelled with all
. sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets which,
being lined with most pleasant shade, were
witnessed so to by the cheerful disposition of
many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored
with sheep, feeding with sober security, while
the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved
the dams' comfort: here a shepherd's boy
piping, as though he should never be old;
there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal
singing, and it seemed that her voice com-
forted her hands to work, and her hands kept'
time to her voice's music. As for the houses
of the country (for many houses came under
their eye) they were all scattered, no two being
one by the other, and yet not so far off as that
it barred mutual succour: a show, as it were,
of an accompanable * solitariness, and of a
civil2 wildness. "I pray you," said Musi-
dorus, then first unsealing his long-silent lips,
"what countries be these we pass through,
which are so diverse in show, the one wanting
no store,3 the other having no store but of
want?"
- "The country," answered Claius, "where
you were cast ashore, and now are passed
through, is Laconia, not so poor by the barren-
ness of the soil (though in itself not passing
fertile) as by a civil war, which, being these
two years within the bowels of that estate,
between the gentlemen and the peasants (by
them named helots) hath in this sort, as it
were, disfigured the face of nature and made it
so unhospitall as now you have found it;
the towns neither of the one side nor the other
willingly opening their gates to strangers, nor
strangers willingly entering, for fear of being
mistaken.
"But this country, where now you set your
foot, is Arcadia ; and even hard by is the house
of Kalander, whither we lead you. This
country being thus decked with peace and (the
child of peace) good husbandry. These houses
you see so scattered are of men, as we two are,
that live upon the commodity of their sheep,
and therefore, in the division of the Arcadian
estate, are termed shepherds; a happy people,
wanting 4 little, because they desire not much."
"What cause, then," said Musidorus, "made
you venture to leave this sweet life and put
yourself in yonder unpleasant and dangerous
realm?" "Guarded with poverty," answered
Strephon, "and guided with love." "But
now," said Claius, "since it hath pleased you
to ask anything of us, whose baseness is such
as the very knowledge is darkness, give us
leave to know something of you and of the young
1 entirely 2 stricken 3 paying
companionable 2 civilized 3 plenty * lacking
ARCADIA
47
man you so much lament, that at least we may
be the better instructed to inform Kalander,
and he the better know how to proportion his
entertainment." Musidorus, according to the
agreement between Pyrocles and him to alter
their names, answered that he called himself
Palladius, and his friend Daiphantus. "But,
till I have him again," said he, " I am indeed
nothing, and therefore my story is of nothing.
His entertainment, since so good a man he is,
cannot be so low as I account my estate ; and,
in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may be to
help me by some means to seek my friend."
They perceived he was not willing to open
himself further, and therefore, without further
questioning, brought him to the house; about
which they might see (with fit consideration
both of the air, the prospect, and the nature of
the ground) all such necessary additions to a
great house as might well show Kalander knew
that provision is the foundation of hospitality,
and thrift the fuel of magnificence. The house
itself was built of fair and strong stone, not
affecting so much any extraordinary kind of
fineness as an honourable representing of a firm
stateliness; the lights, doors, and stairs rather
directed to the use of the guest than to the eye
of the artificer, and yet as the one chiefly heeded,
so the other not neglected; each place hand-
some without curiosity, and homely without
loathsomeness; not so dainty as not to be trod
on, nor yet slubbered up1 with good-fellowship ; 2
all more lasting than beautiful, but that the
consideration of the exceeding lastingness made
the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful;
the servants, not so many in number as cleanly
in apparel and serviceable in behaviour, testi-
fying even in their countenances that their
master took as well care to be served as of them
that did serve. One of them was forthwith
ready to welcome the shepherds, as men who,
though they were poor, their master greatly fa-
voured; and understanding by them that the
young man with them was to be much ac-
counted of, for that they had seen tokens of
more than common greatness, howsoever now
eclipsed with fortune, he ran to his master, who
came presently forth, and pleasantly welcoming
the shepherds, but especially applying him to
Musidorus, Strephon privately told him all
what he knew of him, and particularly that he
found this stranger was loth to be known.
"No," said Kalander, speaking aloud, "I
am no herald to inquire of men's pedigrees;
it sufficeth me if I know their virtues; which,
if this young man's face be not a false witness,
do better apparel his mind than you have done
his body." While he was speaking, there came
a boy, in show like a merchant's prentice, who,
taking Strephon by the sleeve, delivered him
a letter, written jointly both to him and Claius
from Urania ; which they no sooner had read,
but that with short leave-taking of Kalander,
who quickly guessed and smiled at the matter,
and once again, though hastily, recommend-
ing the young man unto him, they went away,
leaving Musidorus even loth to part with them,
for the good conversation he had of them, and
obligation he accounted himself tied in unto
them; and therefore, they delivering his chest
unto him, he opened it, and would have pre-
sented them with two very rich jewels, but
they absolutely refused them, telling him they
were more than enough rewarded in the know-
ing of him, and without hearkening unto a
reply, like men whose hearts disdained all
desires but one, gat speedily away, as if the
letter had brought wings to make them fly.
But by that sight Kalander soon judged that
his guest was of no mean calling ; l and there-
fore the more respectfully entertaining him,
Musidorus found his sickness, which the fight,
the sea, and late travel had laid upon him, grow
greatly, so that fearing some sudden accident,
he delivered the chest to Kalander, which was
full of most precious stones, gorgeously and
cunningly set in divers manners, desiring him
he would keep those trifles, and if he died,
he would bestow so much of it as was needful
to find out and redeem a young man naming
himself Daiphantus, as then in the hands of
Laconian pirates.
But Kalander seeing him faint more and
more, with careful speed conveyed him to the
most commodious lodging in his house ; where,
being possessed with an extreme burning fever,
he continued some while with no great hope
of life; but youth at length got the victory of
sickness, so that in six weeks the excellency
of his returned beauty was a credible ambas-
sador of his health, to the great joy of Kalander,
who, as in this time he had by certain friends
of his, that dwelt near the sea in Messenia,
set forth a ship and a galley to seek and succour
Daiphantus, so at home did he omit nothing
which he thought might either profit or gratify
Palladius.
For, having found in him (besides his bodily
1 made slovenly 2 revelry
1 rank
48
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
gifts, beyond the degree of admiration) by
daily discourses, which he delighted himself
to have with him, a mind of most excellent
composition (a piercing wit, quite void of
ostentation, high -erected thoughts seated in
a heart of courtesy, an eloquence as sweet in
the uttering as slow to come to the uttering,
a behaviour so noble as gave a majesty to
adversity, and all in a man whose age could
not be above one-and-twenty years), the good
old man was even enamoured with a fatherly
love towards him, or rather became his servant
by the bonds such virtue laid upon him ; once,
he acknowledged himself so to be, by the badge
of diligent attendance.
CHAP. Ill
But Palladius having gotten his health, and
only staying there to be in place where he might
hear answer of the ships set forth, Kalander
one afternoon led him abroad to a well -arrayed
ground he had behind his house, which he
thought to show him before his going, as the
place himself more than in any other delighted.
The backside of the house was neither field,
garden, nor orchard ; or rather it was both field,
garden, and orchard: for as soon as the de-
scending of the stairs had delivered them down,
they came into a place cunningly set with trees
of the most taste-pleasing fruits; but scarcely
they had taken that into their consideration,
but that they were suddenly stepped into a
delicate green; of each side of the greeR a
thicket bend,1 behind the thickets again new
beds of flowers, which being under the trees,
the trees were to them a pavilion, and they to
the trees a mosaical floor, so that it seemed
that Art therein would needs be delightful, by
counterfeiting his enemy Error, and making
order in confusion.
In the midst of all the place was a fair
pond, whose shaking crystal was a perfect
mirror to all the other beauties, so that it
bare show of two gardens, — one in deed, the
other in shadows; and in one of the thickets
was a fine fountain, made thus: a naked Venus,
of white marble, wherein the graver had used
such cunning that the natural blue veins of the
marble were framed in fit places to set forth
the beautiful veins of her body; at her breast
she had her babe ^Eneas, who seemed, having
begun to suck, to leave that to look upon her
fair eyes, which smiled at the babe's folly,
the mean while the breast running. Hard by
1 field of grass
was a house of pleasure, built for a summer
retiring-place, whither Kalander leading him,
he found a square room, full of delightful pic-
tures, made by the most excellent workman of
Greece. There was Diana when Acteon saw
her bathing, in whose cheeks the painter had
set such a colour, as was mixed between shame
and disdain: and one of her foolish Nymphs,
who weeping, and withal louring, one might
see the workman meant to set forth tears of
anger. In another table1 was Atalanta; the
posture of whose limbs was so lively expressed,
that if the eyes were the only judges, as they be
the only seers, one would have sworn the very
picture had run. Besides many more, as of
Helena, Omphale, lole: but in none of them
all beauty seemed to speak so much as in a
large table,1 which contained a comely old
man, with a lady of middle age, but of excellent
beauty; and more excellent would have been
deemed, but that there stood between them a
young maid, whose wonderfulness took away
all beauty from her, but that, which it might
seem she gave her back again by her very shadow.
And such difference, being known that it did
indeed counterfeit a person living, was there
between her and all the other, though God-
desses, that it seemed the skill of the painter
bestowed on the other new beauty, but that the
beauty of her bestowed new skill of the painter.
Though he thought inquisitiveness an un-
comely guest, he could not choose, but ask
who she was, that bearing show of one being
in deed,2 could with natural gifts go beyond
the reach of invention. Kalander answered,
that it was made by3 Philoclea, the younger
daughter of his prince, who also with his wife
were contained in that table : the painter mean-
ing to represent the present condition of the
young lady, who stood watched by an over-
curious eye of her parents: and that he would
also have drawn her eldest sister, esteemed
her match for beauty, in her shepherdish attire ;
but that the rude clown her guardian would
not suffer it: neither durst he ask leave of the
Prince for fear of suspicion. Palladius per-
ceived that the matter was wrapped up in some
secrecy, and therefore would for modesty
demand no further: but yet his countenance
could not but with dumb eloquence desire it :
which Kalander perceiving, "Well," said he,
"my dear guest, I know your mind, and I will
satisfy it: neither will I do it like a niggardly
answerer, going no further than the bounds
1 picture 2 existing in reality 3 of
ARCADIA
49
of the question, but I will discover unto you,
as well that wherein my knowledge is common
with others, as that which by extraordinary
means is delivered unto me : knowing so much
in you, though not long acquainted, that I
shall find your ears faithful treasurers."
So then sitting down in two chairs; and
sometimes casting his eye to the picture, he
thus spake: — "This country Arcadia, among
all the provinces of Greece, hath ever been
had in singular reputation, partly for the
sweetness of the air, and other natural benefits,
but principally for the well-tempered minds
of the people, who (finding that the shining
title of glory, so much affected by other nations,
doth indeed help little to the happiness of life)
are the only people which, as by their justice
and providence, give neither cause nor hope
to their neighbours to annoy them, so are
they not stirred with false praise to trouble
others' quiet, thinking it a small reward for the
wasting of their own lives in ravening that their
posterity should long after say they had done
so. Even the Muses seem to approve their
good determination by choosing this country
for their chief repairing place, and by bestowing
their perfections so largely here, that the very
shepherds have their fancies lifted to so high
conceits as the learned of other nations are
content both to borrow their names and
imitate their cunning.
" Here dwelleth and reigneth this prince
whose picture you see, by name Basilius; a
prince of sufficient skill to govern so quiet
a country, where the good minds of the former
princes had set down good laws, and the well
bringing up of the people doth serve as a most
sure bond to hold them. But to be plain with
you, he excels in nothing so much, as in the
zealous love of his people, wherein he doth not
only pass all his own foregoers, but as I think
all the princes living. Whereof the cause
is, that though he exceed not in the virtues
which get admiration, as depth of wisdom,
height of courage and largeness of magnifi-
cence, yet is he notable in those which stir
affection, as truth of word, meekness, courtesy,
mercifulness, and liberality.
"He, being already well stricken in years,
married a young princess, named Gynecia,
daughter to the king of Cyprus, of notable
beauty, as by her picture you see; a woman of
great wit, and in truth of more princely virtues
than her husband ; of most unspotted chastity,
but of so working a mind, and so vehement
spirits, as a man may say it was happy she
took a good course, for otherwise it would have
been terrible.
"Of these two are brought to the world two
daughters, so beyond measure excellent in all
the gifts allotted to reasonable creatures, that
we may think they were born to show that
Nature is no stepmother to that sex, how much
soever some men, sharp-witted only in evil
speaking, have sought to disgrace them. The
elder is named Pamela, by many men not
deemed inferior to her sister. For my part,
when I marked them both, methought there
was (if at least such perfections may receive
the word of more) more sweetness in Philo-
clea, but more majesty in Pamela: methought
love played in Philoclea's eyes and threatened
in Pamela's: methought Philoclea's beauty
only persuaded, but so persuaded as all hearts
must yield; Pamela's beauty used violence,
and such violence as no heart could resist.
And it seems that such proportion is between
their minds : Philoclea so bashful as though her
excellencies had stolen into her before she was
aware, so humble that she will put all pride out
of countenance, — in sum, such proceeding as
will stir hope, but teach hope good manners;
Pamela of high thoughts, who avoids not pride
with not knowing her excellencies, but by
making that one of her excellencies to be void
of pride, — her mother's wisdom, greatness,
nobility, but (if I can guess aright) knit with a
more constant temper.
"Now, then, our Basilius being so publicly
happy as to be a prince, and so happy in that
happiness as to be a beloved prince, and so
in his private blessed as to have so excellent a
wife, and so over-excellent children, hath of
late taken a course which yet makes him more
spoken of than all these blessings. For, hav-
ing made a journey to Delphos, and safely re-
turned, within short space he brake up his
court and retired himself, his wife, and children,
into a certain forest hereby, which he calleth
his desert ; wherein (besides a house appointed
for stables, and lodgings for certain persons of
mean calling, who do all household services) he
hath builded two fine lodges; in the one of them
himself remains with his younger daughter
Philoclea (which was the cause they three were
matched together in this picture), without hav-
ing any other creature living in that lodge with
him. Which, though it be strange, yet not so
strange as the course he hath taken with the
princess Pamela, whom he hath placed in the
other lodge : but how think you accompanied ?
truly with none other but one Dametas, the
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
most arrant, doltish clown that I think ever
was without the privilege of a bauble, with his
wife Miso and daughter Mopsa, in whom no
wit can devise anything wherein they may
pleasure her, but to exercise her patience and
to serve for a foil of her perfections. This
loutish clown is such that you never saw so
ill-favoured a vizard ; 1 his behaviour such that
he is beyond the degree of ridiculous; and for
his apparel, even as I would wish him : Miso his
wife, so handsome a beldame 2 that only her face
and her splay-foot have made her accused for
a witch; only one good point she hath, that
she observes decorum,3 having a f reward mind
in a wretched body. Between these two per-
sonages (who never agreed in any humour but
in disagreeing) is issued forth Mistress Mopsa,
a fit woman to participate of both their per-
fections; but because a pleasant fellow of my
acquaintance set forth her praises in verse, I
will only repeat them, and spare mine own
tongue, since she goes for a woman. These
verses are these, which I have so often caused
to be sung, that I have them without book.
"What length of verse can serve brave Mopsa's
good to show ?
Whose virtues strange, and beauties such, as
no man them may know?
Thus shrewdly burdened then, how can my
Muse escape?
The gods must help, and precious things must
serve to show her shape.
Like great god Saturn fair, and like fair Venus
chaste :
As smooth as Pan, as Juno mild, like goddess
Iris faced.4
With Cupid she foresees, and goes god Vulcan's
pace:
And for a taste of all these gifts, she steals god
Momus' grace.
Her forehead jacinth like, her cheeks of opal
hue,
Her twinkling eyes bedecked with pearl, her
lips as sapphire blue:
Her hair like crapal -stone ; 5 her mouth O
heavenly wide;
Her skin like burnished gold, her hands like
silver ore untried.
As for her parts unknown, which hidden sure
ace best:
Happy be they which well believe, and never
seek the rest.
1 mask, face 2 crone 8 harmony * Iris was
identified with Eris (Strife) by the older my tholo gists.
8 toad stone
"Now truly having made these descriptions
unto you, methinks you should imagine that I
rather feign some pleasant device, than recount
a truth, that a prince (not banished from his
own wits) could possibly make so unworthy
a choice. But truly (dear guest) so it is, that
princes (whose doings have been often soothed *
with good success) think nothing so absurd,
which they cannot make honourable. The
beginning of his credit was by the prince's
straying out of the way, one time he hunted,
where meeting this fellow, and asking him the
way; and so falling into other questions, he
found some of his answers (as a dog sure if he
could speak, had wit enough to describe his
kennel) not insensible, and all uttered with
such rudeness, which he interpreted plainness
(though there be great difference between them)
that Basilius conceiving a sudden delight, took
him to his Court, with apparent show of his
good opinion: where the flattering courtier
had no sooner taken the prince's mind, but
that there were straight reasons to confirm the
prince's doing, and shadows of virtues found
for Dametas. His silence grew wit, his blunt-
ness integrity, his beastly ignorance virtuous
simplicity: and the prince (according to the
nature of great persoas, in love with that he
had done himself) fancied, that his weakness
with his presence would much be mended.
And so like a creature of his own making, he
liked him more and more, and thus having first
given him the office of principal herdman,
lastly, since he took this strange determination,
he hath in a manner put the life of himself and
his children into his hands. Which authority
(like too great a sail for so small a boat) doth
so oversway poor Dametas, that if before he
were a good fool in a chamber, he might be
allowed it now in a comedy : so as I doubt me
(I fear me indeed) my master will in the end
(with his cost) find, that his office is not to
make men, but to use men as men are ; no more
than a horse will be taught to hunt, or an ass
to manage. But in sooth I am afraid I have
given your ears too great a surfeit, with the
gross discourses of that heavy piece of flesh.
But the zealous grief I conceive to see so great
an error in my Lord, hath made me bestow
more words, than I confess so base a subject
deserveth.
CHAP. IV
"Thus much now that I have told you is
nothing more than in effect any Arcadian knows.
1 made good, verified
ARCADIA
But what moved him to this strange solitariness
hath been imparted, as I think, but to one per-
son living. Myself can conjecture, and indeed
more than conjecture, by this accident that I
will tell you. I have an only son, by name
Clitophon, who is now absent, preparing for
his own marriage, which I mean shortly shall
be here celebrated. This son of mine, while
the prince kept his court, was of his bed-
chamber; now, since the breaking up thereof,
returned home; and showed me, among other
things he had gathered, the copy which he had
taken of a letter, which, when the prince had
read, he had laid in a window, presuming no-
body durst look in his writings; but my son
not only took a time to read it, but to copy it.
In truth I blamed Clitophon for the curiosity
which made him break his duty in such a kind,
whereby kings' secrets are subject to be re-
vealed; but, since it was done, I was content
to take so much profit as to know it. Now
here is the letter, that I ever since for my good
liking, have carried about me; which before I
read unto you, I must tell you from whom it
came. It is a nobleman of this country, named
Philanax, appointed by the prince regent in
this time of his retiring, and most worthy so
to be; for there lives no man whose excellent
wit more simply embraceth integrity, besides
his unfeigned love to his master, wherein never
yet any could make question, saving whether
he loved Basilius or the prince better; a rare
temper, while most men either servilely yield to
all appetites, or with an obstinate austerity,
looking to that they fancy good, in effect
neglect the prince's person. This, then, being
the man, whom of all other, and most worthy,
the prince chiefly loves, it should seem (for
more than . the letter I have not to guess by)
that the prince, upon his return from Delphos
(Philanax then lying sick), had written unto
him his determination, rising, as evidently
appears, upon some oracle he had there re-
ceived, whereunto he wrote this answer.
PHILANAX HIS LETTER TO BASILIUS
'"Most redouted and beloved prince, if as
well it had pleased you at your going to Delphos
as now, to have used my humble service, both I
should in better season, and to better purpose
have spoken : and you (if my speech had pre-
vailed) should have been at this time, as no
way more in danger, so much more in quiet-
ness; I would then have said, that wisdom
and virtue be the only destinies appointed to
man to follow, whence we ought to seek all our
knowledge, since they be such guides as cannot
fail; which, besides their inward comfort, do
lead so direct a way of proceeding, as either
prosperity must ensue ; or, if the wickedness of
the world should oppress it, it can never be
said, that evil happeneth to him, who falls
accompanied with virtue. I would then have
said, the heavenly powers to be reverenced, and
not searched into; and their mercies rather
by prayers to be sought, than their hidden
counsels by curiosity; these kind of sooth-
sayers (since they * have left us in ourselves
sufficient guides) to be nothing but fancy,
wherein there must either be vanity, or infalli-
bleness, and so, either not to be respected, or
not to be prevented. But since it is weakness
too much to remember what should have been
done, and that your commandment stretcheth
to know what is to be done, I do (most dear
Lord) with humble boldness say, that the man-
ner of your determination doth in no sort better
please me, than the cause of your going. These
thirty years you have so governed this region,
that neither your subjects have wanted justice
in you, nor you obedience in them; and your
neighbours have found you so hurtlessly2
strong, that they thought it better to rest in
your friendship, than make new trial of your
enmity. If this then have proceeded out of the
good constitution of your state, and out of a
wise providence, generally to prevent all those
things, which might encumber your happiness:
why should you now seek new courses, since
your own ensample comforts you to continue,
and that it is to me most certain (though it
please you not to tell me the very words of the
Oracle) that yet no destiny, nor influence
whatsoever, can bring man's wit to a higher
point, than wisdom and goodness? Why
should you deprive yourself of government,
for fear of losing your government (like one
that should kill himself for fear of death)?
Nay rather, if this Oracle be to be accounted of,
arm up your courage the more against it; for
who will stick to him that abandons himself?
Let your subjects have you in their eyes; let
them see the benefits of your justice daily more
and more; and so must they needs rather like
of present sureties than uncertain changes.
Lastly, whether your time call you to live or
die, do both like a prince. Now for your
second resolution ; which is, to suffer no worthy
1 i.e. the heavenly powers 2 not doing injury to
others
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
prince to be a suitor to either of your daughters,
but while you live to keep them both unmar-
ried; and, as it were, to kill the joy of pos-
terity, which in your time you may enjoy:
moved perchance by a misunderstood Oracle:
what shall I say, if the affection of a father
to his own children, cannot plead sufficiently
against such fancies? Once,1 certain it is, the
God which is God of nature doth never teach
unnaturalness: and even the same mind hold
I touching your banishing them from company,
lest I know not what strange loves should fol-
low. Certainly, Sir, in my ladies, your daugh-
ters, nature promiseth nothing but goodness,
and their education by your fatherly care hath
been hitherto such as hath been most fit to
restrain all evil: giving their minds virtuous
delights, and not grieving them for want of
well-ruled liberty. Now to fall to a sudden
straitening them, what can it do but argue
suspicion, a thing no more unpleasant than
unsure for the preserving of virtue? Leave
women's minds the most untamed that way of
any: see whether any cage can please a bird!
or whether a dog grow not fiercer with tying!
What doeth jealousy, but stir up the mind to
think, what it is from which they are restrained?
For they are treasures, or things of great de-
light, which men use to hide, for the aptness
they have to catch men's fancies: and the
thoughts once awaked to that, harder sure it is
to keep those thoughts from accomplishment,
than it had been before to have kept the mind
(which being the chief part, by this means is
defiled) from thinking. Lastly, for the recom-
mending so principal a charge of the Princess
Pamela, (whose mind goes beyond the govern-
ing of many thousands such) to such a person
as Dametas is (besides that the thing in itself
is strange) it comes of a very evil ground, that
ignorance should be the mother of faithfulness.
Oh, no ; he cannot be good, that knows not why
he is good, but stands so far good as his fortune
may keep him unassayed : but coming once to
that, his rude simplicity is either easily changed,
or easily deceived : and so grows that to be the
last excuse of his fault, which seemed to have
been the first foundation of his faith. Thus
far hath your commandment and my zeal
drawn me ; which I, like a man in a valley that
may discern hills, or like a poor passenger that
may spy a rock, so humbly submit to your gra-
cious consideration, beseeching you again, to
stand wholly upon your own virtue, as the
surest way to maintain you in that you are,
and to avoid any evil which may be imagined.'
"By the contents of this letter you may per-
ceive, that the cause of all, hath been the van-
ity which possesseth many, who (making a
perpetual mansion of this poor baiting place
of man's life) are desirous to know the certainty
of things to come; wherein there is nothing
so certain, as our continual uncertainty. But
what in particular points the oracle was, in
faith I know not: neither (as you may see by
one place of Philanax's letter) he himself dis-
tinctly knew. But this experience shows us,
that Basilius' judgment, corrupted with a
prince's fortune, hath rather heard than fol-
lowed the wise (as I take it) counsel of Phila-
nax. For, having lost the stern l of his gov-
ernment, with much amazement to the people,
among whom many strange bruits 2 are re-
ceived for current, and with some appearance
of danger in respect of the valiant Amphalus
his nephew, and much envy in the ambitious
number of the nobility against Philanax, to see
Philanax so advanced, though (to speak sim-
ply) he deserve more than as many of us as
there be in Arcadia: the prince himself hath
hidden his head in such sort as I told you, not
sticking3 plainly to confess that he means not
(while he breathes) that his daughters shall
have any husband, but keep them thus solitary
with him : where he gives no other body leave
to visit him at any time, but a certain priest,
who being excellent in poetry, he makes him
write out such things as he best likes, he being
no less delightful in conversation, than needful
for devotion, and about twenty specified
shepherds, in whom (some for exercises,
and some for eclogues) he taketh greater
recreation.
"And now you know as much as myself:
wherein if I have held you over long, lay hardly4
the fault upon my old age, which in the very
disposition of it is talkative: whether it be
(said he smiling) that nature loves to exercise
that part most, which is least decayed, and that
is our tongue: or, that knowledge being the
only thing whereof we poor old men can brag,
we cannot make it known but by utterance;
or, that mankind by all means seeking to
eternise himself so much the more, as he is
near his end, doeth it not only by the children
that come of him, but by speeches and writings
recommended to the memory of hearers and
readers. And yet thus much I will say for
1 in short
1 rudder 2 rumors * hesitating * hardily
ARCADIA
53
myself, that I have not laid these matters, either
so openly, or largely to any as yourself:
so much (if I much fail not) do I see in
you, which makes me both love and trust
you."
"Never may he be old," answered Palladius,
"that doeth not reverence that age, whose
heaviness, if it weigh down the frail and fleshly
balance, it as much lifts up the noble and
spiritual part : and well might you have alleged
another reason, that their wisdom makes them
willing to profit others. And that have I re-
ceived of you, never to be forgotten, but with
ungratefulness. But among many strange
conceits you told me, which have showed effects
in your prince, truly even the last, that he
should conceive such pleasure in shepherds'
discourses, would not seem the least unto me,
saving that you told me at the first, that this
country is notable in those wits, and that in-
deed my self having been brought not only to
this place, but to my life, by Strephon and
Claius, in their conference found wits as might
better become such shepherds as Homer speaks
of, that be governors of peoples, than such sena-
tors who hold their council in a sheepcote."
"For them two (said Kalander) especially
Claius, they are beyond the rest by so much,
as learning commonly doth add to nature : for,
having neglected their wealth in respect of their
knowledge, they have not so much impaired
the meaner, as they bettered the better. Which
all notwithstanding, it is a sport to hear
how they impute to love, which hath indued
their thoughts (say they) with such a
strength.
" But certainly, all the people of this country
from high to low, is given to those sports of the
wit, so as you would wonder to hear how soon
even children will begin to versify. Once,1 or-
dinary it is among the meanest sort, to make
songs and dialogues in meter, either love whet-
ting their brain, or long peace having begun it,
example and emulation amending it. Not so
much, but the clown Dametas will stumble
sometimes upon some songs that might become
a better brain : but no sort of people so excel-
lent in that kind as the pastors ; for their living
standing 2 but upon the looking to their beasts,
they have ease, the nurse of poetry. Neither
are our shepherds such, as (I hear) they be in
other countries; but they are the very owners
of the sheep, to which either themselves look,
or their children give daily attendance. And
1 in short 2 depending
then truly, it would delight you under some
tree, or by some river's side (when two or three
of them meet together) to hear their rural
muse, how prettily it will deliver out, sometimes
joys, sometimes lamentations, sometimes chal-
lengings one of the other, sometimes under
hidden forms uttering such matters, as other-
wise they durst not deal with. Then they
have most commonly one, who judgeth the
prize to the best doer, of which they are no less
glad, than great princes are of triumphs: and
his part is to set down in writing all that is said,
save that it may be, his pen with more leisure
doth polish .the rudeness of an unthought-on
song. Now the choice of all (as you may well
think) either for goodness of voice, or pleasant-
ness of wit, the prince hath: among whom
also there are two or three strangers, whom
inward melancholies having made weary of the
world's eyes, have come to spend their lives
among the country people of Arcadia; and
their conversation being well approved, the
prince vouchsafeth them his presence, and not
only by looking on, but by great courtesy and
liberality, animates the shepherds the more
exquisitely to labour for his good liking. So
that there is no cause to blame the prince for
sometimes hearing them; the blameworthiness
is, that to hear them, he rather goes to solita-
riness than makes them come to company.
Neither do I accuse my master for advancing
a countryman, as Dametas is, since God for-
bid, but where worthiness is (as, truly, it is
among divers of that fellowship) any outward
lowness should hinder the highest raising; but
that he would needs make election of one, the
baseness of whose mind is such, that it sinks
a thousand degrees lower than the basest body
could carry the most base fortune: which
although it might be answered for the prince,
that it is rather a trust he hath in his simple
plainness, than any great advancement, being
but chief herdman; yet all honest hearts feel,
that the trust of their lord goes beyond all
advancement. But I am ever too long upon
him, when he crosseth the way of my speech,
and by the shadow of yonder tower, I see it is
a fitter time, with our supper to pay the duties
we owe to our stomachs, than to break the air
with my idle discourses : and more wit I might
have learned of Homer (whom even now you
mentioned) who never entertained either guests
or hosts with long speeches, till the mouth of
hunger be thoroughly stopped." So withal
he rose, leading Palladius through the garden
again to the parlour, where they used to
54
RICHARD HOOKER
sup; Palladius assuring him, that he had
already been more fed to his liking, than he
could be by the skilfullest trencher-men of
Media.
ICHARD HOOKER (i5S4?-i6oo)
FROM BOOK I
Thus far therefore we have endeavoured in
part to open, of what nature and force laws are,
according unto their several kinds:^ the law
which God with himself hath eternally set
down to follow in his own works ;i the law
which he hath made for his creatures to keep;
-> the law of natural and necessary agents ; the
i law which Angels in heaven obey; , the law
whereunto by the light of reason men find
themselves bound in that they are menfthe
law which they make by composition for mul-
titudes and politic societies of men to be guided
by; the law which belongeth unto each jiation ;
the law that concerneth the fellowship of all;
and lastly the law which God himself hath
supernaturally revealed. It might peradven-
ture have been more popular and more plaus-
ible to vulgar ears, if this first discourse had
been spent in extolling the force of laws, in
showing the great necessity of them when they
are good, and in aggravating their offence by
whom public laws are injuriously traduced.
But forasmuch as with such kind of matter
the passions of men are rather stirred one way
or other, than their knowledge any way set
forward unto the trial of that whereof there
is doubt made; I have therefore turned aside
from that beaten path, and chosen though a
less easy yet a more profitable way in regard
of the end we propose. Lest therefore any
man should marvel whereunto all these things
tend, the drift and purpose of all is this, even
to show in what manner, as every good and
perfect gift, so this very gift of good and per-
fect laws is derived from the Father of lights;
to teach men a reason why just and reasonable
laws are of so great force, of so great use in the
world; and to inform their minds with some
method of reducing the laws whereof there is
present controversy unto their first original
causes, that so it may be in every particular
ordinance thereby the better discerned, whether
the same be reasonable, just, and righteous, or
no. Is there anything which can either be
thoroughly understood or soundly judged of,
till the very first causes and principles from
which originally it springeth be made mani-
fest?! If all parts of knowledge have been
thought by wise men to be then most orderly
delivered and proceeded in, when they are
drawn to their first original; seeing that our
whole question concerneth the quality of eccle-
siastical laws, Jet it not seem a labour super-
fluous that in tEe entrance" tEereunto all these
several kinds of laws have -been considered,
inasmuch as they all concur as principles, they
all have their forcible operations therein, al-
though not all in like apparent and manifest
manner. By means whereof it cometh to pass
that the force which they have is not observed
of many.
Easier a great deal it is for men by law to be
taught what they ought to do, than instructed
how to judge as they should do of law: the
one being a thing which belongeth generally
unto all, the other such as none but the wiser
and more judicious sort can perform. Yea,
the wisest are always, touching this point, the
readiest to acknowledge that soundly to judge
of a law is the weightiest thing which any man
can take upon him. But if we will give judg-
ment of the laws under which we live, first let
that law eternal be always before our eyes, as
being of principal force and moment to breed
in religious minds a dutiful estimation of all
laws, the use and benefit whereof we see;
because there can be no doubt but that laws
apparently good are (as it were) things copied
out of the very tables of that high everlasting
law; even as the book of that law hath said
concerning itself, "By me Kings reign, and by
me Princes decree justice." Not as if men did
behold that book and accordingly frame their
laws; but because it worketh in them, because
it discovereth and (as it were) readeth itself
to the world by them, when the laws which
they make are righteous. Furthermore, al-
though we perceive not the goodness of laws
made, nevertheless sith 1 things in themselves
may have that which we peradventure discern
not, should not this breed a fear in our hearts,
how we speak or judge in the worse part con-
cerning that, the unadvised disgrace whereof
may be no mean dishonour to Him, towards
whom we profess all submission and awe?
Surely there must be very manifest iniquity
in laws, against which we shall be able to
justify our contumelious invectives. The chief-
1 since
OF THE LAWS OF ECCLESIASTICAL POLITY
55
est root whereof, when we use them without
cause, is ignorance how laws inferior are de-
rived from that supreme or highest law.
The first that receive impression from thence
are natural agents. The law of whose opera-
tions might be haply thought less pertinent,
when the question is about laws for human
actions, but that in those very actions which
most spiritually and supernaturally concern
men the rules and axioms of natural operations
have their force. What can be more immedi-
ate to our salvation than our persuasion con-
cerning the law of Christ towards his Church?
What greater assurance of love towards his
Church than the knowledge of that mystical
union whereby the Church is become as near
unto Christ as any one part of his flesh is unto
other? That the Church being in such sort
his he must needs protect it, what proof more
strong than if a manifest law so require, which
law it is not possible for Christ to violate?
And what other law doth the Apostle for this
allege, but such as is both common unto Christ
with us, and unto us with other things natural?
"No man hateth his own flesh, but doth love
and cherish it." The axioms of that law there-
fore, whereby natural agents are guided, have
their use in the moral, yea, even in the spiritual
actions of men, and consequently in all laws
belonging unto men howsoever.
Neither are the Angels themselves so far
severed from us in their kind and manner of
working, but that between the law of their
heavenly operations and the actions of men
in this our state of mortality such correspond-
ence there is, as maketh it expedient to know
in some sort the one. for the other's more per-
fect direction. Would Angels acknowledge
themselves fellow-servants with the sons of
men, but that, both having one Lord, there
must be some kind of law which is one and the
same to both, whereunto their obedience being
perfecter is to our weaker both a pattern and
a spur? Or would the Apostles, speaking of
that which belongeth unto saints as they are
linked together in the bond of spiritual society,
so often make mention how Angels therewith
are delighted, if in things publicly done by the
Church we are not somewhat to respect what
the Angels of heaven do ? Yea, so far hath the
Apostle Saint Paul proceeded, as to signify
that even about the outward orders of the
Church which serve but for comeliness, some
regard is to be had of Angels; who best like
us when we are most like unto them in all
parts of decent demeanour. So that the law
of Angels we cannot judge altogether imper-
tinent unto the affairs of the Church of God.
Our largeness of speech how men do find
out what things reason bindeth them of neces-
sity to observe, and what it guideth them to
choose in things which are left as arbitrary;
the care we have had to declare the different
nature of laws which severally concern all
men, from such as belong unto men either civ-
illy or spiritually associated, such as pertain
to the fellowship which nations, or which
Christian nations have amongst themselves,
and in the last place such as concerning every
or any of these God himself hath revealed by
his holy word : all serveth but to make manifest,
that as the actions of men are of sundry dis-
tinct kinds, so the laws thereof must accord-
ingly be distinguished. There are in men
operations, some natural, some rational, some
supernatural, some politic, some finally eccle-
siastical: which if we measure not each by
his own proper law, whereas the things them-
selves are so different, there will be in our under-
.standing and judgment of them confusion.
A As that first error showeth, whereon our
opposites in this cause have grounded them-
selves. For as they rightly maintain that God
must be glorified in all things, and that the
actions of men cannot tend unto his glory un-
less they be framed after his law; so it is their
error to think that the only law which God
hath appointed unto men in that behalf is
the sacred scripture. By that which we work
naturally, as when we breathe, sleep, move,
we set forth the glory of God as natural agents
do, albeit we have no express purpose to make
that our end, nor any advised determination
therein to follow a law, but do that we do (for
the most part) not as much as thinking thereon.
In reasonable and moral actions another law
taketh place; law by the observation whereof
we glorify God in such sort, as no creature else
under man is able to do; because other crea-
tures have not judgment to examine the quality
of that which is done by them, and therefore
in that they do they neither can accuse nor
approve themselves. Men do both, as the
Apostle teacheth; yea, those men which have
no written law of God to show what is good or
evil, carry written in their hearts the universal
law of mankind, the law of reason, whereby
they judge as by a rule which God hath given
unto all men for that purpose. The law of
reason doth somewhat direct men how to
honour God as their creator; but how to glo-
rify God in such sort as is required, to the
RICHARD HOOKER
end he may be an everlasting saviour, this we
are taught by divine law, which law both ascer-
taineth the truth and supplieth unto us the
want of that other law. So that in moral ac-
tions, divine law helpeth exceedingly the law
of reason to guide man's life; but in supernat-
ural it alone guide th.
Proceed we further; let us place man in some
public society with others, whether civil or
spiritual; and in this case there is no remedy
but we must add yet a further law. For al-
though even here likewise the laws of nature
and reason be of necessary use, yet somewhat
over and besides them is necessary, namely,
human and positive law, together with that law
which is of commerce between grand societies,
the law of nations, and of nations Christian.
For which cause the law of God hath likewise
said, "Let every soul be subject to the higher
powers." The public power of all societies is
above every soul contained in the same socie-
ties. And the principal use of that power is
to give laws unto all that are under it; which
laws in such case we must obey, unless there be
reason showed which may necessarily enforce
that the law of reason or of God doth enjoin
the contrary. Because except our own private
and but probable resolutions be by the law of
public determinations overruled, we take away
all possibility of sociable life in the world. A
plainer example whereof than ourselves we
cannot have. How cometh it to pass that we
are at this present day so rent with mutual
contentions, and that the Church is so much
troubled about the polity of the Church ? No
doubt if men had been willing to learn how
many laws their actions in this life are subject
unto, and what the true force of each law is, all
these controversies might have died the very
day they were first brought forth.
It is both commonly said, and truly, that the
best men otherwise are not always the best
in regard of society. The reason whereof is,
for that the law of men's actions is one, if they
be respected only as men; and another, when
they are considered as parts of a politic body.
Many men there are, than whom nothing is
more commendable when they are singled;
and yet in society with others none less fit to
answer the duties which are looked for at their
hands. Yea, I am persuaded, that of them
with whom in this cause we strive, there are
whose betters amongst men would be hardly
found, if they did not live amongst men, but
in some wilderness by themselves. The cause
of which their disposition, so unframable unto
societies wherein they live, is, for that they
discern not aright what place and force these
several kinds of laws ought to have in all their
actions. Is their question either concerning
the regiment l of the Church in general, or
about conformity between one church and
another, or of ceremonies, offices, powers,
jurisdictions in our own church ? Of all these
things they judge by that rule which they frame
to themselves with some show of probability,
and what seemeth in that sort convenient, the
same they think themselves bound to practise;
the same by all means they labour mightily
to uphold; whatsoever any law of man to the
contrary hath determined they weigh it not.
Thus by following the law of private reason,
where the law of public should take place, they
breed disturbance.
For the better inuring therefore of men's
minds with the true distinction of laws, and of
their several force according to the different
kind and quality of our actions, it shall not per-
adventure be amiss to show in some one exam-
ple how they all take place. To seek no further,
let but that be considered, than which there
is not anything more familiar unto us, our food.
What things are food and what are not we
judge naturally by sense ; neither need we any
other law to be our director in that behalf than the
selfsame which is common unto us with beasts.
But when we come to consider of food, as of
a benefit which God of his bounteous goodness
hath provided for all things living; the law of
reason doth here require the duty of thankful-
ness at our hands, towards him at whose hands
we have it. And lest appetite in the use of
food should lead us beyond that which is meet,
we owe in this case obedience to that law of
reason, which teacheth mediocrity in meats
and drinks. The same things divine law teach-
eth also, as at large we have showed it doth all
parts of moral duty, whereuntowe all of necessity
stand bound, in regard of the life to come.
But of certain kinds of food the Jews some-
time had, and we ourselves likewise have, a
mystical, religious, and supernatural use, they
of their Paschal lamb and oblations, we of our
bread and wine in the Eucharist; which use
none but divine law could institute.
Now as we live in civil society, the state of
the commonwealth wherein we live both may
and doth require certain laws concerning food;
which laws, saving only that we are members
of the commonwealth where they are of force,
1 organization and government
JOHN LYLY
57
we should not need to respect as rules of action,
whereas now in their place and kind they must
be respected and obeyed.
Yea, the selfsame matter is also a subject
wherein sometime ecclesiastical laws have
place; so that unless we will be authors of
confusion in the Church, our private discre-
tion, which otherwise might guide us a con-
trary way, must here submit itself to be that
way guided, which the public judgment of
the Church hath thought better. In which
case that of Zonaras concerning fasts may be
remembered, "Fastings are good, but let good
things be done in good and convenient manner.
He that transgresseth in his fasting the orders
of the holy fathers, the positive laws of the
Church of Christ, must be plainly told, that
good things do lose the grace of their goodness,
when in good sort they are not performed."
And as here men's private fancies must give
place to the higher judgment of that church
which is in authority a mother over them; so
the very actions of whole churches have, in
regard of commerce and fellowship with other
churches, been subject to laws concerning
food, the contrary unto which laws had else
been thought more convenient for them to
observe; as by that order of abstinence from
strangled and blood may appear; an order
grounded upon that fellowship which the
churches of the Gentiles had with the Jews.
Thus we see how even one and the selfsame
thing is under divers considerations conveyed
through many laws; and that to measure by
any one kind of law all the actions of men were
to confound the admirable order wherein God
hath disposed all laws, each as in nature, so in
degree, distinct from other.
Wherefore that here we may briefly end: of
Law there can be no less acknowledged, than
that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice
the harmony of the world ; all things in heaven
and earth do her homage, the very least as feel-
ing her care, and the greatest as not exempted
from her power; both Angels and men and
creatures of what condition soever, though each
in different sort and manner, yet all with uni-
form consent, admiring her as the mother of
their peace and joy.
JOHN LYLY (1554-1606)
FROM EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND
"I perceive, Camilla, that be your cloth
never so bad it will take some colour, and your
cause never so false, it will bear some show of
probability, wherein you manifest the right
nature of a woman, who having no way to win,
thinketh to overcome with words. This I
gather by your answer, that beauty may have
fair leaves, and foul fruit, that all that are ami-
able are not honest, that love proceedeth of the
woman's perfection, and the man's follies, that
the trial looked for, is to perform whatsoever
they promise, that in mind he be virtuous, in
body comely, such a husband in my opinion is
to be wished for, but not looked for. Take
heed, Camilla, that seeking all the wood for
a straight stick you choose not at the last
a crooked staff, or prescribing a good counsel
to others, thou thyself follow the worst: much
like to Chius, who selling the best wine to others,
drank himself of the lees."
"Truly," quoth Camilla, "my wool was black,
and therefore it could take no other colour, and
my cause good, and therefore admitteth no cavil :
as for the rules I set down of love, they were not
coined of me, but learned, and, being so true,
believed. If my fortune be so ill that, search-
ing for a wand, I gather a cammock,1 or, selling
wine to other, I drink vinegar myself, I must
be content, that of the worst, poor help, pa-
tience,2 which by so much the .more is to be
borne, by how much the more it is perforce."
As Surius was speaking, the Lady Flavia
prevented him, saying, "It is time that you
break off your speech, lest we have nothing to
speak, for should you wade any farther, you
would both waste the night and leave us no
time, and take our reasons, and leave us no
matter; that every one therefore may say
somewhat, we command you to cease ; that you
have both said so well, we give you thanks."
Thus letting Surius and Camilla to whisper by
themselves (whose talk we will not hear) the
lady began in this manner to greet Martius.
"We see, Martius, that where young folks
are, they treat of love, when soldiers meet,
they confer of war, painters of their colours,
musicians of their crochets, and every one
talketh of that most he liketh best. Which
seeing it is so, it behooveth us that have more
years, to have more wisdom, not to measure our
talk by the affections we have had, but by
those we should have.
"In this therefore I would know thy mind
whether it be convenient for women to haunt
such places where gentlemen are, or for men
1 crooked stick 2 = with the only contentment
possible at the worst, the poor help patience
58
JOHN LYLY
to have access to gentlewomen, which me-
thinketh in reason cannot be tolerable, knowing
that there is nothing more pernicious to either,
than love, and that love breedeth by nothing
sooner than looks. They that fear water, will
come near no wells, they that stand in dread
of burning, fly from the fire: and ought not
they that would not be entangled with desire
to refrain company? If love have the pangs
which the passionate set down, why do they
not abstain from the cause? If it be pleasant
why do they dispraise it?
"We shun the place of pestilence for fear of
infection, the eyes of Catoblepas1 because of
diseases, the sight of the basilisk for dread of
death, and shall we not eschew the company
of them that may entrap us in love, which is
more bitter than any destruction ?
"If we fly thieves that steal our goods, shall
we follow murderers that cut our throats?
If we be heedy 2 to come where wasps be, lest
we be stung, shall we hazard to run where
Cupid is, where we shall be stifled ? Truly,
Martius, in my opinion there is nothing either
more repugnant to reason, or abhorring from
nature, than to seek that we should shun,
leaving the clear stream to drink of the muddy
ditch, or in the extremity of heat to lie in the
parching sun, when he may sleep in the cold
shadow, or, being free from fancy, to seek after
love, which is as much as to cool a hot liver
with strong wine, or to cure a weak stomach
with raw flesh. In this I would hear thy
sentence, induced the rather to this discourse,
for that Surius and Camilla have begun it,
than that I like it : love in me hath neither power
to command, nor persuasion to entreat. Which
how idle a thing it is, and how pestilent to youth,
I partly know, and you I am sure can guess."
Martius not very young to discourse of these
matters, yet desirous to utter his mind, whether
it were to flatter Surius in his will, or to make
trial of the lady's wit: began thus to frame
his answer:
"Madam, there is in Chio the Image of
Diana, which to those that enter seemeth sharp
and sour, but returning after their suits made,
looketh with a merry and pleasant countenance.
And it may be that at the entrance of my dis-
course ye will bend your brows as one dis-
pleased, but hearing my proof, be delighted
and satisfied.
"The question you move, is whether it be
requisite, that gentlemen and gentlewomen
1 a fabulous animal 2 headful
should meet. Truly among lovers it is con-
venient to augment desire, amongst those that
are firm, necessary to maintain society. For
to take away all meeting for fear of love, were
to kindle amongst all, the fire of hate. There
is greater danger, Madam, by absence, -which
breedeth melancholy, than by presence, which
engendereth affection.
"If the sight be so perilous, that the com-
pany should be barred, why then admit you
those to see banquets that may thereby surfeit,
or suffer them to eat their meat by a candle
that have sore eyes? To be separated from
one I love, would make me more constant, and
to keep company with her I love not, would
not kindle desire. Love cometh as well in at
the ears, by the report of good conditions, as
in at the eyes by the amiable countenance,
which is the cause, that divers have loved
those they never saw, and seen those they
never loved.
"You allege that those that fear drowning,
come near no wells, nor they that dread burn-
ing, near no fire. Why then, let them stand in
doubt also to wash their hands in a shallow
brook, for that Serapus falling into a channel
was drowned: and let him that is cold never
warm his hands, for that a spark fell into the
eyes of Actine, whereof she died. Let none
come into the company of women, for that
divers have been allured to love, and being
refused, have used violence to themselves.
"Let this be set down for a law, that none
walk abroad in the day but men, lest meeting
a beautiful woman, he fall in love, and lose his
liberty.
"I think, Madam, you will not be so precise,
to cut off all conference, because love cometh
by often communication, which if you do, let
us all now presently depart, lest in seeing the
beauty which dazzleth our eyes, and hearing
the wisdom which tickleth our ears, we be en-
flamed with love.
"But you shall never beat the fly from the
candle though he burn, nor the quail from
hemlock though it be poison, nor the lover
from the company of his lady though it be
perilous.
"It falleth out sundry times, that company
is the cause to shake off love, working the
effects of the root rhubarb, which being full of
choler, purgeth choler, or of the scorpion's sting, .
which being full of poison, is a remedy for
poison.
"But this I conclude, that to bar one that is
in love of the company of his lady, maketh him
EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND
59
rather mad, than mortified, for him to refrain
that never knew love, is either to suspect him
of folly without cause, or the next way for him
to fall into folly when he knoweth the cause.
"A lover is like the herb heliotropium, which
always inclineth to that place where the sun
shineth, and being deprived of the sun, dieth.
For as lunaris herb, as long as the moon
waxeth, bringeth forth leaves, and in the wan-
ing shaketh them off : so a lover whilst he is in
the company of his lady, where all joys increase,
uttereth many pleasant conceits, but banished
from the sight of his mistress, where all mirth
decreaseth, either liveth in melancholy, or
dieth with desperation."
The Lady Flavia speaking in his cast,1
proceeded in this manner:
"Truly, Martius, I had not thought that as
yet your colt's tooth stuck in your mouth, or
that so old a truant in love, could hitherto
remember his lesson. You seem not to infer
that it is requisite they should meet, but being
in love that it is convenient, lest, falling into a
mad mood, they pine in their own peevishness.
Why then let it follow, that the drunkard which
surfeiteth with wine be always quaffing, because
he liketh it, or the epicure which glutteth him-
self with meat be ever eating, for that it con-
tenteth him, not seeking at any time the means
to redress their vices, but to renew them.
But it fareth with the lover as it doth with him
that poureth in much wine, who is ever more
thirsty, than he that drinketh moderately,
for having once tasted the delights of love, he
desireth most the thing that hurteth him most,
not laying a plaster to the wound, but a cor-
rosive.
"I am of this mind, that if it be dangerous,
to lay flax to the fire, salt to the eyes, sulphur
to the nose, that then it cannot be but perilous
to let one lover come in presence of the other."
Surius overhearing the lady, and seeing her so
earnest, although he were more earnest in his
suit to Camilla, cut her off with these words:
"Good Madam, give me leave either to
depart, or to speak, for in truth you gall me
more with these terms, than you wist,2 in seem-
ing to inveigh so bitterly against the meeting
of lovers, which is the only marrow of love,
and though I doubt not but that Martius is
sufficiently armed to answer you, yet would
I not have those reasons refelled,3 which
I loathe to have repeated. It may be you utter
them not of malice you bear to love, but only
to move controversy where there is no question :
for if thou envy to have lovers meet, why did
you grant us ; if allow it, why seek you to sepa-
rate us?"
The good lady could not refrain from
laughter, when she saw Surius so angry, who
in the midst of his own tale, was troubled with
hers, whom she thus again answered.
"I cry you mercy,1 gentleman, I had not
thought to have catched you, when I fished for
another, but I perceive now that with one bean
it is easy to get two pigeons, and with one bait
to have divers bites. I see that others may
guess where the shoe wrings, besides him that
wears it." "Madam," quoth Surius, "you
have caught a frog, if I be not deceived, and
therefore as good it were not to hurt him, as
not to eat him, but if all this while you angled
to have a bite at a lover, you should have used
no bitter medicines, but pleasant baits."
"I cannot tell," answered Flavia, "whether
my bait were bitter or not, but sure I am I
have the fish by the gill, that doth me good."
Camilla not thinking to be silent, put in her
spoke as she thought into the best wheel,
saying,
"Lady, your cunning may deceive you in
fishing with an angle, therefore to catch him
you would have, you were best to use a net."
"A net!" quoth Flavia, "I need none, for my
fish playeth in a net already." With that
Surius began to wince, replying immediately,
"So doth many a fish, good lady, that slippeth
out, when the fisher thinketh him fast in, and
it may be, that either your net is too weak to
hold him, or your hand too wet." "A wet
hand," quoth Flavia, "will hold a dead her-
ring:" "Aye," quoth Surius, "but eels are no
herrings." "But lovers are," said Flavia.
Surius not willing to have the grass mown,
whereof he meant to make his hay, began thus
to conclude:
"Good Lady, leave off fishing for this time,
and though it be Lent, rather break a statute
which is but penal, than sew2 a pond that may
be perpetual." "I am content," quoth Flavia,
"rather to fast for once, than to want a pleasure
forever: yet, Surius, betwixt us two, I will at
large prove, that there is nothing in love more
venomous than meeting, which filleth the mind
with grief and the body with diseases : for hav-
ing the one, he cannot fail of the other. But
now, Philautus and niece Francis, since I
am cut off, begin you: but be short, because
style, manner 2 know 3 refuted
1 1 beg your pardon 2 drain, empty
6o
THOMAS LODGE
the time is short, and that I was more short
than I would."
THOMAS LODGE (i5s8?-i625)
FROM ROSALYNDE: EUPHUES' GOLDEN
LEGACY
They came no sooner nigh the folds, but they
might see where their discontented forester
was walking in his melancholy. As soon as
Aliena saw him, she smiled, and said to Gani-
mede: "Wipe your eyes, sweeting, for yonder
is your sweetheart this morning in deep prayers
no doubt to Venus, that she may make you as
pitiful as he is passionate. Come on, Gani-
mede, I pray thee let's have a little sport with
him." "Content," quoth Ganimede, and with
that, to waken him out of his deep memento,1
he2 began thus:
"Forester, good fortune to thy thoughts,
and ease to thy passions! What makes you
so early abroad this morn, in contemplation,
no doubt, of your Rosalynde? Take heed,
forester, step not too far ; the ford may be deep,
and you slip over the shoes. I tell thee, flies
have their spleen, the ants choler, the least
hairs shadows, and the smallest loves great
desires. 'Tis good, forester, to love, but not
to overlove, lest, in loving her that likes not
thee, thou fold thyself in an endless labyrinth."
Rosader seeing the fair shepherdess and her
pretty swain, in whose company he feli the
greatest ease of his care, he returned them a
salute on this manner:
"Gentle shepherds, all hail, and as healthful
be your flocks as you happy in content. Love
is restless, and my bed is but the cell of my bane,
in that there I find busy thoughts and broken
slumbers. Here, although everywhere pas-
sionate,3 yet I brook love with more patience, in
that every object feeds mine eye with variety
of fancies. When I look on Flora's beauteous
tapestry, checkered with the pride of all her
treasure, I call to mind the fair face of Rosa-
lynde, whose heavenly hue exceeds the rose and
the lily in their highest excellence. The bright-
ness of Phoebus' shine puts me in mind to think
of the sparkling flames that flew from her eyes
and set my heart first on fire; the sweet har-
monic of the birds puts me in remembrance
of the rare melody of her voice, which like the
Syren enchanteth the ears of the hearer. Thus
in contemplation I salve my sorrows, with
applying the perfection of every object to the
excellence of her qualities."
1 meditation 2he = Rosalynde disguised as Gani-
mede 3 troubled
"She is much beholding unto you," quoth
Aliena, "and so much that I have oft wished
with myself that if I should ever prove as
amorous as CEnone, I might find as faithful a
Paris as yourself."
"How say you by this Item, forester?" quoth
Ganimede. " The fair shepherdess favours
you, who is mistress of so many flocks. Leave
off, man, the supposition of Rosalynde's love,
whenas, watching at her, you rove beyond the
moon; and cast your looks upon my mistress,
who no doubt is as fair though not so royal.
One bird in the hand is worth two in the wood;
better possess the love of Aliena, than catch
frivolously at the shadow of Rosalynde."
"I'll tell thee, boy," quoth Ganimede; "so
is my fancy fixed on my Rosalynde, that were
thy mistress as fair as Leda or Danae, whom
Jove courted in transformed shapes, mine eyes
would not vouch l to entertain their beauties ;
and so hath Love locked me in her perfections,
that I had rather only contemplate in her
beauties, than absolutely possess the excellence
of any other. Venus is to blame, forester,
if, having so true a servant of you, she reward
you not with Rosalynde, if Rosalynde were
more fairer than herself. But leaving this
prattle, now I'll put you in mind of your
promise, about those sonnets which you said
were at home in your lodge." "I have them
about me," quoth Rosader; "let us sit down,
and then you shall hear what a poetical fury
Love will infuse into a man." With that
they sat down upon a green bank shadowed
with fig trees, and Rosader, fetching a deep sigh,
read them this sonnet:
ROSADER'S SONNET
In sorrow's cell I laid me down to sleep,
But waking woes were jealous of mine eyes.
They made them watch, and bend themselves
to weep;
But weeping tears their want could not suffice.
Yet since for her they wept who guides my
heart,
They, weeping, smile and triumph in their
smart.
Of these my tears a fountain fiercely springs,
Where Venus bains 2 herself incensed with love ;
Where Cupid boweth his fair feathered wings.
But I behold what pains I must approve.
Care drinks it dry; but when on her I think,
Love makes me weep it full unto the brink.
1 condescend
2 bathes
ROSALYNDE
61
Meanwhile my sighs yield truce unto my tears,
By them the winds increased and fiercely
blow;
Yet when I sigh, the flame more plain appears,
And by their force with greater power doth glow.
Amidst these pains all Phoenix-like I thrive,
Since Love that yields me death may life
revive.
Rosader, en esperance.1
"Now surely, forester," quoth Aliena,
"when thou madest this sonnet, thou wert in
some amorous quandary, neither too fearful,
as despairing of thy mistress' favours, nor too
gleesome, as hoping in thy fortunes." "I
can smile," quoth Ganimede, "at the sonettoes,
canzones, madrigals, rounds and roundelays,
that these pensive patients pour out, when
their eyes are more full of wantonness than
their hearts of passions. Then, as the fishers
put the sweetest bait to the fairest fish, so these
Ovidians,1 holding Amo in their tongues,
when their thoughts come at haphazard, write
that they be wrapped in an endless labyrinth
of sorrow, when, walking in the large lease
of liberty, they only have their humours in their
inkpot. If they find women so fond,2 that they
will with such painted lures come to their lust,
then they triumph till they be full gorged with
pleasures ; and then fly they away, like ramage
kites, to their own content, leaving the tame
fool, their mistress, full of fancy, yet without
ever a feather. If they miss (as dealing with
some wary wanton, that wants not such a one as
themselves, but spies their subtilty), they end
their amours with a few feigned sighs; and so
their excuse is, their mistress is cruel, and they
smother passions with patience. Such, gentle
forester, we may deem you to be, that rather
pass away the time here in these woods with
writing amorets, than to be deeply enamoured,
as you say, of your Rosalynde. If you be such
a one, then I pray God, when you think your
fortunes at the highest, and your desires to be
most excellent, then that you may with Ixion
embrace Juno in a cloud, and have nothing
but a marble mistress to release your martyr-
dom ; but if you be true and trusty, eye-pained
and heart-sick, then accursed be Rosalynde
if she prove cruel; for, forester, (I flatter not)
thou art worthy of as fair as she." Aliena,
spying the storm by the wind, smiled to see
how Ganimede flew to the fist without any
call; but Rosader, who took him flat for a
shepherd's swain, made him this answer.
1 devotees of Ovid's Art of Love 2 foolish
"Trust me, swain," quoth Rosader, "but
my canzon1 was written in no such humour;
for mine eye and my heart are relatives, the
one drawing fancy2 by sight, the other enter-
taining her by sorrow. If thou sawest my
Rosalynde, with what beauties Nature hath
favoured her, with what perfection the heavens
hath graced her, with what qualities the Gods
have endued her, then wouldst thou say, there
is none so fickle that could be fleeting unto her.
If she had been ^Eneas' Dido, had Venus and
Juno both scolded him from Carthage, yet
her excellence, despite of them, would have
detained him at Tyre. If Phyllis had been as
beauteous, or Ariadne as virtuous, or both as
honourable and excellent as she, neither had
the philbert tree sorrowed in the death of
despairing Phyllis, nor the stars have been
graced with Ariadne, but Demophon and
Theseus had been trusty to their paragons.
I will tell thee, swain, if with a deep insight
thou couldst pierce into the secret of my loves,
and see what deep impressions of her idea
affection hath made in my heart, then wouldst
thou confess I were passing passionate, and
no less endued with admirable patience."
"Why, " quoth Aliena, " needs there patience in
Love ? " "Or else in nothing," quoth Rosader ;
" for it is a restless sore that hath no ease, a can-
ker that still frets, a disease that taketh away
all hope of sleep. If, then, so many sorrows,
sudden joys, momentary pleasures, continual
fears, daily griefs, and nightly woes be found in
love, then is not he to be accounted patient,
that smothers all these passions with silence?"
"Thou speakest by experience," quoth Gani-
mede, "and therefore we hold all thy words
for axioms. But is love such a fingering
malady?" "It is," quoth he, "either extreme
or mean, according to the mind of the party
that entertains it ; for as the weeds grow longer
untouched than the pretty flowers, and the flint
lies safe in the quarry, when the emerald is
suffering the lapidary's tool, so mean men are
freed from Venus' injuries, when kings are
environed with a labyrinth of her cares. The
whiter the lawn is the deeper is the mole, the
more purer the chrysolite the sooner stained;
and such as have their hearts full of honour,
have their loves full of the greatest sorrows.
But in whomsoever," quoth Rosader, " he fixeth
his dart, he never leaveth to assault him, till
either he hath won him to folly or fancy; for
as the moon never goes without the star Luni-
sequa,3 so a lover never goeth without the unrest
1 a kind of song 2 love 3 Moon-follower
62
THOMAS LODGE
of his thoughts. For proof you shall hear
another fancy of my making." " Now do,
gentle forester," quoth Ganimede. And with
that he read over this sonetto:
ROSADER'S SECOND SONETTO
Turn I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I gaze upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found;
Search I the shade to fly my pain,
He meets me in the shade again;
Wend I to walk in secret grove,
Even there I meet with sacred Love;
If so I bain 1 me in the spring,
Even on the brink I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my moan ;
If so I mourn, he weeps with me;
And where I am, there will he be.
Whenas I talk of Rosalynde,
The God from coyness waxeth kind,
And seems in selfsame flames to fry,
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweet Rosalynde, for pity rue, -
For-why 2 than Love I am more true ;
He, if he speed3 will quickly fly,
But in thy love I live and die.
" How like you this sonnet? " quoth Rosader.
"Marry," quoth Ganimede, "for the pen well,
for the passion ill; for, as I praise the one, I
pity the other, in that thou shouldest hunt after
a cloud, and love either without reward or
regard." " 'Tis not her frowardness," quoth
Rosader, "but my hard fortunes, whose des-
tinies have crossed me with her absence;
for did she feel my loves, she would not let
me linger in these sorrows. Women, as they
are fair, so they respect faith, and estimate
more, if they be honourable, the will than the
wealth, having loyalty the object whereat they
aim their fancies. But, leaving off these inter-
parleys, you shall hear my last sonetto, and
then you have heard all my poetry." And with
that he sighed out this:
ROSADER'S THIRD SONNET
Of virtuous love myself may boast alone,
Since no suspect my service may attaint;
For perfect fair 4 she is the only one,
Whom I esteem for my beloved Saint.
Thus for my faith I only bear the bell,5
And for her fair 4 she only doth excell.
1 bathe " because * succeed 4 beauty * excel all
Then let fond l Petrarch shroud 2 his Laura's
praise,
And Tasso cease to publish his affect,3
Since mine the faith confirmed at all assays,
And hers the fair4 which all men do respect.
My lines her fair, her fair my faith assures;
Thus I by Love, and Love by me endures.
"Thus," quoth Rosader, "here is an end of
my poems, but for all this no release of my
passions; so that I resemble him that in the
depth of his distress hath none but the Echo
to answer him." Ganimede, pitying her
Rosader, thinking to drive him out of this
amorous melancholy, said that "Now the sun
was in his meridional heat, and that it was
high noon, therefore we shepherds say, 'tis
time to go to dinner: for the sun and our
stomachs, are shepherd's dials. Therefore,
forester, if thou wilt take such fare as comes
out of our homely scrips, welcome shall answer
whatsoever thou wan test in delicates." Aliena
took the entertainment by the end, and told
Rosader he should be her guest. He thanked
them heartily, and sat with them down to din-
ner: where they had such cates5 as country
state did allow them, sauced with such content
and such sweet prattle as it seemed far more
sweet than all their courtly junkets.6
As soon as they had taken their repast,
Rosader giving them thanks for his good cheer,
would have been gone; but Ganimede, that
was loath to let him pass out of her presence,
began thus: "Nay, forester," quoth he, "if
thy business be not the greater, seeing thou
sayest thou art so deeply in love, let me see
how thou canst woo. I will represent Rosa-
lynde, and thou shalt be, as thou art, Rosader.
See in some amorous Eglogue, how if Rosa-
lynde were present, how thou couldst court
her; and while we sing of love, Aliena shall
tune her pipe, and play us melody." "Con-
tent," quoth Rosader. And Aliena, she to
show her willingness, drew forth a recorder,
and began to wind7 it. Then the loving for-
ester began thus:
THE WOOING ECLOGUE BETWIXT ROSALYNDE
AND ROSADER
Rosader
I pray thee, Nymph, by all the working words,
By all the tears and sighs that lovers know,
Or what or thoughts or faltering tongue affords,
I crave for mine in ripping up my woe.
1 foolish
8 delicacies
2 cover up
7 blow
3 love 4 beauty 6 cakes
ROSALYNDE
Sweet Rosalynde, my love (would God my
love !),
My life (would God my. life!), ay pity me;
Thy lips are kind, and humble like the dove,
And but with beauty pity will not be.
Look on mine eyes, made red with rueful tears,
From whence the rain of true remorse de-
seen deth,
All pale in looks, and I though young in years,
And nought but love or death my days be-
friendeth.
Oh, let no stormy rigour knit thy brows,
Which Love appointed for his mercy-seat!
The tallest tree by Boreas' breath it bows,
The iron yields with hammer, and to heat;
O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful ;
For Rosalynde is only beautiful.
Rosalynde
Love's wantons arm their trait'rous suits with
tears,
With vows, with oaths, with looks, with
showers of gold;
But when the fruit of their affects1 appears,
The simple heart by subtil sleights is sold.
Thus sucks the yielding ear the poisoned bait,
Thus feeds the heart upon his endless harms,
Thus glut the thoughts themselves on self-
deceit,
Thus blind the eyes their sight by subtil charms.
The lovely looks, the sighs that storm so sore,
The dew of deep dissembled doubleness, —
These may attempt, but are of power no more,
Where beauty leans to wit and soothfastness.2
O Rosader, then be thou wittiful;
For Rosalynde scorns foolish pitiful.
Rosader
I pray thee, Rosalynde, by those sweet eyes
That stain 3 the sun in shine, the morn in
clear; 4
By those sweet cheeks where Love encamped
lies
To kiss the roses of the springing year;
I tempt thee, Rosalynde, by ruthful plaints,
Not seasoned with deceit or fraudful guile,
But firm in pain, far more than tongue depaints,
Sweet nymph, be kind, and grace me with a
smile.
So may the heavens preserve from hurtful
food
Thy harmless flocks, so may the summer yield
The pride of all her riches and her good,
• To fat thy sheep, the citizens of field.
1 affections 2 truth 3 excel 4 clearness
Oh, leave to arm thy lovely brows with scorn !
The birds their beak, the lion hath his tail;
And lovers nought but sighs and bitter mourn,1
The spotless fort of fancy 2 to assail.
O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful;
For Rosalynde is only beautiful.
Rosalynde
The hardened steel by fire is brought in frame :
Rosader
And Rosalynde my love than any wool more
softer;
And shall not sighs her tender heart enflame?
Rosalynde
Were lovers true, maids would believe them
ofter.
Rosader
Truth and regard and honour guide my love !
Rosalynde
Fain would I trust, but yet I dare not try.
Rosader
Oh, pity me, sweet Nymph, and do but prove.
Rosalynde
I would resist, but yet I know not why. •
Rosader
O Rosalynde, be kind, for times will change;
Thy looks aye nill 3 be fair as now they be,
Thine age from beauty may thy looks estrange :
Ah, yield in time, sweet Nymph, and pity me.
Rosalynde
O Rosalynde, thou must be pitiful ;
For Rosader is young and beautiful.
Rosader
Oh, gain more great than kingdoms or a crown !
Rosalynde
Oh, trust betrayed if Rosader abuse me !
1 mourning 2 love 3 will not
ROBERT GREENE
Rosader
First let the heavens conspire to pull me down,
And heaven and earth as abject quite refuse
me;
Let sorrows stream about my hateful bower,
And restless horror hatch within my breast;
Let beauty's eye afflict me with a lour;
Let deep despair pursue me without rest;
Ere Rosalynde my loyalty disprove,
Ere Rosalynde accuse me for unkind.
Rosalynde
Then Rosalynde will grace thee with her love,
Then Rosalynde will have thee still in mind.
Rosader
Then let me triumph more than Tithon's
dear,
Since Rosalynde will Rosader respect:
Then let my face exile his sorry cheer,
And frolic in the comfort of affect;1
And say that Rosalynde is only pitiful,
Since Rosalynde is only beautiful.
When thus they had finished their" courting
eglogue in such a familiar clause,2 Ganimede as
augur of some good fortunes to light upon their
affections, began to be thus pleasant: "How
now, forester, have I not fitted your turn?
Have I not played the woman handsomely, and
showed myself as coy in grants, as courteous in
desires, and been as full of suspicion as men of
flattery? And yet to salve all, jumped3 I not
all up with the sweet union of love ? Did not
Rosalynde content her Rosader?" The for-
ester at this smiling, shook his head, and folding
his arms made this merry reply:
"Truth, gentle swain, Rosader hath his
Rosalynde; but as Ixion had Juno, who,
thinking to possess a goddess, only embraced a
cloud. In these imaginary fruitions of fancy,
I resemble the birds that fed themselves with
Zeuxis' painted grapes; but they grew so lean
with pecking at shadows that they were glad
with /Esop's cock to scrape for a barley cornel ; *
so fareth it with me, who to feed myself with the
hope of my mistress' favours, soothe myself in
thy suits, and only in conceit reap a wished-for
content. But if my food be no better than such
amorous dreams, Venus at the year's end shall
find me but a lean lover. Yet do I take these
follies for high fortunes, and hope these feigned
affections do divine some unfeigned end of
ensuing fancies." "And thereupon," quoth
1 love 2 expression a dosed * kernel
Aliena, "I'll play the priest. From this day
forth Ganimede shall call thee husband, and
thou shalt call Ganimede wife, and so well
have a marriage." "Content," quoth Rosader,
and laughed. "Content," quoth Ganimede,
and changed as red as a rose. And so with a
smile and a blush they made up this jesting
match, that after proved to a marriage in ear-
nest; Rosader full little thinking he had wooed
and won his Rosalynde. . . .
ROBERT GREENE (i56o?-i592)
FROM A GROAT'S WORTH OF WIT, BOUGHT
WITH A MILLION OF REPENTANCE
On the other side of the hedge sat one that
heard his sorrow, who getting over, came tow-
ards him, and brake off his passion. When
he approached, he saluted Roberto in this sort.
"Gentleman," quoth he, "(for so you seem)
I have by chance heard you discourse some part
of your grief; which appeareth to be more than
you will discover, or I can conceit.1 But if
you vouchsafe2 such simple comfort as my
ability will yield, assure yourself that I will en-
deavour to do the best, that either may pro-
cure your profit, or bring you pleasure: the
rather, for that I suppose you are a scholar,
and pity it is men of learning should live in
lack."
Roberto wondering to hear such good words,
for that this iron age affords few that esteem
of virtue, returned him thankful gratulations,
and (urged by necessity) uttered his present
grief, beseeching his advice how he might be
employed. "Why, easily," quoth he, "and
greatly to your benefit: for men of my profes-
sion get by scholars their whole living." " What
is your profession?" said Roberto. "Truly,
sir," said he, "I am a player." "A player,"
quoth Roberto, "I took you rather for a gen-
tleman of great living, for if by outward habit
men should be censured, I tell you you would be
taken for a substantial man." " So am I, where
I dwell (quoth the player), reputed able at my
proper cost to build a windmill. What though
the world once went hard with me, when I
was fain to carry my playing fardel a footback ;
Tempora mutantur,3 1 know you know the mean-
ing of it better than I, but I thus construe
it; it is otherwise now; for my very share in
playing apparel will not be sold for two hun-
dred pounds." "Truly (said Roberto) it is
1 conceive 2 condescend to accept 3 times change
A GROAT'S WORTH OF WIT
strange, that you should so prosper in that vain
practice, for that it seems to me your voice
is nothing gracious." "Nay then," said the
player, "I mislike your judgment: why, I am
as famous for Delphrigus, and the King of
Fairies, as ever was any of my time. The
Twelve Labours of Hercules have I terribly
thundered on the stage, and placed three scenes
of the Devil on the Highway to Heaven." "Have
ye so? (said Roberto) then I pray you pardon
me." "Nay, more (quoth the player), I can
serve to make a pretty speech, for I was a
country author; passing at a moral,1 for it was
I that penned the Moral of Man's Wit, the
Dialogue of Dives, and for seven years space
was absolute interpreter of the puppets. But
now my almanac is out of date.
The people make no estimation,
Of Morals teaching education.
Was not this pretty for a plain rhyme ex-
tempore? if ye will, ye shall have more."
"Nay it is enough," said Roberto, "but how
mean you to use me?" "Why sir, in making
plays," said the other, "for which you shall be
well paid, if you will take the pains."
Roberto perceiving no remedy, thought best
in respect of his present necessity, to try his
wit, and went with him willingly: who lodged
him at the town's end in a house of retail,
where what happened our poet you shall here-
after hear. There, by conversing with bad
company, he grew A malo in peius? falling
from one vice to another, and so having found
a vein 3 to finger crowns he grew cranker 4 than
Lucanio, who by this time began to droop,
being thus dealt withal by Lamilia. She hav-
ing bewitched him with her enticing wiles,
caused him to consume, in less than two years,
that infinite treasure gathered by his father with
so many a poor man's curse. His lands sold,
his jewels pawned, his money wasted, he was
cashiered by Lamilia that had cozened him of
all. Then walked he, like one of Duke Hum-
frey's squires, in a threadbare cloak, his hose
drawn out with his heels, his shoes unseamed,
lest his feet should sweat with heat: now (as
witless as he was) he remembered his father's
words, his kindness to his brother, his careless-
ness of himself. In this sorrow he sat down on
penniless bench ; where, when Opus and Usus 5
told him by the chimes in his stomach it was
time to fall unto meat, he was fain with the
1 Morality Play 2 from bad to worse 3 inclination
* worse * need and custom
camelion to feed upon the air, and make
patience his best repast.
While he was at his feast, Lamilia came
flaunting by, garnished with the jewels whereof
she beguiled him: which sight served to close
his stomach after his cold cheer. Roberto,
hearing of his brother's beggery, albeit he had
little remorse ! of his miserable state, yet did
he seek him out, to use him as a property,2
whereby Lucanio was somewhat provided for.
But being of simple nature, he served but for
a block to whet Roberto's wit on ; which the
poor fool perceiving, he forsook all other hopes
of life, and fell to be a notorious pandar: in
which detested course he continued till death.
But, Roberto, now famoused for an arch play-
making poet, his purse like the sea sometime
swelled, anon like the same sea fell to a low ebb;
yet seldom he wanted, his labours were so well
esteemed. Marry, this rule he kept, whatever
he fingered aforehand was the certain means
to unbind a bargain, and, being asked why he
so slightly dealt with them that did him good,
"It becomes me," saith he, "to be contrary to
the world, for commonly when vulgar men
receive earnest, they do perform, when I am
paid anything aforehand I break my promise."
He had shift of lodgings, where in every place
his hostess writ up the woeful remembrance of
him, his laundress, and his boy; for they were
ever his in household, beside retainers in sundry
other places. His company were lightly 3 the
lewdest persons in the land, apt for pilefrey,
perjury, forgery, or any villany. Of these
he knew the casts to cog " at cards, cozen at dice :
by these he learned the legerdemains of nips,
foisters, cony-catchers, crossbiters, lifts, high
lawyers,5 and all the rabble of that unclean
generation of vipers: and pithily could he paint
out their whole courses of craft: So cunning he
was in all crafts, as nothing rested in him almost
but craftiness. How often the gentlewoman
his wife laboured vainly to recall him, is lament-
able to note : but as one given over to all lewd-
ness, he communicated her sorrowful lines
among his loose trulls, that jested at her boot-
less laments. If he could any way get credit
on scores, he would then brag his creditors
carried stones, comparing every round circle
to a groaning O, procured by a painful burden.
The shameful end of sundry his consorts,'
deservedly punished for their amiss,7 wrought
1 pity 2 tool 3 easily * cheat * different
kinds of pickpockets and thieves • companions
66
ROBERT GREENE
no compunction in his heart: of which one,
brother to a brothel ' he kept, was trussed under
a tree 2 as round as a ball.3
To some of his swearing companions thus it
happened: A crew of them sitting in a tavern
carousing, it fortuned an honest gentleman, and
his friend, to enter their room : some of them
being acquainted with him, in their domineering
drunken vein, would have no nay, but down
he must needs sit with them ; being placed, no
remedy there was, but he must needs keep even
compass with their unseemly carousing. Which
he refusing, they fell from high words to sound
strokes, so that with much ado the gentleman
saved his own, and shifted from their company.
Being gone, one of these tiplers forsooth lacked
a gold ring, the other sware they see 4 the gentle-
man take it from his hand. Upon this the
gentleman was indicted before a judge: these
honest men are deposed : whose 5 wisdom
weighing the time of the brawl, gave light to
the jury what power wine-washing poison
had: they, according unto conscience, found
the gentleman not guilty, and God released by
that verdict the innocent.
With his accusers thus it fared : one of them
for murder was worthily executed: the other
never since prospered: the third, sitting not
long after upon a lusty horse, the beast
suddenly died under him: God amend the
man!
Roberto every day acquainted with these
examples, was notwithstanding nothing bet-
tered, but rather hardened in wickedness. At
last was that place6 justified, "God warneth
men by dreams and visions in the night, and
by known examples in the day, but if he return
not, he comes upon him with judgment that
shall be felt." For now when the number of
deceits caused Roberto be hateful almost to
all men, his immeasurable drinking had made
him the perfect image of the dropsy, and the
loathsome scourge of lust tyrannised in his
loves: living in extreme poverty, and having
nothing to pay but chalk,7 which now his
host accepted not for current, this miserable
man lay comfortlessly languishing, having but
one groat left (the just 8 proportion of his
father's legacy) which looking on, he cried:
" Oh now it is too late ! too late to buy wit with
thee: and therefore will I see if I can sell to
careless youth what I negligently forgot to buy."
1 trull 2 hanged 3 A poor pun; the man's name
•was Ball. * saw * i.e. the judge 6 scriptural
passage 7 Cltalk was used to keep a record of small
debts. 8 exact
Here (gentlemen) break I off Roberto's
speech; whose life in most parts agreeing with
mine, found one self punishment as I have
done. Hereafter suppose me the said Roberto,
and I will go on with that he promised : Greene
will send you now his groatsworth of wit, that J
never showed a mitesworth in his life: and
though no man now be by to do me good, yet,
ere I die, I will by my repentance endeavour to
do all men good.
And therefore (while life gives leave) will
send warning to my old consorts,2 which have
lived as loosely as myself, albeit weakness will
scarce suffer me to write, yet to my fellow
scholars about this City, will I direct these few
ensuing lines.
To those Gentlemen his Quondam acquaintance,
that spend their wits in making Plays,
R. G. wisheth a better exercise, and
wisdom to prevent his extremities.
If woeful experience may move you (gentle-
men) to beware, or unheard-of wretchedness
entreat you to take heed, I doubt not but you
will look back with sorrow on your time past,
and endeavour with repentance to spend that
which is to come. Wonder not (for with thee
will I first begin), thou famous gracer of trage-
dians, that Greene, who hath said with thee like
the fool in his heart, "There is no God," should
now give glory unto his greatness: for pene-
trating is his power, his hand lies heavy upon
me, he hath spoken unto me with a voice of
thunder, and I have felt he is a God that can
punish enemies. Why should thy excellent
wit, his gift, be so blinded, that thou shouldst
give no glory to the giver? Is it pestilent
Machiavellian policy that thou hast studied ? O
Punish 3 folly ! What are his rules but mere con-
fused mockeries, able to extirpate in small time
the generation of mankind. For if Sic volo, sic
jubeo* hold in those that are able to command :
and if it be lawful Fas et nefas B to do anything
that is beneficial, only tyrants should possess
the earth, and they striving to exceed in tyranny,
should each to other be a slaughter man; till
the mightiest outliving all, one stroke were left
for Death, that in one age man's life should
end. The brother 8 of this Diabolical Atheism
is dead, and in his life had never the felicity he
aimed at: but as he began in craft, lived in
1 who, i.e. Greene 2 companions 8 Punic, de-
ceitful * so I wish, so I command 6 lawful or
unlawful 8 ? brocher = beginner
THE ART OF CONY-CATCHING
67
fear and ended in despair. Quam inscruta-
bilia sunt Dei judicia?.1 This murderer of
many brethren had his conscience seared like
Cain : this betrayer of Him that gave his life for
him inherited the portion of Judas: this apostata
perished as ill as Julian: and wilt thou, my
friend, be his disciple ? Look unto me, by him
persuaded to that liberty, and thou shalt find it
an infernal bondage. I know the least of my
demerits merit this miserable death, but willful
striving against known truth, exceedeth all
the terrors of my soul. Defer not (with me)
till this last point of extremity; for little know-
est thou how in the end thou shalt be visited.
With thee I join young Juvenal, that biting
satirist, that lastly with me together writ a
comedy. Sweet boy, might I advise thee,
be advised, and get not many enemies by bitter
words : inveigh against vain men, for thou canst
do it, no man better, no man so well: thou
hast a liberty to reprove all, and none more;
for, one being spoken to, all are offended ; none
being blamed, no man is injured. Stop shallow
water still running, it will rage; tread on a
worm and it will turn : then blame not scholars
vexed with sharp lines, if they reprove thy too
much liberty of reproof.
And thou no less deserving than the other
two, in some things rarer, in nothing inferior;
driven (as myself) to extreme shifts, a little
have I to say to thee : and were it not an idola-
trous oath, I would swear by sweet S. George,
thou art unworthy better hap, sith 2 thou de-
pendest on so mean a stay. Base minded
men all three of you, if by my misery ye be not
warned: for unto none of you, like me, sought
those burrs to cleave: those puppets, I mean,
that speak from our mouths, those antics
garnished in our colours. Is it not strange that
I, to whom they all have been beholding:
is it not like that you, to whom they all have
been beholding, shall, were ye in that case that I
am now, be both at once of them forsaken?
Yes, trust them not: for there is an upstart
Crow, beautified with our feathers, that with
his Tiger's heart wrapped in a Player's hide,
supposes he is as well able to bombast out a
blank verse as the best of you: and being an
absolute Johannes fac Mum, is in his own con-
ceit the only Shake-scene in a country. O that
1 might entreat your rare wits to be employed
in more profitable courses: and let those Apes
imitate your past excellence, and never more
1 How inscrutable are the judgments of God
2 since
acquaint them with your admired inventions.
I know the best husband of you all will never
prove an usurer, and the kindest of them all
will never prove a kind nurse: yet whilst you
may, seek you better masters; for it is pity
men of such rare wits, should be subject to
the pleasures of such rude grooms.
In this I might insert two more, that both have
writ against these buckram gentlemen: but
let their own works serve to witness against
their own wickedness, if they persevere to
maintain any more such peasants. For other
new comers, I leave them to the mercy of these
painted monsters, who (I doubt not) will drive
the best minded to despise them : for the rest,
it skills not though they make a jest at them.
But now return I again to you three, knowing
my misery is to you no news : and let me heartily
entreat you to be warned by my harms. De-
light not, as I have done, in irreligious oaths;
for from the blasphemer's house a curse shall
not depart. Despise drunkenness, which wast-
eth the wit, and maketh men all equal unto
beasts. Fly lust, as the deathsman of the soul,
and defile not the temple of the Holy Ghost.
Abhor those epicures, whose loose life hath
made religion loathsome to your ears: and
when they sooth you with terms of mastership,
remember Robert Greene, whom they have so
often flattered, perishes now for want' of com-
fort. Remember, gentlemen, your lives are
like so many lighted tapers, that are with care
delivered to all of you to maintain ; these with
wind-puffed wrath may be extinguished, which
drunkenness put out, which negligence let fall:
for man's time of itself is not so short, but it is
more shortened by sin. The fire of my light
is now at the last snuff, and the want of where-
with to sustain it, there is no substance left
for life to feed on. Trust not then, I beseech
ye, to such weak stays: for they are as change-
able in mind, as in many attires. Well, my
hand is tired, and I am forced to leave where
I would begin; for a whole book cannot con-
tain these wrongs, which I am forced to knit
up in some few lines of words.
Desirous that you should live, though
himself be dying,
Robert Greene.
FROM THE ART OF CONY-CATCHING »
There be requisite effectually to act the Art
of Cony-catching, three several parties: the
setter, the verser, and the barnacle. The
1 bunco-steering
68
ROBERT GREENE
nature of the setter, is to draw any person
familiarly to drink with him, which person
they call the cony, and their method is accord-
ing to the man they aim at: if a gentleman,
merchant, or apprentice, the cony is the more
easily caught, in that they are soon induced to
play, and therefore I omit the circumstance
which they use in catching of them. And for
because the poor country farmer or yeoman is
the mark which they most of all shoot at, who
they know comes not empty to the term,1 I
will discover the means they put in practice to
bring in some honest, simple and ignorant men
to their purpose. The cony-catchers, appar-
eled like honest civil gentlemen, or good fel-
lows, with a smooth face, as if butter would
not melt in their mouths, after dinner when the
clients are come from Westminster Hall, and
are at leisure to walk up and down Paul's,
Fleet-street, Holborn, the Strand, and such
common haunted places, where these cozening
companions .attend only to spy out a prey:
who as soon as they see a plain country fellow
well and cleanly appareled, either in a coat
of homespun russet, or of frieze, as the time
requires, and a side 2 pouch at his side,- "There
is a cony," saith one. At that word out flies the
setter, and overtaking the man, begins to salute
him thus : " Sir, God save you, you are welcome
to London, how doth all our good friends in the
country, I hope they be all in health? " The
country-man seeing a man so courteous he knows
not, half in a brown study at this strange
salutation, perhaps makes him this answer:
"Sir, all our friends in the country are well,
thanks be to God, but truly I know you not,
you must pardon me." "Why, sir," saith the
setter, guessing by his tongue what country man
he is, "are you not such a country man?"
If he says yes, then he creeps upon him closely.
If he say no, then straight the setter comes
over him thus: "In good sooth, sir, I know you
by your face and have been in your company
before, I pray you, if without offence, let me
crave your name, and the place of your abode."
The simple man straight tells him where he
dwells, his name, and who be his next neigh-
bours, and what gentlemen dwell about him.
After he hath learned all of him, then he comes
over his fellow kindly: "Sir, though I have
been somewhat bold to be inquisitive of your
name, yet hold me excused, for I took you for a
friend of mine, but since by mistaking I have
made you slack your business, we'll drink a
quart of wine, or a pot of ale together." If
the fool be so ready as to go, then the cony is
caught ; but if he smack the setter, and smells a
rat by his clawing, and will not drink with him,
then away goes the setter, and discourseth to
the verser the name of the man, the parish he
dwells in, and what gentlemen are his near
neighbours. With that away goes he, and
crossing the man at some turning, meets him
full in the face, and greets him thus:
"What, goodman Barton, how fare all our
friends about you? You are well met, I have
the wine for you, you are welcome to town."
The poor countryman hearing himself named
by a man he knows not, marvels, and answers
that he knows him not, and craves pardon.
"Not me, goodman Barton, have you forgot
me? Why I am such a man's kinsman, your
neighbour not far off; how doth this or that
good gentleman my friend ? Good Lord that
I should be out of your remembrance, I have
been at your house divers times." "Indeed
sir," saith the farmer, "are you such a man's
kinsman ? Surely, sir, if you had not challenged
acquaintance of me, I should never have known
you. I have clean forgot you, but I know the
good gentleman your cousin well, he is my very
good neighbour:" "And for his sake," saith
the verser, "we'll drink afore we part." Haply
the man thanks him, and to the wine or ale
they go. Then ere they part, they make him a
cony, and so ferret-claw l him at cards, that they
leave him as bare of money, as an ape of a tail.
Thus have the filthy fellows their subtle fetches
to draw, on poor men to fall into their cozening
practices. Thus like consuming moths of the
commonwealth, they prey upon the ignorance
of such plain souls as measure all by their own
honesty, not regarding either conscience, or the
fatal revenge that's threatened for such idle
and licentious persons, but do employ all their
wits to overthrow such as with their handy-
^ thrift satisfy their hearty thirst, they prefer-
ring cozenage before labour, and choosing an
idle practice before any honest form of good
living. Well, to the method again of taking
up their conies. If the poor countryman smoke
them still, and will not stoop unto either of their
lures, then one, either the verser, or the setter,
or some of their crew, for there is a general
fraternity betwixt them, steppeth before the
cony as he goeth, and letteth drop twelve pence
in the highway, that of force2 the cony must
see it. The countryman spying the shilling,
1 session of court
1 wide
1 cheat 2 necessarily
GREENE'S NEVER TOO LATE
69
maketh not dainty, for quis nisi mentis inops
oblatum rcspuit aurum,1 but stoopeth very man-
nerly and taketh it up. Then one of the cony
catchers behind, crieth half part, and so chal-
lengeth half of his finding. The countryman
content, offereth to change the money. "Nay
faith, friend," saith the verser, " 'tis ill luck to
keep found money, we'll go spend it in a pottle
of wine (or in a breakfast, dinner or supper, as
the time of day requires)." If the cony say
he will not, then answers the verser, "Spend
my part." If still the cony refuse, he taketh
half and away. If they spy the countryman
to be of a having and covetous mind, then have
they a further policy to draw him on: another
that knoweth the place of his abode, meeteth
him and saith, "Sir, well met, I have run hastily
to overtake you, I pray you, dwell you not in
Darbyshire, in such a village?" "Yes, marry,
do I, friend," saith the cony. Then replies the
verser, "Truly, sir, I have a suit to you, I am
going out of town, and must send a letter to the
parson of your parish. You shall not refuse to
do a stranger such a favour as to carry it him.
Haply, as men may in time meet, it may lie in
my lot to do you as good a turn, and for your
pains I will give you twelve pence." The
poor cony in mere simplicity saith, "Sir, I'll
do so much for you with all my heart; where is
your letter?" "I have it not, good sir, ready
written, but may I entreat you to step into some
tavern or alehouse? We'll drink the while,
and I will write but a line or two." At this the
cony stoops, and for greediness of the money,
and upon courtesy goes with the setter into the
tavern. As they walk, they meet the verser,
and then they all three go into the tavern to-
gether. . . .
GREENE'S NEVER TOO LATE
FROM THE PALMER'S TALE
In those days wherein Palmerin reigned king
of Great Britain, famoused for his deeds of
chivalry, there dwelled in the city of Caer-
branck a gentleman of an ancient house, called
Francesco, a man whose parentage though it
were worshipful, yet it was not indued with much
wealth, insomuch that his learning was better
than his revenues, and his wit more beneficial
than his substance. This Signer Francesco,
desirous to bend the course of his compass to
some peaceable port, spread no more cloth in
the wind than might make easy sail, lest hoisting
1 Who but a fool refuses offered gold ?
up too hastily above the main yard, some sud-
den gust might make him founder in the deep.
Though he were young, yet he was not rash
with Icarus to soar into the sky, but to cry out
with old Dedalus, Medium tenere tulissimum,1
treading his shoe without any slip. He was
so generally loved of the citizens, that the
richest merchant or gravest burghmaster would
not refuse to grant him his daughter in mar-
riage, hoping more of his ensuing fortunes,
than of his present substance. At last, casting
his eye on a gentleman's daughter that dwelt
not far from Caerbranck, he fell in love, and
prosecuted his suit with such affable courtesy
as the maid, considering the virtue and wit of
the man, was content to set up her rest with
him, so that2 her father's consent might be at
the knitting up of the match. Francesco,
thinking himself cocksure, as a man that hoped
his credit in the city might carry away more
than a country gentleman's daughter, finding
her father on a day at fit opportunity, he made
the motion about the grant of his daughter's
marriage. The old churl, that listened with
both ears to such a question, did not in this
in Hiram-vis aurem dormire; 3 but leaning on
his elbow, made present answer, that her dowry
required a greater feofment than his lands were
able to afford. And upon that, without farther
debating of the matter, he rose up, and hied
him home. Whither as soon as he came, he
called his daughter before him, whose name was
Isabel, to whom he uttered these words: "Why,
housewife," 4 quoth he, "are you so idle
tasked, that you stand upon thorns while 5
you have a husband? Are you no sooner
hatched with the Lapwing but you will run
away with the shell on your head? Soon
pricks the tree that will prove a thorn, and a
girl that loves too soon will repent too late.
What, a husband? Why, the maids in Rome
durst not look at Venus' temple till they were
thirty, nor went they unmasked till they were
married; that neither their beauties might
allure other, nor they glance their eyes on every
wanton. I tell thee, fond girl, when Nilus
overfloweth before his time, Egypt is plagued
with a dearth; the trees that blossom in Feb-
ruary are nipped with the frosts in May; un-
timely fruits had never good fortune; and
young gentlewomen that are wooed and won
ere they be wise, sorrow and repent before they
be old. What seest thou in Francesco that
1 It is safest to keep the middle way. 2 provided
3 sleep on either ear * huzzy B until
7o
ROBERT GREENE
thine eye must choose, and thy heart must
fancy? Is he beautiful? Why, fond girl,
what the eye liketh at morn, it hateth at night.
Love is, like a bavin,1 but a blaze; and beauty,
why how can I better compare it than to the
gorgeous cedar, that is only for show and noth-
ing for profit; to the apples of Tantalus, that
are precious to the eye, and dust in the hand;
to the star Artophilex, that is most bright, but
fitteth not for any compass; so young men
that stand upon their outward portraiture, I
tell thee they are prejudicial. Demophon was
fair, but how dealt he with Phillis? ^Eneas
was a brave man but a dissembler. Fond
girl, all are but little worth, if they be not
wealthy. And I pray thee, what substance
hath Francesco to endue thee with? Hast
thou not heard, that want breaks amity, that
love beginneth in gold and endeth in beggery;
that such as marry but to a fair face, tie them-
selves oft to a foul bargain? And what wilt
thou do with a husband that is not able to main-
tain thee? Buy, forsooth, a dram of pleasure
with a pound of sorrow, and a pint of content
with a whole ton of prejudicial displeasures?
But why do I cast stones into the air, or breathe
my words into the wind; when to persuade a
woman from her will is to roll Sisiphus' stone ;
or to hale a headstrong girl from love, is to tie
the Furies again in fetters. Therefore, house-
wife, to prevent all misfortunes I will be your
jailer." And with that, he carried her in and
shut her up in his own chamber, not giving her
leave to depart but when his key gave her
license ; yet at last she so cunningly dissembled,
that she got thus far liberty, not to be close
prisoner, but to walk about the house. Yet
every night he shut up her clothes, that no
nightly fear of her escape might hinder his
broken slumbers.
Where leaving her, let us return to Francesco ;
who to his sorrow heard of all these hard for-
tunes, and being pensive was full of many
passions, but almost in despair, as a man that
durst not come nigh her father's door, nor send
any letters whereby to comfort his mistress, or
to lay any plot of her liberty. For no sooner
any stranger came thither, but he, suspicious
they came from Francesco, first sent up his
daughter into her chamber; then as watchful
as Argus with all his eyes, he pried into every
particular gesture and behaviour of the party;
and if any jealous humour took him in the head,
he would not only be very inquisij,^
1 a dry twig
cutting questions, but would strain courtesies
and search them very narrowly, whether they
had any letters or no to his daughter Isabel.
This narrow inquisition made the poor gentle-
man almost frantic, that he turned over Anac-
reon, Ovid de Arte amandi, and all books that
might teach him any sleights of love; but, for
all their principles, his own wit served him for
the best shift, and that was haply1 begun
and fortunately ended thus. It chanced that as
he walked thus in his muses, fetching the com-
pass of his conceit 2 beyond the moon, he met
with a poor woman that from door to door sought
her living by charity. The woman, as her
custom was, began her exordium with "I pray,
good master," and so forth, hoping to find the
gentleman as liberal, as he was full of gracious
favours. Neither did she miss of her imagina-
tion ; for he, that thought her likely to be drawn
on to the executing of his purpose, conceipted 3
this, that gold was as good as glue to knit her
to any practice whatsoever, and therefore out
with his purse, and clapped her in the hand with
a French crown. This unaccustomed reward
made her more frank of her curtsies, that
every rag reached the gentleman a reverence
with promise of many prayers for his health.
He, that harped on another string, took the
woman by the hand, and sitting down upon the
green grass, discoursed unto her from point to
point the beginning and sequel of his loves,
and how by no means, except by her, he could
convey any letter. The beggar, desirous to do
the gentleman any pleasure, said she was ready
to take any pains that might redound to his
content. Whereupon he replied thus; "Then,
mother, thou shalt go to yonder abbey, which
is her father's house; and when thou comest
thither, use thy wonted eloquence to entreat
for thine alms. If the master of the house be
present, show thy passport, and seem very
passionate ; 4 but if he be absent or out of the
way, then, oh then, mother, look about if thou
seest Diana masking in the shape of a virgin,
if thou spiest Venus, nay, one more beautiful
than love's goddess, and I tell thee she is my
love, fair Isabel, whom thou shalt discern from
her other sister, thus: her visage is fair, con-
taining as great resemblance of virtue as linea-
ments of beauty, and yet I tell thee she is full
of favour,5 whether thou respects the outward
portraiture or inward perfection; her eye like
the diamond, and so pointed that it pierceth to
1 by chance 2 range of his fancy 3 reasoned
sorrowful * beauty
GREENE'S NEVER TOO LATE
the quick, yet so chaste in the motion as therein
is seen as in a mirror courtesy tempered with a
virtuous disdain; her countenance is the very
map of modesty, and, to give thee a more near
mark, if thou findest her in the way, thou
shalt see her more liberal to bestow, than thou
pitiful to demand; her name is Isabel; to
her from me shalt thou carry a letter, folded up
every way like thy passport, with a greasy back-
side, and a great seal. If cunningly and closely
thou canst thus convey unto her the tenure l of
my mind, when thou bringest me an answer,
I will give thee a brace of angels." The poor
woman was glad of this proffer, and thereupon
promised to venture a joint,2 but she would
further him in his loves; whereupon she fol-
lowed him to his chamber, and the whiles 3
he writ a letter to this effect.
Signor Francesco to Fair Isabel :
When I note, fair Isabel, the extremity of
thy fortunes, and measure the passions of my
love, I find that Venus hath made thee constant
to requite my miseries; and that where the
greatest onset is given by fortune, there is
strongest defence made by affection; for I
heard that thy father, suspicious, or rather
jealous, of our late-united sympathy, doth watch
like Argus over lo, not suffering thee to pass
beyond the reach of his eye, unless,4 as he
thinks, thou shouldest overreach thyself.
His mind is like the tapers in Janus' temple,
that, set once on fire, burn till they consume
themselves; his thoughts like the sunbeams,
that search every secret. Thus watching thee
he overwaketh himself; and yet I hope pro-
fiteth as little as they which gaze on the flames
of /Etna, which vanish out of their sight in
smoke.
I have heard them say, fair Isabel, that, as
the diamonds are tried by cutting of glass, the
topaz by biding the force of the anvil, the sethin
wood by the hardness, so women's excellence
is discovered in their constancy. Then, if the
period of all their virtues consist in this, that
they take in love by months, and let it slip by
minutes, that, as the tortoise, they creep pe-
detentim? and, when they come to their rest,
will hardly be removed, I hope thou wilt
confirm in thy lovek the very pattern of feminine
loyalty, having no motion in thy thoughts,
but fancy,8 and no affection, but to thy Fran-
cesco. In that I am stopped from thy sight, I
am deprived of the chiefest organ of my life,
having no sense in myself perfect, in that I
want the view of thy perfection, ready with sor-
row to perish in despair, if, resolved of thy con-
stancy, I did not triumph in hope. Therefore
now rests it in thee to salve all these sores, and
provide medicines for these dangerous maladies,
that, our passions appeased, we may end our
harmony in the faithful union of two hearts.
Thou seest love hath his shifts, and Venus'
quiddities ' are most subtle sophistry ; that he
which is touched with beauty, is ever in league
with opportunity. These principles are proved
by the messenger, whose state discovers my
restless thoughts, impatient of any longer re-
pulse. I have therefore sought to overmatch
thy father in policy, as he overstrains us in
jealousy, and seeing he seeks it, to let him find
a knot in a rush. As therefore I have sent thee
the sum of my passions in the form of a passport,
so return me a reply wrapped in the same paper,
that as we are forced to cover our deceits in
one shift, so hereafter we may unite our loves
in one sympathy: Appoint what I shall do to
compass a private conference. Think I will
account of the seas as Leander, of the wars as
Troilus, of all dangers as a man resolved to
attempt any peril, or break any prejudice for
thy sake. Say when and where I shall meet
thee ; and so, as I begun passionately, I break
off abruptly. Farewell.
Thine in fatal resolution,
Seigneur Francesco.
After he had written the letter, and despatched
the messenger, her mind was so fixed on the
brace of angels 2 that she stirred her old stumps
till she came to the house of Seigneur Fregoso,
who at that instant was walked abroad to take
view of his pastures. She no sooner began her
method of begging with a solemn prayer and a
pater noster but Isabel, whose devotion was
ever bent to pity the poor, came to the door,
to see the necessity of the party, who began to
salute her thus: "Fair mistress, whose virtues
exceed your beauties (and yet I doubt not but
you deem your perfection equivalent with the
rarest paragons in Britain), as your eye receives
the object of my misery, so let your heart have
an insight into my extremities, who once was
young, and then favoured by fortunes, now old
and crossed by the destinies, driven, when I am
weakest, to the wall, and, when I am worst,
1 tenor 2 a slang phrase 3 meanwhile
8 cautiously 6 love
•lest
1 subtleties 2 gold coins worth
. each
ROBERT GREENE
forced to hold the candle. Seeing, then, the
faults of my youth hath forced the fall of mine
age, and I am driven in the winter of mine years
to abide the brunt of all storms, let the plenty
of your youth pity the want of my decrepit
state; and the rather, because my fortune was
once as high as my fall is now low. For proof,
sweet mistress, see my passport, wherein you
shall find many passions and much patience."
At which period, making a curtsey, her very
rags seemed to give Isabel reverence. She,
hearing the beggar insinuate with such a sen-
sible preamble, thought the woman had had
some good parts in her, and therefore took her
certificate, which as soon as she had opened, and
that she perceived it was Francesco's hand, she
smiled, and yet bewrayed * a passion with a
blush. So that, stepping from the woman, she
went into her chamber, where she read it over
with such pathetical2 impressions as every
motion was intangled with a dilemma; for,
on the one side, the love of Francesco, grounded
more on his interior virtues than his exterior
beauties, gave such fierce assaults to the bul-
wark of her affection, as the fort was ready to
be yielded up, but that the fear of her father's
displeasure armed with the instigations of
nature drave her to meditate thus with her-
self:
"Now, Isabel, Love and Fortune hath
brought thee into a labyrinth; thy thoughts
are like to Janus' pictures, that present both
peace and war, and thy mind like Venus'
anvil, whereon is hammered both fear and
hope. Sith,3 then, the chance lieth in thine
own choice, do not with Medea see and allow
of the best, and then follow the worst: but of
two extremes, if they be Immediata, choose
that 4 may have least prejudice and most profit.
Thy father is aged and wise, and many years
hath taught him much experience. The old
fox is more subtil than the young cub, the buck
more skilful to choose his food than the young
fawns. Men of age fear and foresee that
which youth leapeth at with repentance. If,
then, his grave wisdom exceeds thy green wit,
and his ripened fruits thy sprouting blossoms,
think if he speak for thy avail, as his principles
are perfect, so they are grounded on love and
nature. It is a near collop,5 says he, is cut out
of the own flesh ; and the stay of thy fortunes,
is the staff of his life. No doubt he sees with
a more piercing judgment into the life of Fran-
cesco; for thou, overcome with fancy, censurest
1 disclosed 2 emotional 3 since * that which 5 slice
of all his actions with partiality. Francesco,
though he be young and beautiful, yet his
revenues are not answerable to his favours:
the cedar is fair, but unfruitful; the Volgo a
bright stream, but without fish; men covet
rather to plant the olive for profit, than the
alder for beauty; and young gentlewomen
should rather fancy to live, than affect to lust,
for love without lands is like to a fire without
fuel, that for a while showeth a bright blaze
and in a moment dieth in his own cinders.
Dost thou think this, Isabel, that thine eye
may not surfeit so with beauty, that the mind
shall vomit up repentance? Yes, for the fair-
est roses have pricks, the purest lawns their
moles, the brightest diamonds their cracks,
and the most beautiful men of the most imper-
fect conditions; for Nature, having care to
polish the body so far, overweens herself in
her excellency, that she leaves their minds im-
perfect. Whither now, Isabel; into absurd
aphorisms? What, can thy father persuade
thee to this, that the most glorious shells have
not the most orient margarites,1 that the purest
flowers have not the most perfect favours,2 that
men, as they excel in proportion of body, so
they exceed in perfection of mind? Is not
nature both curious and absolute, hiding the
most virtuous minds in the most beautiful
covertures? Why, what of this, fond girl?
Suppose these premises be granted, yet they
infer no conclusion ; for suppose he be beauti-
ful and virtuous, and his wit is equal with his
parentage, yet he wants wealth to maintain
love, and therefore, says old Fregoso, not
worthy of Isabel's love. Shall I, then, tie my
affection to his lands or to his lineaments?
to his riches or his qualities? Are Venus'
altars to be filled with gold or loyalty of hearts?
Is the sympathy of Cupid's consistory 3 united
in the abundance of coin? Or the absolute
perfection of constancy? Ah, Isabel, think
this, that love brooketh no exception of want,
that where Fancy 4 displays her colour there
always either plenty keeps her court, or else
Patience so tempers every extreme, that all
defects are supplied with content." Upon
this, as having a farther reach, and a deeper
insight, she stepped hastily to her standish,5
and writ him this answer:
Isabel to Francesco, Health !
Although the nature of a father, and the duty
of a child might move me resolutely to reject
1 pearls 2 beauties 3 assembly * love 8 inkstand
GREENE'S NEVER TOO LATE
73
thy letters, yet I received them, for that thou
art Francesco and I Isabel, who were once pri-
vate in affection, as now we are distant in places.
But know my father, whose command to me
is a law of constraint, sets down this censure,
that love without wealth is like to a cedar tree
without fruit, or to corn sown in the sands, that
withereth for want of moisture; and I have
reason, Francesco, to deem of snow by the
whiteness, and of trees by the blossoms. The
old man, whose words are oracles, tells me that
love that entereth in a moment, flieth out in a
minute, that men's affections is like the dew
upon a crystal, which no sooner lighteth on,
but it leapeth off; their eyes with every glance
make a new choice, and every look can com-
mand a sigh, having their hearts like saltpeter,
that fireth at the first, and yet proveth but
a flash; their thoughts reaching as high as
cedars, but as brittle as rods that break with
every blast. Had Carthage been bereft of so
famous a virago,1 if the beauteous Trojan had
been as constant as he was comely? Had
the Queen of Poetry been pinched with so
many passions, if the wanton ferryman had
been as faithful as he was fair? No, Fran-
cesco, and therefore, seeing the brightest blos-
soms are pestered with most caterpillars, the
sweetest roses with the sharpest pricks, the
fairest cambrics with the foulest stains, and
men with the best proportion have commonly
least perfection, I may fear to swallow the hook,
lest I find more bane in the confection than
pleasure in the bait. But here let me breathe,
and with sighs foresee mine own folly. Women,
poor fools, are like to the harts in Calabria,
that knowing Dictannum to be deadly, yet
browse on it with greediness; resembling the
fish Mugra, that seeing the hook bare, yet
swallows it with delight; so women foresee,
yet do not prevent, knowing what is profitable,
yet not eschewing the prejudice. So, Fran-
cesco, I see thy beauties, I know thy want,
and I fear thy vanities, yet can I not but allow
of all, were they the worst of all, because I
find in my mind this principle: " in Love is no
lack." What2 should I, Francesco, covet to
dally with the mouse when the cat stands by,
or fill my letter full of needless ambages 3 when
my father, like Argus, setteth a hundred eyes
to overpry my actions. While I am writing,
thy messenger stands at the door praying.
Therefore, lest I should hold her too long in
her orisons, or keep thee, poor man, too long
1 woman 2 why 3 circumlocutions
in suspense; thus, briefly: Be upon Thursday
next at night hard by the orchard under the
greatest oak, where expect my coming, and
provide for our safe passage; for stood all the
world on the one side, and thou on the other,
Francesco should be my guide to direct me
whither he pleased. Fail not, then, unless
thou be false to her that would have life fail,
ere she falsify faith to thee.
Not her own, because thine,
Isabel.
As soon as she had despatched her letter, she
came down, and delivered the letter folded in
form of a passport to the messenger, giving
her after her accustomed manner an alms,
and closely clapped her in the fist with a brace
of angels. The woman, thanking her good
master and her good mistress, giving the house
her benison, hied her back again to Francesco,
whom she found sitting solitary in his chamber.
No sooner did he spy her but, flinging out of
his chair, he changed colour as a man in a
doubtful ecstasy what should betide; yet con-
ceiving good hope by her countenance, who
smiled more at the remembrance of her reward
than at any other conceit, he took the letter
and read it, wherein he found his humour so
fitted that he not only thanked the messenger
but gave her all the money in his purse, so that
she returned so highly gratified as never after
she was found to exercise her old occupation.
But, leaving her to the hope of her housewifery,
again to Francesco, who, seeing the constant
affection of his mistress, that neither the sour
looks of her father, nor his hard threats could
affright her to make change of her fancy, that
no disaster of fortune could drive her to make
shipwreck of her fixed affection, that the blus-
tering storms of adversity might assault, but
not sack, the fort of her constant resolution,
he fell into this pleasing passion: "Women,"
quoth he, "why, as they are heaven's wealth,
so they are earth's miracles, framed by nature
to despite beauty ; adorned with the singularity
of proportion, to shroud the excellence of all
perfection; as far exceeding men in virtues as
they excel them in beauties; resembling angels
in qualities, as they are like to gods in per-
fectness, being purer in mind than in mould,
and yet made of the purity of man; just they
are, as giving love her due; constant, as hold-
ing loyalty more precious than life; as hardly
to be drawn from united affection as the sala-
manders from the caverns of ^Etna. Tush,"
quoth Francesco, "what should I say? They
74
FRANCIS BACON
be women, and therefore the continents l of
all excellence." In this pleasant humour he
passed away the time, not slacking his business
for provision against Thursday at night; to
the care of which affairs let us leave him and
return to Isabel, who, after she had sent her
letter, fell into a great dump, entering into
the consideration of men's inconstancy, and
of the fickleness of their fancies, but all these
meditations did sort to no effect; whereupon
sitting down, she took her lute in her hand, and
sung this Ode : . . .
FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626)
ESSAYS
I. OF TRUTH
What is Truth? said jesting Pilate; and
would not stay for an answer. Certainly there
be that delight in giddiness, and count it a
bondage to fix a belief; affecting free-will in
thinking, as well as in acting. And though
the sects of philosophers of that kind be gone,
yet there remain certain discoursing wits which
are of the same veins, though there be not so
much blood in them as was in those of the
ancients. But it is not only the difficulty and
labour which men take in finding out of truth;
nor again that when it is found it imposeth
upon men's thoughts; that doth bring lies in
favour; but a natural though corrupt love of
the lie itself. One of the later school of the
Grecians examineth the matter, and is at a
stand to think what should be in it, that men
should love lies, where neither they make for
pleasure, as with poets, nor for advantage, as
with the merchant ; but for the lie's sake. But
I cannot tell: this same truth is a naked and
open day-light, that doth not show the masks
and mummeries and triumphs of the world,
half so stately and daintily as candle-lights.
Truth may perhaps come to the price of a
pearl, that showeth best by day; but it will
not rise to the price of a diamond or carbuncle,
that showeth best in varied lights. A mixture
of a lie doth ever add pleasure. Doth any
man doubt, that if there were taken out of
men's minds vain opinions, flattering hopes,
false valuations, imaginations as one would,
and the like, but it would leave the minds of a
number of men poor shrunken things, full of
melancholy and indisposition, and unpleasing
to themselves? One of the Fathers, in great
severity, called poesy vinum damonum,1 be-
cause it filleth the imagination; and yet it
is but with the shadow of a lie. But it is not
the lie that passeth through the mind, but the
lie that sinketh in and settleth in it, that doth
the hurt; such as we spake of before. But
howsoever these things are thus in men's de-
praved judgments and affections, yet truth,
which only doth judge itself, teacheth that the
inquiry of truth, which is the love-making or
wooing of it, the knowledge of truth, which is
the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which
is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of
human nature. The first creature of God,
in the works of the days, was the light of the
sense ; the last was the light of reason ; and his
Sabbath work ever since, is the illumination of
his Spirit. First he breathed light upon the
face of the matter or chaos; then he breathed
light into the face of man ; and still he breatheth
and inspireth light into the face of his chosen.
The poet 2 that beautified the sect 3 that was
otherwise inferior to the rest, saith yet excel-
lently well: // is a pleasure to stand upon the
shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea; a
pleasure to stand in the window of a castle, and
to see a battle and the adventures thereof below:
but no pleasure is comparable to the standing
upon the vantage ground of Truth, (a hill not
to be commanded, and where the air is always
clear and serene,) and to see the errors, and
wanderings, and mists, and tempests, in the
vale below; so always that this prospect be
with pity, and not with swelling or pride.
Certainly, it is heaven upon earth, to have a
man's mind move in charity, rest in provi-
dence, and turn upon the poles of truth.
To pass from theological and philosophical
truth, to the truth of civil business; it will be
acknowledged even by those that practise it
not, that clear and round dealing is the honour
of man's nature ; and that mixture of falsehood
is like allay * in coin of gold and silver, which
may make the metal work the better, but it
embaseth it. For these winding and crooked
courses are the goings of the serpent; which
goeth basely upon the belly, and not upon the
feet. There is no vice that doth so cover a
man with shame as to be found false and per-
fidious. And therefore Montaigne saith pret-
tily, when he inquired the reason, why the
word of the lie should be such a disgrace and
such an odious charge ? Saith he, If it be well
containers
1 devil's-wine 2 Lucretius 3 Epicureans * alloy
ESSAYS
75
weighed, to say that a man lieth, is as much to
say, as that he is brave towards God and a
coward towards men. For a lie faces God,
and shrinks from man. Surely the wickedness
of falsehood and breach of faith cannot possibly
be so highly expressed, as in that it shall be
the last peal to call the judgments of God upon
the generations of men; it being foretold, that
when Christ cometh, he shall not find faith
upon the earth.
II. OF DEATH
Men fear Death, as children fear to go in the
dark; and as that natural fear in children is
increased with tales, so is the other. Certainly,
the contemplation of death, as the wages of
sin and passage to another world, is holy and
religious; but the fear of it, as a tribute due
unto nature, is weak. Yet in religious medi-
tations there is sometimes mixture of vanity
and of superstition. You shall read in some
of the friars' books of mortification, that a
man should think with himself what the pain
is if he have but his finger's end pressed or
tortured, and thereby imagine what the pains
of death are, when the whole body is corrupted
and dissolved; when many times death pass-
eth with less pain than the torture of a limb:
for the most vital parts are not the quickest
of sense.1 And by him that spake only as a
philosopher and natural man, it was well said,
Pompa mortis magis terret, quam mors ipsa?
Groans and convulsions, and a discoloured face,
and friends weeping, and blacks, and obsequies,
and the like, show death terrible. It is worthy
the observing, that there is no passion in the
mind of man so weak, but it mates 3 and mas-
ters the fear of death; and therefore death is
no such terrible enemy when a man hath so
many attendants about him that can win the
combat of him. Revenge triumphs over death ;
Love slights it; Honour aspireth to it; Grief
flieth to it; Fear pre-occupateth it; nay we
read, after Otho the emperor had slain him-
self, Pity (which is the tenderest of affections)
provoked many to die, out of mere compassion
to their sovereign, and as the truest sort of
followers. Nay Seneca adds niceness and
satiety: Cogita quamdiu eadem feceris ; mori
velle, non tantum fortis, aut miser, sea etiam
fastidiosus potest. A man would die, though
he were neither valiant nor miserable, only
upon a weariness to do the same thing so oft
1 sensation 2 It is the accompaniments of death
that are frightful rather than death itself. 3 conquers
over and over. It is no less worthy to observe,
how little alteration in good spirits the ap-
proaches of death make; for they appear to
be the same men till the last instant. Augustus
Caesar died in a compliment; Lima, conjugii
nostri memor, vive et vale: 1 Tiberius in dis-
simulation; as Tacitus saith of him, Jam
Tiberium vires et corpus, non dissimulatio,
deserebant: 2 Vespasian in a jest: Ut puto
Deus fio : 3 Galba with a sentence ; Feri, si
ex re sit populi Romani;4 holding forth his
neck: Septimius Severus in despatch; Adeste
si quid mihi restat agendum : 5 and the like.
Certainly the Stoics bestowed too much cost
upon death, and by their great preparations
made it appear more fearful. Better saith he,8
qu i finem vitce extremum inter munera ponat
naturae.1 It is as natural to die as to be born;
and to a little infant, perhaps, the one is as
painful as the other. He that dies in an earn-
est pursuit, is like one that is wounded in hot
blood; who, for the time, scarce feels the hurt;
and therefore a mind fixed and bent upon
somewhat that is good doth avert the dolours
of death. But above all, believe it, the sweet-
est canticle is, Nunc dimittis ; 8 when a man
hath obtained worthy ends and expectations.
Death hath this also; that it openeth the gate
to good fame, and extinguisheth envy. Ex-
tinctus amabitur idem.9
IV. OF REVENGE
Revenge is a kind of wild justice; which the
more man's nature runs to, the more ought
law to weed it out. For as for the first wrong,
it doth but offend the law; but the revenge of
that wrong putteth the law out of office. Cer-
tainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even
with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is
superior; for it is a prince's part to pardon.
And Salomon, I am sure, saith, It is the glory
of a man to pass by an offence. That which is
past is gone, and irrevocable; and wise men
have enough to do with things present and to
come; therefore they do but trifle with them-
selves, that labour in past matters. There is
1 Farewell, Livia, and forget not the days of our
marriage. 2 His powers of body were gone, but his
power of dissimulation still remained. 3 I think I am
becoming a god. 4 Strike, if it be for the good of Rome.
6 Make haste, if there is anything more for me to do.
6 Juvenal 7 Who accounts the close of life as one
of the benefits of nature. 8 See Luke, 2 : 29. ° The
same man that was envied while he lived, shall be
loved when he is gone.
76
FRANCIS BACON
no man doth a wrong for the wrong's sake;
but thereby to purchase himself profit, or
pleasure, or honour, or the like. Therefore
why should I be angry with a man for loving
himself better than me? And if any man
should do wrong merely out of ill-nature, why,
yet it is but like the thorn or briar, which
prick and scratch, because they can do no
other. The most tolerable sort of revenge is
for those wrongs which there is no law to
remedy; but then let a man take heed the
revenge be such as there is no law to punish ;
else a man's enemy is still before hand, and it
is two for one. Some, when they take revenge,
are desirous the party should know whence
it cometh. This is the more generous. For
the delight seemeth to be not so much in doing
the hurt as in making the party repent. But
base and crafty cowards are like the arrow that
flieth in the dark. Cosmus, duke of Florence,
had a desperate saying against perfidious or
neglecting friends, as if those wrongs were un-
pardonable; You shall read (saith he) that we
are commanded to forgive our enemies; but you
never read that we are commanded to forgive
our friends. But yet the spirit of Job was in
a better tune: Shall we (saith he) take good
at God's hands, and not be content to take evil
also ? And so of friends in a proportion. This
is certain, that a man that studieth revenge
keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise
would heal and do well. Public revenges are
for the most part fortunate; as that for the
death of Caesar; for the death of Pertinax;
for the death of Henry the Third of France;
and many more. But in private revenges it is
not so. Nay rather, vindictive persons live
the life of witches; who, as they are mischiev-
ous, so end they infortunate.
V. OF ADVERSITY
It was an high speech of Seneca (after the
manner of the Stoics), that the good things
which belong to prosperity are to be wished;
but the good things that belong to adversity are
to be admired. Bona rerum secundarum op-
tabilia; adversarum mirabilia. Certainly if
miracles be the command over nature, they
appear most in adversity. It is yet a higher
speech of his than the other (much too high
for a heathen), It is true greatness to have in
one the frailty of a man, and the security of a
God. Vere magnum habere fragilitatem homi-
nis, securitatem Dei. This would have done
better in poesy, where transcendences are
more allowed. And the poets indeed have
been busy with it; for it is in effect the thing
which is figured in that strange fiction of the
ancient poets, which seemeth not to be with-
out mystery; nay, and to have some approach
to the state of a Christian; that Hercules,
when he went to unbind Prometheus, (by whom
human nature is represented), sailed the length " '
of the great ocean in an earthen pot or pitcher; .
lively describing Christian resolution, that sail-
eth in the frail bark of the flesh thorough the
waves of the world. But to speak in a mean.1
The virtue of Prosperity is temperance; the
virtue of Adversity is fortitude; which in morals
is the more heroical virtue. Prosperity is the
blessing of the Old Testament; Adversity is
the blessing of the New; which carrieth the
greater benediction, and the clearer revelation
of God's favour. Yet even in the Old Testa-
ment, if you listen to David's harp, you shall
hear as many hearse-like airs as carols; and
the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured
more in describing the afflictions of Job than
the felicities of Salomon. Prosperity is not
without many fears and distastes; and Adver-
sity is not without comforts and hopes. We
see in needle-works and embroideries, it is
more pleasing to have a lively work upon a
sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark
and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground :
judge therefore of the pleasure of the heart by
the pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is
like precious odours, most fragrant when they
are incensed or crushed: for Prosperity doth
best discover vice, but Adversity doth best
discover virtue.
VIII. OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE
He that hath wife and children hath given
hostages to fortune; for they are impediments
to great enterprises, either of virtue or mis-
chief. Certainly the best works, and of great-
est merit for the public, have proceeded from
the unmarried or childless men; which both
in affection and means have married and en-
dowed the public. Yet it were great reason
that those that have children should have
greatest care of future times; unto which they
know they must transmit their dearest pledges.
Some there are, who though they lead a single
life, yet their thoughts do end with themselves,
and account future times impertinences. Nay,
there are some other that account wife and
children but as bills of charges. Nay more,
1 a moderate fashion
ESSAYS
77
there are some foolish rich covetous men, that
take a pride in having no children, because
they may be thought so much the richer. For
perhaps they have heard some talk, Such an
one is a great rich man, and another except to
it, Yea, but he hath a great charge of children;
as if it were an abatement to his riches. But
the most ordinary cause of a single life is lib-
erty, especially in certain self-pleasing and
humorous * minds, which are so sensible of
every restraint, as they will go near to think
their girdles and garters to be bonds and
shackles. Unmarried men are best friends,
best masters, best servants; but not always
best subjects; for they are light to run away;
and almost all fugitives are of that condition.
A single life doth well with churchmen; for
charity will hardly water the ground where it
must first fill a pool. It is indifferent for judges
and magistrates; for if they be facile and cor-
rupt, you shall have a servant five times worse
than a wife. For soldiers, I find the generals
commonly in their hortatives put men in mind
of their wives and children; and I think the
despising of marriage amongst the Turks
maketh the vulgar soldier more base. Cer-
tainly wife and children are a kind of discipline
of humanity; and single men, though they
may be many times more charitable, because
their means are less exhaust, yet, on the other
side, they are more cruel and hardhearted
(good to make severe inquisitors), because
their tenderness is not so oft called upon.
Grave natures, led by custom, and therefore
constant, are commonly loving husbands; as
was said of Ulysses, vetulam suam pratulit
immortalitati? Chaste women are often proud
and froward, as presuming upon the merit of
their chastity. It is one of the best bonds both
of chastity and obedience in the wife, if she
think her husband wise; which she will never
do if she find him jealous. Wives are young
men's mistresses; companions tor middle age;
and old men's nurses. So as a man may have
a quarrel 3 to marry when he will. But yet
he was reputed one of the wise men, that made
answer to the question, when a man should
marry? A young man not yet, an elder man
not at all. It is often seen that bad husbands
have very good wives; whether it be that it
raiseth the price of their husband's kindness
when it comes; or that the wives take a pride
in their patience. But this never fails, if the
1 notionate 2 He preferred his old wife to immor-
tality. 8 reason
bad husbands were of their own choosing,
against their friends' consent; for then they
will be sure to make good their own folly.
X. OF LOVE
The stage is more beholding to Love, than
the life of man. For as to the stage, love is
ever matter of comedies, and now and then of
tragedies; but in life it doth much mischief;
sometimes like a syren, sometimes like a fury.
You may observe, that amongst all the great
and worthy persons (whereof the memory re-
maineth, either ancient or recent) there is not
one that hath been transported to the mad
degree of love: which shows that great spirits
and great business do keep out this weak pas-
sion. You must except, nevertheless, Marcus
Antonius, the half partner of the empire of
Rome, and Appius Claudius, the decemvir
and law-giver; whereof the former was indeed
a voluptuous man, and inordinate; but the
latter was an austere and wise man : and there-
fore it seems (though rarely) that love can find
entrance not only into an open heart, but also
into a heart well fortified, if watch be not well
kept. It is a poor saying of Epicurus, Satis
magnum alter alteri thealrum sumus; l as if
man, made for the contemplation of heaven
and all noble objects, should do nothing but
kneel before a little idol, and make himself a
subject, though not of the mouth (as beasts
are), yet of the eye; which was given him for
higher purposes. It is a strange thing to note
the excess of this passion, and how it braves
the nature and value of things, by this; that
the speaking in a perpetual hyperbole is comely
in nothing but in love. Neither is it merely
in the phrase; for whereas it hath been well
said that the arch-flatterer, with whom all the
petty flatterers have intelligence, is a man's
self; certainly the lover is more. For there
was never proud man thought so absurdly well
of himself as the lover doth of the person loved;
and therefore it was well said, That it is im-
possible to love and to be -wise. Neither doth
this weakness appear to others only, and not
to the party loved ; but to the loved most of all,
except the love be reciproque. For it is a
true rule, that love is ever rewarded either with
the reciproque or with an inward and secret
contempt. By how much the more men ought
to beware of this passion, which loseth not
only other things, but itself. As for the other
1 Each is to other a theater large enough.
FRANCIS BACON
losses, the poet's relation doth well figure them ;
That he that preferred Helena, quitted the gifts
of Juno and Pallas. For whosoever esteemeth
too much of amorous affection quitteth both
riches and wisdom. This passion hath his
floods in the very times of weakness; which
are great prosperity and great adversity ; though
this latter hath been less observed : both which
times kindle love, and make it more fervent,
and therefore show it to be the child of folly.
They do best, who if they cannot but admit
love, yet make it keep quarter; and sever it
wholly from their serious affairs and actions
of life; for if it check once with business, it
troubleth men's fortunes, and maketh men that
they can no ways be true to their own ends. I
know not how, but martial men are given to
love : I think it is but as they are given to wine ;
for perils commonly ask to be paid in pleasures.
There is in man's nature a secret inclination
and motion towards love of others, which if it
be not spent upon some one or a few, doth
naturally spread itself towards many, and
maketh men become humane and charitable;
as it is seen sometime in friars. Nuptial love
maketh mankind; friendly love perfecteth
it; but wanton love corrupteth and embaseth
it.
XI. OF GREAT PLACE
Men in great place are thrice serrants: ser-
vants of the sovereign or state; servants of
fame; and servants of business. So as they
have no freedom; neither in their persons,
nor in their actions, nor in their times. It is
a strange desire, to seek power and to lose
liberty: or to seek power over others and to
lose power over a man's self. The rising unto
place is laborious; and by pains men come to
greater pains; and it is sometimes base; and
by indignities men come to dignities. The
standing is slippery, and the regress is either
a downfall, or at least an eclipse, which is a
melancholy thing. Cum non sis qui fueris,
non esse cur -veils vivere.1 Nay, retire men
cannot when they would, neither will they
when it were reason; but are impatient of
privateness, even in age and sickness, which
require the shadow; like old townsmen, that
will be still sitting at their street door, though
thereby they offer age to scorn. Certainly
great persons had need to borrow other men's
opinions, to think themselves happy; for if
1 When you are no longer what you were, there is
no reason why you should wish to live.
they judge by their own feeling, they cannot
find it: but if they think with themselves what
other men think of them, and that other men
would fain be as they are, then they are happy
as it were by report; when perhaps they find
the contrary within. For they are the first
that find their own griefs, though they be the
last that find their own faults. Certainly men
in great fortunes are strangers to themselves,
and while they are in the puzzle of business
they have no time to tend their health either of
body or mind. Illi mors grams incubat, qui
notus nimis omnibus, ignotus moritur sibi.1
In place there is license to do good and evil;
whereof the latter is a curse: for in evil the
best condition is not to will; the second not
to can. But power to do good is the true and
lawful end of aspiring. For good thoughts
(though God accept them) yet towards men
are little better than good dreams, except they
be put in act ; and that cannot be without power
and place, as the vantage and commanding
ground. Merit and good works is the end of
man's motion; and conscience of the same is
the accomplishment of man's rest. For if a
man can be partaker of God's theatre, he shall
likewise be partaker of God's rest. Et con-
versus Deus, ut aspiceret opera qua fecerunt
manus sues, vidit quod omnia essent bona
nimis;'2' and then the Sabbath. In the dis-
charge of thy place set before thee the best
examples; for imitation is a globe 3 of precepts.
And after a time set before thee thine own
example; and examine thyself strictly whether
thou didst not best at first. Neglect not also
the examples of those that have carried them-
selves ill in the same place; not to set off thy-
self by taxing their memory, but to direct thy-
self what to avoid. Reform therefore, without
bravery or scandal of former times and persons;
but yet set it down to thyself as well to create
good precedents as to follow them. Reduce
things to the first institution, and observe
wherein and how they have degenerate; but
yet ask counsel of both times; of the ancient
time, what is best; and of the latter time,
what is fittest. Seek to make thy course regu-
lar, that men may know beforehand what they
may expect ; but be not too positive and peremp-
tory; and express thyself well when thou di-
gresses t from thy rule. Preserve the right of
1 It is a sad fate for a man to die too well known to
everybody else, and still unknown to himself. 2 And
God turned to look upon the works which his hands
had made, and saw that all were very good. 3 world
ESSAYS
79
thy place; but stir not questions of jurisdic-
tion: and rather assume thy right in silence
and de facto, than voice it with claims and chal-
lenges. Preserve likewise the rights of inferior
places; and think it more honour to direct in
chief than to be busy in all. Embrace and
invite helps and advices touching the execu-
tion of thy place; and do not drive away such
as bring thee information, as meddlers; but
accept of them in good part. The vices of
authority are chiefly four; delays, corruption,
roughness, and facility. For delays; give
easy access; keep times appointed ; go through
with that which is in hand, and interlace not
business but of necessity. For corruption;
do not only bind thine own hands or thy ser-
vants' hands from taking, but bind the hands
of suitors also from offering. For integrity
used doth the one; but integrity professed,
and with a manifest detestation of bribery,
doth the other. And avoid not only the fault,
but the suspicion. Whosoever is found vari-
able, and changeth manifestly without manifest
cause, giveth suspicion of corruption. There-
fore always when thou changest thine opinion
or course, profess it plainly, and declare it,
together with the reasons that move thee to
change; and do not think to steal it. A ser-
vant or a favourite, if he be inward,1 and no
other apparent cause of esteem, is commonly
thought but a by-way to close corruption. For
roughness; it is a needless cause of discontent:
severity breedeth fear, but roughness breedeth
hate. Even reproofs from authority ought to
be grave, and not taunting. As for facility; it
is worse than bribery. For bribes come but
now and then; but if importunity or idle re-
spects lead a man, he shall never be without.
As Salomon saith, To respect persons is not
good; for such a man will transgress for a piece
of bread. It is most true that was anciently
spoken, A place shoiveth the man. And it
showeth some to the better, and some to the
worse. Omnium consensu capax imperil, nist
im per asset? saith Tacitus of Galba; but of
Vespasian he saith, Solus imperantium, Ves-
pasianus mutatus in melius:3 though the one
was meant of sufficiency, the other of manners
and affection. It is an assured sign of a
worthy and generous spirit, whom honour
amends. For honour is, or should be, the
place of virtue; and as in nature things move
1 intimate 2 A man whom everybody would have
thought fit for empire if he had not been emperor.
3 He was the only emperor whom the possession of
power changed for the better.
violently to their place and calmly in their
place, so virtue in ambition is violent, in author
ity settled and calm. All rising to great place
is by a winding stair; and if there be factions,
it is good to side a man's self whilst he is in the
rising, and to balance himself when he is placed.
Use the memory of thy predecessor fairly and
tenderly; for if thou dost not, it is a debt will
sure be paid when thou art gone. If thou have
colleagues, respect them, and rather call them
when they look not for it, than exclude them
when they have reason to look to be called.
Be not too sensible or too remembering of thy
place in conversation and private answers to
suitors; but let it rather be said, When he sits
in place he is another man.
XVI. OF ATHEISM
I had rather believe all the fables in the
Legend, and the Talmud, and the Alcoran,
than that this universal frame is without a
mind. And therefore God never wrought
miracle to convince atheism, because his ordi-
nary works convince it. It is true, that a little
philosophy inclineth man's mind to atheism;
but depth in philosophy bringeth men's minds
about to religion. For while the mind of man
looketh upon second causes scattered, it may
sometimes rest in them, and go no further;
but when it beholdeth the chain of them, con-
federate and linked together, it must needs
fly to Providence and Deity. Nay, even that
school which is most accused of atheism doth
most demonstrate religion; that is, the school
of Leucippus and Democritus and Epicurus.
For it is a thousand times more credible, that
four mutable elements, and one immutable
fifth essence, duly and eternally placed, need
no God, than that an army of infinite small
portions or seeds unplaced, should have pro-
duced this order and beauty without a divine
marshal. The Scripture saith, The fool hath
said in his heart, there is no God; it is not said,
The fool hath thought in his heart; so as he
rather saith it by rote to himself, as that he
would have, than that he can throughly believe
it, or be persuaded of it. For none deny there
is a God, but those for whom it maketh ' that
there were no God. It appeareth in nothing
more, that atheism is rather in the lip than«in
the heart of man, than by this; that atheists
will ever be talking of that their opinion, as
if they fainted in it within themselves, and
1 would be advantageous
8o
FRANCIS BACON
would be glad to be strengthened by the consent
of others. Nay more, you shall have atheists
strive to get disciples, as it fareth with other
sects. And, which is most of all, you shall
have of them that will suffer for atheism, and
not recant; whereas if they did truly think
that there were no such thing as God, why
should they trouble themselves? Epicurus
is charged that he did but dissemble for his
credit's sake, when he affirmed there were
blessed natures, but such as enjoyed themselves
without having respect to the government of
the world. Wherein they say he did tempo-
rise; though in secret he thought there was
no God. But certainly he is traduced; for
his words are noble and divine: Non Deos
•vulgi negare profanum; sed vulgi opiniones
Diis applicare profanum.1 Plato could have
said no more. And although he had the con-
fidence to deny the administration, he had not
the power to deny the nature. The Indians
of the west have names for their particular gods,
though they have no name for God: as if the
heathens should have had the names Jupiter,
Apollo, Mars, etc., but not the word Deus;
which shows that even those barbarous people
have the notion, though they have not the lati-
tude and extent of it. So that against atheists
the very savages take part with the very subtlest
philosophers. The contemplative atheist is
rare: a Diagoras, a Bion, a Lucian perhaps,
and some others ; and yet they seem to be more
than they are; for that all that impugn a re-
ceived religion or superstition are by the ad-
verse part branded with the name of atheists.
But the great atheists indeed are hypocrites;
which are ever handling holy things, but with-
out feeling ; so as they must needs be cauterised
in the end. The causes of atheism are: divi-
sions in religion, if they be many; for any one
main division addeth zeal to both sides; but
many divisions introduce atheism. Another is,
scandal of priests; when it is come to that
which St. Bernard saith, Non est jam diccre, ut
populus sic sacerdos ; quia nee sic populus ut
sacerdos? A third is, custom of profane scof-
fing in holy matters; which doth by little and
little deface the reverence of religion. And
lastly, learned times, specially with peace and
prosperity; for troubles and adversities do
1 There is no profanity in refusing to believe in the
Gods of the vulgar; the profanity is in believing of
the Gods what the vulgar believe of them. 2 One
cannot now say, the priest is as the people, for the
truth is that the people are not so bad as the priest.
more bow men's minds to religion. They that
deny a God destroy man's nobility; for cer-
tainly man is of kin to the beasts by his body;
and, if he be not of kin to God by his spirit,
he is a base and ignoble creature. It destroys
likewise magnanimity, and the raising of human
nature ; for take an example of a dog, and mark
what a generosity and courage he will put on
when he finds himself maintained by a man;
who to him is instead of a God, ormeliornatura;1
which courage is manifestly such as that crea-
ture, without that confidence of a better nature
than his own, could never attain. So man,
when he resteth and assureth himself upon
divine protection and favour, gathereth a force
and faith which human nature in itself could
not obtain. Therefore, as atheism is in all
respects hateful, so in this, that it depriveth
human nature of the means to exalt itself above
human frailty. As it is in particular persons,
so it is in nations. Never was there such a
state for magnanimity as Rome. Of this state
hear what Cicero saith: Quam volumus licet,
patres conscripti, nos amemus, tamen nee nu-
mero Hispanos, nee robore Gallos, nee calli-
ditate Pcenos, nee artibus Gr&cos, nee denique
hoc ipso hujus gentis et terrcB domestico nati-
voque sensu Italos ipsos et Latinos; sed pietate,
ac religione, atque hac una sapientia, quod De-
orum immortalium numine omnia regi guber-
narique perspeximus, omnes gentes nationesque
super a-vimus?
XXIII. OF WISDOM FOR A MAN'S SELF
An ant is a wise creature for itself, but it is
a shrewd 3 thing in an orchard or garden. And
certainly men that are great lovers of them-
selves waste the public. Divide with reason
between self-love and society; and be so true
to thyself, as thou be not false to others; spe-
cially to thy king and country. It is a poer
centre of a man's actions, himself. It is right *
1 a higher being 2 Pride ourselves as we may
upon our country, yet are we not in number superior
to the Spaniards, nor in strength to the Gauls, nor in
cunning to the Carthaginians, nor to the Greeks in
arts, nor to the Italians and Latins themselves in
the homely and native sense which belongs to this
nation and land; it is in piety only and religion, and
the wisdom of regarding the providence of the Im-
mortal Gods as that which rules and governs all
things, that we have surpassed all nations and
peoples. 3 bad 4 very
ESSAYS
81
earth. For that1 only stands fast upon his
own centre ; whereas all things that have affin-
ity with the heavens, move upon the centre of
another, which they benefit. The referring of
all to a man's self is more tolerable in a sover-
eign prince; because themselves are not only
themselves, but their good and evil is at the
peril of the public fortune. But it is a des-
perate evil in a servant to a prince, or a citizen
in a republic. For whatsoever affairs pass
such a man's hands, he crooketh them to his
own ends; which must needs be often eccen-
tric to 2 the ends of his master or state. There-
fore let princes, or states, choose such servants
as have not this mark ; except they mean their
service should be made but the accessary.
That which maketh the effect more pernicious
is that all proportion is lost. It were dispro-
portion enough for the servant's good to be
preferred before the master's; but yet it is a
greater extreme, when a little good of the ser-
vant shall carry things against a great good of
the master's. And yet that is the case of bad
officers, treasurers, ambassadors, generals, and
other false and corrupt servants; which set a
bias 3 upon their bowl, of their own petty ends
and envies, to the overthrow of their master's
great and important affairs. And for the most
part, the good such servants receive is after the
model of their own fortune; but the hurt they
sell for that good is after the model of their
master's fortune. And certainly it is the nature
of extreme self-lovers, as they will set an house
on fire, and it were but to roast their eggs ; and
yet these men many times hold credit with
their masters, because their study is but to
please them and profit themselves; and for
either respect they will abandon the good of
their affairs.
Wisdom for a man's self is, in many branches
thereof, a depraved thing. It is the wisdom of
rats, that will be sure to leave a house some-
what before it fall. It is the wisdom of the fox,
that thrusts out the badger, who digged and
made room for him. It is the wisdom of croco-
diles, that shed tears when they would devour.
But that which is specially to be noted is, that
those which (as Cicero says of Pompey) are
sui amantes, sine rivali* are many times un-
fortunate. And whereas they have all their
time sacrificed to themselves, they become in
1 the earth, according to the Ptolemaic theory
2 not having the same center as * a weight placed
on a bowl to make it take a curved course * lovers of
themselves without rival
the end themselves sacrifices to the inconstancy
of fortune; whose wings they thought by their
self-wisdom to have pinioned.
XXV. OF DISPATCH
Affected dispatch is one of the most danger-
ous things to business that can be. It is like
that which the physicians call predigestion, or
hasty digestion; which is sure to fill the body
full of crudities and secret seeds of diseases.
Therefore measure not dispatch by the times of
sitting, but by the advancement of the business.
And as in races it is not the large stride or high
lift that makes the speed; so in business, the
keeping close to the matter, and not taking of
it too much at once, procureth dispatch. It
is the care of some only to come off speedily
for the time; or to contrive some false periods
of business, because ' they may seem men of
dispatch. But it is one thing to abbreviate
by contracting, another by cutting off. And
business so handled at several sittings or meet-
ings goeth commonly backward and forward
in an unsteady manner. I knew a wise man
that had it for a by-word, when he saw men
hasten to a conclusion, Stay a little, that we
may make an end the sooner.
On the other side, true dispatch is a rich
thing. For time is the measure of business, as
money is of wares; and business is bought at
a dear hand where there is small dispatch.
The Spartans and Spaniards have been noted
to be of small dispatch; Mi venga la muerte
de Spagna; Let my death come from Spain;
for then it will be sure to be long in coming.
Give good hearing to those that give the first
information in business; and rather direct
them in the beginning, than interrupt them in
the continuance of their speeches; for he that
is put out of his own order will go forward and
backward, and be more tedious while he waits
upon his memory, than he could have been if
he had gone on in his own course. But some-
times it is seen that the moderator2 is more
troublesome than the actor.3
Iterations are commonly loss of time. But
there is no such gain of time as to iterate often
the state of the question; for it chaseth away
many a frivolous speech as it is coming forth.
Long and curious 4 speeches are as fit for dis-
patch, as a robe or mantle with a long train is
for race. Prefaces and passages, and excusa-
1 in order that 2 the director of the talk 3 the
speaker 4 elaborate
82
FRANCIS BACON
tions, and other speeches of reference to the
person, are great wastes of time; and though
they seem to proceed of modesty, they are brav-
ery.1 Yet beware of being too material * when
there is any impediment or obstruction in men's
wills; for pre-occupation of mind ever re-
quireth preface of speech; like a fomentation
to make the unguent enter.
Above all things, order, and distribution,
and singling out of parts, is the life of dispatch ;
so as the distribution be not too subtle: for
he that doth not divide will never enter well
into business; and he that divideth too much
will never come out of it clearly. To choose
time is to save time; and an unseasonable
motion is but beating the air. There be three
parts of business; the preparation, the debate
or examination, and the perfection. Whereof,
if you look for dispatch, let the middle only
be the work of many, and the first and last the
work of few. The proceeding upon somewhat
conceived in writing doth for the most part
facilitate dispatch: for though it should be
wholly rejected, yet that negative is more preg-
nant of direction than an indefinite; as ashes
are more generative than dust.
XXVII. OF FRIENDSHIP
It had been hard for him that spake it to
have put more truth and untruth together in
few words, than in that speech, Whosoever is
delighted in solitude is either a -wild beast or a
god. For it is most true that a natural and
secret hatred and aversation towards society in
any man, hath somewhat of the savage beast;
but it is most untrue that it should have any
character at all of the divine nature; except it
proceed, not out of a pleasure in solitude, but
out of a love and desire to sequester a man's
self for a higher conversation : such as is found
to have been falsely and feignedly in some
of the heathen; as Epimenides the Candian,
Numa the Roman, Empedocles the Sicilian,
and Apollonius of Tyana; and truly and really
in divers of the ancient hermits and holy fa-
thers of the church. But little do men perceive
what solitude is, and how far it extendeth.
For a crowd is not company ; and faces are but
a gallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling
cymbal, where there is no love. The Latin
adage meeteth with it a little: Magna civitas,
magnasolitudo,3 because in a great town friends
are scattered; so that there is not that fellow-
ship, for the most part, which is in less neigh-
bourhoods. But we may go further, and affirm
most truly that it is a mere and miserable soli-
tude to want true friends; without which the
world is but a wilderness; and even in this
sense also of solitude, whosoever in the frame
of his nature and affections is unfit for friend-
ship, he taketh it of the beast, and not from
humanity.
A principal fruit of friendship is the ease
and discharge of the fulness and swellings of
the heart, which passions of all kinds do cause
and induce. We know diseases of stoppings
and suffocations are the most dangerous in
the body; and it is not much otherwise in the
mind; you may take sarza to open the liver,
steel to open the spleen, flowers of sulphur for
the lungs, castoreum for the brain; but no
receipt * openeth the heart, but a true friend ;
to whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears,
hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever
lieth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind
of civil 2 shrift or confession.
It is a strange thing to observe how high a
rate great kings and monarchs do set upon
this fruit of friendship whereof we speak: so
great, as they purchase it many times at the
hazard of their own safety and greatness.
For princes, in regard of the distance of their
fortune from that of their subjects and servants,
cannot gather this fruit, except (to make them-
selves capable thereof) they raise some persons
to be as it were companions and almost equals
to themselves, which many times sorteth to3
inconvenience. The modern languages give
unto such persons the name of favourites, or
privadoes;* as if it were matter of grace, or
conversation. But the Roman name attaineth
the true use and cause thereof, naming them
participes curarum; 5 for it is that which tieth
the knot. And we see plainly that this hath
been done, not by weak and passionate princes
only, but by the wisest and most politic that
ever reigned; who have oftentimes joined to
themselves some of their servants; whom both
themselves have called friends, and allowed
others likewise to call them in the same manner;
using the word which is received between pri-
vate men.
L. Sylla, when he commanded Rome, raised
Pompey (after surnamed the Great) to that
height, that Pompey vaunted himself for
1 ostentation 2 insistent upon the business 8 A
great town is a great solitude.
1 recipe 2 non-religious 3 results in 4 intimates
5 sharers of cares
ESSAYS
Sylla's over-match. For when he had carried
the consulship for a friend of his, against the
pursuit of Sylla, and that Sylla did a little
resent thereat, and began to speak great,
Pompey turned upon him again, and in effect
bade him be quiet; for that more men adored,
the sun rising than the sun setting. With
Julius Caesar, Decimus Brutus had obtained
that interest, as he set him down in his testa-
ment for heir in remainder after his nephew.
And this was the man that had power with
him to draw him forth to his death. For when
Caesar would have discharged the senate, in
regard of some ill presages, and specially a
dream of Calpurnia ; this man lifted him gently
by the arm out of his chair, telling him he hoped
he would not dismiss the senate till his wife
had dreamt a better dream. And it seemeth
his favour was so great, as Antonius, in a letter
which is recited verbatim in one of Cicero's
Philippics, calleth him venefica, witch; as if
he had enchanted Caesar. Augustus raised
Agrippa (though of mean birth) to that height,
as when he consulted with Maecenas about the
marriage of his daughter Julia, Maecenas took
the liberty to tell him, that he must either marry
his daughter to Agrippa, or take away his life:
there was no third way, he had made him so
great. With Tiberius Caesar, Sejanus had
ascended to that height, as they two were
termed and reckoned as a pair of friends.
Tiberius in a letter to him saith, hcec pro
amicitia nostra non occultavi; l and the whole
senate dedicated an altar to Friendship, as to
a goddess, in respect of the great dearness of
friendship between them two. The like or
more was between Septimius Severus and
Plautianus. For he forced his eldest son to
marry the daughter of Plautianus; and would
often maintain Plautianus in doing affronts to
his son; and did write also in a letter to the
senate, by these words: / love the man so well,
as I wish he may over-live me. * Now if these
princes had been as a Trajan or a Marcus
Aurelius, a man might have thought that this
had proceeded of an abundant goodness of
nature ; but being men so wise, of such strength
and severity of mind, and so extreme lovers of
themselves, as all these were, it proveth most
plainly that they found their own felicity
(though as great as ever happened to mortal
men) but as an half piece, except they mought
have a friend to make it entire; and yet, which
1 These things, because of our friendship, I have not
concealed from you.
is more, they were princes that had wives, sons,
nephews; and yet all these could not supply
the comfort of friendship.
It is not to be forgotten what Commineus 1
observeth of his first master, Duke Charles the
Hardy; namely, that he would communicate
his secrets with none; and least of all, those
secrets which troubled him most. Whereupon
he goeth on and saith that towards his lat-
ter time that closeness did impair and a little
perish his understanding. Surely Commineus
mought have made the same judgment also,
if it had pleased him, of his second master,
Lewis the Eleventh, whose closeness was indeed
his tormentor. ij The parable of Pythagoras is
dark, but truej Cor ne edito: Eat not the heart.
Certainly, if a man would give it a hard phrase,
those that want friends to open themselves unto
are cannibals of their own hearts. But one
thing is most admirable (wherewith I will
conclude this first fruit of friendship), which
is, that this communicating of a man's self
to his friend works two contrary effects; for
it redoubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halfs.
For there is no man that imparteth his joys
to his friend, but he joyeth the more: and no
man that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but
he grieveth the less. So that it is in truth of
operation upon a man's mind, of like virtue
as the alchemists use to attribute to their stone
for man's body; that it worketh all contrary
effects, but still to the good and benefit of nature.
But yet without praying in aid2 of alchemists,
there is a manifest image of this in the ordinary
course of nature. For in bodies, union strength-
eneth and cherisheth any natural action; and
on the other side weakeneth and dulleth any
violent impression : and even so is it of minds.
I The second fruit of friendship is healthful
and sovereign for the understanding, as the
first is for the affections. For friendship
maketh indeed a fair day in the affections, from
storm and tempests; but it maketh daylight
in the understanding, out of darkness and con-
fusion of thoughts. Neither is this to be under-
stood only of faithful counsel, which a man
receiveth from his friend; but before you come
to that, certain it is that whosoever hath his
mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits and
understanding do clarify and break up, in the
communicating and discoursing with another;
he tosseth his thoughts more easily; he mar-
shalleth them more orderly; he seeth how they
look when they are turned into words: finally,
1 Philippe de Commines 2 calling in as advocates
84
FRANCIS BACON
he waxeth wiser than himself; and that more
by an hour's discourse than by a day's medi-
tation. It was well said by Themistocles to
the king of Persia, That speech was like cloth
of Arras, opened and put abroad; whereby the
imagery doth appear in figure; whereas in
thoughts they lie but as in packs. Neither is
this second fruit of friendship, in opening the
understanding, restrained only to such friends
as are able to give a man counsel ; (they indeed
are best); but even without that, a man
learneth of himself, and bringeth his own
thoughts to light, and whetteth his wits as
against a stone, which itself cuts not. In a
word, a man were better relate himself to a
statua1 or picture, than to suffer his thoughts
to pass in smother.
Add now, to make this second fruit of friend-
ship complete, that other point which lieth
more open and falleth within vulgar observa-
tion; which is faithful counsel from a friend.
Heraclitus saith well in one of his enigmas,
Dry light is ever the best. And certain it is,
that the light that a man receiveth by counsel
from another, is drier and purer than that
which cometh from his own understanding
and judgment; which is ever infused and
drenched in his affections and customs. So as
there is as much difference between the counsel
that a friend giveth, and that a man giveth
himself, as there is between the counsel of a
friend and of a flatterer. For there is no such
flatterer as is a man's self; and there is no such
remedy against flattery of a man's self, as the
liberty of a friend. Counsel is of two sorts:
the one concerning manners, the other concern-
ing business. For the first, the best preser-
vative to keep the mind in health is the faith-
ful admonition of a friend. The calling of a
man's self to a strict account is a medicine,
sometime, too piercing and corrosive. Read-
ing good books of morality is a little flat and
dead. Observing our faults in others is some-
times unproper for our case. But the best
receipt (best, I say, to work, and best to take)
is the admonition of a friend. It is a strange
thing to behold what gross errors and extreme
absurdities many (especially of the greater
sort) do commit, for want of a friend to tell
them of them ; to the great damage both of their
fame and fortune: for, as St. James saith,
they are as men that look sometimes into a glass,
and presently forget their own shape and favour.
As for business, a man may think, if he will,
1 statue
that two eyes see no more than one; or that a
gamester seeth always more than a looker-on;
or that a man in anger is as wise as he that hath
said over the four and twenty letters; or that
a musket may be shot off as well upon the arm
as upon a rest; and such other fond and high
imaginations, to think himself all in all. But
when all is done, the help of good counsel is
that which setteth business straight. And if
any man think that he will take counsel, but it
shall be by pieces; asking counsel in one busi-
ness of one man, and in another business of
another man ; it is well, (that is to say, better
perhaps than if he asked none at all;) but he
runneth two dangers : one, that he shall not be
faithfully counselled; for it is a rare thing,
except it be from a perfect and entire friend,
to have counsel given, but such as shall be
bowed and crooked to some ends which he
hath that giveth it. The other, that he shall
have counsel given, hurtful and unsafe, (though
with good meaning,) and mixed partly of
mischief and partly of remedy; even as if you
would call a physician that is thought good
for the cure of the disease you complain of,
but is unacquainted with your body; and there-
fore may put you in way for a present cure,
but overthroweth your health in some other
kind; and so cure the disease and kill the
patient. But a friend that is wholly acquainted
with a man's estate will beware, by furthering
any present business, how he dasheth upon
other inconvenience. And therefore rest not
upon scattered counsels; they will rather dis-
tract and mislead, than settle and direct.
After these two noble fruits of friendship
(peace in the affections, and support of the
judgment) followeth the last fruit; which
is like the pomegranate, full of many kernels;
I mean aid and bearing a part in all actions
and occasions. Here the best way to repre-
sent to life the manifold use of friendship, is
to cast and see how many things there are which
a man cannot do himself; and then it will
appear that it was a sparing speech of the an-
cients, to say, that a friend is another himself;
for that a friend is far more than himself.
Men have their time, and die many times in
desire of some things which they principally
take to heart; the bestowing of a child, the
finishing of a work, or the like. If a man have
a true friend, he may rest almost secure that
the care of those things will continue after him.
So that a man hath, as it were, two lives in his
desires. A man hath a body, and that body
is confined to a place; but where friendship
ESSAYS
is, all offices of life are as it were granted to him
and his deputy. For he may exercise them
by his friend. How many things are there
which a man cannot, with any face or comeli-
ness, say or do himself? A man can scarce
allege his own merits with modesty, much less
extol them; a man cannot sometimes brook
to supplicate or beg ; and a number of the like.
But all these things are graceful in a friend's
mouth, which are blushing in a man's own.
So again, a* man's person hath many proper
relations which he cannot put off. A man
cannot speak to his son but as a father; to his
wife but as a husband ; to his enemy but upon
terms: whereas a friend may speak as the
case requires, and not as it sorteth1 with the
person. But to enumerate these things were
endless; I have given the rule, where a man
cannot fitly play his own part ; if he have not
a friend, he may quit the stage.
XLII. OF YOUTH AND AGE
A man that is young in years may be old in
hours, if he have lost no time. But that hap-
peneth rarely. Generally, youth is like the
first cogitations, not so wise as the second.
For there is a youth in thoughts, as well as in
ages. And yet the invention of young men
is more lively than that of old; and imagina-
tions stream into their minds better, and as it
were more divinely. Natures that have much
heat and great and violent desires and pertur-
bations, are not ripe for action till they have
passed the meridian of their years; as it was
with Julius Caesar, and Septimius Severus.
Of the latter of whom it is said, Jwventutem
egit erroribus, into furoribus, plenam? And
yet he was the ablest emperor, almost, of all
the list. But reposed natures may do well in
youth. As it is seen in Augustus Caesar,
Cosmus Duke of Florence, Gaston de Fois,
and others. On the other side, heat and vivac-
ity in age is an excellent composition for busi-
ness. Young men are fitter to invent than to
judge; fitter for execution than for counsel;
and fitter for new projects than for settled busi-
ness. For the experience of age, in things that
fall within the compass of it, directeth them;
but in new things, abuseth them. The errors
of young men are the ruin of business ; but the
errors of aged men amount but to this, that more
might have been done, or sooner. Young
men, in the conduct and manage of actions,
1 agrees 2 He passed a youth full of errors ; yea,
of madnesses.
embrace more than they can hold; stir more
than they can quiet; fly to the end, without
consideration of the means and degrees; pur-
sue some few principles which they have
chanced upon absurdly ; care * not to innovate,
which draws unknown inconveniences; use
extreme remedies at first; and, that which
doubleth all errors, will not acknowledge or
retract them; like an unready horse, that will
neither stop nor turn. Men of age object too
much, consult too long, adventure too little,
repent too soon, and seldom drive business
home to the full period, but content themselves
with a mediocrity of success. Certainly it is
good to compound employments of both; for
that will be good for the present, because the
virtues of either age may correct the defects
of both ; and good for succession, that young
men may be learners, while men in age are
actors; and, lastly, good for extern accidents,
because authority followeth old men, and
favour and popularity youth. But for the
moral part, perhaps youth will have the pre-
eminence, as age hath for the politic. A cer-
tain rabbin, upon the text, Your young men
shall see visions, and your old men shall dream
dreams, inferreth that young men are admitted
nearer to God than old, because vision is a
clearer revelation than a dream. And cer-
tainly, the more a man drinketh of the world,
the more it intoxicateth : and age doth profit
rather in the powers of understanding, than
in the virtues of the will and affections.
There be some have an over-early ripeness in
their years, which fadeth betimes. These are,
first, such as have brittle wits, the edge whereof
is soon turned; such as was Hermogenes the
rhetorician, whose books are exceeding subtle;
who afterwards waxed stupid. A second sort
is of those that have some natural dispositions
which have better grace in youth than in age;
such as is a fluent and luxuriant speech; which
becomes youth well, but not age: so Tully
saith of Hortensius, Idem manebat, neque idem
decebat? The third is of such as take too high
a strain at the first, and are magnanimous more
than tract of years can uphold. As was Scipio
Africanus, of whom Livy saith in effect, Ultima
primis cedebant.3
XLIII. OF BEAUTY
Virtue is like a rich stone, best plain set;
and surely virtue is best in a body that is comely,
1 hesitate 2 He continued the same, when the same
was not becoming. 3 His last actions were not equal
to his first.
86
THOMAS NASHE
1 hough not of delicate features; and that hath
rather dignity of presence, than beauty of aspect.
Neither is it almost seen,1 that very beautiful
persons are otherwise of great virtue; as if
nature were rather busy not to err, than in
labour to produce excellency. And therefore
they prove accomplished, but not of great
spirit ; and study rather behaviour than virtue.
But this holds not always : for Augustus Caesar,
Titus Vespasianus, Philip le Bel of France,
Edward the Fourth of England, Alcibiades of
Athens, Ismael the Sophy of Persia, were all
high and great spirits ; and yet the most beau-
tiful men of their times. In beauty, that of
favour is more than that of colour; and that
of decent and gracious motion more than that
of favour. That is the best part of beauty,
which a picture cannot express ; no nor the first
sight of the life. There is no excellent beauty
that hath not some strangeness in the propor-
tion. A man cannot tell whether Apelles or
Albert Durer were the more trifler; whereof
the one would make a personage by geometrical
proportions; the other, by taking the best parts
out of divers faces, to make one excellent.
Such personages, I think, would please nobody
but the painter that made them. Not but I
think a painter may make a better face than
ever was; but he must do it by a kind of fe-
licity (as a musician that maketh an excellent
air in music), and not by rule. A man shall
see faces, that if you examine them part by
part, you shall find never a good; and yet
altogether do well. If it be true that the prin-
cipal part of beauty is in decent motion, cer-
tainly it is no marvel though persons in years
seem many times more amiable; pulchrorum
autumnus pukher; 2 for no youth can be comely
but by pardon, and considering the youth as to
make up the comeliness. Beauty is as summer
fruits, which are easy to corrupt, and cannot
last ; and for the most part it makes a dissolute
youth, and an age a little out of countenance;
but yet certainly again, if it light well, it maketh
virtues shine, and vices blush.
THOMAS NASHE (1567-1601)
THE UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER
About that time that the terror of the world
and fever quartan of the French, Henry the Eight
(the only true subject of chronicles), advanced
his standard against the two hundred and fifty
1 it is scarcely ever seen
have a beautiful autumn.
2 Beautiful persons
towers of Tournay and Terouenne, and had
the Emperor and all the nobility of Flanders,
Holland, and Brabant as mercenary attendants
on his full-sailed fortune, I, Jack Wilton, (a
gentleman at least,) was a certain kind of
an appendix or page, belonging or appertain-
ing in or unto the confines of the English court;
where what my credit was, a number of my
creditors that I cozened can testify: Cesium
petimus stultitia, which of us all is not a sinner?
Be it known to as many as will pay money
enough to peruse my story, that I followed the
court or the camp, or the camp and the court.
There did I (Soft, let me drink before I go any
further !) reign sole king of the cans and black
jacks, prince of the pygmies, county palatine of
clean straw and provant, and, to conclude,
lord high regent of rashers of the coals and red
herring cobs. Paulo majora canamus. Weil, to
the purpose. What stratagemical acts and mon-
uments do you think an ingenious infant of my
years might enact ? You will say, it were sufficient
if he slur a die, pawn his master to the utmost
penny, and minister the oath of the pantofle arti-
ficially. These are signs of good education, I
must confess, and arguments of In grace and vir-
tue to proceed. Oh, but Aliquid latet quod non
patet, there's a further path I must trace:
examples confirm; list, lordings, to my pro-
ceedings. Whosoever is acquainted with the
state of a camp understands that in it be many
quarters, and yet not so many as on London
bridge. In those quarters are many companies :
Much company, much knavery, as true as that
old adage, "Much courtesy, much subtilty."
Those companies, like a great deal of corn,
do yield some chaff; the corn are cormorants,
the chaff are good fellows, which are quickly
blown to nothing with bearing a light heart in a
light purse. Amongst this chaff was I winnow-
ing my wits to live merrily, and by my troth so
I did: the prince could but command' men
spend their blood in his service, I could make
them spend all the money they had for my
pleasure. But poverty in the end parts friends ;
though I was prince of their purses, and exacted
of my unthrift subjects as much liquid alle-
giance as any kaiser in the world could do, yet
where it is not to be had the king must lose his
right : want cannot be withstood, men can do
no more than they can do: what remained then,
but the fox's case must help, when the lion's
skin is out at the elbows?
There was a lord in the camp, let him be
a Lord of Misrule if you will, for he kept a
plain alehouse without welt or guard of any
THE UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER
ivy bush, and sold cider and cheese by pint and
by pound to all that came, (at the very name of
cider I can but sigh, there is so much of it in
Rhenish wine nowadays). Well, Tendit ad
sidera virtus, there's great virtue belongs (I
can tell you) to a cup of cider, and very good
men have sold it, and at sea it is Aqua caslestis;
but that's neither here nor there, if it had no
other patron but this peer of quart pots to
authorise it, it were sufficient. This great
lord, this worthy lord, this noble lord, thought
no scorn (Lord, have mercy upon us !) to have
his great velvet breeches larded with the drop-
pings of this dainty liquor, and yet he was an old
servitor, a cavalier of an ancient house, as might
appear by the arms of his ancestors, drawn very
amiably in chalk on the inside of his tent door.
He and no other was the man I chose out to
damn with a lewd moneyless device ; for coming
to him on a day, as he was counting his barrels
and setting the price in chalk on the head of
them, I did my duty very devoutly, and told
his ale-y honour I had matters of some secrecy
to impart unto him, if it pleased him to grant me
private audience. "With me, young Wilton?"
quod he; "marry, and shalt! Bring us a pint
of cider of a fresh tap into the Three Cups here ;
wash the pot." So into a back room he led
me, where after he had spit on his finger, and
picked off two or three moats of his old moth-
eaten velvet cap, and sponged and wrung all
the rheumatic drivel from his ill-favoured goat's
beard, he bade me declare my mind, and there-
upon he drank to me on the same. I up with a
long circumstance, alias, a cunning shlftoTthe
seventeens, and discoursed unto him what en-
tire affection I had borne him time out of mind,
partly for the high descent and lineage from
whence he sprung, and partly for the tender care
and provident respect he had of poor soldiers,
that, whereas the vastity of that place (which
afforded them no indifferent supply of drink
or of victuals) might humble them to some
extremity, and so weaken their hands, he
vouchsafed in his own person to be a victualler
to the camp (a rare example of magnificence
and honourable courtesy), and diligently pro-
vided that without far travel every man might
for his money have cider and cheese his belly
full ; nor did he sell his cheese by the wey only,
or his cider by the great, but abased himself
with his own hands to take a shoemaker's
knife (a homely instrument for such a high
personage to touch) and cut it out equally,
like a true justiciary, in little pennyworths that
it would do a man good for to look upon. So
likewise of his cider, the poor man might have
his moderate draught of it (as there is a moder-
ation in all things) as well for his doit or his
dandiprat as the rich man for his half sous or his
denier. "Not so much," quoth I, "but this
tapster's linen apron which you wear to protect
your apparel from the imperfections of the
spigot, most amply bewrays your lowly mind.
I speak it with tears, too few such noble men
have we, that will draw drink in linen aprons.
Why, you are every child's fellow; any man
that comes under the name of a soldier and a
good fellow, you will sit and bear company to
the last pot, yea, and you take in as good part
the homely phrase of 'Mine host, here's to
you,' as if one saluted you by all the titles
of your barony. These considerations, I say,
which the world suffers to slip by in the channel
of forgetful ness, have moved me, in ardent zeal
of your welfare, to forewarn you of some dangers
that have beset you and your barrels." At
the name of dangers he start up, and bounced
with his fist on the board so hard that his
tapster overhearing him, cried, "Anon, anon,
sir! by and by!" and came and made a low
leg and asked him what he lacked. He was
ready to have striken his tapster for interrupt-
ing him in attention of this his so much desired
relation, but for fear of displeasing me he mod-
erated his fury, and only sending for the other
fresh pint, willed him look to the bar, and come
when he is called, "with a devil's name!"
Well, at his earnest importunity, after I had
moistened my lips to make my lie run glib to
his journey's end, forward I went as folio weth.
"It chanced me the other night, amongst other
pages, to attend where the King, with his lords
and many chief leaders, sat in counsel: there,
amongst sundry serious matters that were
debated, and intelligences from the enemy
given up, it was privily informed (No villains
to these privy informers !) that you, even you
that I now speak to, had — (O would I had no
tongue to tell the rest ; by this drink, it grieves
me so I am not able to repeat it !) " Now was
my "drunken lord ready to hang himself for the
end of the full point, and over my neck he
throws himself very lubberly, and entreated me,
as I was a proper young gentleman and ever
looked for pleasure at his hands, soon to rid
him out of this hell of suspense, and resolve
him of the rest: then fell he on his knees,
wrung his hands, and I think on my conscience,
wept out all the cider that he had drunk in a
week before : to move me to have pity on him,
he rose and put his rusty ring on my finger, gave
THOMAS NASHE
me his greasy purse with that single money that
was in it, promised to make me his heir, and a
thousand more favours, if I would expire the
misery of his unspeakable tormenting un-
certainty. I, being by nature inclined to
Mercie (for indeed I knew two or three good
wenches of that name), bade him harden his
ears, and not make his eyes abortive before
their time, and he should have the inside of
my breast turned outward, hear such a tale as
would tempt the utmost strength of life to
attend it and not die in the midst of it. " Why
(quoth I) myself that am but a poor childish
well-wilier of yours, with the very thought that
a man of your desert and state by a number of
peasants and varlets should be so injuriously
abused in hugger mugger, have wept. The
wheel under our city bridge carries not so much
water over the city, as my brain hath welled
forth gushing streams of sorrow. My eyes have
been drunk, outrageously drunk, with giving
but ordinary intercourse through their sea-
circled islands to my distilling dreariment.
What shall I say? that which malice hath said
is the mere overthrow and murder . of your
days. Change not your colour, none can slander
a clear conscience to itself; receive all your
fraught of misfortune in at once.
"It is buzzed in the King's head that you are
a secret friend to the enemy, and under pre-
tence of getting a license to furnish the camp
with cider and such like provant, you have
furnished the enemy, and in empty barrels
sent letters of discovery and corn innumerable."
I might well have left here, for by this time
his white liver had mixed itself with the white
of his eye, and both were turned upwards, as
if they had offered themselves a fair white for
death to shoot at. The truth was, I was very
loth mine host and I should part with dry lips:
wherefore the best means that I could imagine
to wake him out of his trance, was to cry loud
in his ear, "Ho, host, what's to pay? will no
man look to the reckoning here?" And in
plain verity it took expected effect, for with
the noise he started and bustled, like a man
that had been scared with fire out of his sleep,
and ran hastily to his tapster, and all to be-
laboured him about the ears, for letting gentle-
men call so long and not look in to them.
Presently he remembered himself, and had like
to fall into his memento again, but that I met
him half ways and asked his lordship what he
meant to slip his neck out of the collar so sud-
denly, and, being revived, strike his tapster so
hastily.
"Oh (quoth he), I am bought and sold for
doing my country such good service as I have
done. They are afraid of me, because my
good deeds have brought me into such esti-
mation with the commonalty. I see, I see, it
is not for the lamb to live with the wolf."
"The world is well amended (thought I)
with your cidership; such another forty years'
nap together as Epimenides had, would make
you a perfect wise man." "Answer me (quoth
he), my wise young Wilton, is it true that I
am thus underhand dead and buried by these
bad tongues?"
"Nay (quoth I), you shall pardon me, for
I have spoken too much already ; no definitive
sentence of death shall march out of my well-
meaning lips ; they have but lately sucked milk,
and shall they so suddenly change their food
and seek after blood?"
"Oh, but (quoth he) a man's friend is his
friend; fill the other pint, tapster: what said
the King? did he believe it when he heard it?
I pray thee say; I swear by my nobility, none
in the world shall ever be made privy that I
received any light of this matter by thee."
"That firm affiance (quoth I) had I in you be-
fore, or else I would never have gone so far over
the shoes, to pluck you out of the mire. Not to
make many words, (since you will needs know,)
the King says flatly, you are a miser and a
snudge, and he never hoped better of you."
"Nay, then (quoth he) questionless some
planet that loves not cider hath conspired
against me." "Moreover, which is worse,
the King hath vowed to give Terouenne one
hot breakfast only with the bungs that he will
pluck out of your barrels. I cannot stay at
this time to report each circumstance that
passed, but the only counsel that my long
cherished kind inclination can possibly con-
trive, is now in your old days to be liberal:
such victuals or provision as you have, presently
distribute it frankly amongst poor soldiers; I
would let them burst their bellies with cider
and bathe in it, before I would run into my
prince's ill opinion for a whole sea of it. If
greedy hunters and hungry tale-tellers pursue
you, it is for a little pelf that you have ; cast it
behind you, neglect it, let them have it, lest
it breed a farther inconvenience. Credit my
advice, you shall find it prophetical: and thus
have I discharged the part of a poor friend."
With some few like phrases of ceremony,
"Your Honour's poor suppliant," and so forth,
and "Farewell, my good youth, I thank thee
and will remember thee," we parted.
THOMAS DEKKER
But the next day I think we had a dole of
cider, cider in bowls, in scuppets, in helmets;
and to conclude, if a man would have filled his
boots full, there he might have had it : provant
thrust itself into poor soldiers' pockets whether
they would or no. We made five peals of shot
into the town together of nothing but spiggots
and faucets of discarded empty barrels: every
under-foot soldier had a distenanted tun, as
Diogenes had his tub to sleep in. I myself got
as many confiscated tapster's aprons as made
me a tent as big as any ordinary commander's
in the field. But in conclusion, my well-
beloved baron of double beer got him humbly
on his mary -bones to the king, and complained
he was old and stricken in years, and had never
an heir to cast at a dog, wherefore if it might
please his Majesty to take his lands into his
hands, and allow him some reasonable pension
to live, he should be marvellously well pleased :
as for wars, he was weary of them ; yet as long "
as his Highness ventured his own person, he
would not flinch a foot, but make his withered
body a buckler to bear off any blow advanced
against him.
The King, marvelling at this alteration of
his cider merchant (for so he often pleasantly
termed him), with a little farther talk bolted
out the whole complotment. Then was I
pitifully whipped for my holiday lie, though
they made themselves merry with it many a
winter's evening after.
THOMAS DEKKER (i57o?-i64i?)
THE GULL'S HORNBOOK
CHAPTER VI
How A GALLANT SHOULD BEHAVE HIMSELF IN
A PLAY-HOUSE
The theatre is your poets' royal exchange,
upon which their muses (that are now turned
to merchants) meeting, barter away that light
commodity of words for a lighter ware than
words, plauclitie?, and the breath of the great
beast; which (like the threatenings of two
cowards) vanish all into air. Players and their
factors, who put away the stuff, and make the
best of it they possibly can (as indeed 'tis their
parts so to do), your gallant, your courtier,
and your captain, had wont to be the soundest
paymasters; and I think are still the surest
chapmen ; and these, by means that their heads
are well stocked, deal upon this comical freight
by the gross: when your groundling, and gal-
lery-commoner buys his sport by the penny,
and, like a haggler, is glad to utter it again by
retailing.
Since then the place is so free in entertain-
ment, allowing a stool as well to the farmer's
son as to your templer: l that your stinkard
has the selfsame liberty to be there in his to-
bacco fumes, which your sweet courtier hath:
and that your carman and tinker claim as
strong a voice in their suffrage, and sit to give
judgment on the play's life and death, as well
as the proudest mom us among the tribes of
critic: it is fit that he, whom the most tailors'
bills do make room for, when he comes, should
not be basely (like a viol) cased up in a corner.
Whether therefore the gatherers 2 of the pub-
lic or private playhouse stand to receive the
afternoon's rent, let our gallant (having paid
it) presently advance himself up to the throne
of the stage. I mean not into the lord's room
(which is now but the stage's suburbs): no,
those boxes, by the iniquity of custom, con-
spiracy of waiting women and gentlemen ush-
ers, that there sweat together, and the covetous-
ness of sharers, are contemptibly thrust into
the rear, and much new satin is there damned,
by being smothered to death in darkness. But
on the very rushes where the comedy is to
dance, yea, and under the state 3 of Cambises
himself must our feathered estridge,4 like a piece
of ordnance, be planted, valiantly (because im-
pudently) beating down the mewes and hisses
of the opposed rascality.
For do but cast up a reckoning, what large
comings-in are pursed up by sitting on the
stage. First a conspicuous eminence is got;
by which means, the best and most essential
parts of a gallant (good clothes, a proportion-
able leg, white hand, the Persian lock, and a
tolerable beard) are perfectly revealed.
By sitting on the stage, you have a signed
patent to engross the whole commodity of cen-
sure; may lawfully presume to be a girder;
and stand at the helm to steer the passage of
scenes; yet no man shall once offer to hinder
you from obtaining the title of an insolent,
overweening coxcomb.
By sitting on the stage, you may (without
travelling for it) at the very next door ask whose
play it is: and, by that quest of inquiry, the
law warrants you to avoid much mistaking: if
you know not the author, you may rail against
him: and peradventure so behave yourself,
that you may enforce the author to know you.
1 a resident of one of the inns of court
keepers a canopy * ostrich
2.door
9°
THOMAS DEKKER
By sitting on the stage, if you be a knight,
you may happily1 get you a mistress: if a mere
Fleet-street gentleman, a wife: but assure
yourself, by continual residence, you are the
first and principal man in election to begin
the number of We Three.2
By spreading your body on the stage, and
by being a justice in examining of plays, you
shall put yourself into such true scenical au-
thority, that some poet shall not dare to present
his muse rudely upon your eyes, without hav-
ing first unmasked her, rifled her, and dis-
covered all her bare and most mystical parts
before you at a tavern, when you most knightly
shall, for his pains, pay for both their sup-
pers.
By sitting on the stage, you may (with small
cost) purchase the dear acquaintance of the
boys: have a good stool for sixpence: at any
time know what particular part any of the in-
fants present: get'your match lighted, examine
the play-suits' lace, and perhaps win wagers
upon laying 'tis copper, etc. And to conclude,
whether you be a fool or a justice of peace, a
cuckold, or a captain, a lord-mayor's son, or
a dawcock, a knave, or an under-sheriff ; of
what stamp soever you be, current, or counter-
feit, the stage, like time, will bring you to most
perfect light and lay you open : neither are you
to be hunted from thence, though the scare-
crows in the yard hoot at you, hiss at you, spit
at you, yea, throw dirt even in your teeth: 'tis
most gentlemanlike patience to endure all this,
and to laugh at the silly animals: but if the
rabble, with a full throat, cry, "Away with the
fool," you were worse than a madman to tarry
by it: for the gentleman and the fool should
never sit on the stage together.
Marry, let this observation go hand in hand
with the rest: or rather, like a country serv-
ing-man, some five yards before them. Pre-
sent not yourself on the stage (especially at a
new play) until the quaking prologue hath (by
rubbing) got colour into his cheeks, and is
ready to give the trumpets their cue, that he's
upon point to enter: for then it is time, as
though you were one of the properties, or that
you dropped out of the hangings, to creep from
behind the arras, with your tripos or three-
footed stool in one hand, and a teston mounted
between a forefinger and a thumb in the other:
for if you should bestow your person upon the
vulgar, when the belly of the house is but half
1 haply, by chance 2 A jest that still survives, —
a picture of two fools or asses with 1 his inscription.
full, your apparel is quite eaten up, the fashion
lost, and the proportion of your body in more
danger to be devoured than if it were served
up in the counter amongst the poultry: avoid
that as you would the bastome.1 It shall crown
you with rich commendation to laugh aloud
in the midst of the most serious and saddest
scene of the terriblest tragedy: and to let that
clapper (your tongue) be tossed so high, that
all the house may ring of it : your lords use it ;
your knights are apes to the lords, and do so
too : your in-a-court-man is zany 2 to the knights,
and (marry very scurvily) comes likewise limp-
ing after it: be thou a beagle to them all, and
never lin 3 snuffing, till you have scented them :
for by talking and laughing (like a ploughman
in a morris) you heap Pelion upon Ossa, glory
upon glory: as first, all the eyes in the galleries
will leave walking after the players, and only
follow you: the simplest dolt in the house
snatches up your name, and when he meets
you in the streets, or that you fall into his
hands in the middle of a watch, his word shall
be taken for you: he'll cry "He's such a gal-
.lant," and you pass. Secondly, you publish
your temperance to the world, in that you seem
not to resort thither to taste vain pleasures
with a hungry appetite: but only as a gentle-
man to spend a foolish hour or two, because
you can do nothing else: thirdly, you mightily
disrelish the audience, and disgrace the author:
marry, you take up (though it be at the worst
hand) a strong opinion of your own judgment,
and enforce the poet to take pity of your weak-
ness, and, by some dedicated sonnet, to bring
you into a better paradise, only to stop your
mouth.
If you can (either for love or money), provide
yourself a lodging by the water side: for,
above the convenience it brings to shun shoul-
der-clapping,4 and to ship away your cocka-
trice betimes in the morning, it adds a kind of
state unto you, to be carried from thence to the
stairs of your play-house: hate a sculler (re-
member that) worse than to be acquainted
with one o' th' scullery. No, your oars are
your only sea-crabs, board them, and take heed
you never go twice together with one pair:
often shifting is a great credit to gentlemen;
and that dividing of your fare will make the
poor watersnakes be ready to pull you in pieces
to enjoy your custom : no matter whether upon
landing, you have money or no : you may swim
in twenty of their boats over the river upon
1 cudgel 2 ape 3 cease 4 by a constable
THE GULL'S HORNBOOK
ticket: marry, when silver comes in, remember
to pay treble their fare, and it will make your
flounder-catchers to send more thanks after
you, when you do not draw, than when you
do ; for they know, it will be their own another
day.
Before the play begins, fall to cards: you
may win or lose (as fencers do in a prize) and
beat one another by confederacy, yet share the
money when you meet at supper: notwith-
standing, to gull the ragamuffins that stand
aloof gaping at you, throw the cards (having
first torn four or five of them) round about the
stage, just upon the third sound,1 as though
you had lost: it skills not if the four knaves
lie on their backs, and outface the audience;
there's none such fools as dare take exceptions
at them, because, ere the play go off, better
knaves than they will fall into the company.
Now, sir, if the writer be a fellow that hath
either epigrammed you, or hath had a flirt at
your mistress, or hath brought either your
feather, or your red beard, or your little legs,
etc., on the stage, you shall disgrace him worse
than by tossing him in a blanket, or giving him
the bastinado in a tavern, if, in the middle of
his play (be it pastoral or comedy, moral or
tragedy), you rise with a screwed and dis-
contented face from your stool to be gone: no
matter whether the scenes be good or no; the
better they are the worse do you distaste them :
and, being on your feet, sneak not away like a
coward, but salute all your gentle acquaintance,
that are spread either on the rushes, or on
stools about you, and draw what troop you can
from the stage after you: the mimics are be-
holden to you, for allowing them elbow room:
their poet cries, perhaps, " a pox go with you,"
but care not for that, there's no music without
frets.
Marry, if either the company, or indisposi-
tion of the weather bind you to sit it out, my
counsel is then that you turn plain ape, take
up a rush, and tickle the earnest ears of your
fellow gallants, to make other fools fall a-laugh-
ing: mew at passionate speeches, blare at
merry, find fault with the music, whew at the
children's action, whistle at the songs: and
above all, curse the sharers, that whereas the
same day you had bestowed forty shillings
on an embroidered felt and feather (Scotch-
fashion) for your mistress in the court, or your
punk in the city, within two hours after, you
encounter with the very same block 2 on the
stage, when the haberdasher swore to you the
impression was extant but that morning.
To conclude, hoard up the finest play-scraps
you can get, upon which your lean wit may
most savourly feed, for want of other stuff, when
the Arcadian and Euphuised gentlewomen have
their tongues sharpened to set upon you: that
quality (next to your shuttlecock) is the only
furniture to a courtier that's but a new beginner,
and is but in his A B C of compliment. The
next places that are filled, after the playhouses
be emptied, are (or ought to be) taverns: into
a tavern then let us next march, where the
brains of one hogshead must be beaten out to
make up another.
CHAPTER VII
How A GALLANT SHOULD BEHAVE HIMSELF IN
A TAVERN
Whosoever desires to be a man of good reck-
, oning in the city, and (like your French lord)
to have as many tables furnished as lackeys
(who, when they keep least, keep none),
whether he be a young quat l of the first year's
revenue, or some austere and sullen-faced
steward, who (in despite of a great beard, a
satin suit, and a chain of gold wrapped in cy-
press) proclaims himself to any (but to those
to whom his lord owes money) for a rank cox-
comb, or whether he be a country gentleman,
that brings his wife up to learn the fashion, see
the tombs at Westminster, the lions in the
Tower, or to take physic ; or else is some young
farmer, who many times makes his wife (in the
country) believe he hath suits in law, because
he will come up to his lechery: be he of what
stamp he will that hath money in his purse, and
a good conscience to spend it, my counsel is
that he take his continual diet at a tavern,
which (out of question) is the only rendez-vous
of boon company; and the drawers2 the most
nimble, the most bold, and most sudden pro-
claimers of your largest bounty.
Having therefore thrust yourself into a case 3
most in fashion (how coarse soever the stuff be,
'tis no matter so it hold fashion), your office is
(if you mean to do your judgment right) to
inquire out those taverns which are best cus-
tomed, whose masters are oftenest drunk (for
that confirms their taste, and that they choose
wholesome wines), and such as stand furthest
from the counters; where, landing yourself
1 i.e. for the play to begin 2 style of hat
1 pimple, young fellow 2 waiters 3 suit
THOMAS DEKKER
and your followers, your first compliment shall
be to grow most inwardly acquainted with the
drawers, to learn their names, as Jack, and
Will, and Tom, to dive into their inclinations,
as whether this fellow useth to the fencing
school, this to the dancing school; whether
that young conjurer (in hogsheads) at midnight
keeps a gelding now and then to visit his cocka-
trice, or whether he love dogs, or be addicted
to any other eminent and citizen -like quality:
and protest yourself to be extremely in love,
and that you spend much money in a year, upon
any one of those exercises which you perceive
is followed by them. The use which you shall
make of this familiarity is this: if you want
money five or six days together, you may still
pay the reckoning with this most gentlemanlike
language, "Boy, fetch me money from the bar,"
and keep yourself most providently from a hun-
gry melancholy in your chamber. Besides, you
shall be sure (if there be but one faucet that can
betray neat wine to the bar) to have that ar-
raigned before you, sooner than a better and
worthier person.
The first question you are to make (after
the discharging of your pocket of tobacco and
pipes, and the household stuff thereto belong-
ing) shall be for an inventory of the kitchen:
for it were more than most tailor-like, and to
be suspected you were in league with some
kitchen-wench, to descend yourself, to offend
your stomach with the sight of the larder, and
happily l to grease your accoutrements. Hav-
ing therefore received this bill, you shall (like
a captain putting up dear pays) have many
salads stand on your table, as it were for blanks
to the other more serviceable dishes: and ac-
cording to the time of the year, vary your fare,
as capon is a stirring meat sometime, oysters
are a swelling meat sometimes, trout a tickling
meat sometimes, green goose and woodcock a
delicate meat sometimes, especially in a tav-
ern, where you shall sit in as great state as a
church-warden amongst his poor parishioners,
at Pentecost or Christmas.
For your drink, let not your physician con-
fine you to any one particular liquor: for as it
is requisite that a gentleman should not always
be plodding in one art, but rather be a general
scholar (that is, to have a lick at all sorts of
learning, and away) so 'tis not fitting a man
should trouble his head with sucking at one
grape, but that he may be able (now there is a
general peace) to drink any stranger drunk in
his own element of drink, or more properly in
his own mist language.
Your discourse at the table must be such a?
that which you utter at your ordinary: your
behaviour the same, but somewhat more care-
less: for where your expense is great, let your
modesty be less: and, though you should be
mad in a tavern, the largeness of the items will
bear with your incivility: you may, without
prick to your conscience, set the want of your
wit against the superfluity and sauciness of
their reckonings.
If you desire not to be haunted with fiddlers
(who by the statute have as much liberty as
rogues to travel into any place, having the pass-
port of the house about them) bring then no
women along with you: but if you love the
company of all the drawers, never sup without
your cockatrice: for, having her there, you
shall be sure of most officious attendance. In-
quire what gallants sup in the next room, and
if they be any of your acquaintance, do not
you (after the city fashion) send them in a pottle
of wine, and your name, sweetened in two
pitiful papers of sugar, with some filthy apol-
ogy crammed into the mouth of a drawer; but
rather keep a boy in fee, who underhand shall
proclaim you in every room, what a gallant
fellow you are, how much you spend yearly in
taverns, what a great gamester, what custom
you bring to the house, in what witty discourse
you maintain a table, what gentlewomen or
citizens' wives you can with a wet finger1 have
at any time to sup with you, and such like. By
which encomiastics of his, they that know you
shall admire you, and think themselves to be
brought into a paradise but to be meanly in
your acquaintance; and if any of your en-
deared friends be in the house, and beat the
same ivy bush2 that yourself does, you may join
companies and be drunk together most publicly.
But in such a deluge of drink, take heed that
no man counterfeit himself drunk, to free his
purse from the danger of the shot : 3 'tis a usual
thing now among gentlemen; it had wont be
the quality of cockneys: I would advise you to
leave so much brains in your head as to pre-
vent this. When the terrible reckoning (like
an indictment) bids you hold up your hand,
and that you must answer it at the bar, you
must not abate one penny in any particular, no,
though they reckon cheese to you, when you
have neither eaten any, nor could ever abide it,
raw or toasted: but cast your eye only upon
1 haply, perchance
1 easily 2 tavern sign 3 score, bill
THE GULL'S HORNBOOK
93
the totalis,1 and no further; for to traverse
the bill would betray you to be acquainted
with the rates of the market, nay more, it
would make the vintners believe you were
pater familias, and kept a house; which, I
assure you, is not now in fashion.
If you fall to dice after supper, let the drawers
be as familiar with you as your barber, and
venture their silver amongst you; no matter
where they had it: you are to cherish the un-
thriftiness of such young tame pigeons, if you
be a right gentleman: for when two are yoked
together by the purse strings, and draw the
chariot of Madam Prodigality, when one faints
in the way and slips his horns, let the other
rejoice and laugh at him.
At your departure forth the house, to kiss
mine hostess over the bar, or to accept of the
courtesy of the cellar when 'tis offered you by
the drawers, and you must know that kindness
never creeps upon them, but when they see you
almost cleft to the shoulders, or to bid any of
the vintners good night, is as commendable,
as for a barber after trimming to lave your
face with sweet water.
To conclude, count it an honour, either to
invite or be invited to any rifling:2 for com-
monly, though you find much satin there, yet
you shall likewise find many citizens' sons, and
heirs, and younger brothers there, who smell
out such feasts more greedily than tailors hunt
upon Sundays after weddings. And let any
hook draw you either to a fencer's supper, or
to a player's that acts such a part for a wager;
for by this means you shall get experience, by
being guilty to their abominable shaving.
CHAPTER VIII
How A GALLANT is TO BEHAVE HIMSELF PASSING
THROUGH THE ClTY, AT ALL HOURS OF THE
NIGHT, AND HOW TO PASS BY ANY WATCH
After the sound of pottle-pots is out of your
ears, and that the spirit of wine and tobacco
walks in your brain, the tavern door being shut
upon your back, cast about to pass through
the widest and goodliest streets in the city.
And if your means cannot reach to the keeping
of a boy, hire one of the drawers, to be as a
lanthorne unto your feet, and to light you home :
and, still 3 as you approach near any night-
walker that is up as late as yourself curse and
swear (like one that speaks High Dutch) in a
lofty voice, because your men have used you
so like a rascal in not waiting upon you, and
vow the next morning to pull their blue cases *
over their ears, though, if your chamber were
well searched, you give only sixpence a week
to some old woman to make your bed, and
that she is all the serving-creatures you give
wages to. If you smell a watch (and that you
may easily do, for commonly they eat onions to
keep them in sleeping, which they account a
medicine against cold) or, if you come within
danger of their brown bills, let him that is
your candlestick, and holds up your torch from
dropping (for to march after a link is shoe-
maker-like), let Ignis Fatuus, I say, being
within the reach of the constable's staff, ask
aloud, "Sir Giles," or "Sir Abram, will you
turn this way, or down that street?" It skills
not, though there be none dubbed in your
bunch; the watch will wink at you, only for
the love they bear to arms and knighthood:
marry, if the sentinel and his court of guard
stand strictly upon his martial law and cry
" Stand," commanding you to give the word, and
to show reason why your ghost walks so late,
do it in some jest (for that will show you have
a desperate wit, and perhaps make him and
his halberdiers afraid to lay foul hands upon
you) or, if you read a mittimus 2 in the con-
stable's book, counterfeit to be a Frenchman,
a Dutchman, or any other nation whose coun-
try is in peace with your own; and you may
pass the pikes: for being not able to under-
stand you, they cannot by the customs of the
city take your examination, and so by conse-
quence they have nothing to say to you.
All the way as you pass (especially being
approached near some of the gates) talk of
none but lords, and such ladies with whom you
have played at primero, or danced in the pres-
ence the very same day. It is a chance to
lock up the lips of an inquisitive bell-man:
and being arrived at your lodging door, which
I would counsel you to choose in some rich
citizen's house, salute at parting no man but
by the name of Sir (as though you had supped
with knights) albeit you had none in your
company but your Perinado, or your ingle.3
Happily it will be blown abroad, that you
and your shoal of gallants swum through such
an ocean of wine, that you danced so much
money out at heels, and that in wild fowl there
flew away thus much: and I assure you, to
have the bill of your reckoning lost of purpose,
summa totalis, total 2 raffling 8 always
1 coats 2 a warrant for arrest s chum
94
BEN JONSON
so that it may be published, will make you to
be held in dear estimation: only the danger
is, if you owe money, and that your revealing
gets your creditors by the ears; for then look
to have a peal of ordnance thundering at your
chamber door the next morning. But if either
your tailor, mercer, haberdasher, silkman,
cutter, linen draper, or sempster, stand like a
guard of Switzers about your lodging, watch-
ing your uprising, or, if they miss of that,
your down lying in one of the counters, you
have no means to avoid the galling of their
small shot, than by sending out a light-horse-
man to call your apothecary to your aid, who,
encountering this desperate band of your
creditors, only with two or three glasses in his
hand, as though that day you purged, is able
to drive them all to their holes like so many
foxes: for the name of taking physic is a suffi-
cient quietus est to any endangered gentleman,
and gives an acquittance (for the time) to them
all, though the twelve companies stand with
their hoods to attend your coming forth and
their officers with them.
I could now fetch you about noon (the hour
which I prescribed you before to rise at) out
of your chamber, and carry you with me into
Paul's Churchyard; where planting yourself
in a stationer's shop, many instructions are to
be given you, what books to call for, how to
censure of new books, how to mew at the old,
how to look in your tables and inquire for such
and such Greek, French, Italian, or Spanish
authors, whose names you have there, but
whom your mother for pity would not give
you so much wit as to understand. From
thence you should blow yourself into the tobacco-
ordinary, where you are likewise to spend your
judgment (like a quack -salver) upon that mys-
tical wonder, to be able to discourse whether
your cane * or your pudding 2 be sweetest, and
which pipe has the best bore, and which burns
black, which breaks in the burning, etc. Or,
if you itch to step into the barber's, a whole
dictionary cannot afford more words to set
down notes what dialogues you are to maintain
whilst you are doctor of the chair there. After
your shaving, I could breathe you in a fence-
school, and out of that cudgel you into a danc-
ing school, in both which I could weary you,
by showing you more tricks than are in five
galleries, or fifteen prizes. And, to close up
the stomach of this feast, I could make cock-
neys, whose fathers have left them well, acknow-
ledge themselves infinitely beholden to me, for
teaching them by familiar demonstration how
to spend their patrimony and to get themselves
names, when their fathers are dead and rotten.
But lest too many dishes should cast into a
surfeit, I will now take away; yet so that, if
I perceive you relish this well, the rest shall be
(in time) prepared for you. Farewell.
BEN JONSON (i573?-i637)
TIMBER: OR DISCOVERIES MADE UPON
MEN AND MATTER
LXIV. DE SHAKESPEARE NOSTRATI1
I remember the players have often mentioned
it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his
writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted
out a line. My answer hath been, "Would he
had blotted a thousand," which they thought a
malevolent speech. I had not told posterity
this but for their ignorance who chose that cir-
cumstance to commend their friend by wherein
he most faulted; and to justify mine own can-
dour, for I loved the man, and do honour his
memory on this side idolatry as much as any.
He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free
nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave no-
tions, and gentle expressions, wherein he
flowed with that facility that sometimes it was
necessary he should be stopped. "Sufflaminan-
dus erat," as Augustus said of Haterius. His
wit was in his own power; would the rule of
it had been so, too! Many times he fell into
those things, could not escape laughter, as
when he said in the person of Caesar, one
speaking to him, "Caesar, thou dost me wrong."
He replied, "Caesar did never wrong but with
just cause"; and such like, which were ridicu-
lous. But he redeemed his vices with his vir-
tues. There was ever more in him to be
praised than to be pardoned.
LXXI. DOMINUS VERULAMIUS2
One, though he be excellent and the chief, is
not to be imitated alone; for never no imitator
ever grew up to his author; likeness is always
on this side truth. Yet there happened in my
time one noble speaker who was full of gravity
in his speaking ; his language, where he could
spare or pass by a jest, was nobly censorious.
1 tobacco in rolls, like cigars 2 tobacco put up in
a bag
1 on our fellow-countryman, Shakespeare 2 Lord
Verulam (Francis Bacon)
TIMBER: OR DISCOVERIES MADE UPON MEN AND MATTER
95
No man ever spake more neatly, more pressly,1
more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less
idleness, in what he uttered. No member of
his speech but consisted of his own graces. His
hearers could not cough, or look aside from him,
without loss. He commanded where he spoke,
and had his judges angry and pleased at his
devotion. No man had their affections more
in his power. The fear of every man that
heard him was lest he should make an end.
C. DE BONIS ET MALIS; DE INNOCENTIA2
A good man will avoid the spot of any sin.
The very aspersion is grievous, which makes
him choose his way in his life as he would in
his journey. The ill man rides through all
confidently; he is coated and booted for it.
The oftener he offends, the more openly, and
the fouler, the fitter in fashion. His modesty,
like a riding-coat, the more it is worn is the less
cared for. It is good enough for the dirt still,
and the ways he travels in. An innocent man
needs no eloquence, his innocence is instead of
it, else I had never come off so many times from
these precipices, whither men's malice hath
pursued me. It is true I have been accused
to the lords, to the king, and by great ones, but
it happened my accusers had not thought of
the accusation with themselves, and so were
driven, for want of crimes, to use invention,
which was found slander, or too late (being
entered so far) to seek starting-holes for their
rashness, which were not given them. And
then they may think what accusation that was
like to prove, when they that were the engineers
feared to be the authors. Nor were they con-
tent to feign things against me, but to urge
things, feigned by the ignorant, against my
profession, which though, from their hired and
mercenary impudence, I might have passed by
as granted to a nation of barkers that let out
their tongues to lick others' sores; yet I durst
not leave myself undefended, having a pair of
ears unskilful to hear lies, or have those things
said of me which I could truly prove of them.
They objected making of verses to me, when I
could object to most of them, their not being
able to read them, but as worthy of scorn. Nay,
they would offer to urge mine own writings
against me, but by pieces (which was an excel-
lent way of malice), as if any man's context
might not seem dangerous and offensive, if that
which was knit to what went before were de-
1 compactly
cence
2 on good things and bad, on inno-
frauded of his beginning; or that things by
themselves uttered might not seem subject to
calumny, which read entire would appear most
free. At last they upbraided my poverty: I
confess she is my domestic; sober of diet,
simple of habit, frugal, painful, a good coun-
seller to me, that keeps me from cruelty, pride,
or other more delicate impertinences, which are
the nurse-children of riches. But let them look
over all the great and monstrous wickednesses,
they shall never find those in poor families.
They are the issue of the wealthy giants and the
mighty hunters, whereas no great work, or
worthy of praise or memory, but came out of
poor cradles. It was the ancient poverty that
founded commonweals, built cities, invented
arts, made wholesome laws, armed men against
vices, rewarded them with their own virtues,
and preserved the honour and state of nations,
till they betrayed themselves to riches.
CXV. DE STILO, ET OPTIMO SCRIBENDI
GENERE1
For a man to write well, there are required
three necessaries — to read the best authors,
observe the best speakers, and much exercise
of his own style. In style, to consider what
ought to be written, and after what manner, he
must first think and excogitate his matter, then
choose his words, and examine the weight of
either. Then take care, in placing and rank-
ing both matter and words, that the composi-
tion be comely; and to do this with diligence
and often. No matter how slow the style be at
first, so it be laboured and accurate; seek the
best, and be not glad of the forward conceits,
or first words, that offer themselves to us; but
judge of what we invent, and order what we
approve. Repeat often what we have formerly
written; which beside that it helps the conse-
quence, and makes the juncture better, it quick-
ens the heat of imagination, that often cools in
the time of setting down, and gives it new
strength, as if it grew lustier by the going back.
As we see in the contention of leaping, they
jump farthest that fetch their race largest; or,
as in throwing a dart or javelin, we force back
our arms to make our loose the stronger. Yet,
if we have a fair gale of wind, I forbid not the
steering out of our sail, so the favour of the
gale deceive us not. For all that we invent
doth please us in the conception of birth, else
we would never set it down. But the safest is
to return to our judgment, and handle over
1 on style and the best manner of writing
BEN JONSON
again those things the easiness of which might
make them justly suspected. So did the best
writers in their beginnings; they imposed upon
themselves care and industry; they did noth-
ing rashly: they obtained first to write well,
and then custom made it easy and a habit. By
little and little their matter showed itself to
them more plentifully; their words answered,
their composition followed; and all, as in a
well-ordered family, presented itself in the
place. So that the sum of all is, ready writing
makes not good writing, but good writing brings
on ready writing. Yet, when we think we
have got the faculty, it is even then good to
resist it, as to give a horse a check sometimes
with a bit, which doth not so much stop his
course as stir his mettle. Again, whither a
man's genius is best able to reach, thither it
should more and more contend, lift and dilate
itself; as men of low stature raise themselves
on their toes, and so oft-times get even, if not
eminent. Besides, as it is fit for grown and
able writers to stand of themselves, and work
with their own strength, to trust and endeavour
by their own faculties, so it is fit for the beginner
and learner to study others and the best. For
the mind and memory are more sharply exer-
cised in comprehending another man's things
than our own; and such as accustom them-
selves and are familiar with the best authors
shall ever and anon find somewhat of them
in themselves, and in the expression of their
minds, even when they feel it not, be able
to utter something like theirs, which hath
an authority above their own. Nay, some-
times it is the reward of a man's study, the
praise of quoting another man fitly; and
though a man be more prone and able for
one kind of writing than another, yet he
must exercise all. For as in an instrument,
so in style, there must be a harmony in
consent of parts.
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
ROBERT BURTON (1577-1640)
FROM THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY
PART III. SEC. II. MEM. I. SUBS. I
HEROICAL LOVE CAUSING MELANCHOLY. His
PEDIGREE, POWER, AND EXTENT
In the preceding section mention was made,
amongst other pleasant objects, of this come-
liness and beauty which proceeds from women,
that causeth heroical, or love-melancholy, is
more eminent above the rest, and properly
called love. The part affected in men is the
liver, and therefore called heroical, because
commonly gallants, noblemen, and the most
generous spirits are possessed with it. His
power and extent is very large,1 and in that
twofold division of love, <f>i\eiv and e/oav,2
those two veneries 3 which Plato and some
other make mention of, it is most eminent,
and KUT' efox^v 4 called Venus, as I have said,
or love itself. Which although it be denomi-
nated from men, and most evident in them,
yet it extends and shows itself in vegetal and
sensible creatures, those incorporeal substances
(as shall be specified), and hath a large domin-
ion of sovereignty over them. His pedigree is
very ancient, derived from the beginning of
the world, as 5 Phaedrus contends, and his
8 parentage of such antiquity, that no poet
could ever find it out. Hesiod makes 7 Terra
and Chaos to be Love's parents, before the gods
were born : Ante deos omnes primum generavit
amorem. ["Before all the gods, he first" begat
Love."] Some think it is the self-same fire
Prometheus fetched from heaven. Plutarch,
'Amator. libello, will have Love to be the son of
Iris and Favonius; but Socrates in that pleas-
ant dialogue of Plato, when it came to his turn
to speak of love (of which subject Agatho the
rhetorician, magniloquus Agatho, that chanter
Agatho, had newly given occasion), in a poetical
1 Memb. i. Subs. 2. 2 Amor et amicitia. [Love
and friendship.] 3 [loves] 4 [par excellence] 6 Phae-
drus orat. in laudem amoris, Platonis convivio. 6 Vide
Boccas. de genial, deorum. 7 [Earth.] See the moral
in Plut. of that fiction.
strain, telleth this tale : when Venus was born,
all the gods were invited to a banquet, and
amongst the rest, ' Porus the god of bounty
and wealth; Penia or Poverty came a-begging
to the door; Porus well whittled with nectar
(for there was no wine in those days) walking
in Jupiter's garden, in a bower met with Penia,
of whom was born Love; and because he
was begotten on Venus's birthday, Venus still
attends upon him. The moral of this is in
2 Ficinus. Another tale is there borrowed out
of Aristophanes : 3 in the beginning of the
world, men had four arms and four feet, but
for their pride, because they compared them-
selves with the gods, were parted into halves,
and now peradventure by love they hope to
be united again and made one. Otherwise
thus, 4 Vulcan met two lovers, and bid them
ask what they would and they should have it;
but they made answer, O Vulcanefaber Deorum,
etc., "O Vulcan the gods' great smith, we
beseech thee to work us anew in thy furnace,
and of two make us one; which he presently
did, and ever since true lovers are either all
one, or else desire to be united." Many such
tales you shall find in Leon Hebraeus, Dial. 3,
and their moral to them. The reason why
Love was still painted young (as Phornutus
6 and others will), "8 is because young men are
most apt to love; soft, fair, and fat, because
such folks are soonest taken: naked, because
all true affection is simple and open : he smiles,
because merry and given to delights; hath a
quiver, to show his power none can escape : is
blind, because he sees not where he strikes,
whom he hits," etc. His power and sover-
1 Affluentiae Deus. 2 Cap. 7. Comment, in
Plat, convivium. 3 See more in Valesius, lib. 3, cont.
med. et cont. 13. 4 Vives 3, de anima; oramus te
ut tuis artibus et caminis nos refingas, et ex duobus
unum facias; quod et fecit, et exinde amatores unum
sunt et unum esse petunt. B See more in Natalis
Conies, Imag. Deorum; Philostratus de Imaginibus;
Lilius Giraldus Syntag. de diis; Phornutus; etc.
6 Juvenis pingitur quod amore plerumque juvenes
capiuntur; sic et mollis, formosus; nudus, quod
simplex et apertus hie affectus ; ridet, quod oblecta-
mentum prae se ferat, cum pharetra, etc.
97
ROBERT BURTON
eignty is expressed by the * poets, in that he
is held to be a god, and a great commanding
god, above Jupiter himself; Magnus Daemon,
as Plato calls him; the strongest and merriest
of all the gods, according to Alcinous and
2Athenaeus; Amor virorum rex, amor rex et
deum, as Euripides, "the god of gods and
governor of men;" for we must all do homage
to him, keep a holiday for his deity, adore in
his temples, worship his image (numen enim
hoc non est nudum nomen ["For this god is not
an empty name"]), and sacrifice to his altar,
that conquers all, and rules all:
" 3 Mallem cum leone, cervo et apro .Eolico,
Cum Anteo et Stymphalicis avibus luctari
Quam cum amore."
"I had rather contend with bulls, lions, bears,
and giants, than with Love;" he is so power-
ful, enforceth 4 all to pay tribute to him, domi-
neers over all, and can make mad and sober
whom he list; insomuch that Caecilius in
Tully's Tusculans, holds him to be no better
than a fool or an idiot, that doth not acknow-
ledge Love to be a great god.
" 5 Cui in manu sit quern esse dementein velit,
Quern sapere, quern in morbum injici," etc.
That can make sick and cure whom he list.
Homer and Stesichorus were both made blind,
if you will believe 6 Leon Hebraeus, for speak-
ing against his godhead; and though Aris-
tophanes degrade him, and say that he was
7 scornfully rejected from the council of the
gods, had his wings clipped besides, that he
might come no more amongst them, and to
his farther disgrace banished heaven forever,
and confined to dwell on earth, yet he is of
that 8 power, majesty, omnipotency, and do-
minion, that no creature can withstand him.
" 9 Imperat Cupido etiam diis pro arbitrio,
Et ipsum arcere ne annipotens potest Jupiter."
He is more than quarter master with the gods :
"... Tenet
Thetide aequor, umbras /Eaco, ccelum Jove: " l°
1 A petty Pope: "cloves habet super orum et infero-
rum." as Orpheus, etc. 2 Lib. 13, cap. 5. Dyphnoso.
* Plautus. 4 Regnat et in superos jus habet ille deos
["He rules and has power over the high gods."]
Ovid. 5 Selden pro. leg. 3, cap. de diis Syris.
6 Dial. 3. 7 A concUio Deorum rejectus et ad majo-
rem ejus ignominiam, etc. 8 Fulmine concitatior.
["Swifter than lightning in the collied sky."]
9 Sophocles. ["Love rules even the gods as he will,
and Jove himself cannot restrain him."] l0["He
divides the empire of the sea with Thetis, — of the
Shades, with ^Eacus, — of the Heaven, with Jove."]
and hath not so much possession as dominion.
Jupiter himself was turned into a satyr, shep-
herd, a bull, a swan, a golden shower, and what
jiot, for love; that as * Lucian's Juno right
well objected to him, Indus amor is tu es, "thou
art Cupid's whirlgig": how did he insult over
all the other gods, Mars, Neptune, Pan, Mer-
cury, Bacchus, and the rest ! 2 Lucian brings
in Jupiter complaining of Cupid that he could
not be quiet for him ; and the Moon lamenting
that she was so impotently besotted on Endym-
ion; even Venus herself confessing as much,
how rudely and in what sort her own son Cupid
had used her being his mother,3 "now drawing
her to Mount Ida, for the love of that Trojan
Anchises, now to Libanus for that Assyrian
youth's sake. And although she threatened
to break his bow and arrows, to clip his wings,
4 and whipped him besides with her pantophle,
yet all would not serve, he was too headstrong
and unruly." That monster-conquering Her-
cules was tamed by him :
" Quern non mille ferae, quern non Stheneleius hostis,
Nee potuit Juno vincere, vicit amor."
"Whom neither beasts nor enemies could tame,
Nor Juno's might subdue, Love quelled the same."
Your bravest soldiers and most generous spirits
are enervated with it, 5 ubi midieribus blanditiis
permittunt se et inquinantur amplexibus. Apollo,
that took upon him to cure all diseases, ' could
not help himself of this; and therefore 7 Soc-
rates calls Love a tyrant, and brings him tri-
umphing in a chariot, whom Petrarch imitates
in his triumph of Love, and Fracastorius, in an
elegant poem expresseth at large, Cupid riding,
Mars and Apollo following his chariot, Psyche
weeping, etc.
In vegetal creatures what sovereignty love
hath, by many pregnant proofs and familiar
examples may be proved, especially of palm-
trees, which are both he and she, and express
not a sympathy but a love-passion, and by
many observations have been confirmed.
1 Tom. 4. 2 Dial. Deorum, torn. 3. 3 Quippe
matrem ipsius quibus modis me afficit, nunc in Idam
adigens Anchisae causa, etc. 4 Jampridem et plagas
ipsi in nates incussi sandalio. 5 Altopilus, fol. 79.
["When they give themselves up to the blandishments
of women and are corrupted by their embraces."]
6 Xullis amor est medicabilis herbis. [''There is no
herb that can cure Love."] ' Plutarch in Amatorio.
Dictator quo creato cessant reliqui magistratus. ["A
tyrant at whose creation other rulers cease."]
THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY
99
" ' Vivunt in venerem frondes, omnisque vicissim
Felix arbor amat, nutant et mutua palmae
Foedera, populeo suspirat populus ictu,
Et platano platanus, alnoque assibilat alnus."
Constantine, de Agric. lib. 10. cap. 4., gives
an instance out of Florentius his Georgics, of a
palm-tree that loved most fervently, " 2 and
would not be comforted until such time her
love applied himself unto her; you might see
the two trees bend, and of their own accords
stretch out their boughs to embrace and kiss
each other: they will give manifest signs of
mutual love." Ammianus Marcellinus, lib. 24,
reports that they marry one another, and fall
in love if they grow in sight; and when the
wind brings the smell to them they are marvel-
lously affected. Philostratus, in Imaginibus,
observes as much, and Galen, lib. 6. de locis
affectis, cap. 5. They will be sick for love;
ready to die and pine away, which the hus-
bandmen perceiving, saith 3 Constantine,
"stroke many palms that grow together, and
so stroking again the palm that is enamoured,
they carry kisses from the one to the other:"
or tying the leaves and branches of the one to
the stem of the other, will make them both
flourish and prosper a great deal better:
" 4 which are enamoured, they can perceive
by the bending of boughs, and inclination of
their bodies." If any man think this which I
say to be a tale, let him read that story of
two palm-trees in Italy, the male growing at
Brundusium, the female at Otranto (related by
Jovianus Pontanus in an excellent poem,
sometimes tutor to Alphonsus junior, King
of Naples, his secretary of state, and a great
philosopher) "which were barren, and so
continued a long time," till they came to see
one another growing up higher, though many
stadiums asunder. Pierius in his Hieroglyph-
ics, and Melchior Guilandinus, Mem. 3. tract,
de papyro, cites this story of Pontanus for a
truth. See more in Salmuth, Comment, in
1 Claudian. descript. vener. aulae. ["Trees are
influenced by love, and every flourishing tree in turn
feels the passion : palms nod mutual vows, poplar
sighs to poplar, plane to plane, and alder breathes to
alder."] 2 Neque prius in iis desiderium cessat dum
dejcctus consolctur ; videre enim cst ipsam arborem
incurvatam, ultro ramis ab utrisque vicissim ad oscu-
lum exporrectis: manifesta dant mutui desiderii signa.
3 Multas palmas contingens qua; simul crescunt,
rursusque ad amantem regrediens, eamque manu
attingens, quasi osculum mutuo ministrare videtur, et
expediti concubitus gratiam facit. 4 Quam vero
ipsa dcsideret affectu ramorum significat, et ad illam
respicit: amantur, etc.
Pancirol de Nova repert. Tit. r de novo orbe,
Mizaldus Arcanorum, lib. 2., Sand's Voyages,
lib. 2. jol. 103, etc.
If such fury be in vegetals, what shall we
think of sensible creatures, how much more
violent and apparent shall it be in them !
" * Omne adeo genus in terris hominumque ferarum,
Et genus asquoreum, pecudes, pictaeque volucres
In furias ignemque ruunt; amor omnibus idem."
"All kind of creatures in the earth,
And fishes of the sea,
And painted birds do rage alike;
This love bears equal sway."
"2Hic deus et terras et maria alta domat."
Common experience and our sense will inform
us how violently brute beasts are carried away
with this passion, horses above the rest —
furor esl insignis equarum. 3 Cupid in
Lucian bids Venus his mother "be of good
cheer, for he was now familiar with lions, and
oftentimes did get on their backs, hold them
by the mane, and ride them about like horses,
and they would fawn upon him with their
tails." Bulls, bears, and boars are so furious
in this kind they kill one another: but espe-
cially cocks, 4 lions, and harts, which are so
fierce that you may hear them fight half a mile
off, saith 5 Turbervile, and many times kill
each other, or compel them to abandon the
rut, that they may remain masters in their
places; "and when one hath driven his co-
rival away, he raiseth his nose up into the air,
and looks aloft, as though he gave thanks to
nature," which affords him such great delight.
How birds are affected in this kind, appears
out of Aristotle, he will have them to sing ob
futuram venerem, for joy or in hope of their
venery which is to come.
"6/Eeriae primum volucres te Diva, tuumque
Significant initum, perculsae corda tua vi."
"Fishes pine away for love and wax lean," if
7 Gomesius's authority may be taken, and are
rampant too, some of them: so love tyran-
., 3 Georg. 2Propertius: ["This god rules
both the lands and the deep seas"]. 3 Dial, deorum.
Confide, mater, leonibus ipsis familiaris jam factus
sum, et ssepe conscendi eorum terga et apprehendi
jubas; equorum more insidens eos agito, et illi mihi
caudis adblandiuntur. 4 Leones prae amore furunt,
Plin., 1. 8, c. 16, Arist, 1. 6, hist, animal. 6Cap.
17, of his book of hunting. 6 Lucretius. 7 De sale,
lib. i, c. 21. Pisces ob amorem marcescunt, pal-
lescunt, etc.
IOO
ROBERT BURTON
niseth in dumb creatures. Yet this is natural
for one beast to dote upon another of the same
kind; but what strange fury is that, when a
beast shall dote upon a man? Saxo Gram-
maticus, lib. 10, Dan. hist., hath a story of a
bear that loved a woman, kept her in his den
a long time, and begot a son of her, out of
whose loins proceeded many northern kings:
this is the original belike of that common
tale of Valentine and Orson: ^Elian, Pliny,
Peter Gillius, are full of such relations. A
peacock in Lucadia loved a maid, and when
she died, the peacock pined. '(1A dolphin
loved a boy called Hernias, and when he died
the fish came on land, and so perished." The
like adds Gillius, lib. 10. cap. 22, out of Appion,
JEgypt. lib. 15: a dolphin at Puteoli loved a
child, would come often to him, let him get
on his back, and carry him about, "2and
when by sickness the child was taken away,
the dolphin died." — "3 Every book is full
(saith Busbequius, the emperor's orator with
the grand signior, not long since, Ep. 3. legal.
Turc.) and yields such instances, to believe
which I was always afraid, lest I should be
thought to give credit to fables, until I saw a
lynx which I had from Assyria, so affected
towards one of my men, that it cannot be
denied but that he was in love with him.
When my man was present, the beast would
use many notable enticements and pleasant
motions, and when he was going, hold him
back, and look after him when he was gone,
very sad in his absence, but most jocund when
he returned : and when my man went from me,
the beast expressed his love with continual
sickness, and after he had pined away some
few days, died." Such another story he hath
of a crane of Majorca, that loved a Spaniard,
that would walk any way with him, and in his
absence seek about for him, make a noise that
he might hear her, and knock at his door, " 4 and
when he took his last farewell, famished her-
self." Such pretty pranks can love play with
birds, fishes, beasts:
'* Coelestis aetheris, ponti, terrae claves habet Venus,
Solaque istorum omnium imperium obtinet."
1 Plin., 1. 10, c. 5, quumque, aborta tempestate,
periisset Hernias, in sicco piscis expiravit. 2 Post-
quam puer morbo abiit, et ipse delphinus periit.
8 Pleni sunt libri quibus feras in homines inflam-
matae fuerunt, in quibus ego quidem semper assen-
sum sustinui, veritus ne fabulosa crederem; donee
vidi lyncem quern habui ab Assyria sic affectum erga
unum de meis hominibus, etc. 4 Desiderium suum
testatus post inediam aliquot dierum interiit. 6 Gr-
and, if all be certain that is credibly reported,
with the spirits of the air, and devils of hell
themselves, who are as much enamoured and
dote (if I may use that word) as any other
creatures whatsoever. For if those stories be
true that are written of incubus and succubus,
of nymphs, lascivious fauns, satyrs, and those
heathen gods which were devils, those lascivi-
ous Telchines, of whom the Platonists tell so
many fables; or those familiar meetings in
our days, and company of witches and devils,
there is some probability for it. I know that
Biermannus, Wierus, lib. 3. cap. 19. et 24, and
some others stoutly deny it, they be mere
fantasies, all such relations of incubi, succubi,
lies and tales; but Austin, lib. 15. de civil. Dei,
doth acknowledge it: Erastus, de Lamiis,
Jacobus Sprenger and his colleagues, etc.,
Zanchius, cap. 16. lib. 4. de oper. Dei, Dan-
dinus, in Arist. de Anima, lib. 2. text. 29. com.
30, Bodin, lib. 2. cap. 7. and Paracelsus, a
great champion of this tenet amongst the rest,
which give sundry peculiar instances, by many
testimonies, proofs, and confessions evince it.
Hector Boethius, in his Scottish history, hath
three or four such examples, which Cardan
confirms out of him, lib. 16. cap. 43, of such as
have had familiar company many years with
them, and that in the habit of men and women.
Philostratus in his fourth book de vita Apol-
lonii, hath a memorable instance in this kind,
which I may not omit, of one Menippus Lycius,
a young man twenty-five years of age, that going
between Cenchreas and Corinth, met such a
phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman,
which taking him by the hand carried him
home to her house in the suburbs of Corinth,
and told him she was a Phoenician by birth,
and if he would tarry with her, "2 he should
hear her sing and play, and drink such wine
as never any drank, and no man should molest
him; but she being fair and lovely would live
and die with him that was fair and lovely to
behold." The young man, a philosopher,
otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate
his passions, though not this of love, tarried
with her awhile to his great content, and at
pheus hymno Ven.: ["Venus keeps the keys of the
air, earth, sea, and she alone possesses the command
of all."]
1 Qui haec in atrae bilis aut Imaginationis vim
referre conati sunt, nihil faciunt. [Those who have
attempted to ascribe these things to the power of
black bile or of imagination, do nothing.] 2 Can-
tantem audies et vinum bibes, quale antea nunquam
bibisti; te rivalis turbabit nullus; pulchra autem
pulchro contente vivam, et moriar.
THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY
101
last married her, to whose wedding amongst
other guests, came Apollonius, who, by some
probable conjectures, found her out to be a
serpent, a lamia, and that all her furniture was
like Tantalus' gold described by Homer, no
substance, but mere illusions. When she saw
herself descried, she wept, and desired Apol-
lonius to be silent, but he would not be moved,
and thereupon she, plate, house, and all that
was in it, vanished in an instant: "'many
thousands took notice of this fact, for it was
done in the midst of Greece." Sabine in his
Comment on the tenth of Ovid's Metamor-
phoses, at the tale of Orpheus, telleth us of a
gentleman of Bavaria, that for many months
together bewailed the loss of his dear wife;
at length the devil in her habit came and com-
forted him, and told him, because he was so im-
portunate for her, that she would come and live
with him again, on that condition he would be
new married, never swear and blaspheme as he
used formerly to do; for if he did, she should
be gone: "2 he vowed it, married, and lived
with her; she brought him children, and gov-
erned his house, but was still pale and sad, and
so continued, till one day falling out with him,
he fell a-swearing; she vanished thereupon, and
was never after seen. 3 This I have heard,"
saith Sabine, "from persons of good credit,
which told me that the Duke of Bavaria did
tell it for a certainty to the Duke of Saxony."
One more I will relate out of Florilegus, ad
annum 1058, an honest historian of our nation,
because he telleth it so confidently, as a thing
in those days talked of all over Europe: a
young gentleman of Rome, the same day that
he was married, after dinner with the bride
and his friends went a-walking into the fields,
and towards evening to the tennis-court, to
recreate himself; whilst he played, he put his
ring upon the finger of Venus statua, which
was thereby, made in brass; after he had
sufficiently played, and now made an end of
his sport, he came to fetch his ring, but Venus
had bowed her finger in, and he could not get
it off. Whereupon loth to make his company
tarry at present, there left it, intending to fetch
it the next day, or at some more convenient
time, went thence to supper, and so to bed. In
the night, when he should come to perform
those nuptial rites, Venus steps between him
1 Multi factum hoc cognovere, quod in media Grsecia
gestum sit. 2 Rem curans domesticam, ut ante
peperit aliquot liberos, semper tamen tristis et pallida.
8 Haec audivi a multis fide dignis qui asseverabant
ducem Bavariae eadem retulisse Duci Saxonice pro
veris.
and his wife (unseen or felt of her), and told
him that she was his wife, that he had be-
trothed himself unto her by that ring, which
he put upon her finger: she troubled him for
some following nights. He not knowing how
to help himself, made his moan to one Palum-
bus, a learned magician in those days, who
gave him a letter, and bid him at such a time
of the night, in such a cross-way, at the town's
end, where old Saturn would pass by with his
associates in procession, as commonly he did,
deliver that script with his own hands to Saturn
himself; the young man of a bold spirit, ac-
cordingly did it; and when the old fiend had
read it, he called Venus to him, who rode
before him, and commanded her to deliver
his ring, which forthwith she did, and so the
gentleman was freed. Many such stories I
find in several l authors to confirm this which
I have said ; as that more notable amongst the
rest, of Philinium and Machates in 2 Phlegon's
Tract, de rebus mirabilibus, and though many
be against it, yet I, for my part, will subscribe
to Lactantius, lib. 14. cap. 15 : " 3 God sent
angels to the tuition of men ; but whilest they
lived amongst us, that mischievous all-com-
mander of the earth, and hot in lust, enticed
them by little and little to this vice, and defiled
them with the company of women " : and
Anaxagoras, de Resurrect., "4Many of those
spiritual bodies, overcome by the love of maids
and lust, failed, of whom those were born we
call giants." Justin Martyr, Clemens Alexan-
drinus, Sulpitius Severus, Eusebius, etc., to this
sense make a twofold fall of angels, one from
the beginning of the world, another a little be-
fore the deluge, as Moses teacheth us. ...
Read more of this question in Plutarch, vit,
NumcE, Austin, de Civ. Dei, lib. 15, Wierus,
lib. 3 de prastig Dam., Giraldus Cambrensis,
itinerar. Camb. lib. i, Malleus malefic., quasi.
5, part, i, Jacobus Reussus, lib. 5, cap. 6,fol.
54, Godelman, lib. 2, cap. 4, Erastus, Valesius,
de sacra philo, cap. 40, John Nider, Fornicar.
lib. 5, cap. 9, Stroz., Cicogna, lib. 3, cap. 3,
Delrio, Lipsius, Bodine, damonol. lib. 2, cap. 7,
Peverius, in Gen. lib. 8, in 6 cap. ver. 2, King
James, etc.
1 Fabula Damarati et Aristonis in Herodoto, lib.
6, Erato. 2 Interpret. Mersio.
3 Deus angelos misit ad tutelam cultumque generis
humani ; sed illos cum hominibus commorantes
dominator ille terrae salacissimus paulatim ad vitia
pellexit et mulierum congressibus inquinavit.
4 Quidam ex illis capti sunt amore virginum, et
libidine victi defecerunt, ex quibus gigantes qui vocan-
tur nati sunt.
IO2
THOMAS HOBBES
THOMAS HOBBES (1588-1679)
LEVIATHAN
PART I. CHAPTER XIII
OF THE NATURAL CONDITION OF MANKIND AS
CONCERNING THEIR FELICITY AND MISERY
Nature hath made men so equal, in the
faculties of the body and mind; as that though
there be found one man sometimes manifestly
stronger in body, or of quicker mind than
another, yet when all is reckoned together,
the difference between man and man, is not so
considerable, as that one man can thereupon
claim to himself any benefit, to which another
may not pretend, as well as he. For as to
the strength of body, the weakest has strength
enough to kill the strongest, either by secret
machination, or by confederacy with others,
that are in the same danger with himself.
And as to the faculties of the mind, setting
aside the arts grounded upon words, and es-
pecially that skill of proceeding upon general
and infallible rules, called science; whfch very
few have, and but in few things; as being not
a native faculty, born with us; nor attained,
as prudence, while we look after somewhat
else, I find yet a greater equality amongst
men than that of strength. For prudence
is but experience; which equal time, equally
bestows on all men, in those things they equally
apply themselves unto. That which may
perhaps make such equality incredible, is but
a vain conceit of one's own wisdom, which
almost all men think they have in a greater
degree than the vulgar; that is, than all men
but themselves, and a few others, whom by
fame or for concurring with themselves, they
approve. For such is the nature of men, that
howsoever they may acknowledge many others
to be more witty, or more eloquent, or more
learned; yet they will hardly believe there be
many so wise as themselves; for they see their
own wit at hand, and other men's at a distance.
But this proveth rather that men are in that
point equal, than unequal. For there is not
ordinarily a greater sign of the equal distribu-
tion of anything, than that every man is
contented with his share.
From this equality of ability, ariseth equality
of hope in the attaining of our ends. And
therefore if any two men desire the same thing,
which nevertheless they cannot both enjoy,
they become enemies; and in the way to their
end- which is principally their own conserva-
tion, and sometimes their delectation only,
endeavour to destroy or subdue one another.
And from hence it comes to pass, that where
an invader hath no more to fear than another
man's single power; if one plant, sow, build, or
possess a convenient seat, others may proba-
bly be expected to come prepared with forces
united, to dispossess and deprive him, not only
of the fruit of his labour, but also of his life or
liberty. And the invader again is in the like
danger of another.
And from this diffidence of one another,
there is no way for any man to secure himself,
so reasonable, as anticipation; that is, by
force, or wiles, to master the persons of all men
he can, so long, till he see no other power great
enough to endanger him : and this is no more
than his own conservation requireth, and is
generally allowed. Also because there be
some, that taking pleasure in contemplating
their own power in the acts of conquest, which
they pursue farther than their security requires;
if others, that otherwise would be glad to be at
ease within modest bounds, should not by in-
vasion increase their power, they would not be
able, long time, by standing only on their
defence, to subsist. And by consequence, such
augmentation of dominion over men being nec-
essary to a man's conservation, it ought to be
allowed him.
Again, men have no pleasure, but on the con-
trary a great deal of grief, in keeping company,
where there is no power able to overawe them
all. For every man looketh that his companion
should value him, at the same rate he sets upon
himself : and upon all signs of contempt, or
undervaluing, naturally endeavours, as far as
he dares, (which amongst them that have no
common power to keep them in quiet, is far
enough to make them destroy each other,)
to extort a greater value from his contemners,
by damage; and from others, by the example.
So that in the nature of man, we find three
principal causes of quarrel. First, competi-
tion; secondly, diffidence; thirdly, glory.
The first maketh men invade for gain; the
second, for safety; and the third, for reputation.
The first use violence, to make themselves
masters of other men's persons, wives, children,
and cattle; the second, to defend them; the
third, for trifles, as a word, a smile, a different
opinion, and any other sign of undervalue,
either direct in their persons, or by reflection
in their kindred, their friends, their nation,
their profession, or their name.
LEVIATHAN
103
Hereby it is manifest, that during the time
men live without a common power to keep them
all in awe, they are in that condition which is
called war; and such a war, as is of every man,
against every man. For "war" consist eth not
in battle only, or the act of fighting ; but in a
tract of time, wherein the will to contend by
battle is sufficiently known: and therefore the
notion of "time" is to be considered in the
nature of war, as it is in the nature of weather.
For as the nature of foul weather lieth not in a
shower or two of rain, but in an inclination
thereto of many days together; so the nature
of war consisteth not in actual fighting, but in
the known disposition thereto during all the
time there is no assurance to the contrary.
All other time is "peace."
Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time
of war, where every man is enemy to every man,
the same is consequent to the time wherein
men live without other security than what their
own strength and their own invention shall
furnish them withal. In such condition there
is no place for industry, because the fruit thereof
is uncertain, and consequently no culture of
the earth; no navigation, nor use of the com-
modities that may be imported by sea; no
commodious building; no instruments of
moving and removing such things as require
much force; no knowledge of the face of the
earth; no account of time ; no arts; no letters;
no society; and, which is worst of all, continual
fear and danger of violent death; and the life
of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.
It may seem strange to some man, that has
not well weighed these things, that Nature
should thus dissociate, and render men apt to
invade and destroy one another; and he may
therefore, not trusting to this inference, made
from the passions, desire perhaps to have the
same confirmed by experience. Let him there-
fore consider with himself, when taking a
journey, he arms himself, and seeks to go well
accompanied; when going to sleep, he locks
his doors; when even in his house, he locks his
chests; and this when he knows there be laws,
and public officers, armed, to revenge all in-
juries shall be done him; what opinion he has
of his fellow -subjects, when he rides armed;
of his fellow-citizens, when he locks his doors;
and of his children and servants, when he locks
his chests. Does he not there as much accuse
mankind by his actions as I do by my words?
But neither of us accuse man's nature in it.
The desires and other passions -of man are in
themselves no sin. No more are the actions
that proceed from those passions, till they know
a law that forbids them ; which till laws be made,
they cannot know, nor can any law be made till
they have agreed upon the person that shall
make it.
It may peradventure be thought there was
never such a time nor condition of war as this;
and I believe it was never generally so, over
all the world, but there are many places where
they live so now. For the savage people in
many places of America, except the government
of small families, the concord whereof depend-
eth on natural lust, have no government at all,
and live at this day in that brutish manner, as
I said before. Howsoever, it may be perceived
what manner of life there would be, where there
were no common power to fear, by the manner
of life which men that have formerly lived under
a peaceful government, use to degenerate into
in a civil war.
But though there had never been any time,
wherein particular men were in a condition of
war one against another; yet in all times,
kings, and persons of sovereign authority,
because of their independency, are in continual
jealousies, and in the state and posture of gladia-
tors; having their weapons pointing, and their
eyes fixed on one another; that is, their forts,
garrisons, and guns upon the frontiers of their
kingdoms; and continual spies upon their
neighbours; which is a posture of war. But be-
cause they uphold thereby the industry of their
subjects; there does not follow from it that
misery which accompanies the liberty of par-
ticular men.
To this war of every man, against every man,
this also is consequent; that nothing can be
unjust. The notions of right and wrong,
justice and injustice, have there no place.
Where there is no common power, there is no
law: where no law, no injustice. Force and
fraud, are in war the two cardinal virtues.
Justice and injustice are none of the faculties
neither of the body nor mind. If they were,
they might be in a man that were alone in
the world, as well as his senses, and passions.
They are qualities that relate to men in society,
not in solitude. It is consequent also to the
same condition, that there be no propriety,
no dominion, no "mine" and "thine" distinct;
but only that to be every man's, that he can get;
and for so long, as he can keep it. And thus
much for the ill condition, which man by mere
nature is actually placed in ; though with a pos-
sibility to come out of it, consisting partly in
the passions, partly in his reason.
IO4
IZAAK WALTON
The passions that incline men to peace, are
fear of death; desire of such things as are
necessary to commodious living; and a hope
by their industry to obtain them. And reason
suggesteth convenient articles of peace, upon
which men may be drawn to agreement. These
articles are they which otherwise are called the
Laws of Nature: whereof I shall speak more
particularly, in the two following chapters.
IZAAK WALTON (1593-1683)
THE COMPLETE ANGLER
FROM THE FIRST DAY
A CONFERENCE BETWIXT AN ANGLER, A FAL-
CONER, AND A HUNTER, EACH COMMENDING
HIS RECREATION
CHAPTER I. PlSCATOR,1 VENATOR,2 AuCEPS 8
Piscator. You are well overtaken, Gentle-
men ! A good morning to you both ! I have
stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill to over-
take you, hoping your business may occasion
you towards Ware, whither I am going this
fine fresh May morning.
Venator. Sir, I, for my part, shall almost
answer your hopes; for my purpose is to
drink my morning's draught at the Thatched
House in Hoddesden; and I think not to rest
till I come thither, where I have appointed a
friend or two to meet me : but for this gentleman
that you see with me, I know not how far he
intends his journey; he came so lately into my
company, that I have scarce had time to ask
him the question.
Auceps. Sir, I shall by your favour bear you
company as far as Theobalds, and there leave
you; for then I turn up to a friend's house,
who mews a Hawk for me, which I now long to
see.
Venator. Sir, we are all so happy as to have
a fine, fresh, cool morning; and I hope we shall
each be the happier in the others' company.
And, Gentlemen, that I may not lose yours,
I shall either abate or amend my pace to enjoy
it, knowing that, as the Italians say, "Good
company in a journey makes the way to seem
the shorter."
Auceps. It may do, Sir, with the help of
a good discourse, which, methinks, we may
promise from you, that both look and speak
so cheerfully: and for my part, I promise you,
as an invitation to it, that I will be as free and
open hearted as discretion will allow me to be
with strangers.
Venator. And, Sir, I promise the like.
Piscator. I am right glad to hear your an-
swers; and, in confidence you speak the truth,
I shall put on a boldness to ask you, Sir, whether
business or pleasure caused you to be so early
up, and walk so fast? for this other gentleman
hath declared he is going to see a hawk, that
a friend mews for him.
Venator. Sir, mine is a mixture of both, a
little business and more pleasure; for I intend
this day to do all my business, and then bestow
another day or two in hunting the Otter, which
a friend, that I go to meet, tells me is much
pleasanter than any other chase whatsoever:
howsoever, I mean to try it; for to-morrow
morning we shall meet a pack of Otter-dogs of
noble Mr. Sadler's, upon Amwell Hill, who will
be there so early, that they intend to prevent 1
the sunrising.
Piscator. Sir, my fortune has answered my
desires, and my purpose is to bestow a day or
two in helping to destroy some of those villain-
ous vermin : for I hate them perfectly, because
they love fish so well, or rather, because they
destroy so much ; indeed so much, that, in my
judgment all men that keep Otter-dogs ought
to have pensions from the King, to encourage
them to destroy the very breed of those base
Otters, they do so much mischief.
Venator. But what say you to the Foxes of the
Nation? would not you as willingly have them
destroyed? for doubtless they do as much
mischief as Otters do.
Piscator. Oh, Sir, if they do, it is not so
much to me and my fraternity, as those base
vermin the Otters do.
Auceps. Why, Sir, I pray, of what fraternity
are you, that you are so angry with the poor
Otters?
Piscator. I am, Sir, a Brother of the Angle,
and therefore an enemy to the Otter: for you
are to note, that we Anglers all love one another,
and therefore do I hate the Otter both for my
own, and their sakes who are of my brotherhood.
Venator. And I am a lover of Hounds: I
have followed many a pack of dogs many a
mile, and heard many merry Huntsmen make
sport and scoff at Anglers.
Aucfps. And I profess myself a Falconer,
and have heard many grave, serious men pity
them, it is such a heavy, contemptible, dull
recreation.
angler
2 hunter
3 falconer
1 anticipate
THE COMPLETE ANGLER
105
Piscator. You know, Gentlemen, it is an
easy thing to scoff at any art or recreation;
a little wit mixed with ill-nature, confidence,
and malice will do it; but though they often
venture boldly, yet they are often caught, even
in their own trap, according to that of Lucian,
the father of the family of Scoffers: —
Lucian, well skill'd in scoffing, this hath writ,
Friend, that's your folly, which you think your wit :
This you vent oft, void both of wit and fear,
Meaning another, when yourself you jeer.
If to this you add what Solomon says of
Scoffers, that they are an abomination to man-
kind, let him that thinks fit scoff on, and be a
Scoffer still; but I account them enemies to
me and all that love Virtue and Angling.
And for you that have heard many grave,
serious men pity Anglers; let me tell you, Sir,
there be many men that are by others taken
to be serious and grave men, whom we contemn
and pity. Men that are taken to be grave,
because nature hath made them of a sour com-
plexion; money-getting men, men that spend
all their time, first in getting, and next, in anx-
ious care to keep it; men that are condemned
to be rich, and then always busy or discon-
tented: for these poor rich men, we Anglers
pity them perfectly, and stand in no need to
borrow their thoughts to think ourselves so
happy. No, no, Sir, we enjoy a contentedness
above the reach of such dispositions, and as
the learned and ingenuous Montaigne says,
like himself, freely, "When my Cat and I
entertain each other with mutual apish tricks,
as playing with a garter, who knows but that
I make my Cat more sport than she makes me ?
Shall I conclude her to be simple, that has her
time to begin or refuse, to play as freely as I
myself have? Nay, who knows but that it is
a defect of my not understanding her language,
for doubtless Cats talk and reason with one
another, that we agree no better: and who
knows but that she pities me for being no wiser
than to play with her, and laughs and censures
my folly, for making sport for her, when we
two play together?"
Thus freely speaks Montaigne concerning
Cats; and I hope I may take as great a liberty
to blame any man, and laugh at him too, let
him be never so grave, that hath not heard what
Anglers can say in the justification *of their
Art and Recreation; which I may again tell
you, is so full of pleasure, that we need not
borrow their thoughts, to think ourselves happy.
Venator. Sir, you have almost amazed me;
for though I am no Scoffer, yet I have, I pray
let me speak it without offence, always looked
upon Anglers, as more patient, and more
simple men, than I fear I shall find you to be.
Piscator. Sir, I hope you will not judge my
earnestness to be impatience : and for my sim-
plicity, if by that you mean a harmlessness,
or that simplicity which was usually found in
the primitive Christians, who were, as most
Anglers are, quiet men, and followers of peace;
men that were so simply wise, as not to sell their
consciences to buy riches, and with them vexa-
tion and a fear to die; if you mean such simple
men as lived in those times when there were
fewer lawyers; when men might have had a
lordship safely conveyed to them in a piece
of parchment no bigger than your hand, though
several sheets will not do it safely in this wiser
age; I say, Sir, if you take us Anglers to be
such simple men as I have spoke of, then myself
and those of my profession will be glad to be
so understood: But if by simplicity you meant
to express a general defect in those that profess
and practise the excellent Art of Angling, I
hope in time to disabuse you, and make the
contrary appear so evidently, that if you will
but have patience to hear me, I shall remove
all the anticipations that discourse, or time,
or prejudice, have possessed you with against
that laudable and ancient Art; for I know it
is worthy the knowledge and practice of a wise
man.
But, Gentlemen, though I be able to do this,
I am not so unmannerly as to engross all the
discourse to myself; and therefore, you two
having declared yourselves, the one to be a
lover of Hawks, the other of Hounds, I shall
. be most glad to hear what you can say in the
commendation of that recreation which each
of you love and practise ; and having heard what
you can say, I shall be glad to exercise your
attention with what I can say concerning my
own recreation and Art of Angling, and by
this means we shall make the way to seem the
shorter: and if you like my motion, I would
have Mr. Falconer to begin.
Auceps. Your motion is consented to with
all my heart; and to testify it, I will begin as
you have desired me.
And first for the Element that I use to trade
in, which rs the Air, an Element of more worth
than weight, an element that doubtless exceeds
both the Earth and Water; for though I some-
times deal in both, yet the air is most properly
mine, I and my Hawks use that most, and it
yields us most recreation. It stops not the
io6
IZAAK WALTON
high soaring of my noble generous Falcon ; in
it she ascends to such a height, as the dull eyes
of beasts and fish are not able to reach to ; their
bodies are too gross for such high elevations;
in the Air my troops of Hawks soar up on high,
and when they &re lost in the sight of men, then
they attend upon and converse with the Gods;
therefore I think my Eagle is so justly styled
Jove's servant in ordinary: and that very
Falcon, that I am now going to see, deserves
no meaner a title, for she usually in her flight
endangers herself, like the son of Daedalus,
to have her wings scorched by the sun's heat,
she flies so near it, but her mettle makes her
careless of danger ; for she then heeds nothing,
but makes her nimble pinions cut the fluid air,
and so makes her highway over the steepest
mountains and deepest rivers, and in her
glorious career looks with contempt upon those
high steeples and magnificent palaces which
we adore and wonder at; from which height,
I can make her to descend by a word from my
mouth, which she both knows and obeys, to
accept of meat from my hand, to own me for
her Master, to go home with me, and be willing
the next day to afford me the like recreation.
And more; this element of air which I pro-
fess to trade in, the worth of it is such, and it is
of such necessity, that no creature whatsoever
— not only those numerous creatures that feed
on the face of the earth, but those various
creatures that have their dwelling within the
waters, every creature that hath life in its nos-
trils, stands in need of niy element. The waters
cannot preserve the Fish without air, witness
the not breaking of ice in an extreme frost;
the reason is, for that if the inspiring and
expiring organ of any animal be stopped, it
suddenly yields to nature, and dies. Thus
necessary is air, to the existence both of Fish
and Beasts, nay, even to Man himself; that
air, or breath of life, with which God at first
inspired mankind, he, if he wants it, dies
presently, becomes a sad object to all that
loved and beheld him, and in an instant turns
to putrefaction.
Nay more; the very birds of the air, those
that be not Hawks, are both so many and so
useful and pleasant to mankind, that I must
not let them pass without some observations.
They both feed and refresh him; feed him
with their choice bodies, and refresh him with
their heavenly voices : — I will not undertake
to mention the several kinds of Fowl by which
this is done : and his curious palate pleased by
day, and which with their very excrements
afford him a soft lodging at night : — These I
will pass by, but not those little nimble musi-
cians of the air, that warble forth their curious
ditties with which nature hath furnished them
to the shame of art.
As first the Lark, when she means to rejoice,
to cheer herself and those that hear her; she
then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends
higher into the air, and having ended her
heavenly employment, grows then mute, and
sad, to think she must descend to the dull
earth, which she would not touch, but for
necessity.
How do the Blackbird and Thrassel with their
melodious voices bid welcome to the cheerful
Spring, and in their fixed months warble forth
such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to !
Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in
their particular seasons, as namely the Lave-
rock, the Tit-lark, the little Linnet, and the
honest Robin that loves mankind both alive
and dead.
But the Nightingale, another of my airy crea-
tures, breathes such sweet loud music out of
her little instrumental throat, that it might
make mankind to think miracles are not ceased.
He that at midnight, when the very labourer
sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very
often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the
natural rising and falling, the doubling and
redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted
above earth, and say, " Lord, what music hast
thou provided for the Saints in Heaven, when
thou affordest bad men such music on Earth ! "
And this makes me the less to wonder at the
many Aviaries in Italy, or at the great charge
of Varro's Aviary, the ruins of which are yet
to be seen in Rome, and is still so famous there,
that it is reckoned for one of those notables
which men of. foreign nations either record,
or lay up in their memories when they return
from travel.
This for the birds of pleasure, of which very
much more might be said. My next shall be
of birds of political use. I think it is hot to
be doubted that Swallows have been taught
to carry letters between two armies; but 'tis
certain that when the Turks besieged Malta
or Rhodes, I now remember not which it was,
Pigeons are then related to carry and recarry
letters: and Mr. G. Sandys, in his "Travels,"
relates it to be done betwixt Aleppo and Baby-
lon. But if that be disbelieved, it is not to be
doubted that the Dove was sent out of the ark
by Noah, to give him notice of land, when to him
all appeared to be sea; and the Dove proved
THE COMPLETE ANGLER
107
a faithful and comfortable messenger. And
for the sacrifices of the law, a pair of Turtle-
doves, or young Pigeons, were as well accepted
as costly Bulls and Rams; and when God
would feed the Prophet Elijah, after a kind of
miraculous manner, he did it by Ravens, who
brought him meat morning and evening.
Lastly, the Holy Ghost, when he descended
visibly upon our Saviour, did it by assuming
the shape of a Dove. And, to conclude this
part of my discourse, pray remember these
wonders were done by birds of the air, the
element in which they, and I, take so much
pleasure.
There is also a little contemptible winged
creature, an inhabitant of my aerial element,
namely, the laborious Bee, of whose prudence,
policy, and regular government of their own
commonwealth, I might say much, as also of
their several kinds, and how useful their honey
and wax are both for meat and medicines to
mankind ; but I will leave them to their sweet
labour, without the least disturbance, believing
them to be all very busy at this very time
amongst the herbs and flowers that we see
nature puts forth this May morning.
And now to return to my Hawks, from whom
I have made too long a digression. You are
to note, that they are usually distinguished into
two kinds; namely, the long-winged, and the
short -winged Hawk: of the first kind, there be
chiefly in use amongst us in this nation,
The Gerfalcon and Jerkin,
The Falcon and Tassel-gentle,
The Laner and Laneret,
The Bockerel and Bockeret,
The Saker and Sacaret,
The Merlin and Jack Merlin,
The Hobby and Jack:
There is the Stelletto of Spain,
The Blood-red Rook from Turkey,
The Waskite from Virginia:
And there is of short-winged Hawks,
The Eagle and Iron,
The Goshawk and Tarcel,
The Sparhawk and Musket,
The French Pye of two sorts:
These are reckoned Hawks of note and worth ;
but we have also of an inferior rank,
The Stanyel, the Ringtail,
The Raven, the Buzzard,
The Forked Kite, the Bald Buzzard,
The Hen-driver, and others that I forbear
to name.
Gentlemen, if I should enlarge my discourse
to the observation of the Eires, the Brancher,
the Ramish Hawk, the Haggard, and the two
sorts of Lentners, and then treat of their several
Ayries, their Mewings, rare order of casting,
and the renovation of their feathers: their
reclaiming, dieting, and then come to their
rare stories of practice ; I say, if I should enter
into these, and many other observations that
I could make, it would be much, very much
pleasure to me : but lest I should break the rules
of civility with you, by taking up more than the
proportion of time allotted to me, I will here
break off, and entreat you, Mr. Venator, to
say what you are able in the commendation of
Hunting, to which you are so much affected;
and if time will serve, I will beg your favour
for a further enlargement of some of those
several heads of which I have spoken. But
no more at present.
Venator. Well, Sir, and I will now take my
turn, and will first begin with a commendation
of the Earth, as you have done most excellently
of the Air; the Earth being that element upon
which I drive my pleasant, wholesome, hungry
trade. The Earth is a solid, settled element;
an element most universally beneficial both to
man and beast; to men who have their several
recreations upon it as horse-races, hunting,
sweet smells, pleasant walks: the earth feeds
man, and all those several beasts that both
feed him, and afford him recreation. What
pleasure doth man take in hunting the stately
Stag, the generous Buck, the wild Boar, the
cunning Otter, the crafty Fox, and the fearful
Hare ! And if I may descend to a lower game,
what pleasure is it sometimes with gins to betray
the very vermin of the earth; as namely, the
Fichat, the Fulimart, the Ferret, the Polecat,
the Mouldwarp, and the like creatures, that
live upon the face, and within the bowels of
the Earth. How doth the Earth bring forth
herbs, flowers, and fruits, both for physic and
the pleasure of mankind! and above all, to
me at least, the fruitful vine, of which when
I drink moderately, it clears my brain, cheers
my heart, and sharpens my wit. How could
Cleopatra have feasted Mark Antony with
eight wild Boars roasted whole at one supper,
and other meat suitable, if the earth had not
been a bountiful mother? But to pass by the
mighty Elephant, which the Earth breeds and
nourisheth, and descend to the least of crea-
tures, how doth the earth afford us a doctrinal
example in the little Pismire, who in the sum-
mer provides and lays up her winter provision,
io8
IZAAK WALTON
and teaches man to do the like! The earth
feeds and carries those horses that carry us.
If I would be prodigal of my time and your
patience, what might not I say in commenda-
tions of the earth? That puts limits to the
proud and raging sea, and by that means
preserves both man and beast, that it destroys
them not, as we see it daily doth those that
venture upon the sea, and are there ship-
wrecked, drowned, and left to feed Haddocks;
when we that are so wise as to keep ourselves
on earth, walk, and talk, and live, and eat,
and drink, and go a-hunting : of which recrea-
tion I will say a little and then leave Mr. Pis-
cator to the commendation of Angling.
Hunting is a game for princes and noble
persons; it hath been highly prized in all ages;
it was one of the qualifications that Xenophon
bestowed on his Cyrus, that he was a hunter of
wild beasts. Hunting trains up the younger
nobility to the use of manly exercises in their
riper age. What more manly exercise than
hunting the Wild Boar, the Stag, the Buck,
the Fox, or the Hare? How doth it preserve
health, and increase strength and activity!
And for the dogs that we use, who can com-
mend their excellency to that height which they
deserve? How perfect is the hound at smell-
ing, who never leaves or forsakes his first scent
but follows it through so many changes and
varieties of other scents, even over, and in, the
water, and into the earth ! What music doth
a pack of dogs then make to any man, whose
heart and ears are so happy as to be set to the
tune of such instruments! How will a right
Greyhound fix his eye on the best Buck in a
herd, single him out, and follow him, and him
only through a whole herd of rascal game, and
still know and then kill him ! For my hounds,
I know the language of them, and they know
the language and meaning of one another, as
perfectly as we know the voices of those with
whom we discourse daily.
I might enlarge myself in the commendation
of Hunting, and of the noble Hound especially,
as also of the docibleness of dogs in general;
and I might make many observations of land-
creatures, that for composition, order, figure,
and constitution, approach nearest to the com-
pleteness and understanding of man ; especially
of those creatures, which Moses in the Law
permitted to the Jews, which have cloven
hoofs, and chew the cud; which I shall forbear
to name, because I will not be so uncivil to
Mr. Piscator, as not to allow him a time for
the commendation of Angling, which he calls
an art ; but doubtless it is an easy one : and,
Mr. Auceps, I doubt we shall hear a watery
discourse of it, but I hope it will not be a long
one.
Auceps. And I hope so too, though I fear
it will.
Piscator. Gentlemen, let not prejudice pre-
possess you. I confess my discourse is like
to prove suitable to my recreation, calm and
quiet; we seldom take the name of God into
our mouths, but it is either to praise him, or
pray to him : if others use it vainly in the midst
of their recreations, so vainly as if they meant
to conjure, I must tell you, it is neither our
fault nor our custom; we protest against it.
But, pray remember, I accuse nobody; for
as I would not make a "watery discourse,"
so I would not put too much vinegar into it;
nor would I raise the reputatipn of my own
art, by the diminution or ruin of another's.
And so much for the prologue to what I mean
to say.
And now for the Water, the element that I
trade in. The water is the eldest daughter of
the creation, the element upon which the Spirit
of God did first move, the element which God
commanded to bring forth living creatures
abundantly; and without which, those that
inhabit the land, even all creatures that have
breath in their nostrils, must suddenly return
to putrefaction. Moses, the great lawgiver
and chief philosopher, skilled in all the learning
of the Egyptians, who was called the friend
of God, and knew the mind of the Almighty,
names this element the first in the creation : this
is the element upon which the Spirit of God
did first move, and is the chief ingredient in
the creation: many philosophers have made
it to comprehend all the other elements, and
most allow it the chiefest in the mixtion of all
living creatures.
There be that profess to believe that all
bodies are made of water, and may be reduced
back again to water only: they endeavour to
demonstrate it thus:
Take a willow, or any like speedy-growing
plant, newly rooted in a box or barrel full of
earth, weigh them all together exactly when
the tree begins to grow, and then weigh all
together after the tree is increased from its
first rooting, to weigh a hundred pound weight
more than when it was first rooted and weighed;
and you shall find this augment of the tree to
be without the diminution of one drachm
weight of the earth. Hence they infer this
increase of wood to be from water of rain, or
THE COMPLETE ANGLER
1 09
from dew, and not to be from any other ele-
ment; and they affirm, they can reduce this
wood back again to water; and they affirm
also, the same may be done in any animal or
vegetable. And this I take to be a fair testi-
mony of the excellency of my element of water.
The water is more productive than the earth.
Nay, the earth hath no fruitfulness without
showers or dews ; for all the herbs, and flowers,
and fruit, are produced and thrive by the water;
and the very minerals are fed by streams that
run under ground, whose natural course carries
them to the tops of many high mountains, as
we see by several springs breaking forth on the
tops of the highest hills; and this is also wit-
nessed by the daily trial and testimony of
several miners.
Nay, the increase of those creatures that are
bred and fed in the water are not only more
and more miraculous, but more advantageous
to man, not only for the lengthening of his
life, but for the preventing of sickness; for it
is observed by the most learned physicians,
that the casting off of Lent, and other fish days,
which hath not only given the lie to so many
learned, pious, wise founders of colleges, for
which we should be ashamed, hath doubtless
been the chief cause of those many putrid,
shaking intermitting agues, unto which this
nation of ours is now more subject, than those
wiser countries that feed on herbs, salads,
and plenty of fish; of which it is observed in
story, that the greatest part of the world now
do. And it may be fit to remember that Moses
appointed fish to be the chief diet for the best
commonwealth that ever yet was.
And it is observable, not only that there are
fish, as, namely, the Whale, three times as big
as the mighty Elephant, that is so fierce in battle,
but that the mightiest feasts have been of fish.
The Romans, in the height of their glory, have
made fish the mistress of all their entertain-
ments; they have had music to usher in their
Sturgeons, Lampreys, and Mullets, which
they would purchase at rates rather to be
wondered at than believed. He that shall
view the writings of Macrobius, or Varro, may
be confirmed and informed of this, and of the
incredible value of their fish and fish-ponds.
But, Gentlemen, I have almost lost myself,
which I confess I may easily do in this philo-
sophical discourse; I met with most of it
very lately, and I hope, happily, in a conference
with a most learned physician, Dr. Wharton,
a dear friend, that loves both me and my art
of Angling. But, however, I will wade no
deeper into these mysterious arguments, but
pass to such observations as I can manage
with more pleasure, and less fear of running
into error. But I must not yet forsake the
waters, by whose help we have so many known
advantages.
And first, to pass by the miraculous cures of
our known baths, how advantageous is the sea
for our daily traffic, without which we could not
now subsist. How does it not only furnish us
with food and physic for the bodies, but with
such observations for the mind as ingenious
persons would not want !
How ignorant had we been of the beauty of
Florence, of the monuments, urns, and rarities
that yet remain in and near unto Old and New
Rome, so many as it is said will take up a year's
time to view, and afford to each of them but a
convenient consideration ! And therefore it is
not to be wondered at that so learned and de-
vout a father as St. Jerome, after his wish to
have seen Christ in the flesh, and to have heard
St. Paul preach, makes his third wish, to have
seen Rome in her glory: and that glory is not
yet all lost, for what pleasure is it to see the
monuments of Livy, the choicest of the his-
torians; of Tully, the best of orators; and to
see the bay-trees that now grow out of the very
tomb of Virgil ! These, to any that love learn-
ing, must be pleasing. But what pleasure is it
to a devout Christian to see there the humble
house in which St. Paul was content to dwell,
and to view the many rich statues that are made
in honour of his memory! Nay, to see the
very place in which St. Peter and he lie buried
together: These are in and near to Rome.
And how much more doth it please the pious
curiosity of a Christian to see that place on
which the blessed Saviour of the world was
pleased to humble himself, and to take our
nature upon him, and to converse with men:
to see Mount Sion, Jerusalem, and the very
sepulchre of our Lord Jesus! How may it
beget and heighten the zeal of a Christian,
to see the devotions that are daily paid to him
at that place! Gentlemen, lest I forget my-
self, I will stop here, and remember you, that
but for my element of water, the inhabitants
of this poor island must remain ignorant that
such things ever were, or that any of them
have yet a being.
Gentlemen, I might both enlarge and lose
myself in suchlike arguments. I might tell
you that Almighty God is said to have spoken
to a fish, but never to a beast; that he hath
made a whale a ship, to carry and set his
no
IZAAK WALTON
prophet, Jonah, safe on the appointed shore.
Of these I might speak, but I must in manners
break off, for I see Theobald's House. I cry
you mercy for being so long, and thank you
for your patience.
Auceps. Sir, my pardon is easily granted
you: I except against nothing that you have
said : nevertheless, I must part with you at this
park wall, for which I am very sorry; but I
assure you, Mr. Piscator, I now part with you
full of good thoughts, not only of yourself but
your recreation. And so, Gentlemen, God
keep you both.
Piscator. Well now, Mr. Venator, you shall
neither want time nor my attention to hear you
enlarge your discourse concerning hunting.
Venator. Not I, Sir: I remember you said
that Angling itself was of great antiquity, and
a perfect art, and an art not easily attained to;
and you have so won upon me in your former
discourse, that I am very desirous to hear what
you can say further concerning those particu-
lars.
Piscator. Sir, I did say so: and I doubt not
but if you and I did converse together but a
few hours, to leave you possessed with the
same high and happy thoughts that now pos-
sess me of it; not only of the antiquity of
Angling, but that it deserves commendations;
and that it is an art, and an art worthy the
knowledge and practice of a wise man.
Venator. Pray, Sir, speak of them what you
think fit, for we have yet five miles to the
Thatched House; during which walk, I dare
promise you, my patience and diligent atten-
tion shall not be wanting. And if you shall
make that to appear which you have under-
taken, first, that it is an art, and an art worth
the learning, I shall beg that I may attend you
a day or two a-fishing, and that I may become
your scholar, and be instructed in the art itself
which you so much magnify.
Piscator. O, Sir, doubt not but that Angling
is an art; is it not an art to deceive a Trout
with an artificial fly? a Trout! that is more
sharp-sighted than any Hawk you have named,
and more watchful and timorous than your
high -mettled Merlin is bold? and yet I doubt
not to catch a brace or two to-morrow for a
friend's breakfast: doubt not, therefore, Sir,
but that Angling is an art, and an art worth
your learning. The question is rather, whether
you be capable of learning it? for Angling is
somewhat like poetry, men are to be born so:
I mean, with inclinations to it, though both
may be heightened by discourse and practice:
but he that hopes to be a good angler, must not
only bring an inquiring, searching, observing
wit, but he must bring a large measure of
hope and patience, and a love and propensity
to the art itself; but having once got and prac-
tised it, then doubt not but Angling will prove
to be so pleasant, that it will prove to be, like
virtue, a reward to itself.
Venator. Sir, I am now become so full of
expectation, that I long much to have you pro-
ceed, and in the order that you propose.
Piscator. Then first, for the antiquity of
Angling, of which I shall not say much, but
only this; some say it is as ancient as Deuca-
lion's flood: others, that Belus, who was the
first inventor of godly and virtuous recreations,
was the first inventor of Angling: and some
others say, for former times have had their
disquisitions about the antiquity of it, that
Seth, one of the sons of Adam, taught it to his
sons, and that by them it was derived to pos-
terity: others say that he left it engraven on
those pillars which he erected, and trusted to
preserve the knowledge of the mathematics,
music, and the rest of that precious knowledge,
and those useful arts, which by God's appoint-
ment or allowance, and his noble industry,
were thereby preserved from perishing in
Noah's flood.
These, Sir, have been the opinions of several
men, that have possibly endeavoured to make
Angling more ancient than is needful, or may
well be warranted; but for my part, I shall
content myself in telling you that Angling is
much more ancient than the incarnation of
our Saviour; for in the Prophet Amos mention
is made of fish-hooks; and in the Book of Job,
which was long before the days of Amos, for
that book is said to have been written by
Moses, mention is made also of fish-hooks,
which must imply anglers in those times.
But, my worthy friend, as I would rather
prove myself a gentleman, by being learned
and humble, valiant and inoffensive, virtuous
and communicable, than by any fond ostenta-
tion of riches, or, wanting those virtues myself,
boast that these were in my ancestors; and yet
I grant, that where a noble and ancient descent
and such merit meet in any man, it is a double
dignification of that person ; so if this antiquity
of Angling, which for my part I have not
forced, shall, like an ancient family, be either
an honour or an ornament to this virtuous art
which I profess to love and practise, I shall be
the gladder that I made an accidental mention
of the antiquity of it, of which I shall say no
SIR THOMAS BROWNE
in
more, but proceed to that just commendation
which I think it deserves. .
SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-1682)
FROM RELIGIO MEDICI
CHARITY
I. Now for that other virtue of charity, with-
out which faith is a mere notion, and of no ex-
istence, I have ever endeavoured to nourish
the merciful disposition and humane inclina-
tion I borrowed from my parents, and regulate
it to the written and prescribed laws of charity :
and if I hold the true anatomy of myself, I am
delineated and naturally framed to such a piece
of virtue; for I am of a constitution so gen-
eral, that it consorts and sympathiseth with
all things: I have no antipathy, or rather idio-
syncrasy, in diet, humour, air, anything. I
wonder not at the French for their dishes of
frogs, snails, and toadstools; nor at the Jews
for locusts and grasshoppers; but being
amongst them, make them my common viands,
and I find they agree with my stomach as well
as theirs. I could digest a salad gathered, in a
churchyard, as well as in a garden. I cannot
start at the presence of a serpent, scorpion,
lizard, or salamander: at the sight of a toad or
viper, I find in me no desire to take up a stone
to destroy them. I feel not in myself those
common antipathies that I can discover in
others: those national repugnances do not
touch me, nor do I behold with prejudice the
French, Italian, Spaniard, or Dutch: but where
I find their actions in balance with my country-
men's, I honour, love, and embrace them in
the same degree. I was born in the eighth
climate, but seem for to be framed and con-
stellated unto all: I am no plant that will not
prosper out of a garden; all places, all airs,
make unto me one country; I am in England,
everywhere, and under any meridian; I have
been shipwrecked, yet am not enemy with the
sea or winds; I can study, play, or sleep in a
tempest. In brief, I am averse from nothing:
my conscience would give me the lie if I should
absolutely detest or hate any essence but the
devil; or so at least abhor anything, but that
we might come to composition. If there be
any among those common objects of hatred
I do contemn and laugh at, it is that great
enemy of reason, virtue, and religion, the
multitude: that numerous piece of monstros-
ity, which, taken asunder, seem men, and the
reasonable creatures of God; but confused
together, make but one great beast, and a mon-
strosity more prodigious than Hydra: it is no
breach of charity to call these fools; it is the
style all holy writers have afforded them, set
down by Solomon in canonical Scripture, and
a point of our faith to believe so. Neither in
the name of multitude do I only include the
base and minor sort of people; there is a rabble
even amongst the gentry, a sort of plebeian
heads, whose fancy moves with the same wheel
as these; men in the same level with me-
chanics, though their fortunes do somewhat
gild their infirmities, and their purses compound
for their follies. But as in casting account,
three or four men together come short in ac-
count of one man placed by himself below them ;
so neither are a troop of these ignorant Dora-
does l of that true esteem and value, as many a
forlorn person, whose condition doth place him
below their feet. Let us speak like politicians : 2
there is a nobility without heraldry, a natural
dignity, whereby one man is ranked with
another, another filed before him, according
to the quality of his desert, and preeminence
of his good parts. Though the corruption of
these times and the bias of present practice
wheel another way, thus it was in the first and
primitive commonwealths, and is yet in the
integrity and cradle of well-ordered polities,
till corruption gerteth ground; ruder desires
labouring after that which wiser considerations
contemn, every one having a liberty to amass
and heap up riches, and they a license or
faculty to do or purchase anything.
II. This general and indifferent temper of
mine doth more nearly dispose me to this
noble virtue. It is a happiness to be born and
framed unto virtue, and to grow up from the
seeds of nature, rather than the inoculation and
forced graff 3 of education : yet if we are di-
rected only by our particular natures, and
regulate our inclinations by no higher rule than
that of our reasons, we are but moralists ; divin-
ity will still call us heathens. Therefore this
great work of charity must have other motives,
ends, and impulsions. I give no alms to satisfy
the hunger of my brother, but to fulfil and
accomplish the will and command of my God:
I draw not my purse for his sake that demands
it, but His that enjoined it: I relieve no man
upon the rhetoric of his miseries, nor to content
mine own commiserating disposition; for this
1 gilded ones 2 men who understand the organi-
zation of society 3 grafting
112
SIR THOMAS BROWNE
is still but moral charity, and an act that oweth
more to passion than reason. He that relieves
another upon the bare suggestion and bowels
of pity, doth not this so much for his sake
as for his own; for by compassion we make
others' misery our own, and so, by relieving
them, we relieve ourselves also. It is as
erroneous a conceit to redress other men's mis-
fortunes upon the common consideration of
merciful natures, that it may be one day our
own case ; for this is a sinister and politic kind
of charity, whereby we seem to bespeak the
pities of men in the like occasions. And truly
I have observed that those professed eleemosy-
naries, though in a crowd of multitude, do
yet direct and place their petitions on a few and
selected persons : there is surely a physiognomy,
which those experienced and master mendi-
cants observe, whereby they instantly dis-
cover a merciful aspect, and will single out a
face wherein they spy the signatures and marks
of mercy. For there are mystically in our faces
certain characters which carry in them the motto
of our souls, wherein he that cannot read ABC
may read our natures. I hold, moreover, that
there is a phytognomy, or physiognomy, not
only of men, but of plants and vegetables:
"and in every one of them some outward figures
which hang as signs or bushes of their inward
forms. The finger of God hath left an inscrip-
tion upon all his works, not 'graphical or com-
posed of letters, but of their several forms, con-
stitutions, parts, and operations, which, aptly
joined together, do make one word that doth
express their natures. By these letters God
calls the stars by their names; and by this
alphabet Adam assigned to every creature a
name peculiar to its nature. Now there are,
besides these characters in our faces, certain
mystical figures in our hands, which I dare not
call mere dashes, strokes d la volie, or at ran-
dom, because delineated by a pencil that never
works in vain; and hereof I take more par-
ticular notice, because I carry that in mine
own hand which I could never read of nor dis-
cover in another. Aristotle, I confess, in his
acute and singular book of physiognomy, hath
made no mention of chiromancy; yet I believe
the Egyptians, who were nearer addicted to
those abstruse and mystical sciences, had a
knowledge therein, to which those vagabond
and counterfeit Egyptians did after pretend,
and perhaps retained a few corrupted prin-
ciples, which sometimes might verify their
prognostics.
It is the common wonder of all men, how
among so many millions of faces there should
be none alike. Now, contrary, I wonder as
much how there should be any: he that shall
consider how many thousand several words
have been carelessly and without study com-
posed out of twenty-four letters; withal, how
many hundred lines there are to be drawn in
the fabric of one man, shall easily find that
this variety is necessary; and it will be very
hard that they shall so concur as to make one
portrait like another. Let a painter carelessly
limn out a million of faces, and you shall find
them all different; yea, let him have his copy
before him, yet after all his art there will re-
main a sensible distinction; for the pattern or
example of everything is the perfectest in that
kind, whereof we still come short, though we
transcend or go beyond it, because herein it is
wide, and agrees not in all points unto its copy.
Nor doth the similitude of creatures disparage
the variety of nature, nor any way confound
the works of God. For even in things alike
there is diversity; and those that do seem to
accord do manifestly disagree. And thus is
man like God; for in the same things that we
resemble him, we are utterly different from
him. There was never anything so like another
as in all points to concur: there will ever some
reserved difference slip in, to prevent the iden-
tity, without which two several things would
not be alike, but the same, which is impossible.
III. But to return from philosophy to char-
ity: I hold not so narrow a conceit of this virtue,
as to conceive that to give alms is only to be
charitable, or think a piece of liberality can
comprehend the total of charity. Divinity
hath wisely divided the act thereof into many
branches, and hath taught us in this narrow
way many paths unto goodness; as many ways
as we may do good, so many ways we may be
charitable: there are infirmities not only of
body, but of soul, and fortunes, which do re-
quire the merciful hand of our abilities. I
cannot contemn a man for ignorance, but
behold him with as much pity as I do Lazarus.
It is no greater charity to clothe his body,
than apparel the nakedness of his soul. It is
an honourable object to see the reasons of other
men wear our liveries, and their borrowed
understandings do homage to the bounty of
ours: it is the cheapest way of beneficence,
and, like the natural charity of the sun, illumi-
nates another without obscuring itself. To be
reserved and caitiff in this part of goodness, is
the sordidest piece of covetousness, and more
contemptible than pecuniary avarice. To this
CHARITY
(as calling myself a scholar) I am obliged by
the duty of my condition : I make not therefore
my head a grave, but a treasury of knowledge:
I intend no monopoly, but a community in
learning: I study not for my own sake only,
but for theirs that study not for themselves. I
envy no man that knows more than myself, but
pity them that know less. I instruct no man as
an exercise of my knowledge, or with an intent
rather to nourish and keep it alive in mine own
head than beget and propagate it in his: and
in the midst of all my endeavours, there is but
one thought that dejects me, that my acquired
parts must perish with myself, nor can be
legacied among my honoured friends. I can-
not fall out or contemn a man for an error, or
conceive why a difference in opinion should
divide an affection; for controversies, disputes,
and argumentations, both in philosophy and in
divinity, if they meet with discreet and peace-
able natures, do not infringe the laws of char-
ity. In all disputes, so much as there is of
passion, so much there is of nothing to the pur-
pose; for then reason, like a bad hound, spends
upon a false scent, and forsakes the question first
started. And in this is one reason why con-
troversies are never determined; for though
they be amply proposed, they are scarce at all
handled; they do so swell with unnecessary
digressions, and the parenthesis on the party is
often as large as the main discourse upon the
subject. The foundations of religion are
already established, and the principles of sal-
vation subscribed unto by all: there remain
not many controversies worth a passion; and
yet never any disputed without, not only in di-
vinity, but inferior arts. What a ftarpa^op-vo-
pa-xLa l and hot skirmish is betwixt S and T in
Lucian ? 2 How do grammarians hack and
slash for the genitive case in Jupiter! How
they do break then- own pates to salve that of
Priscian ! Siforet in terris, rideret Democritus.3
Yea, even amongst wiser militants, how many
wounds have been given, and credits slain, for
the poor victory of an opinion, or beggarly
conquest of a distinction ! Scholars are men
of peace, they bear no arms, but their tongues
are sharper than Actius his razor; their pens
carry farther, and give a louder report than
thunder: I had rather stand in the shpck of a
basilisco, than in the fury of a merciless pen.
1 Battle of Frogs and Mice 2 Lucian represents
Sigma as complaining that Tau has usurped his
place in many words. 3 If Democritus were on earth,
he would laugh at them.
It is not mere zeal to learning, or devotion to
the Muses, that wiser princes patron the arts,
and carry an indulgent aspect unto scholars;
but a desire to have their names eternised by
the memory of their writings, and a fear of the
revengeful pen of succeeding ages; for these
are the men that, when they have played their
parts and had their exits, must step out and
give the moral of their scenes, and deliver unto
posterity an inventory of their virtues and vices.
And surely there goes a great deal of conscience
to the compiling of an history: there is no
reproach to the scandal of a story; it is such
an authentic kind of falsehood that with author-
ity belies our good names to all nations and
posterity.
IV. There is another offence unto charity,
which no author hath ever written of, and few
take notice of; and that's the reproach, not of
whole professions, mysteries, and conditions,
but of whole nations, wherein by opprobrious
epithets we miscall each other, and by an un-
charitable logic, from a disposition in a few,
conclude a habit in all. St. Paul, that calls
the Cretans liars, doth it but indirectly, and
upon quotation of their own poet. It is as
bloody a thought in one way, as Nero's was in
another; for by a word we wound a thousand,
and at one blow assasine the honour of a nation.
It is as complete a piece of madness to miscall
and rave against the times, or think to recall
men to reason by a fit of passion. Democritus,
that thought to laugh the times into goodness,
seems to me as deeply hypochondriac as Her-
aclitus that bewailed them. It moves not my
spleen to behold the multitude in their proper
humours, that is, in their fits of folly and mad-
ness; as well understanding that wisdom is
not profaned unto the world, and 'tis the
privilege of a few to be virtuous. They that
endeavour to abolish vice, destroy also virtue;
for contraries, though they destroy one another,
are yet the life of one another. Thus virtue
(abolish vice) is an idea. Again, the com-
munity of sin doth not disparage goodness;
for when vice gains upon the major part, virtue,
in whom it remains, becomes more excellent;
and being lost in some, multiplies its goodness
in others which remain untouched, and per-
sists entire in the general inundation. I can
therefore behold vice without a satire, content
only with an admonition, or instructive repre-
hension; for noble natures, and such as are
capable of goodness, are railed into vice, that
might as easily be admonished into virtue; and
we should be all so far the orators of goodness,
SIR THOMAS BROWNE
as to protect her from the power of vice, and
maintain the cause of injured truth. No irfan
can justly censure or condemn another, because
indeed no man truly knows another. This I
perceive in myself; for I am in the dark to all
the world, and my nearest friends behold me but
in a cloud: those that know me but super-
ficially, think less of me than I do of myself;
those of my near acquaintance think more.
God, who truly knows me, knows that I am
nothing; for He only beholds me and all the
world, who looks not on us through a derived
ray, or a trajection of a sensible species, but
beholds the substance without the help of acci-
dents, and the forms of things as we their opera-
tions. Further, no man can judge another,
because no man knows himself: for we cen-
sure others but as they disagree from that
humour which we fancy laudable in ourselves,
and commend others but for that wherein they
seem to quadrate and consent with us. So
that in conclusion, all is but that we all con-
demn, self-love. 'Tis the general complaint
of these times, and perhaps of those past, that
charity grows cold; which I perceive most
verified in those which most do manifest the
fires and flames of zeal; for it is a virtue that
best agrees with coldest natures, and such as
are complexioned for humility. But how shall
we expect charity towards others, when we are
uncharitable to ourselves? Charity begins at
home, is the voice of the world; yet is every
man his greatest enemy, and as it were his
own executioner. Non occides,1 is the com-
mandment of God, yet scarce observed by
any man; for I perceive every man is his own
Atropos, and lends a hand to cut the thread
of his own days. Cain was not therefore the
first murderer, but Adam, who brought in
death; whereof he beheld the practice and ex-
ample in his own son Abel, and saw that veri-
fied in the experience of another, which faith
could not persuade him in the theory of him-
self.
V. There is, I think, no man that appre-
hendeth his own miseries less than myself, and
no man that so nearly apprehends another's.
I could lose an arm without a tear, and with
few groans, methinks, be quartered into pieces ;
yet can I weep most seriously at a play, and
receive with a true passion the counterfeit
griefs of those known and professed impostures.
It is a barbarous part of inhumanity to add
unto any afflicted party's misery, or endeavour
1 Thou shalt not kill.
to multiply in any man a passion whose single
nature is already above his patience: this was
the greatest affliction of Job; and those ob-
lique expostulations of his friends, a deeper
injury than the downright blows of the devil.
It is not the tears of our own eyes only, but of
our friends also, that do exhaust the current of
our sorrows; which falling into many streams,
runs more peaceably, and is contented with a
narrower channel. It is an act within the power
of charity, to translate a passion out of one
breast into another, and to divide a sorrow
almost out of itself; for an affliction, like a
dimension, may be so divided, as, if not in-
visible, at least to become insensible. Now
with my friend I desire not to share or partici-
pate, but to engross his sorrows, that, by mak-
ing them mine own, I may more easily discuss
them ; for in mine own reason, and within my-
self, I can command that which I cannot in-
treat without myself, and within the circle of
another. I have often thought those noble
pairs and examples of friendship not so truly
histories of what had been, as fictions of what
should be ; but I now perceive nothing in them
but possibilities, nor anything in the heroic
examples of Damon and Pythias, Achilles and
Patroclus, which methinks upon some grounds
I could not perform within the narrow compass
of myself. That a man should lay down his
life for his friend, seems strange to vulgar af-
fections, and such as confine themselves within
that worldly principle, Charity begins at home.
For mine own part, I could never remember
the relations that I held unto myself, nor the
respect that I owe unto my "own nature, in the
cause of God, my country, and my friends.
Next to these three, I do embrace myself. I
confess I do not observe that order that the
schools ordain our affections, to love our
parents, wives, children, and then our friends;
for excepting the injunctions of religion, I do
not find in myself such a necessary and in-
dissoluble sympathy to all those of my blood.
I hope I do not break the fifth commandment,
if I conceive I may love my friend before the
nearest of my blood, even those to whom I owe
the principles of life; I never yet cast a true
affection on a woman; but I have loved my
friend as I do virtue, my soul, my God. From
hence methinks I do conceive how God loves
man, what happiness there is in the love of
God. Omitting all other, there are three most
mystical unions; two natures in one person;
three persons in one nature; one soul in two
bodies. For though indeed they be really
HYDRIOTAPHIA: URN-BURIAL
divided, yet are they so united as they seem but
one, and make rather a duality than two dis-
tinct souls. .
HYDRIOTAPHIA: URN-BURIAL
CHAPTER V
Now, since these dead bones have already
outlasted the living ones of Methuselah, and,
in a yard under ground, and thin walls of clay,
outworn all the strong and specious buildings
above it, and quietly rested under the drums
and tramplings of three conquests; what prince
can promise such diuturnity unto his relics, or
might not gladly say,
" Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim." l
Time, which antiquates antiquities, and hath
an art to make dust of all things, hath yet
spared these minor monuments. In vain we
hope to be known by open and visible con-
servatories, when to be unknown was the means
of their continuation, and obscurity their pro-
tection.
If they died by violent hands, and were
thrust into their urns, these bones become
considerable, and some old philosophers would
honour them, whose souls they conceived most
pure, which were thus snatched from their
bodies, and to retain a stronger propension
unto them; whereas, they weariedly left a
languishing corpse, and with faint desires of
reunion. If they fell by long and aged decay,
yet wrapped up in the bundle of time, they
fall into indistinction, and make but one blot
with infants. If we begin to die when we live,
and long life be but a prolongation of death,
our life is a sad composition; we live with
death, and die not in a moment. How many
pulses made up the life of Methuselah, were
work for Archimedes. Common counters sum
up the life of Moses's man. Our days become
considerable, like petty sums by minute ac-
cumulations, where numerous fractions make
up but small round numbers, and our days
of a span long make not one little finger.
If the nearness of our last necessity brought
a nearer conformity unto it, there were a hap-
piness in hoary hairs, and no calamity in half
senses. But the long habit of living indispos-
eth us for dying; when avarice makes us the
sport of death; when even David grew politi-
cally cruel; and Solomon could hardly be
1 Would that I were turned into bones !
said to be the wisest of men. But many are
too early old, and before the date of age.
Adversity stretcheth our days, misery makes
Alcmena's nights, and time hath no wings
unto it. But the most tedious being is that
which can unwish itself, content to be noth-
ing, or never to have been; which was beyond
the malecontent of Job, who cursed not the
day of his life, but his nativity, content to have
so far been as to have a title to future being,
although he had lived here but in a hidden
state of life, and as it were an abortion.
What song the Sirens sang, or what name
Achilles assumed when he hid himself among
women, though puzzling questions, are not be-
yond all conjecture. What time the persons
of these ossuaries entered the famous nations
of the dead, and slept with princes and coun-
sellors, might admit a wide solution. But
who were the proprietaries of these bones, or
what bodies these ashes made up, were a ques-
tion above antiquarianism; not to be resolved
by man, nor easily perhaps by spirits, except
we consult the provincial guardians or tutelary
observators. Had they made as good provi-
sion for their names as they have done for their
relics, they had not so grossly erred in the art
of perpetuation. But to subsist in bones, and
be but pyramidally extant, is a fallacy in du-
ration. Vain ashes, which in the oblivion of
names, persons, times, and sexes, have found
unto themselves a fruitless continuation, and
only arise unto late posterity, as emblems of
mortal vanities, antidotes against pride, vain-
glory, and madding vices. Pagan vainglories,
which thought the world might last forever,
had encouragement for ambition; and finding
no Atropos unto the immortality of their names,
were never damped with the necessity of obliv-
ion. Even old ambitions had the advantage
of ours, in the attempts of their vainglories,
who, acting early, and before the probable
meridian of time, have by this time found great
accomplishment of their designs, whereby the
ancient heroes have already outlasted their
monuments and mechanical preservations.
But in this latter scene of time we cannot ex-
pect such mummies unto our memories, when
ambition may fear the prophecy of Elias, and
Charles the Fifth can never expect to live within
two Methuselahs of Hector.
And therefore restless inquietude for the
diuturnity of our memories unto present con-
siderations, seems a vanity almost out of date,
and superannuated piece of folly. We cannot
hope to live so long in our names as some have
n6
SIR THOMAS BROWNE
done in their persons. One face of Janus holds
no proportion unto the other. 'Tis too late
to be ambitious. The great mutations of the
world are acted, or time may be too short for
our designs. To extend our memories by
monuments, whose death we daily pray for,
and whose duration we cannot hope, without
injury to our expectations, in the advent of the
last day, were a contradiction to our beliefs.
We, whose generations are ordained in this
setting part of time, are providentially taken
off from such imaginations; and being neces-
sitated to eye the remaining particle of futurity,
are naturally constituted unto thoughts of the
next world, and cannot excusably decline the
consideration of that duration, which maketh
pyramids pillars of snow, and all that's past a
moment.
Circles and right lines limit and close all
bodies, and the mortal right-lined circle must
conclude and shut up all. There is no anti-
dote against the opium of time, which tempo-
rarily considereth all things. Our fathers find
their graves in our short memories, and sadly
tell us how we may be buried in our survivors.
Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years! Gen-
erations pass while some trees stand, and old
families last not three oaks. To be read by
bare inscriptions, like many in Gruter; 1 to
hope for eternity by enigmatical epithets, or
first letters of our names; to be studied by anti-
quaries, who we were, and have new names
given us, like many of the mummies, are cold
consolations unto the students of perpetuity,
even by everlasting languages.
To be content that times to come should
only know there was such a man, not caring
whether they knew more of him, was a frigid
ambition in Cardan, disparaging his horo-
scopal inclination and judgment of himself.
Who cares to subsist like Hippocrates's pa-
tients, or Achilles's horses in Homer, under
naked nominations, without deserts and noble
acts, which are the balsam of our memories,
the "entelechia" 2 and soul of our subsistences?
Yet to be nameless in worthy deeds exceeds
an infamous history. The Canaanitish woman
lives more happily without a name, than Hero-
dias with one. And who had not rather have
been the good thief than Pilate ?
But the iniquity3 of oblivion blindly scat-
tereth her poppy, and deals with the memory
of men without distinction to merit of per-
1 Gruter's Ancient Inscriptions
8 injustice
2 realizations
petuity. Who can but pity the founder of the
pyramids? Erostratus lives that burnt the
Temple of Diana; he is almost lost that built
it. Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's
horse, confounded that of himself. In vain
we compute our felicities by the advantage of
our good names, since bad have equal dura-
tions; and Thersites is like to live as long as
Agamemnon. Who knows whether the best
of men be known, or whether there be not
more remarkable persons forgot than any that
stand remembered in the known account of
time? Without the favour of the everlasting
register, the first man had been as unknown
as the last, and Methuselah's long life had
been his only chronicle.
Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater
part must be content to be as though they had
not been, to be found in the register of God,
not in the record of man. Twenty-seven
names make up the first story, and the recorded
names ever since contain not one living cen-
tury. The number of the dead long exceedeth
all that shall live. The night of time far sur-
passeth the day; and who knows when was
the equinox? Every hour adds unto that cur-
rent arithmetic, which scarce stands one mo-
ment. And since death must be the Lucina
of life, and even Pagans could doubt whether
thus to live were to die; since our longest sun
sets at right declensions, and makes but winter
arches, and therefore it cannot be long before
we lie down in darkness, and have our light in
ashes; since the brother of death daily haunts
us with dying mementos, and time, that grows
old itself, bids us hope no long duration, diu-
turnity is a dream and folly of expectation.
Darkness and light divide the course of time,
and oblivion shares with memory a great part
even of our living beings. We slightly remember
our felicities, and the smartest strokes of afflic-
tion leave but short smart upon us. Sense
endureth no extremities, and sorrows destroy
us or themselves. To weep into stones are
fables. Afflictions induce callosities; miser-
ies are slippery, or fall like snow upon us,
which, notwithstanding, is no unhappy stupid-
ity. To be ignorant of evils to come, and for-
getful of evils past, is a merciful provision in
nature, whereby we digest the mixture of our
few and evil days, and our delivered senses not
relapsing into cutting remembrances, our sor-
rows are not kept raw by the edge of repe-
titions. A great part of antiquity contented
their hopes of subsistency with a transmigra-
tion of their souls; a good way to continue
THOMAS FULLER
117
their memories, while, having the advantage
of plural successions, they could not but act
something remarkable in such variety of beings,
and enjoying the fame of their passed selves,
make accumulation of glory unto their last
durations. Others, rather than be lost in the
uncomfortable night of nothing, were content
to recede into the common being, and make
one particle of the public soul of all things,
which was no more than to return into their
unknown and divine original again. Egyp-
tian ingenuity was more unsatisfied, contriv-
ing their bodies in sweet consistencies to attend
the return of their souls. But all was vanity,
feeding the wind and folly. The Egyptian
mummies, which Cambyses or time hath
spared, avarice now consumeth. Mummy is
become merchandise, Mizraim cures wounds,
and Pharaoh is sold for balsams.
In vain do individuals hope for immortality,
or any patent from oblivion, in preservations
below the moon. Men have been deceived*
even in their flatteries above the sun, and
studied conceits to perpetuate their names in
heaven. The various cosmography of that
part hath already varied the names of con-
trived constellations. Nimrod is lost in Orion,
and Osiris in the Dog-star. While we look for
incorruption in the heavens, we find they are
but like the earth, durable in their main bodies,
alterable in their parts; whereof, beside com-
ets and new stars, perspectives begin to tell
tales, and the spots that wander about the sun,
with Phaethon's favor, would make clear con-
viction.
There is nothing strictly immortal but im-
mortality. Whatever hath no beginning, may
be confident of no end; which is the peculiar
of that necessary essence that cannot destroy
itself, and the highest strain of omnipotency to
be so powerfully constituted, as not to suffer
even from the power of itself. All others have
a dependent being, and within the reach of
destruction. But the sufficiency of Christian
immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and
the quality of either state after death makes a
folly of posthumous memory. God, who can
only destroy our souls, and hath assured our
resurrection, either of our bodies or names hath
directly promised no duration. Wherein there
is so much of chance, that the boldest expec-
tants have found unhappy frustration ; and to
hold long subsistence seems but a scape in
oblivion. But man is a noble animal, splendid
in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnising
nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omit-
ting ceremonies of bravery in the infamy of
his nature. .
THOMAS FULLER (1608-1661)
THE HOLY STATE
BOOK II. CHAPTER XXII
THE LIFE OF SIR FRANCIS DRAKE
Francis Drake was born nigh South Tavis-
tock in Devonshire, and brought up in Kent;
God dividing the honour betwixt two coun-
ties, that the one might have his birth, and the
other his education. His father, being a min-
ister, fled into Kent, for fear of the Six Articles,
wherein the sting of Popery still remained in
England, though the teeth thereof were knocked
out, and the Pope's supremacy abolished.
Coming into Kent, he bound his son Francis
apprentice to the master of a small bark,
which traded into France and Zealand, where
he underwent a hard service; and pains with
patience in his youth, did knit the joints of
his soul, and made them more solid and com-
pacted. His master, dying unmarried, in re-
ward of his industry, bequeathed his bark
unto him for a legacy.
For some time he continued his master's
profession; but the narrow seas were a prison
for so large a spirit, born for greater under-
takings. He soon grew weary of his bark;
which would scarce go alone, but as it crept
along by the shore: wherefore, selling it, he
unfortunately ventured most of his estate with
Captain John Hawkins into the West Indies,
in 1567; whose goods were taken by the Span-
iards at St. John de Ulva, and he himself
scarce escaped with life: the king of Spain
being so tender in those parts, that the least
touch doth wound him; and so jealous of the
West Indies, his wife, that willingly he would
have none look upon her: he therefore used
them with the greater severity.
Drake was persuaded by the minister of his
ship, that he might lawfully recover in value
of the king of Spain, and repair his losses upon
him anywhere else. The case was clear in
sea -divinity ; and few are such infidels, as not
to believe doctrines which make for their own
profit. Whereupon Drake, though a poor
private man, hereafter undertook to revenge
himself on so mighty a monarch; who, as not
contented that the sun riseth and setteth in his
n8
THOMAS FULLER
dominions, may seem to desire to make all
his own where he shineth. And now let us
see how a dwarf, standing on the mount of
God's providence, may prove an overmatch
for a giant.
After two or three several voyages to gain
intelligence in the West Indies, and some prizes
taken, at last he effectually set forward from
Plymouth with two ships, the one of seventy,
the other twenty-five, tons, and seventy-three
men and boys in both. He made with all
speed and secrecy to Nombre de Dios, as
loath to put the town to too much charge (which
he knew they would willingly bestow) in pro-
viding beforehand for his entertainment ; which
city was then the granary of the West Indies,
wherein the golden harvest brought from Pan-
ama was hoarded up till it could be conveyed
into Spain. They came hard aboard the shore,
and lay quiet all night, intending to attempt
the town in the dawning of the day.
But he was forced to alter his resolution, and
assault it sooner; for he heard his men mut-
tering amongst themselves of the strength
and greatness of the town: and when men's
heads are once fly-blown with buzzes of sus-
picion, the vermin multiply instantly, and one
jealousy begets another. Wherefore, he raised
them from their nest before they had hatched
their fears; and, to put away those conceits,
he persuaded them it was day-dawning when
the moon rose, and instantly set on the town,
and won it, being unwalled. In the market-
place the Spaniards saluted them with a volley
of shot; Drake returned their greeting with a
flight of arrows, the best and ancient English
compliment, which drave their enemies away.
Here Drake received a dangerous wound,
though he valiantly concealed it a long time;
knowing if his heart stooped, his men's would
fall, and loath to leave off the action, wherein
if so bright an opportunity once setteth, it
seldom riseth again. But at length his men
forced him to return to his ship, that his wound
might be dressed; and this unhappy accident
defeated the whole design. Thus victory
sometimes slips through their fingers who
have caught it in their hands.
But his valour would not let him give over
the project as long as there was either life or
warmth in it; and therefore, having received
intelligence from the Negroes called Symerons,
of many mules' -lading of gold and silver, which
was to be brought from Panama, he, leaving
competent numbers to man his ships, went on
land with the rest, and bestowed himself in the
woods by the way as they were to pass, and so
intercepted and carried away an infinite mass
of gold. As for the silver, which was not
portable over the mountains, they digged holes
in the ground and hid it therein.
There want not those who love to beat down
the price of every honourable action, though
they themselves never mean to be chapmen.
These cry up Drake's fortune herein to cry
down his valour ; as if this his performance
were nothing, wherein a golden opportunity
ran his head, with his long forelock, into
Drake's hands beyond expectation. But, cer-
tainly, his resolution and unconquerable pa-
tience deserved much praise, to adventure on
such a design, which had in it just no more
probability than what was enough to keep it
from being impossible. Yet I admire not so
much at all the treasure he took, as at the rich
and deep mine of God's providence.
Having now full freighted himself with wealth,
and burnt at the House of Crosses above two
hundred thousand pounds' worth of Spanish
merchandise, he returned with honour and
safety into England, and, some years after,
(December i3th, 1577) undertook that his
famous voyage about the world, most accurately
described by our English authors: and yet a
word or two thereof will not be amiss.
Setting forward from Plymouth, he bore
up for Cabo-verd, where, near to the island of
St. Jago, he took prisoner Nuno de Silva, an
experienced Spanish pilot, whose direction he
used in the coasts of Brazil and Magellan
Straits, and afterwards safely landed him at
Guatulco in New Spain. Hence they took
their course to the Island of Brava; and here-
abouts they met with those tempestuous winds
whose only praise is, that they continue not an
hour, in which time they change all the points
of the compass. Here they had great plenty
of rain, poured (not, as in other places, as it
were out of sieves, but) as out of spouts, so
that a butt of water falls down in a place;
which, notwithstanding, is but a courteous
injury in that hot climate far from land, and
where otherwise fresh water cannot be provided.
Then cutting the Line, they saw the face of that
heaven which earth hideth from us, but therein
only three stars of the first greatness, the rest
few and small compared to our hemisphere;
as if God, on purpose, had set up the best and
biggest candles in that room wherein his civilest
guests are entertained.
Sailing the south of Brazil, he afterwards
passed the Magellan Straits, (August 2oth, 1578)
THE HOLY STATE
119
and then entered Mare Pacificum, came to
the southernmost land at the height of 55^
latitudes; thence directing his course north-
ward, he pillaged many Spanish towns, and
took rich prizes of high value in the king-
doms of Chili, Peru, and New Spain. Then,
bending eastwards, he coasted China, and the
Moluccas, where, by the king of Terrenate, a
true gentleman Pagan, he was most honourably
entertained. The king told them, they and
he were all of one religion in this respect, —
that they believed not in gods made of
stocks and stones, as did the Portugals. He
furnished them also with all necessaries that
they wanted.
On January Qth following, (1579,) his ship,
having a large wind and a smooth sea, ran
aground on a dangerous shoal, and struck
twice on it; knocking twice at the door of
death, which, no doubt, had opened the third
time. Here they stuck, from eight o'clock at
night till four the next afternoon, having ground
too much, and yet too little to land on; and
water too much, and yet too little to sail in.
Had God (who, as the wise man saith, "holdeth
the winds in his fist," Prov. xxx. 4) but opened
his little finger, and let out the smallest blast,
they had undoubtedly been cast away; but
there blew not any wind all the while. Then
they, conceiving aright that the best way to
lighten the ship was, first, to ease it of the
burden of their sins by true repentance, humbled
themselves, by fasting, under the hand of God.
Afterwards they received the communion,
dining on Christ in the sacrament, expecting
no other than to sup with him in heaven. Then
they cast out of their ship six great pieces of
ordnance, threw overboard as much wealth as
would break the heart of a miser to think on
it, with much sugar, and packs of spices, making
a caudle of the sea round about. Then they
betook themselves to their prayers, the best
lever at such a dead lift indeed ; and it pleased
God, that the wind, formerly their mortal
enemy, became their friend; which, changing
from the starboard to the larboard of the ship,
and rising by degrees, cleared them off to the
sea again, — for which they returned unfeigned
thanks to Almighty God.
By the Cape of Good Hope and west of
Africa, he returned safe into England, and
(November 3rd, 1580) landed at Plymouth,
(being almost the first of those that made a
thorough light through the world,) having, in his
whole voyage, though a curious searcher after
the time, lost one day through the variation of
several climates. He feasted the queen in his
ship at Dartford, who knighted him for his
service. Yet it grieved him not a little, that
some prime courtiers refused the gold he
offered them, as gotten by piracy. Some oi
them would have been loath to have been told,
that they had aurwn Tholosanum 1 in their
own purses. Some think, that they did it to
show that their envious pride was above their
covetousness, who of set purpose did blur the
fair copy of his performance, because they
would not take pains to write after it.
I pass by his next West-Indian voyage,
(1585,) wherein he took the cities of St. Jago,
St. Domingo, Carthagena, and St. Augustine
in Florida; as also his service performed in
1588, wherein he, with many others, helped to
the waning of that half-moon,2 which sought
to govern all the motion of our sea. I haste
to his last voyage.
Queen Elizabeth, in 1595, perceiving that
the only way to make the Spaniard a cripple
forever, was to cut his sinews of war in the West
Indies, furnished Sir Francis Drake, and Sir
John Hawkins, with six of her own ships, be-
sides twenty-one ships and barks of their own
providing, containing in all two thousand five
hundred men and boys, for some service on
America. But, alas! this voyage was marred
before begun. For, so great preparations being
too big for a cover, the king of Spain knew of
it, and sent a caraval of adviso 3 to the West
Indies ; so that they had intelligence three weeks
before the fleet set forth of England, either to
fortify or remove their treasure; whereas, in
other of Drake's voyages, not two of his own
men knew whither he went; and managing
such a design is like carrying a mine in war, —
if it hath any vent, all is spoiled. Besides,
Drake and Hawkins, being in joint commission,
hindered each other. The latter took himself
to be inferior rather in success than skill; and
the action was unlike to prosper when neither
would follow, and both could not handsomely
go abreast. It vexed old Hawkins, that his
counsel was not followed, in present sailing to
America, but that they spent time in vain in
assaulting the Canaries; and the grief that his
advice was slighted, say some, was the cause of
his death. Others impute it to the sorrow he
took for the taking of his bark called "the
Francis," which five Spanish frigates had inter-
cepted. But when the same heart hath two
1 Spanish gold, as bribes
notification
2 Spain * ship of
I2O
JOHN MILTON
mortal wounds given it together, it is hard to
say which of them killeth.
Drake continued his course for Porto Rico;
and, riding within the road, a shot from the
Castle entered the steerage of the ship, took
away the stool from under him as he sate at
supper, wounded Sir Nicholas Clifford, and
Brute Brown to death. "Ah, dear Brute!"
said Drake, "I could grieve for thee, but now
is no time for me to let down my spirits."
And, indeed, a soldier's most proper bemoaning
a friend's death in war, is in revenging it.
And, sure, as if grief had made the English
furious, they soon after fired five Spanish ships of
two hundred tons apiece, in despite of the Castle.
America is not unfitly resembled to an hour-
glass, which hath a narrow neck of land, (sup-
pose it the hole where the sand passeth,) betwixt
the parts thereof, — Mexicana and Peruana.
Now, the English had a design to march by
land over this Isthmus, from Porto Rico to
Panama, where the Spanish treasure was laid
up. Sir Thomas Baskervile, general of the
land-forces, undertook the service with seven
hundred and fifty armed men. They marched
through deep ways, the Spaniards much annoy-
ing them with shot out of the woods. One fort
in the passage they assaulted in vain, and heard
two others were built to stop them, besides
Panama itself. They had so much of this break-
fast they thought they should surfeit of a dinner
and supper of the same. No hope of conquest,
except with cloying the jaws of death, and thrust-
ing men on the mouth of the cannon. Where-
fore, fearing to find the proverb true, that "gold
may be bought too dear," they returned to
their ships. Drake afterwards fired Nombre
de Dios, and many other petty towns, (whose
treasure the Spaniards had conveyed away,)
burning the empty casks, when their precious
liquor was run out before, and then prepared
for their returning home.
Great was the difference betwixt the Indian
cities now, from what they were when Drake
first haunted these coasts. At first, the Span-
iards here were safe and secure, counting then-
treasure sufficient to defend itself, the remote-
ness thereof being the greatest (almost only)
resistance, and the fetching of it more than
the fighting for it. Whilst the king of Spain
guarded the head and heart of his dominions
in Europe, he left his long legs in America open
to blows; till, finding them to smart, being
beaten black and blue by the English, he
learned to arm them at last, fortifying the most
important of them to make them impregnable.
Now began Sir Francis's discontent to feed
upon him. He conceived, that expectation,
a merciless usurer, computing each day since
his departure, exacted an interest and return
of honour and profit proportionable to his great
preparations, and transcending his former
achievements. He saw that all the good which
he had done in this voyage, consisted in the evil
he had done to the Spaniards afar off, whereof
he could present but small visible fruits in
England. These apprehensions, accompany-
ing, if not causing, the disease of the flux,
wrought his sudden death, January 28th, 1595.
And sickness did not so much untie his clothes,
as sorrow did rend at once the robe of his mor-
tality asunder. He lived by the sea, died on
it, and was buried in it. Thus an extempore
performance (scarce heard to be begun, before
we hear it is ended!) comes off with better
applause, or miscarries with less disgrace,
than a long-studied and openly-premeditated
action. Besides, we see how great spirits,
having mounted to the highest pitch of per-
formance, afterwards strain and break their
credits in striving to go beyond it. Lastly,
God oftentimes leaves the brightest men in an
eclipse, to show that they do but borrow their
lustre from his reflexion. We will not justify
all the actions of any man, though of a tamer
profession than a sea-captain, in whom civility
is often counted preciseness. For the main,
we say that this our captain was a religious man
towards God and his houses, (generally sparing
churches where he came) chaste in his life,
just in his dealings, true of his word, and mer-
ciful to those that were under him, hating noth-
ing so much as idleness: and therefore, lest
his soul should rust in peace, at spare hours
he brought fresh water to Plymouth. Careful
he was for posterity, (though men of his pro-
fession have as well an ebb of riot, as a float
of fortune) and providently raised a worshipful
family of his kindred. In a word: should those
that speak against him fast till they fetch their
bread where he did his, they would have a good
stomach to eat it.
JOHN MILTON (1608-1674)
OF EDUCATION
TO MASTER SAMUEL HARTLIB
Master Hartlib, — I am long since persuaded,
that to say or do aught worth memory and
OF EDUCATION
121
imitation, no purpose or respect should sooner
move us than simply the love of God, and of
mankind. Nevertheless, to write now the re-
forming of education, though it be one of the
greatest and noblest designs that can be thought
on, and for the want whereof this nation perishes;
I had not yet at this time been induced, but by
your earnest entreaties and serious conjure-
ments; as having my mind for the present
half-diverted in the pursuance of some other
assertions, the knowledge and the use of which
cannot but be a great furtherance both to the
enlargement of truth, and honest living with
much more peace. Nor should the laws of
any private friendship have prevailed with me
to divide thus, or transpose my former thoughts,
but that I see those aims, those actions, which
have won you with me the esteem of a person
sent hither by some good providence from a
far country to be the occasion and incitement
of great good to this island. And, as I hear,
you have obtained the same repute with men
• of most approved wisdom, and some of the
highest authority among us; not to mention
the learned correspondence which you hold in
foreign parts, and the extraordinary pains and
diligence, which you have used in this matter
both here and beyond the seas; either by the
definite will of God so ruling, or the peculiar
sway of nature, which also is God's working.
Neither can I think that so reputed and so val-
ued as you are, you would to the forfeit of your
own discerning ability, impose upon me an un-
fit and overponderous argument; but that the
satisfaction, which you profess to have received
from those incidental discourses which we have
wandered into, hath pressed and almost con-
strained you into a persuasion, that what you
require from me in this point, I neither ought
nor can in conscience defer beyond this time
both of so much need at once, and so much
opportunity to try what God hath determined.
I will not resist therefore whatever it is, either
of divine or human obligement, that you lay
upon me; but will forthwith set down in writing,
as you request me, that voluntary idea, which
hath long in silence presented itself to me, of a
better education, in extent and comprehension
far more large, and yet of time far shorter, and
of attainment far more certain, than hath been
'yet in practice. Brief I shall endeavour to be;
for that which I have to say, assuredly this
nation hath extreme need should be done sooner
than spoken. To tell you therefore what I
have benefited herein among old renowned
authors, I shall spare; and to search what many
modern Januas * and Didactics,1 more than
ever I shall read, have projected, my inclination
leads me not. But if you can accept of these
few observations which have flowered off, and
are as it were the burnishing of many studious
and contemplative years altogether spent in the
search of religious and civil knowledge, and
such as pleased you so well in the relating, I
here give you them to dispose of.
The end then of learning is to repair the ruins
of our first parents by regaining to know God
aright, and out of that knowledge to love him,
to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the
nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue,
which being united to the heavenly grace of
faith, makes up the highest perfection. But
because our understanding cannot in this body
found itself but on sensible things, nor arrive
so clearly to the knowledge of God and things
invisible, as by orderly conning over the visible
and inferior creature, the same method is
necessarily to be followed in all discreet teach-
ing. And seeing every nation affords not ex-
perience and tradition enough for all kind of
learning, therefore we are chiefly taught the
languages of those people who have at any time
been most industrious after wisdom; so that
language is but the instrument conveying to us
things useful to be known. And though a
linguist should pride himself to have all the
tongues that Babel cleft the world into, yet
if he have not studied the solid things in
them as well as the words and lexicons, he
were nothing so much to be esteemed a learned
man, as any yeoman or tradesman compe-
tently wise in his mother dialect only. Hence
appear the many mistakes which have made
learning generally so unpleasing and so un-
successful; first, we do amiss to spend seven
or eight years merely in scraping together so
much miserable Latin and Greek, as might be
learned otherwise easily and delightfully in
one year.
And that which casts our proficiency therein
so much behind, is our time lost partly in too
oft idle vacancies given both to schools and
universities; partly in a preposterous exaction,
forcing the empty wits of children to compose
themes, verses, and orations, which are the acts
of ripest judgment, and the final work of a
head filled by long reading and observing, with
elegant maxims and copious invention. These
are not matters to be wrung from poor striplings,
like blood out of the nose, or the plucking
1 treatises on education
122
JOHN MILTON
of untimely fruit; besides the ill habit which
they get of wretched barbarising against the
Latin and Greek idiom, with their untutored
Anglicisms, odious to be read, yet not to be
avoided without a well-continued and judicious
conversing among pure authors digested, which
they scarce taste: whereas, if after some pre-
paratory grounds of speech by their certain
forms got into memory, they were led to the
praxis thereof in some chosen short book
lessoned thoroughly to them, they might then
forthwith proceed to learn the substance of
good things, and arts in due order, which would
bring the whole language quickly into their
power. This I take to be the most rational
and most profitable way of learning languages,
and whereby we may best hope to give account
to God of our youth spent herein.
And for the usual method of teaching arts,
I deem it to be an old error of universities, not
yet well recovered from the scholastic grossness
of barbarous ages, that instead of beginning
with arts most easy, (and those be such as are
most obvious to the sense,) they present their
young unmatriculated novices at first coming
with the most intellective abstractions of logic
and metaphysics ; so that they having but newly
left those grammatic flats and shallows where
they stuck unreasonably to learn a few words
with lamentable construction, and now on the
sudden transported under another climate to
be tossed and turmoiled with their unballasted
wits in fathomless and unquiet deeps of con-
troversy, do for the most part grow into hatred
and contempt of learning, mocked and deluded
all this while with ragged notions and babble-
ments, while they expected worthy and delight-
ful knowledge; till poverty or youthful years
call them importunately their several ways, and
hasten them with the sway of friends either to
an ambitious and mercenary, or ignorantly
zealous divinity; some allured to the trade of
law, grounding their purposes not on the pru-
dent and heavenly contemplation of justice and
equity, which was never taught them, but on
the promising and pleasing thoughts of litigious
terms, fat contentions, and flowing fees; others
betake them to state affairs, with souls so un-
principled in virtue and true generous breed-
ing, that flattery and court -shifts and tyrannous
aphorisms appear to them the highest points
of wisdom ; instilling their barren hearts with a
conscientious slavery ; if, as I rather think, it be
not feigned. Others, lastly, of a more delicious
and airy spirit, retire themselves (knowing no
better) to the enjoyments of ease and luxury,
living out their days in feast and jollity; which
indeed is the wisest and the safest course of
all these, unless they were with more integrity
undertaken. And these are the errors, and
these are the fruits of misspending our prime
youth at the schools and universities as we do,
either in learning mere words, or such things
chiefly as were better unlearned.
I shall detain you now no longer in the
demonstration of what we should not do, but
straight conduct you to a hill-side, where I
will point you out the right path of a virtuous
and noble education; laborious indeed at the
first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so
full of goodly prospect, arid melodious sounds
on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not
more charming. I doubt not but ye shall have
more ado to drive our dullest and laziest youth,
our stocks and stubs, from the infinite desire
of such a happy nurture, than we have now to
hale and drag our choicest and hopefullest
wits to that asinine feast of sow-thistles and
brambles, which is commonly set before them
as all the food and entertainment of their
tenderest and most docible age. I call therefore
a complete and generous education, that which
fits a man to perform justly, skilfully, and mag-
nanimously all the offices, both private and
public, of peace and war. And how all this
may be done between twelve and one-and-
twenty, less time than is now bestowed in pure
trifling at grammar and sophistry, is to be thus
ordered.
First, to find out a spacious house and ground
about it fit for an academy, and big enough
to lodge a hundred and fifty persons, whereof
twenty or thereabout may be attendants, all
under the government of one, who shall be
thought of desert sufficient, and ability either
to do all, or wisely to direct and oversee it done.
This place should be at once both school and
university, not needing a remove to any other
house of scholarship, except it be some peculiar
college of law, or physic, where they mean to
be practitioners; but as for those general stud-
ies which take up all our time from Lilly l
to commencing, as they term it, master of art,
it should be absolute. After this pattern, as
many edifices may be converted to this use as
shall be needful in every city throughout this
land, which would tend much to the increase
of learning and civility everywhere. This
number, less or more, thus collected, to the
convenience of a foot company, or interchange-
1 Lilly's Elementary Latin Grammar
OF EDUCATION
123
ably two troops of cavalry, should divide
their day's work into three parts as it lies
orderly; their studies, their exercise, and their
diet.
For their studies; first, they should begin
with the chief and necessary rules of some good
grammar, either that now used, or any better;
and while this is doing, their speech is to be
fashioned to a distinct and clear pronunciation,
as near as may be to the Italian, especially
in the vowels. For we Englishmen being far
northerly, do not open our mouths in the cold
air wide enough to grace a southern tongue;
but are observed by all other nations to speak
exceeding close and inward; so that to smatter
Latin with an English mouth, is as ill a hearing
as law French. Next, to make them expert in
the usefullest points of grammar; and withal to
season them and win them early to the love of
virtue and true labour, ere any flattering se-
ducement or vain principle seize them wander-
ing, some easy and delightful book of education
would be read to them; whereof the Greeks
have store, as Cebes, Plutarch, and other Socratic
discourses. But in Latin we have none of
classic authority extant, except the two or
three first books of Quintilian, and some
select pieces elsewhere. But here the main
skill and groundwork will be, to temper them
such lectures and explanations upon every
opportunity, as may lead and draw them in
willing obedience, enflamed with the study of
learning, and the admiration of virtue; stirred
up with high hopes of living to be brave men,
and worthy patriots, dear to God, and famous
to all ages. That they may despise and scorn
all their childish and ill-taught qualities, to de-
light in manly and liberal exercises ; which he
who hath the art and proper eloquence to catch
them with, what with mild and effectual per-
suasions, and that with the intimation of some
fear, if need be, but chiefly by his own example,
might in a short space gain them to an incredible
diligence and courage ; infusing into their young
breasts such an ingenuous and noble ardour,
as would not fail to make many of them re-
nowned and matchless men. At the same time,
some other hour of the day, might be taught them
the rules of arithmetic, and soon after the ele-
ments of geometry, even playing, as the old man-
ner was. After evening repast, till bedtime, their
thoughts would be best taken up in the easy
grounds of religion, and the story of Scripture.
The next step would be to the authors of agricul-
ture, Cato, Varo, and Columella, for the matter
is most easy; and if the language be difficult, so
much the better, it is not a difficulty above their
years. And here will be an occasion of inciting,
and enabling them hereafter to improve the
tillage of their country, to recover the bad soil,
and to remedy the waste that is made of good;
for this was one of Hercules's praises. Ere
half these authors be read (which will soon be
with plying hard and daily) they cannot choose
but be masters of any ordinary prose. So
that it will be then seasonable for them to learn
in any modern author the use of the globes,
and all the maps; first with the old names,
and then with the new; or they might be then
capable to read any compendious method of
natural philosophy. And at the same time
might be entering into the Greek tongue,
after the same manner as was before prescribed
in the Latin ; whereby the difficulties of gram-
mar being soon overcome, all the historical
physiology of Aristotle and Theophrastus are
open before them, and, as I may say, under
contribution. The like access will be to Vi-
truvius, to Seneca's natural questions, to Mela,
Celsus, Pliny, or Solinus. And having thus
passed the principles of arithmetic, geometry,
astronomy, and geography, with a general
compact of physics, they may descend in math-
ematics to the instrumental science of trigo-
nometry, and from thence to fortification,
architecture, enginery, or navigation. And in
natural philosophy they may proceed leisurely
from the history of meteors, minerals, plants,
and living creatures, as far as anatomy. Then
also in course might be read to them out of
some not tedious writer the institution of physic;
that they may know the tempers, the humours,
the seasons, and how to manage a crudity; which
he who can wisely and timely do, is not only
a great physician to himself and to his friends,
but also may at some time or other save an
army by this frugal and expenseless means only;
and not let the healthy and stout bodies of young
men rot away under him for want of this dis-
cipline; which is a great pity, and no less a
shame to the commander. To set forward all
these proceedings in nature and mathematics,
what hinders but that they may procure, as oft
as shall be needful, the helpful experiences of
hunters, fowlers, fishermen, shepherds, garden-
ers, apothecaries; and in the other sciences,
architects, engineers, mariners, anatomists; who
doubtless would be ready, some for reward, and
some to favour such a hopeful seminary. And
this will give them such a real tincture of natural
knowledge, as they shall never forget, but daily
augment with delight. Then also those poets
124
JOHN MILTON
which are now counted most hard, will be both
facile and pleasant, Orpheus, Hesiod, Theocri-
tus, Aratus, Nicander, Oppian, Dionysius, and
in Latin, Lucretius, Manilius, and the rural
part of Virgil.
By this time, years, and good general pre-
cepts, will have furnished them more distinctly
with that act of reason which in ethics is called
Proairesis;1 that they may with some judg-
ment contemplate upon moral good and evil.
Then will be required a special reinforcement
of constant and sound indoctrinating to set
them right and firm, instructing them more am-
ply in the knowledge of virtue and the hatred
of vice; while their young and pliant affections
are led through all the moral works of Plato,
Xenophon, Cicero, Plutarch, Laertius, and
those Locrian remnants; but still to be re-
duced 2 in their nightward studies wherewith
they close the day's work, under the deter-
minate sentence of David or Solomon, or the
evangels and apostolic Scriptures. Being per-
fect in the knowledge of personal duty, they may
then begin the study of economics. And either
now or before this, they may have easily
learned at any odd hour the Italian tongue.
And soon after, but with wariness and good
antidote, it would be wholesome enough to
let them taste some choice comedies, Greek,
Latin or Italian ; those tragedies also, that treat
of household matters, as Trachiniae, Alcestis,
and the like. The next removal must be to the
study of politics; to know the beginning, end,
and reasons of political societies; that they
may not in a dangerous fit of the common-
wealth be such poor, shaken, uncertain reeds,
of such a tottering conscience, as many of our
great counsellors have lately shown themselves,
but stedfast pillars of the state. After this,
they are to dive into the grounds of law, and
legal justice; delivered first and with best
warrant by Moses ; and as far as human pru-
dence can be trusted, in those extolled remains
of Grecian law-givers, Lycurgus, Solon, Zaleu-
cus, Charondas, and thence to all the Roman
edicts and tables with their Justinian; and so
down to the Saxon and common laws of Eng-
land, and the statutes. Sundays also and
every evening may be now understandingly
spent in the highest matters of theology, and
church-history ancient and modern; and ere
this time the Hebrew tongue at a set hour might
have been gained, that the Scriptures may be
now read in their own original; whereto it
1 deliberate choice 2 brought back
would be no impossibility to add the Chaldee,
and the Syrian dialect. When all these employ-
ments are well conquered, then will the choice
histories, heroic poems, and Attic tragedies
of stateliest and most regal argument, with all
the famous political orations, offer themselves;
which if they were not only read, but some of
them got by memory, and solemnly pronounced
with right accent and grace, as might be taught,
would endue them even with the spirit and
vigour of Demosthenes or Cicero, Euripides
or Sophocles.
And now lastly will be the time to read them
with those organic arts, which enable men to
discourse and write perspicuously, elegantly,
and according to the fitted style of lofty, mean,
or lowly. Logic, therefore, so much as is
useful, is to be referred to this due place with
all her well-couched heads and topics, until it
be time to open her contracted palm into a
graceful and ornate rhetoric taught out of
the rule of Plato, Aristotle, Phalereus, Cicero,
Hermogenes, Longinus. To which poetry
would be made subsequent, or indeed rather
precedent, as being less subtile and fine, but
more simple, sensuous, and passionate. I
mean not here the prosody of a verse, which
they could not but have hit on before among
the rudiments of grammar; but that sublime
art which in Aristotle's poetics, in Horace, and
the Italian commentaries of Castelvetro,
Tasso, Mazzoni, and others, teaches what
the laws are of a true epic poem, what of a
dramatic, what of a lyric, what decorum is,
which is the grand masterpiece to observe.
This would make them soon perceive what
despicable creatures our common rhymers
and play -writers be; and show them what
religious, what glorious and magnificent use
might be made of poetry, both in divine and
human things. From hence, and not till now,
will be the right season of forming them to be
able writers and composers in every excellent
matter, when they shall be thus fraught with an
universal insight'into things. Or whether they
be to speak in parliament or council, honour
and attention would be waiting on their lips.
There would then also appear in pulpits other
visages, other gestures, and stuff otherwise
wrought than what we now sit under, ofttimes
to as great a trial of our patience as any other
that they preach to us. These are the studies
wherein our noble and our gentle youth ought
to bestow their time in a disciplinary way from
twelve to one-and-twenty ; unless they rely
more upon their ancestors dead than upon them-
OF EDUCATION
125
selves living. In which methodical course it
is so supposed they must proceed by the steady
pace of learning onward, as at convenient times,
for memory's sake, to retire back into the middle
ward, and sometimes into the rear of what they
have been taught,1 until they have confirmed
and solidly united the whole body of their
perfected knowledge, like the last embattling
of a Roman legion. Now will be worth the
seeing, what exercises and recreations may best
agree, and become these studies.
THEIR EXERCISE
The course of study hitherto briefly described
is, what I can guess by reading, likest to those
ancient and famous schools of Pythagoras,
Plato, Isocrates, Aristotle, and such others,
out of which were bred such a number of re-
nowned philosophers, orators, historians, poets,
and princes all over Greece, Italy, and Asia,
besides the flourishing studies of Cyrene and
Alexandria. But herein it shall exceed them,
and supply a defect as great as that which
Plato noted in the commonwealth of Sparta;
whereas that city trained up their youth most
for war, and these in their academies and
Lycasum all for the gown, this institution of
breeding which I here delineate shall be equally
good both for peace and war.
Therefore about an hour and a half ere they
eat at noon should be allowed them for exercise,
and due rest afterwards; but the time for this
may be enlarged at pleasure, according as their
rising in the morning shall be early. The
exercise which I commend first, is the exact use
of their weapon, to guard, and to strike safely
with edge or point ; this will keep them healthy,
nimble, strong, and well in breath, is also the
likeliest means to make them grow large and
tall, and to inspire them with a gallant and
fearless courage, which being tempered with
seasonable lectures and precepts to them of
true fortitude and patience, will turn into a
native and heroic valour, and make them hate
the cowardice of doing wrong. They must
be also practised in all the locks and grips
of wrestling, wherein Englishmen were wont
to excel, as need may often be in fight to tug,
to grapple, and to close. And this perhaps will
be enough, wherein to prove and heat their
single strength.
The interim of unsweating themselves regu-
larly, and convenient rest before meat, may
1 i.e. to review
both with profit and delight be taken up in
recreating and composing their travailed spirits
with the solemn and divine harmonies of music
heard or learned; either whilst the skilful
organist plies his grave and fancied descant in
lofty fugues, or the whole symphony with artful
and unimaginable touches adorn and grace the
well-studied chords of some choice composer;
sometimes the lute or soft organ stop waiting
on elegant voices, either to religious, martial,
or civil ditties; which, if wise men and proph-
ets be not extremely out, have a great power
over dispositions and manners, to smooth and
make them gentle from rustic harshness and
distempered passions. The like also would
not be unexpedient after meat, to assist and
cherish nature in her first concoction, and send
their minds back to study in good tune and
satisfaction.
Where having followed it close under vigilant
eyes, till about two hours before supper, they
are by a sudden alarum or watchword, to be
called out to their military motions, under sky
or covert, according to the season, as was the
Roman wont; first on foot, then as their age
permits, on horseback, to all the art of cavalry;
that having in sport, but with much exactness
and daily muster, served out the rudiments of
their soldiership, in all the skill of embattling,
marching, encamping, fortifying, besieging, and
battering with all the helps of ancient and
modern stratagems, tactics, and warlike max-
ims, they may as it were out of a long war come
forth renowned and perfect commanders in the
service of their country. They would not then,
if they were trusted with fair and hopeful armies,
suffer them for want of just and wise discipline
to shed away from about them like sick feathers,
though they be never so oft supplied; they
would not suffer their empty and unrecruitable
colonels of twenty men in a company, to quaff
out, or convey into secret hoards, the wages of
a delusive list, and a miserable remnant; yet
in the meanwhile to be overmastered with a
score or two of drunkards, the only soldiery
left about them, or else to comply with all
rapines and violences. No, certainly, if they
knew aught of that knowledge that belongs to
good men or good governors, they would not
suffer these things.
But to return to our own institute; besides
these constant exercises at home, there is another
opportunity of gaining experience to be won
from pleasure itself abroad; in those vernal
seasons of the year when the air is calm and
pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness
126
JOHN MILTON
against nature, not to go out and see her riches,
and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and
earth. I should not therefore be a persuader
to them of studying much then, after, two or
three years that they have well laid their
grounds, but to ride out in companies with
prudent and staid guides to all the quarters
of the land; learning and observing all places
of strength, all commodities of building and of
soil, for towns and tillage, harbours and ports
for trade. Sometimes taking sea as far as to
our navy, to learn there also what they can in
the practical knowledge of sailing and of sea-
fight. These ways would try all their peculiar
gifts of nature, and if there were any secret
excellence among them, would fetch it out, and
give it fair opportunities to advance itself by,
which could not but mightily redound to the
good of this nation, and bring into fashion again
those old admired virtues and excellencies
with far more advantage now in this purity of
Christian knowledge. Nor shall we then need
the monsieurs of Paris to take our hopeful
youth into their slight and prodigal custodies,
and send them over back again transformed into
mimics, apes, and kickshaws.1 But • if they
desire to see other countries at three or four
and twenty years of age, not to learn principles,
but to enlarge experience, and make wise ob-
servation, they will by that time be such as
shall deserve the regard and honour of all men
where they pass, and the society and friendship
of those in all places who are best and most
eminent. And perhaps, then other nations
will be glad to visit us for their breeding, or
else to imitate us in their own country.
Now lastly for their diet there cannot be much
to say, save only that it would be best in the
same house; for much time else would be lost
abroad, and many ill habits got; and that
it should be plain, healthful, and moderate, I
suppose is out of controversy. Thus, Mr.
Hartlib, you have a general view in writing, as
your desire was, of that, which at several times
I had discoursed with you concerning the best
and noblest way of education; not beginning
as some have done from the cradle, which yet
might be worth many considerations, if brevity
had not been my scope; many other circum-
stances also I could have mentioned, but this,
to such as have the worth in them to make
trial, for light and direction may be enough.
Only I believe that this is not a bow for every
man to shoot in, that counts himself a teacher;
1 triflers
but will require sinews almost equal to those
which Homer gave Ulysses; yet I am withal
persuaded that it may prove much more easy
in the assay, than it now seems at distance,
and much more illustrious; howbeit, not more
difficult than I imagine, and that imagination
presents me with, nothing but very happy, and
very possible according to best wishes; if God
have so decreed, and this age have spirit and
capacity enough to apprehend.
FROM AREOPAGITICA
A SPEECH FOR THE LIBERTY OF UN-
LICENSED PRINTING
TO THE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND
*******
I deny not but that it is of greatest concern-
ment in the church and commonwealth, to have
a vigilant eye how books demean themselves
as well as men; and thereafter to confine,
imprison, and do sharpest justice on them as
malefactors: for books are not absolutely
dead things, but do contain a potency of life
in them to be as active as that soul was whose
progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in
a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of
that living intellect that bred them. I know
they are as lively, and as vigorously productive,
as those fabulous dragon's teeth; and being
sown up and down, may chance to spring up
armed men. And yet on the other hand, unless
wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as
kill a good book; who kills a man kills a rea-
sonable creature, God's* image; but he who
destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills
the image of God as it were in the eye. Many
a man lives a burden to the earth ; but a good
book is the precious life-blood of a master
spirit, imbalmed and treasured up on purpose
to a life beyond life. 'Tis true, no age can
restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great
loss; and revolutions of ages do not oft recover
the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of
which whole nations fare the worse. We should
be wary therefore what persecution we raise
against the living labours of public men, how
we spill that seasoned life of man preserved
and, stored up in books; since we see a kind of
homicide may be thus committed, sometimes
a martyrdom, and if it extend to the whole
impression, a kind of massacre, whereof the
execution ends not in the slaying of an elemental
life, but strikes at that ethereal and fifth essence,
the breath of reason itself, slays an immortality
AREOPAGITICA
127
rather than a life. But lest I should be con-
demned of introducing license, while I oppose
licensing, I refuse not the pains to be so much
historical as will serve to show what hath been
done by ancient and famous commonwealths
against this disorder, till the very time that this
project of licensing crept out of the inquisition,
was catched up by our prelates, and hath
caught some of our presbyters.
In Athens where books and wits were ever
busier than in any other part of Greece, I find
but only two sorts of writings which the magis-
trate cared to take notice of: those either blas-
phemous a.nd atheistical, or libellous. Thus
the books of Protagoras were by the judges of
Areopagus commanded to be burnt, and him-
self banished the territory, for a discourse be-
gun with his confessing not to know whether
there were gods, or whether not: and against
defaming, it was decreed that none should be
traduced by name, as was the manner of Vetus
Comcedia,1 whereby we may guess how they
censured libelling: and this course was quick
enough, as Cicero writes, to quell both the
desperate wits of other atheists, and the open
way of defaming, as the event showed. Of
, other sects and opinions though tending to
voluptuousness and the denying of divine
providence they took no heed. Therefore we
do not read that either Epicurus, or that liber-
tine school of Cyrene, or what the Cynic im-
pudence uttered, was ever questioned by the
laws. Neither is it recorded that the writings
of those old comedians were suppressed,
though the acting of them were forbid ; and that
Plato commended the reading of Aristophanes,
the loosest of them all, to his royal scholar
Dionysius, is commonly known, and may be
excused, if holy Chrysostom, as is reported,
nightly studied so much the same author and
had the art to cleanse a scurrilous vehemence
into the style of a rousing sermon. That other
leading city of Greece, Lacedaemon, consider-
ing that Lycurgus their law-giver was so ad-
dicted to elegant learning as to have been the
first that brought out of Ionia the scattered
works of Homer, and sent the poet Thales from
Crete to prepare and mollify the Spartan surli-
ness with his smooth songs and odes, the better
to plant among them law and civility, it is
to be wondered how museless and unbookish
they were, minding nought but the feats of
war. There needed no licensing of books
among them, for they disliked all but their
1 The Old Comedy
own laconic apophthegms, and took a slight
occasion to chase Archilochus out of their city,
perhaps for composing in a higher strain than
their own soldierly ballads and roundels could
reach to; or if it were for his broad verses, they
were not therein so cautious but they were
as dissolute in their promiscuous conversing;
whence Euripides affirms in Andromache, that
their women were all unchaste. Thus much
may give us light after what sort books were
prohibited among the Greeks.
The Romans also, for many ages trained up
only to a military roughness, resembling most
of the Lacedaemonian guise, knew of learning
little but what their twelve tables, and the pon-
tific college with their augurs and flamens taught
them in religion and law, so unacquainted with
other learning that when Carneades and
Critolaus, with the stoic Diogenes, coming
ambassadors to Rome, took thereby occasion
to give the city a taste of their philosophy,
they were suspected for seducers by no less
a man than Cato the censor, who moved it in
the senate to dismiss them speedily, and to
banish all such Attic babblers out of Italy.
But Scipio and others of the noblest senators
withstood him and his old Sabine austerity;
honoured and admired the men; and the
censor himself at last in his old age fell to the
study of that whereof before he was so scru-
pulous. And yet at the same time Naevius
and Plautus, the first Latin comedians, had
filled the city with all the borrowed scenes of
Menander and Philemon. Then began to be
considered there also what was to be done to
libellous books and authors; for Naevius was
quickly cast into prison for his unbridled pen,
and released by the tribunes upon his recan-
tation; we read also that libels were burnt,
and the makers punished by Augustus. The
like severity no doubt was used if aught were
impiously written against their esteemed gods.
Except in these two points, how the world went
in books, the magistrate kept no reckoning.
And therefore Lucretius without impeachment
versifies his Epicurism to Memmius, and had
the honour to be set forth the second time by
Cicero so great a father of the commonwealth ;
although himself disputes against that opinion in
his own writings. Nor was the satirical sharp-
ness, or naked plainness of Lucilius, or Catul-
lus, or Flaccus, by any order prohibited. And
for matters of state, the story of Titus Livius,
though it extolled that part which Pompey held,
was not therefore suppressed by Octavius
Caesar of the other faction. But that Naso
128
JOHN MILTON
was by him banished in his old age for the
wanton poems of his youth, was but a mere
covert of state over some secret cause; and
besides, the books were neither banished nor
called in. From hence we shall meet with little
else but tyranny in the Roman empire, that we
may not marvel if not so often bad as good
books were silenced. I shall therefore deem
to have been large enough in producing what
among the ancients was punishable to write,
save only which, all other arguments were free
to treat on.
By this time the emperors were become Chris-
tians, whose discipline in this point I do not
find to have been more severe than what was
formerly in practice. The books of those
whom they took to be grand heretics were
examined, refuted, and condemned in the
general councils; and not till then were pro-
hibited, or burnt by authority of the emperor.
As for the writings of heathen authors, unless
they were plain invectives against Christianity,
as those of Porphyrius and Proclus, they met
with no interdict that can be cited till about the
year 400 in a Carthaginian council, wherein
bishops themselves were forbid to read the books
of Gentiles, but heresies they might read : while
others long before them on the contrary scrupled
more the books of heretics than of Gentiles.
And that the primitive councils and bishops
were wont only to declare what books were not
commendable, passing no further, but leaving
it to each one's conscience to read or to lay by,
till after the year 800, is observed already by
Padre Paolo the great unmasker of the Trentine
council. After which time the popes of Rome,
engrossing what they pleased of political rule
into their own hands, extended their dominion
over men's eyes, as they had before over their
judgments, burning and prohibiting tc ^e read
what they fancied not; yet sparing in their
censures, and the books not many which they
so dealt with ; till Martin the V by his bull not
only prohibited, but was the first that ex-
communicated the reading of heretical books;
for about that time Wickliffe and Husse grow-
ing terrible were they who first drove the papal
court to a stricter policy of prohibiting. Which
course Leo the X and his successors followed,
until the council of Trent and the Spanish
inquisition engendering together brought forth
or perfected those catalogues and exptirging
indexes that rake through the entrails of many
an old good author with a violation worse than
any could be offered to his tomb. Nor did they
stay in matteis heretical, but any subject that
was not to their palate they either condemned
in a prohibition, or had it straight into the new
purgatory of an index. To fill up the measure
of encroachment, their last invention was to
ordain that no book, pamphlet, or paper should
be printed (as if St. Peter had bequeathed them
the keys of the press also out of Paradise)
unless it were approved and licensed under the
hands of two or three glutton friars
Good and evil we know in the field of this
world grow up together almost inseparably;
and the knowledge of good is so involved and
interwoven with the knowledge of evil and in
so many cunning resemblances hardly to be
discerned, that those confused seeds, which
were imposed on Psyche as an incessant labour
to cull out and sort asunder, were not more
intermixed. It was from out the rind of one
apple tasted that the knowledge of good and
evil as two twins cleaving together leaped forth
into the world. And perhaps this is that doom
which Adam fell into of knowing good and evil,
that is to say of knowing good by evil. As
therefore the state of man now is, what wisdom
can there be to choose, what continence to
forbear, without the knowledge of evil? He
that can apprehend and consider vice with
all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet
abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer
that which is truly better, he is the true war-
faring Christian. I cannot praise a fugitive
and cloistered virtue, unexercised and un-
breathed, that never sallies out and sees her
adversary, but slinks out of the race, where
that immortal garland is to be run for not with-
out dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not
innocence into the world, we bring impurity
much rather: that which purifies us is trial,
and trial is by what is contrary. That virtue
therefore which is but a youngling in the con-
templation of evil, and knows not the utmost
that vice promises to her followers, and rejects
it, is but a blank virtue, not a pure ; her white-
ness is but an excremental whiteness; which
was the reason why our sage and serious poet
Spenser, whom I dare be known to think a
better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas, de-
scribing true temperance under the person of
Guion, brings him in with his palmer through
the cave of Mammon and the bower of earthly
bliss, that he might see and know, and yet
abstain. Since therefore the knowledge and
survey of vice is in this world so necessary
to the constituting of human virtue, and the
scanning of error to the confirmation of truth,
how can we more safelv and with less danger
AREOPAGITICA
129
scout into the regions of sin and falsity than by
reading all manner of tractates, and hearing
all manner of reason ? And this is the benefit
which may be had of books promiscuously
read.
But of the harm that may result hence three
kinds are usually reckoned : first, is feared the
infection that may spread ; but then all human
learning and controversy in religious points
must remove out of the world, yea, the Bible
itself; for that ofttimes relates blasphemy not
nicely, it describes the carnal sense of wicked
men not unelegantly, it brings in holiest men
passionately murmuring against providence
through all the arguments of Epicurus: in
other great disputes it answers dubiously and
darkly to the common reader: and ask a
Talmudist what ails the modesty of his mar-
ginal Keri,1 that Moses and all the prophets
cannot persuade him to pronounce the textual
Chetiv. For these causes we all know the Bible
itself put by the papist into the first rank of
prohibited books. The ancientest fathers must
be next removed, as Clement of Alexandria,
and that Eusebian book of evangelic prepara-
tion, transmitting our ears through a hoard of
heathenish obscenities to receive the Gospel.
Who finds not that Irenaeus, Epiphanius,
Jerome, and others discover more heresies
than they well confute, and that oft for heresy
which is the truer opinion? Nor boots it to
say for these, and all the heathen writers of
greatest infection, if it must be thought so,
with whom is bound up the life of human
learning, that they writ in an unknown tongue,
so long as we are sure those languages are
known as well to the worst of men, who are
both most able and most diligent to instil the
poison they suck, first into the courts of princes,
acquainting them with the choicest delights
and criticisms of sin. As perhaps did that
Petronius whom Nero called his arbiter, the
master of his revels; and that notorious ri-
bald 2 of Arezzo, dreaded, and yet dear to the
Italian courtiers. I name not him for pos-
terity's sake, whom Harry the VIII named
in merriment his vicar of hell. By which com-
pendious way all the contagion that foreign
books can infuse will find a passage to the people
far easier and shorter than an Indian voyage,
though it could be sailed either by the north
of Cataio eastward or of Canada westward,
1 A word in the margin to be substituted in reading
for the Chetiv (Kethib), an erroneous or unintelligible
word in the text. 2 Pietro Aretino
while our Spanish licensing gags the English
press never so severely
See the ingenuity of truth, who when she
gets a free and willing hand, opens herself
faster than the pace of method and discourse
can overtake her. It was the task which I
began with, to show that no nation, or well
instituted state, if they valued books at all, did
ever use this way of licensing; and it might
be answered, that this is a piece of prudence
lately discovered; to which I return, that as it
was a thing slight and obvious to think on, so
if it had been difficult to find out, there wanted
not among them long since who suggested such
a course; which they not following, leave us
a pattern of their judgment, that it was not the
not knowing, but the not approving, which was
the cause of their not using it. Plato, a man
of high authority indeed, but least of all for
his Commonwealth, in the book of his laws,
which no city ever yet received, fed his fancy
with making many edicts to his airy burgo-
masters, which they who otherwise admire
him wish had been rather buried and excused
in the genial cups of an academic night-sitting.
By which [aws he seems to tolerate no kind of
learning, but by unalterable decree, consisting
most of practical traditions, to the attainment
whereof a library of smaller bulk than his own
dialogues would be abundant. And there also
enacts that no poet should so much as read to
any private man what he had written, until the
judges and law-keepers had seen it and allowed
it; but that Plato meant this law peculiarly
to that Commonwealth which he had imagined,
and to no other, is evident. Why was he not
else a law-giver to himself, but a transgressor,
and to be expelled by his own magistrates,
both for the wanton epigrams and dialogues
which he made, and his perpetual reading of
Sophron Mimus * and Aristophanes, books of
grossest infamy, and also for commending the
latter of them, though he were the malicious
libeller of his chief friends, to be read by the
tyrant Dionysius, who had little need of such
trash to spend his time on ? But that he knew
this licensing of poems had reference and de-
pendence to many other provisos there set
down in his fancied republic, which in this
world could have no place; and so neither he
himself, nor any magistrate, or city ever imi-
tated that course, which taken apart from those
other collateral injunctions must needs be vain
1 Plato's dialogues are said to have been modeled
on the mimes of Sophron.
130
JOHN MILTON
and fruitless. For if they fell upon one kind of
strictness, unless their care were equal to regu-
late all other things of like aptness to corrupt
the mind, that single endeavour they knew
would be but a fond labour: to shut and fortify
one gate against corruption, and be necessi-
tated to leave others round about wide open.
If we think to regulate printing, thereby to
rectify manners, we must regulate all recrea-
tions and pastimes, all that is delightful to man.
No music must be heard, nor song be set or
sung, but what is grave and doric. There must
be licensing dancers, that no gesture, motion,
or deportment be taught our youth but what
by their allowance shall be thought honest;
for such Plato was provided of. It will ask
more than the work of twenty licensers to ex-
amine all the lutes, the violins, and the guitars
in every house; they must not be suffered to
prattle as they do, but must be licensed what
they may say. And who shall silence all the
airs and madrigals that whisper softness in
chambers? The windows also, and the bal-
conies must be thought on; there are shrewd
books with dangerous frontispieces set to sale;
who shall prohibit them? shall twenty' licen-
sers? The villages also must have their vis-
itors to inquire what lectures the bagpipe and
the rebec reads, even to the ballatry and the
gamut of every municipal fiddler, for these
are the countryman's Arcadias and his Mon-
temayors.1 Next, what more national corrup-
tion, for which England hears ill abroad, than
household gluttony? who shall be the rectors
of our daily rioting? and what shall be done to
inhibit the multitudes that frequent those houses
where drunkenness is sold and harboured?
Our garments also should be referred to the
licensing of some more sober work-masters to
see them cut into a less wanton garb. Who
shall regulate all the mixed conversation of
our youth male and female together, as is the
fashion of this country? who shall still appoint
what shall be discoursed, what presumed, and
no further? Lastly, who shall forbid and
separate all idle resort, all evil company?
These things will be, and must be; but how
they shall be least hurtful, how least enticing,
herein consists the grave and governing wisdom
of a state. To sequester out of the world into
Atlantic and Utopian polities, which never can
be drawn into use, will not mend our condition;
1 Montemayor was the author of a pastoral ro-
mance in Spanish called Diana, which was very
famous in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
but to ordain wisely as in this world of evil,
in the midst whereof God hath placed us un-
avoidably. Nor is it Plato's licensing of books
will do this, which necessarily pulls along with
it so many other kinds of licensing, as will
make us all both ridiculous and weary, and yet
frustrate; but those unwritten, or at least un-
constraining laws of virtuous education, reli-
gious and civil nurture, which Plato there
mentions as the bonds and ligaments of the
commonwealth, the pillars and the sustainers
of every written statute; these they be which
will bear chief sway in such matters as these,
when all licensing will be easily eluded. Im-
punity and remissness, for certain, are the bane
of a commonwealth; but here the great art
lies to discern in what the law is to bid restraint
and punishment, and in what things persuasion
only is to work. If every action which is good,
or evil in man at ripe years, were to be under
pittance and prescription and compulsion,
what were virtue but a name, what praise could
be then due to well-doing, what gramercy 1
to be sober, just or continent?
I lastly proceed from the no good it can do,
to the manifest hurt it causes, in being first the
greatest discouragement and affront that can
be offered to learning and to learned men.
It was the complaint and lamentation of pre-
lates upon every least breath of a motion to
remove pluralities and distribute more equally
church revenues, that then all learning would
be forever dashed and discouraged. But as
for that opinion, I never found cause to think
that the tenth part of learning stood or fell
with the clergy; nor could I ever but hold
it for a sordid and unworthy speech of any
churchman who had a competency left him.
If therefore ye be loath to dishearten utterly
and discontent, not the mercenary crew of
false pretenders to learning, but the free and
ingenuous sort of such as evidently were born
to study and love learning for itself, not for
lucre or any other end but the service of God
and of truth, and perhaps that lasting fame
and perpetuity of praise which God and good
men have consented shall be the reward
of those whose published labours advance the
good of mankind, then know, that so far to
distrust the judgment and the honesty of one
who hath but a common repute in learning and
never yet offended, as not to count him fit to
print his mind without a tutor and examiner,
1 thanks
AREOPAGITICA
lest he should drop a schism or something of
corruption, is the greatest displeasure and in-
dignity to a free and knowing spirit that can be
put upon him. What advantage is it to be
a man over it is to be a boy at school, if we
have only escaped the ferular to come under
the fescue l of an Imprimatur ? if serious and
elaborate writings, as if they were no more than
the theme of a grammar lad under his peda-
gogue, must not be uttered without the cur-
sory eyes of a temporising and extemporising
licenser? He who is not trusted with his own
actions, his drift not being known to be evil, and
standing to the hazard of law and penalty, has
no great argument to think himself reputed in
the commonwealth wherein he was born for
other than a fool or a foreigner. When a man
writes to the world, he summons up all his rea-
son and deliberation to assist him ; he searches,
meditates, is industrious, and likely consults
and confers with his judicious friends; after
all which done he takes himself to be informed
in what he writes as well as any that writ
before him; if in this the most consummate
act of his fidelity and ripeness, no years, no
industry, no former proof of his abilities can
bring him to that state of maturity as not to be
still mistrusted and suspected, unless he carry
all his considerate diligence, all his midnight
watchings, and expense of Palladian oil, to
the hasty view of an unleisured licenser, per-
haps much his younger, perhaps far his inferior
in judgment, perhaps one who never knew
the labour of book-writing, and if he be not
repulsed or slighted, must appear in print like
a puny 2 with his guardian and his censor's
hand on the back of his title to be his bail and
surety, that he is no idiot or seducer, it can-
not be but a dishonour and derogation to the
author, to the book, to the privilege and dignity
of learning.
And what if the author shall be one so copious
of fancy as to have many things well worth
the adding come into his mind after licensing,
while the book is yet under the press, which not
seldom happens to the best and diligentest
writers ; and that perhaps a dozen times in one
book? The printer dares not go beyond his
licensed copy; so often then must the author
trudge to his leave-giver, that those new
insertions may be viewed; and many a jaunt
will be made ere that licenser, for it must be
1 A small wire or twig used by teachers to point to
the letters or words which the child is to read or pro-
nounce. 2 minor
the same man, can either be found, or found at
leisure; meanwhile either the press must stand
still, which is no small damage, or the author
lose his accuratest thoughts and send the book
forth worse than he had made it, which to a
diligent writer is the greatest melancholy and
vexation that can befall.
And how can a man teach with authority,
which is the life of teaching, how can he be
a doctor in his book as he ought to be, or else
had better be silent, whenas all he teaches, all
he delivers, is but under the tuition, under the
correction of his patriarchal licenser to blot or
alter what precisely accords not with the hide-
bound humour which he calls his judgment;
when every acute reader upon the first sight of
a pedantic license, will be ready with these like
words to ding the book a coit's distance from
him: I hate a pupil teacher, I endure not an
instructor that comes to me under the ward-
ship of an overseeing fist; I know nothing of
the licenser, but that I have his own hand here
for his arrogance; who shall warrant me his
judgment? The state, Sir, replies the stationer;
but has a quick return, the state shall be my
governors, but not my critics; they may be
mistaken in the choice of a licenser as easily
as this licenser may be mistaken in an author:
this is some common stuff; and he might add
from Sir Francis Bacon, that such authorised
books are but the language of the times. For
though a licenser should happen to be judicious
more than ordinary, which will be a great
jeopardy of the next succession, yet his very
office and his commission enjoins him to let
pass nothing but what is vulgarly received
already.
Nay, which is more lamentable, if the work
of any deceased author, though never so famous
in his lifetime and even to this day, come to
their hands for license to be printed or reprinted,
if there be found in his book one sentence of a
venturous edge, uttered in the height of zeal, and
who knows whether it might not be the dictate
of a divine spirit, yet not suiting with every low
decrepit humour of their own, though it were
Knox himself, the reformer of a kingdom, that
spake it, they will not pardon him their dash ;
the sense of that great man shall to all posterity
be lost for the fearfulness or the presumptuous
rashness of a perfunctory licenser. And to
what an author this violence hath been lately
done, and in what book of greatest consequence
to be faithfully published, I could now instance,
but shall forbear till a more convenient season.
Yet if these things be not resented seriously
132
JOHN MILTON
and timely by them who have the remedy in
their power, but that such iron moulds as these
shall have authority to gnaw out the choicest
periods of exquisitest books, and to commit such
a treacherous fraud against the orphan remain-
ders of worthiest men after death, the more
sorrow will belong to that hapless race of men,
whose misfortune it is to have understanding.
Henceforth let no man care to learn, or care
to be more than worldly wise; for certainly
in higher matters to be ignorant and slothful,
to be a common steadfast dunce, will be the
only pleasant life and only in request.
And as it is a particular disesteem of every
knowing person alive, and most injurious to
the written labours and monuments of the
dead, so to me it seems an undervaluing and
vilifying of the whole nation. I cannot set
so light by all the invention, the art, the wit,
the grave and solid judgment which is in Eng-
land, as that it can be comprehended in any
twenty capacities how good soever; much less
that it should not pass except their superin-
tendence be over it, except it be sifted and
strained with their strainers, that it should
be uncurrent without their manual stamp.
Truth and understanding are not such wares
as to be monopolised and traded in by tickets
and statutes and standards. We must not
think to make a staple commodity of all the
knowledge in the land, to mark and license it
like our broadcloth and our wool packs. What
is it but a servitude like that imposed by the
Philistines, not to be allowed the sharpening of
our own axes and coulters, but we must repair
from all quarters to twenty licensing forges.
Had any one written and divulged erroneous
things and scandalous to honest life, misusing
and forfeiting the esteem had of his reason
among men, if after conviction this only cen-
sure were adjudged him, that he should never
henceforth write but what were first examined
by an appointed officer, whose hand should be
annexed to pass his credit for him that now he
might be safely read, it could not be appre-
hended less than a disgraceful punishment.
Whence to include the whole nation, and those
that never yet thus offended, under such a
diffident and suspectful prohibition, may
plainly be understood what a disparagement
it is. So much the more, whenas debtors
and delinquents may walk abroad without a
keeper, but unoffensive books must not stir
forth without a visible jailor in their title. Nor
is it to the common people less than a reproach ;
for if we be so jealous over them as that we
dare not trust them with an English pamphlet,
what do we but censure them for a giddy,
vicious, and ungrounded people, in such a
sick and weak estate of faith and discretion,
as to be able to take nothing down but through
the pipe of a licenser? That this is care or
love of them, we cannot pretend, whenas in
those popish places where the laity are most
hated and despised the same strictness is used
over them. Wisdom we cannot call it, because
it stops but one breach of license, nor that
neither; whenas those corruptions which it
seeks to prevent, break in faster at other doors
which cannot be shut
And lest some should persuade ye, Lords
and Commons, that these arguments of learned
men's discouragement at this your order, are
mere flourishes and not real, I could recount
what I have seen and heard in other countries,
where this kind of inquisition tyrannises;
when I have sat among their learned men, for
that honour I had, and been counted happy to
be born in such a place of philosophic freedom
as they supposed England was, while them-
selves did nothing but bemoan the servile
condition into which learning amongst them
was brought; that this was it which had
damped the glory of Italian wits, that nothing
had been there written now these many years
but flattery and fustian. There it was that I
found and visited the famous Galileo grown
old, a prisoner to the inquisition, for think-
ing in astronomy otherwise than the Francis-
can and Dominican licensers thought. And
though I knew that England then was groaning
loudest under the prelatical yoke, nevertheless
I took it as a pledge of future happiness, that
other nations were so persuaded of her liberty.
Yet was it beyond my hope that those worthies
were then breathing in her air, who should be
her leaders to such a deliverance as shall never
be forgotten by any revolution of time that this
world hath to finish. When that was once
begun, it was as little in my fear, that what
words of complaint I heard among learned men
of other parts uttered against the inquisition,
the same I should hear by as learned men at
home uttered in time of parliament against an
order of licensing; and that so generally, that
when I disclosed myself a companion of their
discontent, I might say, if without envy, that
he whom an honest quaestorship had endeared
to the Sicilians, was not more by them impor-
tuned against Verres than the favourable opin-
ion which I had among many who honour ye
and are known and respected by ye, loaded me
AREOPAGITICA
133
with entreaties and persuasions, that I would
not despair to lay together that which just
reason should bring into my mind toward the
removal of an undeserved thraldom upon
learning. That this is not therefore the dis-
burdening of a particular fancy, but the com-
mon grievance of all those who had prepared
their minds and studies above the vulgar pitch
to advance truth in others and from others to
entertain it, thus much may satisfy. And in
their name I shall for neither friend nor foe con-
ceal what the general murmur is ; that if it come
to inquisitioning again and licensing, and that
we are so timorous of ourselves, and so suspi-
cious of all men, as to fear each book, and the
shaking of every leaf, before we know what the
contents are, if some who but of late were little
better than silenced from preaching, shall
come now to silence us from reading except
what they please, it cannot be guessed what is
intended by some but a second tyranny over
learning; and will soon put it out of con-
troversy that bishops and presbyters are the
same to us both name and thing.
*******
There is yet behind of what I purposed to
lay open, the incredible loss and detriment that
this plot of licensing puts us to. More than
if some enemy at sea should stop up all our
havens and ports and creeks, it hinders and
retards the importation of our richest mer-
chandise, truth; nay, it was first established
and put in practice by anti-Christian malice
and mystery on set purpose to extinguish, if
it were possible, the light of reformation, and
to settle falsehood, little differing from that
policy wherewith the Turk upholds his Alco-
ran, by the prohibition of printing. 'Tis not
denied, but gladly confessed, we are to send
our thanks and vows to heaven louder than
most of nations for that great measure of truth
which we enjoy, especially in those main points
between us and the pope with his appertinences
the prelates; but he who thinks we are to pitch
our tent here, and have attained the utmost
prospect of reformation that the mortal glass
wherein we contemplate can show us till we
come to beatific vision, that man by this very
opinion declares that he is yet far short of
truth.
Truth indeed came once into the world with
her divine Master, and was a perfect shape
most glorious to look on; but when he as-
cended, and his apostles after him were laid
asleep, then straight arose a wicked race of
deceivers, who, as that story goes of the Egyp-
tian Typhon with his conspirators how they
dealt with the good Osiris, took, the virgin
Truth, hewed her lovely form into a thousand
pieces, and scattered them to the four winds.
From that time ever since, the sad friends of
Truth, such as durst appear, imitating the care-
ful search that Isis made for the mangled body
of Osiris, went up and down gathering up limb
by limb still as they could find them. We have
not yet found them all, Lords and Commons,
nor ever shall do, till her Master's second
coming; he shall bring together every joint
and member, and shall mould them into an
immortal feature of loveliness and perfection.
Suffer not these licensing prohibitions to stand
at every place of opportunity forbidding and
disturbing them that continue seeking, that
continue to do our obsequies to the torn body
of our martyred saint. We boast our light;
but if we look not wisely on the sun itself, it
smites us into darkness. Who can discern
those planets that are oft combust,1 and those
stars of brightest magnitude that rise and set
with the sun, until the opposite motion of their
orbs bring them to such a place in the firma-
ment, where they may be seen evening or
morning? The light which we have gained,
was given us, not to be ever staring on, but by
it to discover onward things more remote from
our knowledge. It is not the unfrocking of a
priest, the unmitring of a bishop, and the re-
moving him from off the Presbyterian shoulders
that will make us a happy nation ; no, if other
things as great in the church and in the rule of
life both economical and political be not looked
into and reformed, we have looked so long
upon the blaze that Zuinglius and Calvin hath
beaconed up to us, that we are stark blind.
There be who perpetually complain of schisms
and sects, and make it such a calamity that any
man dissents from their maxims. 'Tis their
own pride and ignorance which causes the
disturbing, who neither will hear with meekness
nor can convince; yet all must be suppressed
which is not found in their syntagma.2 They
are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity,
who neglect and permit not others to unite
those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting
to the body of Truth. To be still searching
what we know not by what we know, still
closing up truth to truth as we find it (for all
her body is homogeneal, and proportional),
this is the golden rule in theology as well as
in arithmetic, and makes up the best harmony
1 very close to the sun 2 system
JOHN MILTON
in a church, not the forced and outward union
of cold and neutral and inwardly divided minds.
Lords and Commons of England, consider
what nation it is whereof ye are the governors :
a nation not slow and dull, but of a quick,
ingenious, and piercing spirit, acute to invent,
subtle and sinewy to discourse, not beneath
the reach of any point the highest that human
capacity can soar to. Therefore the studies
of learning in her deepest sciences have been
so ancient and so eminent among us, that
writers of good antiquity and ablest judgment
have been persuaded that even the school of
Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom took begin-
ning from the old philosophy of this island.
And that wise and civil Roman, Julius Agricola,
who governed once here for Caesar, preferred
the natural wits of Britain before the laboured
studies of the French. Nor is it for nothing
that the grave and frugal Transylvanian sends
out yearly from as far as the mountainous
borders of Russia and beyond the Hercynian
wilderness, not their youth, but their staid
men, to learn our language and our theologic
arts. Yet that which is above all this, the
favour and the love of heaven, we have great
argument to think in a peculiar manner pro-
pitious and propending towards us. Why else
was this nation chosen before any other, that
out of her as out of Sion should be proclaimed
and sounded forth the first tidings and trumpet
of reformation to all Europe? And had it not
been the obstinate perverseness of our prelates
against the divine and admirable spirit of
Wiclif, to suppress him as a schismatic and inno-
vator, perhaps neither the Bohemian Huss and
Jerome, no, nor the name of Luther or of Cal-
vin had been ever known ; the glory of reform-
ing all our neighbours had been completely
ours. But now, as our obdurate clergy have
with violence demeaned the matter, we are
become hitherto the latest and the backwardest
scholars, of whom God offered to have made
us the teachers.
Now once again by all concurrence of signs
and by the general instinct of holy and devout
men, as they daily and solemnly express their
thoughts, God is decreeing to begin some new
and great period in his church, even to the re-
forming of reformation itself. What does he
then but reveal himself to his servants, and as
his manner is, first to his Englishmen; I say
as his manner is, first to us, though we mark
not the method of his counsels and are un-
worthy? Behold now this vast city: a city
of refuge, the mansion house of liberty, en-
compassed and surrounded with his protec-
tion ; the shop of war hath not there more an-
vils and hammers waking, to fashion out the
plates and instruments of armed justice in
defence of beleaguered truth, than there be
pens and heads there, sitting by their studious
lamps, musing, searching, revolving new no-
tions and ideas wherewith to present as with
their homage and their fealty the approaching
reformation, others as fast reading, trying all
things, assenting to the force of reason and
convincement. What could a man require
more from a nation so pliant and so prone to
seek after knowledge? What wants there to
such a towardly and pregnant soil but wise and
faithful labourers, to make a knowing people,
a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies?
We reckon more than five months yet to har-
vest; there need not be five weeks; had we
but eyes to lift up, the fields are white already.
Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puis-
sant nation rousing herself like a strong man
after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks.
Methinks I see her as an eagle muing her
mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes
at the full midday beam, purging and unseal-
ing her long abused sight at the fountain itself
of heavenly radiance, while the whole noise of
timorous and flocking birds, with those also
that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed
at what she means, and in their envious
gabble would prognosticate a year of sects and
schisms.
What should ye do then, should ye suppress
all this flowery crop of knowledge and new
light sprung up and yet springing daily in this
city, should ye set an oligarchy of twenty in-
grossers over it, to bring a famine upon our
minds again, when we shall know nothing but
what is measured to us by their bushel ? Believe
it, Lords and Commons, they who counsel ye
to such a suppressing do as good as bid ye
suppress yourselves; and I will soon show
how. If it be desired to know the immediate
cause of all this free writing and free speaking,
there cannot be assigned a truer than your own
mild and free and humane government; it is
the liberty, Lords and Commons, which your
own valorous and happy counsels have pur-
chased us, liberty which is the nurse of all
great .wits; this is that which hath rarified
and enlightened our spirits like the influence of
heaven; this is that which hath enfranchised,
enlarged and lifted up our apprehensions de-
grees above themselves. Ye cannot make us
AREOPAGITICA
now less capable, less knowing, less eagerly
pursuing of the truth, unless ye first make
yourselves, that made us so, less the lovers, less
the founders of our true liberty. We can
grow ignorant again, brutish, formal, and slav-
ish, as ye found us; but you then must first
become that which ye cannot be, oppressive,
arbitrary, and tyrannous, as they were from
whom ye have freed us. That our hearts are
now more capacious, our thoughts more erected
to the search and expectation of greatest and
exactest things, is the issue of your own virtue
propagated in us; ye cannot suppress that un-
less ye reinforce an abrogated and merciless
law, that fathers may despatch at will their own
children. And who shall then stick closest to
ye, and excite others? Not he who takes up
arms for coat and conduct and his four nobles
of Danegelt.1 Although I dispraise not the
defence of just immunities, yet love my peace
better, if that were all. Give me the liberty
to know, to utter, and to argue freely accord-
ing to conscience, above all liberties.
What would be best advised them, if it be
found so hurtful and so unequal to suppress
opinions for the newness or the unsuitableness
to a customary acceptance, will not be my
task to say; I only shall repeat what I have
learned from one of your own honourable num-
ber, a right noble and pious lord, who had he
not sacrificed his life and fortunes to the church
and commonwealth, we had not now missed
and bewailed a worthy and undoubted patron
of this argument. Ye know him I am sure;
yet I for honour's sake (and may it be eternal
to him !) shall name him, the Lord Brook. He
writing of episcopacy, and by the way treating
of sects and schisms, left ye his vote, or rather
now the last words of his dying charge, which
I know will ever be of dear and honoured re-
gard with ye, so full of meekness and breath-
ing charity, that next to His last testament,
Who bequeathed love and peace to His disci-
ples, I cannot call to mind where I have read
or heard words more mild and peaceful. He
there exhorts us to hear with patience and hu-
mility those, however they be miscalled, that
desire to live purely, in such a use of God's
ordinances, as the best guidance of their con-
science gives them, and to tolerate them, though
in some disconformity to ourselves. The book
itself will tell us more at large being published
to the world and dedicated to the parliament
by him who, both for his life and for his death,
deserves that what advice he left be not laid by
without perusal.
And now the time in special is by privilege
to write and speak what may help to the further
discussing of matters in agitation. The temple
of Janus with his two controversal l faces might
now not unsignificantly be set open. And
though all the winds of doctrine were let loose
to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field,
we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting
to misdoubt her strength. Let her and False-
hood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to
the worse in a free and open encounter? Her
confuting is the best and surest suppressing.
He who hears what praying there is for light
and clearer knowledge to be sent down among
us, would think of other matters to be consti-
tuted beyond the discipline of Geneva, framed
and fabricked already to our hands. Yet when
the new light which we beg for shines in upon
us, there be who envy and oppose, if it come not
first in at their casements. What a collusion is
this, whenas we are exhorted by the wise man
to use diligence, to seek for wisdom as for
hidden treasures early and late, that another
order shall enjoin us to know nothing but by
statute ! When a man hath been labouring
the hardest labour in the deep mines of know-
ledge, hath furnished out his findings in all
their equipage, drawn forth his reasons as it were
a battle 2 ranged, scattered and defeated all
objections in his way, calls out his adversary
into the plain, offers him the advantage of
wind and sun, if he please, only that he may
try the matter by dint of argument, for his op-
ponents then to skulk, to lay ambushments, to
keep a narrow bridge of licensing where the
challenger should pass, though it be valour
enough in soldiership, is but weakness and
cowardice in the wars of Truth. For who
knows not that Truth is strong next to the
Almighty? She needs no policies, no strata-
gems, nor licensings to make her victorious;
those are the shifts and the defences that Error
uses against her power. Give her but room,
and do not bind her when she sleeps, for then
she speaks not true, as the old Proteus did,
who spake oracles only when he was caught and
bound; but then rather she turns herself into
all shapes except her own, and perhaps tunes
her voice according to the time, as Micaiah did
before Ahab, until she be adjured into her own
likeness.
Yet is it not impossible that she may have
1 A tax levied for defense against the Danes.
1 turned opposite ways 2 battalion
i36
JEREMY TAYLOR
more shapes than one. What else is all that
rank of things indifferent, wherein Truth may
be on this side or on the other without being
unlike herself?
In the meanwhile if any one would write,
and bring his helpful hand to the slow-moving
reformation which we labour under, if Truth
have spoken to him before others, or but seemed
at least to speak, who hath so bejesuited us
that we should trouble that man with asking
license to do so worthy a deed? And not
consider this, that if it come to prohibiting,
there is not aught more likely to be prohibited
than truth itself; whose first appearance to
our eyes, bleared and dimmed with prejudice
and custom, is more unsightly and unplausible
than many errors, even as the person is of
many a great man slight and contemptible to
see to. And what do they tell us vainly of new
opinions, when this very opinion of theirs, that
none must be heard but whom they like, is the
worst and newest opinion of all others; and is
the chief cause why sects and schisms do so
much abound, and true knowledge is kept at
distance from us? Besides yet a greater dan-
ger which is in it : for when God shakes a king-
dom with strong and healthful commotions
to a general reforming, 'tis not untrue that
many sectaries and false teachers are then busi-
est in seducing; but yet more true it is, that
God then raises to his own work men of rare
abilities and more than common industry not
only to look back and revise what hath been
taught heretofore, but to gain further and go
on some new enlightened steps in the discovery
of truth. For such is the order of God's en-
lightening his church, to dispense and deal out
by degrees his beam, so as our earthly eyes
may best sustain it. Neither is God appointed
and confined, where and out of what place these
his chosen shall be first heard to speak; for he
sees not as man sees, chooses not as man chooses,
lest we should devote ourselves again to set
places and assemblies and outward callings of
men, planting our faith one while in the old
convocation house, and another while in the
chapel at Westminster; when all the faith and
religion that shall be there canonised, is not
sufficient, without plain convincement and the
charity of patient instruction, to supple the
least bruise of conscience, to edify the meanest
Christian, who desires to walk in the Spirit,
and not in the letter of human trust, for all the
number of voices that can be there made; no,
though Harry the VII himself there, with
all his liege tombs about him, should lend
them voices from the dead, to swell their
number.
And if the men be erroneous who appear to
be the leading schismatics, what withholds us
but our sloth, our self-will, and distrust in the
right cause, that we do not give them gentle
meetings and gentle dismissions, that we de-
bate not and examine the matter thoroughly
with liberal and frequent audience; if not for
their sakes, yet for our own, seeing no man
who hath tasted learning, but will confess the
many ways of profiting by those who not con-
tented with stale receipts are able to manage
and set forth new positions to the world ? And
were they but as the dust and cinders of our
feet, so long as in that notion they may serve
to polish and brighten the armory of Truth, even
for that respect they were not utterly to be
cast away. But if they be of those whom God
hath fitted for the special use of these times
with eminent and ample gifts, and those per-
haps neither among the priests nor among the
Pharisees, and we in the haste of a precipitant
zeal shall make no distinction, but resolve to
stop their mouths, because we fear they come
with new and dangerous opinions, as we com-
monly forejudge them ere we understand them,
no less than woe to us, while, thinking thus to
defend the gospel, we are found the persecutors.
JEREMY TAYLOR (1613-1667)
THE RULE AND EXERCISES OF HOLY
DYING
CHAP. I. — A GENERAL PREPARATION
TOWARDS A HOLY AND BLESSED
DEATH, BY WAY OF CONSIDERATION
SECTION II. — [Of THE VANITY AND SHORTNESS
OF MAN'S LIFE]: THE CONSIDERATION-
REDUCED TO PRACTICE
It will be very material to our best and no-
blest purposes, if we represent this scene of
change and sorrow, a little more dressed up
in circumstances; for so we shall be more apt
to practise those rules, the doctrine of which
is consequent to this consideration. It is a
mighty change, that is made by the death of
every person, and it is visible to us, who are
alive. Reckon but from the sprightfulness of
youth, and the fair cheeks and full eyes of child-
hood, from the vigorousness and strong flexure
of the joints of five-and-twenty, to the hollow-
ness and dead paleness, to the loathsomeness
THE RULE AND EXERCISES OF HOLY DYING
137
and horror of a three days' burial, and we shall
perceive the distance to be very great and very
strange. But so have I seen a rose newly
springing from the clefts of its hood, and, at
first, it was fair as the morning, and full with
the dew of heaven, as a lamb's fleece; but when
a ruder breath had forced open its virgin mod-
esty, and dismantled its too youthful and unripe
retirements, it began to put on darkness, and to
decline to softness and the symptoms of a sickly
age; it bowed the head, and broke its stalk,
and, at night, having lost some of its leaves
and all its beauty, it fell into the portion of
weeds and outworn faces. The same is the
portion of every man and every woman; the
heritage of worms and serpents, rottenness and
cold dishonour, and our beauty so changed,
that our acquaintance quickly knew us not;
and that change mingled with so much horror
or else meets so with our fears and weak dis-
coursings, that they who, six hours ago, tended
upon us, either with charitable or ambitious
sen-ices, cannot, without some regret, stay in
the room alone, where the body lies stripped
of its life and honour. I have read of a fair
young German gentleman, who, living, often
refused to be pictured, but put off the impor-
tunity of his friends' desire, by giving way,
that, after a few days' burial, they might send
a painter to his vault, and, if they saw cause for
it, draw the image of his death unto the life.
They did so, and found his face half eaten,
and his midriff and backbone full of serpents;
and so he stands pictured among his armed
ancestors. So does the fairest beauty change,
and it will be as bad with you and me; and
then, what servants shall we have to wait upon
us in the grave? what friends to visit us? what
officious people to cleanse away the moist and
unwholesome cloud reflected upon our faces
from the sides of the weeping vaults, which are
the longest weepers for our funeral?
This discourse will be useful, if we consider
and practise by the following rules and consid-
erations respectively.
i. All the rich and all the covetous men in
the world will perceive, and all the world will
perceive for them, that it is but an ill recom-
pense for all their cares, that, by this time, all
that shall be left, will be this, that the neigh-
bours shall say, "He died a rich man;" and yet
his wealth will not profit him in the grave, but
hugely swell the sad accounts of doomsday.
And he that kills the Lord's people with unjust
or ambitious wars for an unrewarding interest,
shall have this character, that he threw away
all the days of his life, that one year might be
reckoned with his name, and computed by his
reign or consulship; and many men, by great
labours and affronts, many indignities and
crimes, labour only for a pompous epitaph, and
a loud title upon their marble; whilst those,
into whose possessions their heirs or kindred
are entered, are forgotten, and lie unregarded
as their ashes, and without concernment or
relation, as the turf upon the face of their
grave. A man may read a sermon, the best
and most passionate that ever man preached,
if he shall but enter into the sepulchres of kings.
In the same Escurial, where the Spanish princes
live in greatness and power, and decree war
or peace, they have wisely placed a cemetery,
where their ashes and their glory shall sleep
till time shall be no more ; and where our kings
have been crowned, their ancestors lie interred,
and they must walk over their grandsire's
head to take his crown. There is an acre sown
with royal seed, the copy of the greatest change,
from rich to naked, from ceiled roofs to arched
coffins, from living like gods to die like men.
There is enough to cool the flames of lust, to
abate the heights of pride, to appease the itch
of covetous desires, to sully and dash out the
dissembling colours of a lustful, artificial, and
imaginary beauty. There the warlike and the
peaceful, the fortunate and the miserable, the
beloved and the despised princes mingle their
dust, and pay down their symbol of mortality,
and tell all the world, that, when we die, our
ashes shall be equal to kings', and our accounts
easier, and our pains or our crowns shall be
less. To my apprehension it is a sad record,
which is left by Athenaeus concerning Ninus,
the great Assyrian monarch, whose life and
death are summed up in these words: "Ninus,
the Assyrian, had an ocean of gold, and other
riches more than the sand in the Caspian Sea;
he never saw the stars, and perhaps he never
desired it; he never stirred up the holy fire
among the Magi, nor touched his god with the
sacred rod 'according to the laws; he never
offered sacrifice, nor worshipped the deity,
nor administered justice, nor spake to his
people, nor numbered them ; but he was most
valiant to eat and drink, and, having mingled
his wines, he threw the rest upon the stones.
This man is dead: behold his sepulchre; and
now hear where Ninus is. Sometimes I was
Ninus, and drew the breath of a living man;
but now am nothing but clay. I have nothing,
but what I did eat, and what I served to myself
in lust, that was and is all my portion. The
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JEREMY TAYLOR
wealth with which I was esteemed blessed, my
enemies, meeting together, shall bear away,
as the mad Thyades carry a raw goat. I am
gone to hell ; and when I went thither, I neither
carried gold, nor horse, nor silver chariot. I
that wore a mitre, am now a little heap of dust."
I know not anything, that can better represent
the evil condition of a wicked man, or a chang-
ing greatness. From the greatest secular dig-
nity to dust and ashes his nature bears him,
and from thence to hell his sins carry him, and
there he shall be forever under the dominion
of chains and devils, wrath and an intolerable
calamity. This is the reward of an unsancti-
fied condition, and a greatness ill gotten or
ill administered.
2. Let no man extend his thoughts, or let
his hopes wander towards future and far-dis-
tant events and accidental contingencies. This
day is mine and yours, but ye know not what
shall be on the morrow; and every morning
creeps out of a dark cloud, leaving behind it an
ignorance and silence deep as midnight, and
undiscerned as are the phantasms that make
a chrisom-child to smile: so that we cannot
discern what comes hereafter, unless we had a
light from heaven brighter than the vision of
an angel, even the spirit of prophecy. With-
out revelation, we cannot tell, whether we shall
eat to-morrow, or whether a squinancy shall
choke us: and it is written in the unrevealed
folds of Divine predestination, that many, who
are this day alive, shall to-morrow be laid upon
the cold earth, and the women shall weep over
their shroud, and dress them for their funeral.
St. James, in his epistle, notes the folly of some
men, his contemporaries, who were so impa-
tient of the event of to-morrow, or the accidents
of next year, or the good or evils of old age, that
they would consult astrologers and witches, ora-
cles, and devils, what should befall them the
next calends : what should be the event of such
a voyage, what God hath written in his book
concerning the success of battles, the election
of emperors, the heirs of families, the price of
merchandise, the return of the Tyrian fleet, the
rate of Sidonian carpets; and as they were
taught by the crafty and lying demons, so they
would expect the issue; and oftentimes by dis-
posing their affairs in order towards such events,
really did produce some little accidents accord-
ing to their expectation; and that made them
trust the oracles in greater things, and in all.
Against this he opposes his counsel, that we
should not search after forbidden records, much
less by uncertain significations; for whatsoever
is disposed to happen by the order of natural
causes or civil counsels, may be rescinded by
a peculiar decree of Providence, or be pre-
vented by the death of the interested persons;
who, while their hopes are full, and their causes
conjoined, and the work brought forward, and
the sickle put into the harvest, and the first-
fruits offered and ready to be eaten, even then,
if they put forth their hand to an event, that
stands but at the door, at that door their body
may be carried forth to burial, before the ex-
pectation shall enter into fruition. When
Richilda, the widow of Albert, earl of Ebers-
berg, had feasted the emperor Henry III, and
petitioned in behalf of her nephew Welpho for
some lands formerly possessed by the Earl her
husband; just as the Emperor held out his
hand to signify his consent, the chamber-floor
suddenly fell under them, and Richilda falling
upon the edge of a bathing vessel was bruised
to death, and stayed not to see her nephew
sleep in those lands, which the Emperor was
reaching forth to her, and placed at the door
of restitution.
3. As our hopes must be confined, so must
our designs: let us not project long designs,
crafty plots, and diggings so deep, that the in-
trigues of a design shall never be unfolded till
our grand-children have forgotten our virtues
or our vices. The work of our soul is cut
short, facile, sweet, and plain, and fitten to the
small portions of our shorter life; and as we
must not trouble our iniquity, so neither must
we intricate our labour and purposes with
what we shall never enjoy. This rule does not
forbid us to plant orchards, which shall feed our
nephews with their fruit; for by such provi-
sions they do something towards an imaginary
immortality, and do charity to their relatives:
but such projects are reproved, which dis-
compose our present duty by long and future
designs; such, which by casting our labours to
events at distance, make us less to remember
our death standing at the door. It is fit for a
man to work for his day's wages, or to contrive
for the hire of a week, or to lay a train to make
provisions for such a time, as is within our eye,
and in our duty, and within the usual periods
of man's life; for whatsoever is made neces-
sary, is also made prudent: but while we plot
and busy ourselves in the toils of an ambitious
war, or the levies of a great estate, night enters
in upon us, and tells all the world, how like
fools we lived, and how deceived and miser-
ably we died. Seneca tells of Senecio Corne-
lius, a man crafty in getting, and tenacious in
JOHN BUN VAN
139
holding a great estate, and one who was as
diligent in the care of his body as of his money,
curious of his health, as of his possessions, that
he all day long attended upon his sick and
dying friend; but, when he went away, was
quickly comforted, supped merrily, went to bed
cheerfully, and on a sudden being surprised by
a squinancy, scarce drew his breath until the
morning, but by that time died, being snatched
from the torrent of his fortune, and the swelling
tide of wealth, and a likely hope bigger than
the necessities of ten men. This accident was
much noted then in Rome, because it happened
in so great a fortune, and in the midst of wealthy
designs; and presently it made wise men to
consider, how imprudent a person he is, who
disposes of ten years to come, when he is not
lord of to-morrow.
4. Though we must not look so far off, and
pry abroad, yet we must be busy near at hand ;
we must with all arts of the spirit, seize upon
the present, because it passes from us while we
speak, and because in it all our certainty does
consist. We must take our waters as out of a
torrent and sudden shower, which will quickly
cease dropping from above, and quickly cease
running in our channels here below; this in-
stant will never return again, and yet, it may
be, this instant will declare or secure the for-
tune of a whole eternity. The old Greeks
and Romans taught us the prudence of this
rule: but Christianity teaches us the religion
of it. They so seized upon the present, that
they would lose nothing of the day's pleasure.
"Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we shall
die;" that was their philosophy; and at their
solemn feasts they would talk of death to
heighten the present drinking, and that they
might warm their veins with a fuller chalice,
as knowing the drink, that was poured upon
their graves, would be cold and without relish.
"Break the beds, drink your wine, crown your
heads with roses, and besmear your curled locks
with nard; for God bids you to remember
death:" so the epigrammatist speaks the sense
of their drunken principles. Something to-
wards this signification is that of Solomon,
"There is nothing better for a man, than that
he should eat and drink, and that he should
make his soul enjoy good in his labour; for
that is his portion; for who shall bring him
to see that, which shall be after him?" But,
although he concludes all this to be vanity,
yet because it was the best thing that was then
commonly known, that they should seize upon
the present with a temperate use of permitted
pleasures, I had reason to say, that Christian-
ity taught us to turn this into religion. For he
that by a present and constant holiness secures
the present, and makes it useful to his noblest
purposes, he turns his condition into his best
advantage, by making his unavoidable fate
become his necessary religion.
To the purpose of this rule is that collect of
Tuscan Hieroglyphics, which we have from
Gabriel Simeon. "Our life is very short,
beauty is a cozenage, money is false, and fugi-
tive; empire is odious, and hated by them
that have it not, and uneasy to them that have ;
victory is always uncertain, and peace, most
commonly, is but a fraudulent bargain; old
age is miserable, death is the period, and is a
happy one, if it be not sorrowed by the sins of
our life: but nothing continues but the effects
of that wisdom, which employs the present time
in the acts of a holy religion, and a peaceable
conscience:" for they make us to live even
beyond our funerals, embalmed in the spices
and odours of a good name, and entombed in
the grave of the holy Jesus, where we shall be
dressed for a blessed resurrection to the state
of angels and beatified spirits.
5. Since we stay not here, being people but
of a day's abode, and our age is like that of a
fly, and contemporary with a gourd, we must
look somewhere else for an abiding city, a
place in another country to fix our house in,
whose walls and foundation is God, where we
must find rest, or else be restless forever. For
whatsoever ease we can have or fancy here, is
shortly to be changed into sadness, or tedious-
ness : it goes away too soon, like the periods of
our life: or stays too long, like the sorrows
of a sinner: its own weariness, or a contrary
disturbance, is its load; or it is eased by its
revolution into vanity and forgetfulness; and
where either there is sorrow or an end of joy,
there can be no true felicity: which, because it
must be had by some instrument, and in some
period of our duration, we must carry up our
affections to the mansions prepared for us
above, where eternity is the measure, felicity
is the state, angels are the company, the Lamb
is the light, and God is the portion and inheri-
tance.
JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1688)
FROM THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
THE FIGHT WITH AEQIXYQN '
Then I saw in my dream that these good
companions, when Christian was gone to the
140
JOHN BUNYAN
bottom of the hill, gave him a loaf of bread,
a bottle of wine, and a cluster of raisins; and
then he went on his way.
But now, in this Valley of _ Humiliation, poor
Christian was hard put to it; for he had gone
but a little way, before he espied a foul fiend
coming over the field to meet him; his name
is Apollyon. Then did Christian begin to be
afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go
back or to stand his ground. But he consid-
ered again that he had no armour for his back;
and, therefore, thought that to turn the back
to him might give him the greater advantage,
with ease to pierce him with his darts. There-
fore he resolved to venture and stand his ground ;
for, thought he, had I no more in mine eye
than the saving of my life, it would be the best
way to stand.
So he went on, and Apollyon met him. Now
the monster was hideous to behold; he was
clothed with scales, like a fish (and they are
his pride), he had wings like a dragon, feet like
a bear, and out of his belly came fire and
smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of a
lion. When he was come up to Christian, he
beheld him with a disdainful countenance,
and thus began to question with him.
Apol. Whence come you? and whither are
you bound?
Chr. I am come from the ^ity of Destruc-
tion, which is the place of all evil, and am
going to the City of Zion.
Apol. By this I perceive thou art one of my
subjects, for all that country is mine, and I am
the prince and god of it. How is it, then, that
thou hast run away from thy king? Were it
not that I hope thou mayest do me more ser-
vice, I would strike thee now, at one blow, to
the ground.
Chr. I was born, indeed, in your dominions,
but your service was hard, and your wages
such as a man could not live on, "for the wages
of sin is death;" therefore, when I was come
to years, I did as other considerate persons do,
look out, if, perhaps, I might mend myself.
Apol. There is no prince that will thus
lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as yet
lose thee; but since thou complainest of thy
service and wages, be content to go back ; what
our country will afford, I do here promise to
give thee.
Chr. But I have let myself to another, even
to the King of princes; and how can I, with
fairness, go back with thee?
Apol. Thou hast done in this according to
the proverb, ' Changed a bad for a worse;"
but it is ordinary for those that have professed
themselves his servants, after a while to give
him the slip, and return again to me. Do
thou so too, and all shall be well.
Chr. I have given him my faith, and sworn
my allegiance to him; how, then, can I go
back from this, and not be hanged as a traitor?
Apol. Thou didst the same to me, and yet
I am willing to pass by all, if now thou wilt
yet turn again and go back.
Chr. What I promised thee was in my
nonage ; and, besides, I count the Prince under
whose banner now I stand is able to absolve
me; yea, and to pardon also what I did as
to my compliance with thee; and besides, O
thou destroying Apollyon! to speak truth, I
like his service, his wages, his servants, his
government, his company, and country, better
than thine; and, therefore, leave off to per-
suade me further; I am his servant, and I will
follow him.
Apol. Consider again, when thou art in cool
blood, what thou art like to meet with in the
way that thou goest. Thou knowest that, for
the most part, his servants come to an ill end,
because they are transgressors against me and
my ways. How many of them have been put
to shameful deaths ! and, besides, thou count-
est his service better than mine, whereas he
never came yet from the place where he is to
deliver any that served him out of their hands;
but as for me, how many times, as all the world
very well knows, have I delivered, either by
power or fraud, those that have faithfully
served me, from him and his, though taken by
them ; and so I will deliver thee.
Chr. His forbearing at present to deliver
them is on purpose to try their love, whether
they will cleave to him to the end; and as
for the ill end thou sayest they come to, that is
most glorious in their account; for, for present
deliverance, they do not much expect it, for
they stay for their glory, and then they shall
have it, when their Prince comes in his and
the glory of the angels.
Apol. Thou hast already been unfaithful in
thy service to him ; and how dost thou think to
receive wages of him ?
Chr. Wherein, O Apollyon! have I been
unfaithful to him?
Apol. Thou didst faint at first setting out,
when thou wast almost choked in the Gulf of
Despond; thou didst attempt wrong ways to
be rid of thy burden, whereas thou shouldest
have stayed till thy Prince had taken it off;
thou didst sinfully sleep, and lose thy choice
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
141
thing; them wast, also, almost persuaded to
go back, at the sight of the lions; and when
thou talkest of thy journey, and of what thou
hast heard and seen, thou art inwardly desir-
ous of vain-glory in all that thou sayest or doest.
Chr. All this is true, and much more which
thou hast left out; but the Prince, whom I
serve and honour, is merciful, and ready to
forgive; but, besides, these infirmities pos-
sessed me in thy country, for there I sucked
them in; and I have groaned under them, been
sorry for them, and have obtained pardon of
my Prince.
Apol. Then Apollyon broke out into a
grievous rage, saying, I am an enemy to this
Prince; I hate his person, his laws, and people;
I am come out on purpose to withstand thee.
Chr. Apollyon, beware what you do; for I
am in the king's highway, the way of holiness,
therefore take heed to yourself.
Apol. Then Apollyon straddled quite over
the whole breadth of the way, and said, I am
void of fear in this matter: prepare thyself to
die; for I swear by my infernal den, that thou
shalt go no further; here will I spill thy soul.
And with that he threw a flaming dart at his
breast; but Christian had a shield in his hand,
with which he caught it, and so prevented the
danger of that.
Then did Christian draw ; for he saw it was
time to bestir him : and Apollyon as fast made
at him, throwing darts as thick as hail; by the
which, notwithstanding all that Christian could
do to avoid it, Apollyon wounded him in his
head, his hand, and foot. This made Chris-
tian give a little back; Apollyon, therefore,
followed his work amain, and Christian again
took courage, and resisted as manfully as he
could. This sore combat lasted for above half
a day, even till Christian was almost quite
spent; for you must know, that Christian, by
reason of his wounds, must needs grow weaker
and weaker.
Then Apollyon, espying his opportunity,
began to gather up close to Christian, and
wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall;
and with that, Christian's sword flew out of his
hand. Then said Apollyon, I am sure of thee
now. And with that he had almost pressed
him to death; so that Christian began to de-
spair of life: but as God would have it, while
Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby
to make a full end of this good man, Christian
nimbly stretched out his hand for his sword,
and caught it, saying, "Rejoice not against me,
O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; " and
with that gave him a deadly thrust, which made
him give back, as one that had received his
mortal wound. Christian perceiving that,
made at him again, saying, "Nay, in all these
things we are more than conquerors, through
him that loved us." And with that Apollyon
spread forth his dragon's wings, and sped him
away, that Christian for a season saw him no
more.
In this combat no man can imagine, unless
he had seen and heard as I did, what yelling
and hideous roaring Apollyon made all the
time of the fight — he spake like a dragon ;
and, on the other side, what sighs and groans
burst from Christian's heart. I never saw him
all the while give so much as one pleasant look,
till he perceived he had wounded Apollyon with
his two-edged sword; then, indeed, he did
smile, and look upward ; but it was the dread-
fulest sight that ever I saw.
VANITY FAIR
Then I saw in my dream, that when they
were got out of the wilderness, they presently
saw a town before them, and the name of that
town is Vanity; and at the town there is a fair
kept, called Vanity Fair : it is kept all the year
long; it beareth the name of Vanity Fair, be-
cause the town where it is kept is lighter than
vanity; and also because all that is there sold,
or that cometh thither, is vanity. As is the
saying of the wise, "All that cometh is vanity."
This fair is no new-erected business, but a
thing of ancient standing; I will show you the
original of it.
Almost five thousand years agone, there
were pilgrims walking to the Celestial City as
these two honest persons are: and Beelzebub,
Apollyon, and Legion, with their companions,
perceiving by the path that the pilgrims made,
that their way to the city lay through this town
of Vanity, they contrived here to set up a fair;
a fair wherein should be sold all sorts of van-
ity, and that it should last all the year long:
therefore at this fair are all such merchandise
sold, as houses, lands, trades, places, honours,
preferments, titles, countries, kingdoms, lusts,
pleasures, and delights of all sorts, as whores,
bawds, wives, husbands, children, masters,
servants, lives, blood, bodies, souls, silver, gold,
pearls, precious stones, and what not.
And, moreover, at this fair there is at all
times to be seen juggling, cheats, games, plays,
fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of
every kind.
142
JOHN BUNYAN
Here are to be seen too, and that for nothing,
thefts, murders, adulteries, false swearers, and
that of a blood-red colour.
And as in other fairs of less moment, there
are the several rows and streets, under their
proper names, where such and such wares are
vended; so here likewise you have the proper
places, rows, streets (viz. .countries and king-
doms), where the wares of this fair are soonest
to be found. Here is the Britain Row, the
French Row, the Italian Row, the Spanish
Row, the German Row, where several sorts
of vanities are to be sold. But, as in other
fairs, some one commodity is as the chief of all
the fair, so the ware of Rome and her merchan-
dise is greatly promoted in this fair; only our
English nation, with some others, have taken a
dislike thereat.
Now, as I said, the way to the Celestial City
lies just through this town where this lusty fair
is kept ; and he that will go to the City, and yet
not go through this town, must needs "go out
of the world." The Prince of princes him-
self, when here, went through this town to his
own country, and that upon a fair day too;
yea, and as I think, it was Beelzebub, the chief
lord of this fair, that invited him to buy of his
vanities; yea, would have made him lord of
the fair, would he but have done him rever-
ence as he went through the town. Yea, be-
cause he was such a person of honour, Beel-
zebub had him from street to street, and showed
him all the kingdoms of the world in a little
time, that he might if possible, allure the Blessed
One to cheapen and buy some of his vanities;
but he had no mind to the merchandise, and
therefore left the town, without laying out so
much as one farthing upon these vanities. This
fair, therefore, is an ancient thing, of long
standing, and a very great fair. Now these
Pilgrims, as I said, must needs go through this
fair. Well, so they did; but, behold, even as
they entered into the fair, all the people in the
fair were moved, and the town itself as it were
in a hubbub about them ; and that for several
reasons; for —
First, The pilgrims were clothed with such
kind of raiment as was diverse from the rai-
ment of any that traded in that fair. The
people, therefore, of the fair, made a great
gazing upon them : some said they were fools,
some they were bedlams, and some they are
outlandish men.
Secondly, And as they wondered at their
apparel, so they did likewise at their speech;
for few could understand what they said ; they
naturally spoke the language of Canaan, but
they that kept the fair were the men of this
world; so that, from one end of the fair to
the other, they seemed barbarians each to the
other.
Thirdly, But that which did not a little amuse
the merchandisers was, that these pilgrims set
very light by all their wares; they cared not
so much as to look upon them; and if they
called upon them to buy, they would put their
fingers in their ears, and cry, "Turn away
mine eyes from beholding vanity," and look
upwards, signifying that their trade and traffic
was in heaven.
One chanced mockingly, beholding the car-
riage of the men, to say unto them, " What will
ye buy ? " But they, looking gravely upon him,
answered, "We buy the truth." At that there
was an occasion taken to despise the men the
more: some mocking, some taunting, some
speaking reproachfully, and some calling upon
others to smite them. At last things came to
a hubbub, and great stir in the fair, insomuch
that all order was confounded. Now was word
presently brought to the great one of the fair,
who quickly came down, and deputed some of
his most trusty friends to take these men into
examination, about whom the fair was almost
overturned. So the men were brought to
examination; and they that sat upon them,
asked them whence they came, whither they
went, and what they did there in such an un-
usual garb? The men told them, that they
were pilgrims and strangers in the world, and
that they were going to their own country,
which was the heavenly Jerusalem; and that
they had given no occasion to the men of the
town, nor yet to the merchandisers, thus to
abuse them, and to let them in their journey,
except it was, for that, when one asked them
•what they would buy, they said they would
buy the truth. But they that were appointed
to examine them did not believe them to be any
other than bedlams and mad, or else such as
came to put all things into a confusion in the
fair. Therefore they took them and beat
them, and besmeared them with dirt, and then
put them into the cage, that they might be made
a spectacle to all the men of the fair. There,
therefore, they lay for some time, and were
made the objects of any man's sport, or malice,
or revenge, the great one of the fair laughing
still at all that befell them. But the men being
patient, and not rendering railing for railing, but
contrariwise, blessing, and giving good words
for bad, and kindness for injuries done, some
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE
143
men in the fair that were more observing, and
less prejudiced than the rest, began to check
and blame the baser sort for their continual
abuses done by them to the men ; they, there-
fore, in angry manner, let fly at them again,
counting them as bad as the men in the cage,
and telling them that they seemed confeder-
ates, and should be made partakers of their
misfortunes. The other replied, that for aught
they could see, the men were quiet, and sober,
and intended nobody any harm ; and that
there were many that traded in their fair, that
were more worthy to be put into the cage, yea,
and pillory too, than were the men that they
had abused. Thus, after divers words had
passed on both sides, the men behaving them-
selves all the while very wisely and soberly
before them, they fell to some blows among
themselves, and did harm one to another.
Then were these two poor men brought
before their examiners again, and there
charged as being guilty of the late hubbub
that had been in the fair. So they beat them
pitifully, and hanged irons upon them, and led
them in chains up and down the fair, for an
example and a terror to others, lest any should
speak in their behalf, or join themselves unto
them. But Christian and Faithful behaved
themselves yet more wisely, and received the
ignominy and shame that was cast upon them,
with so much meekness and patience, that it
won to their side, though but few in compari-
son of the rest, several of the men in the fair.
This put the other party yet into greater rage,
insomuch that they concluded the death of
these two men. Wherefore they threatened,
that the cage nor irons should serve their turn,
but that they should die, for the abuse they
had done, and for deluding the men of the fair.
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE (1628-1699)
OBSERVATIONS UPON THE UNITED
PROVINCES OF THE NETHERLANDS
CHAP. VIII. — THE CAUSES OF THEIR
FALL, IN 1672
It must be avowed, that as this State, in the
course and progress of its greatness for so
many years past, has shined like a comet; so,
in the revolutions of this last summer, it seemed
to fall like a meteor, and has equally amazed
* the world by the one and the other. When we
consider such a power and wealth, as was re-
lated in the last chapter, to have fallen in a
manner prostrate within the space of one
month; so many frontier towns, renowned in
the sieges and actions of the Spanish wars, en-
tered like open villages by the French troops,
without defence, or almost denial; most of
them without any blows at all, and all of them
with so few; their great rivers, that were es-
teemed an invincible security to the provinces
of Holland and Utrecht, passed with as much
ease, and as small resistances, as little fords;
and in short, the very heart of a nation, so
valiant of old against Rome, so obstinate
against Spain, now subdued, and, in a manner,
abandoning all before their danger appeared:
we may justly have our recourse to the secret
and fixed periods of all human greatness, for
the account of such a revolution ; or rather to
the unsearchable decrees and irresistible force
of divine providence; though it seems not more
impious to question it, than to measure it by
our scale ; or reduce the issues and motions of
that eternal will and power to a conformity
with what is esteemed just, or wise, or good,
by the usual consent, or the narrow compre-
hension of poor mortal men.
But, as in the search and consideration even
of things natural and common, our talent, I
fear, is to talk rather than to know ; so we may
be allowed to inquire and reason upon all
things, while we do not pretend to certainty, or
call that undeniable truth, which is every day
denied by ten thousand; nor those opinions
unreasonable, which we know to be held by
such, as we allow to be reasonable men; I
shall therefore set down such circumstances,
as to me seem most evidently to have con-
spired in this revolution; leaving the causes
less discernible to the search of more discern-
ing persons.
And first, I take their vast trade, which was
an occasion of their greatness, to have been
one likewise of their fall, by having wholly
diverted the genius of their native subjects, and
inhabitants, from arms, to traffic and the arts
of peace; leaving the whole fortune of their
later wars to be managed by foreign and mer-
cenary troops; which much abased the cour-
age of their nation (as was observed in another
chapter) and made the burghers of so little
moment towards the defence of their towns;
whereas in the famous sieges of Haerlem, Alc-
mer, and Leyden, they had made such brave
and fierce defences, as broke the heart of the
Spanish armies, and the fortune of their affairs.
Next was the peace of Munster, which had
left them now, for above twenty years, too se-
cure of all invasions, or enemies at land; and
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE
so turned their whole application to the strength
of their forces at sea; which have been since
exercised with two English wars in that time,
and enlivened with the small yearly expedi-
tions into the Straits against the Algerines,
and other Corsairs of the Mediterranean.
Another was, their too great parsimony, in
reforming so many of their best foreign officers
and troops, upon the peace of Munster; whose
valour and conduct had been so great occasions
of inducing Spain to the councils and conclu-
sions of that treaty.
But the greatest of all other, that concurred
to weaken, and indeed break, the strength of
their land milice,1 was the alteration of their
Staj£, which happened by the Perpetual Edict of
Holland and West-Friezland, upon the death
of the last Prince of Orange, for exclusion of
the power of Stadtholder in their Province, or
at least the separation of it from the charge
of Captain-General. Since that time, the main
design and application of those Provinces has
been, to work out, by degrees, all the old offi-
cers, both native and foreign, who had been
formerly sworn to the Prince of Orange, and
were still thought affectionate to the interest
of that family; and to fill the commands of
their army, with the sons, or kinsmen, of their
burgomasters, and other officers or deputies
in the State, whom they esteemed sure to the
constitutions of their popular government,
and good enough for an age, where they
saw no appearance of enemy at land to attack
them.
But the humour of kindness to the young
Prince, both in the people and army, was not
to be dissolved, or dispersed, by any medi-
cines, or operations, either of rigour or artifice ;
but grew up insensibly, with the age of the
Prince, ever presaging some revolution in the
State, when he should come to the years of as-
piring, and managing the general affections of
the people; being a Prince, who joined to the
great qualities of his Royal blood, the popular
virtues of his country; silent and thoughtful;
given to hear, and to inquire; of a sound and
steady understanding; much firmness in what
he once resolves, or once denies; great indus-
try and application to his business, little to his
pleasures; piety in the religion of his coun-
try, but with charity to others; temperance un-
usual to his youth, and to the climate; frugal in
the common management of his fortune, and
yet magnificent upon occasion; of great spirit
1 militia
and heart, aspiring to the glory of military ac-
tions, with strong ambition to grow great, but
rather by the service, than the servitude of his
country. In short, a Prince of many virtues,
without any appearing mixture of vice.
In the English war, begun the year 1665,
the States disbanded all the English troops
that were then left in their service, dispersing
the officers and soldiers of our nation, who
stayed with them, into other companies, or
regiments of their own. After the French in-
vasion of Flanders, and the strict alliance
between England and Holland in 1668, they
did the same by all the French that were re-
maining in their service: so as the several
bodies of these two nations, which had ever
the greatest part in the honour and fortune of
their wars, were now wholly dissolved, and!
their standing milice composed, in a manner,
all of their own natives, enervated by the long
uses and arts of traffic, and of peace.
But they were too great a match for any of
the smaller Princes their neighbours in Ger-
many; and too secure of any danger from
Spain, by the knowledge of their forces, as
well as dispositions; and being strictly allied
both with England and Sweden, in two sev-
eral defensive leagues, and in one common
triple alliance, they could not foresee any
danger from France, who, they thought, would
never have the courage, or force, to enter
the lists with so mighty confederates; and
who were sure of a conjunction, whenever
they pleased, both with the Emperor and
Spain.
Besides, they knew that France could not
attack them, without passing through Flanders
or Germany: they were sure Spain would not
suffer it, through the first, if they were backed
in opposing it, as foreseeing the inevitable loss
of Flanders, upon that of Holland: and they
could hardly believe, the passage should be
yielded by a German Prince, contrary to the
express will and intentions of the Emperor, as
well as the common interests of the empire:
so that they hoped the war would, at least,
open in their neighbours' provinces, for whose
defence they resolved to employ the whole
force of their State; and would have made a
mighty resistance, if the quarrel had begun at
any other doors, but their own.
They could not imagine a conjunction be-
tween England and France, for the ruin of
their State; for, being unacquainted with our
constitutions, they did not foresee, how we
should find our interest in it, and measured all
THE UNITED PROVINCES OF THE NETHERLANDS
145
states, by that which they esteemed to be their
interest. Nor could they believe, that other
Princes and States of Europe would suffer such
an addition to be made to the power of France,
as a conquest of Holland.
Besides these public considerations, there
were others particular to the factions among
them : and some of their Ministers were neither
forward nor supple enough to endeavour the
early breaking, or diverting, such conjunc-
tures, as threatened them; because they were
not without hopes, they might end in renew-
ing their broken measures with France ; which
those of the commonwealth-party were more
inclined to, by foreseeing the influence that
their alliances with England must needs have
in time, towards the restoring of the Prince of
Orange's authority: and they thought at the
worst, that, whenever a pinch came, they
could not fail of a safe bargain, in one market
or other, having so vast a treasure ready to
employ upon any good occasion.
These considerations made them commit
three fatal oversights in their foreign negotia-
tions: for they made an alliance with Eng-
land, without engaging a confidence and friend-
ship: they broke their measures with France,
without closing new ones with Spain : and they
reckoned upon the assistances of Sweden, and
their neighbour-Princes of Germany, without
making them sure by subsidiary advances,
before a war began.
Lastly, the Prince of Orange was approach-
ing the two and twentieth year of his age, which
the States of Holland had, since their alliance
with his Majesty in 1668, ever pretended should
be the time of advancing him to the charge of
Captain -General and Admiral of their forces,
though without that of Stadtholder. But the
nearer they drew to this period, which was like
to make a new figure in their government, the
more desirous some of their Ministers seemed,
either to decline, or to restrain it. On the
other side, the Prince grew confident upon the
former promises, or, at least, intimations, of
Holland, and the concurring dispositions of the
other six Provinces to his advancement: and
his party, spirited by their hopes, and the great
qualities of this young Prince fnnw gffiwn
ripe for action, and for enterprise) resolved to
bring this point to a sudden decision ; against
which, the other party prepared, and united all
their defences; so, as this strong disease, that
had been so long working in the very bowels
of the State, seemed just upon its crisis; when
a conjunction of two mighty Kings brought
upon them a sudden and furious invasion by
land and sea, at the same time, by a royal fleet
of above fourscore ships, and an army of as
many thousand men.
When the States saw this cloud ready to
break upon them (after a long, belief, that it
would blow over) they began, not only to pro-
vide shelter at home with their usual vigour,
but to look out for it abroad (though both too
late). Of the Princes that were their allies, or
concerned in their danger, such as were far off
could not be in time ; the nearer were unwilling
to share in a danger they were not prepared for;
most were content to see the pride of this State
humbled; some the injuries they had received
from them, revenged; many would have them
mortified, that would not have them destroyed;
and so all resolved to leave them to weather
the storm, as they could, for one campania; l
which, they did not believe, could go far to-
wards their ruin, considering the greatness of
their riches, number of their forces, and
strength of their places.
The State, in the meantime, had increased
their troops to seventy thousand men, and had
begun to repair the fortifications of their fron-
tier towns : but so great a length of their coun-
try lay open to the French invasion, by the
territories of Colen and Liege, and to the Bishop
of Munster (their inveterate enemy) by West-
phalia, that they knew not where to expect or
provide against the first danger: and while
they divided their forces and endeavours
towards the securing of so many garrisons,
they provided for none to any purpose but
Maestricht ; which the French left behind them,
and fell in upon the towns of the Rhine, and
the heart of their Provinces.
Besides, those Ministers, who had still the
direction of affairs, bent their chief application
to the strength and order of their fleet, rather
than of their army: whether more pecked at
England than France, upon the war and man-
ner of entering into it : or believing that a vic-
tory at sea would be the way to a peace with
this crown: or, hoping their towns would not
fall so fast, but that, before three or four were
lost, the business at sea would be decided: or,
perhaps content, that some ill successes should
attend the Prince of Orange at his first entrance
upon the command of their armies, and thereby
contribute to their designs of restraining his
authority, while they were forced to leave him
the name of Captain-General. This, indeed,
1 campaign
146
JOHN DRYDEN
was not likely to fail, considering the ill con-
stitution of their old army, the hasty levies of
their new, and the height of the factions now
broken out in the State; which left both the
towns and the troops in suspense, under whose
banners they fought, and by whose orders they
were to be governed, the Prince's or the State's.
There happened, at the same time, an acci-
dent unusual to their climate, which was a
mighty drought in the beginning of the sum-
mer, that left their waters fordable in places
where they used to be navigable for boats of
greatest burden. And this gave them more
trouble and distraction in the defence, as their
enemies more facility in the passage of those
great rivers, which were esteemed no small
security of their country.
And in this posture were the affairs of this
commonwealth, when the war broke out, with
those fatal events, that must needs attend any
kingdom, or state, where the violence of a for-
eign invasion happens to meet with the dis-
tracted estate of a domestic sedition or discon-
tent, which, like ill humours in a body, make
any small wound dangerous, and a great one
mortal. They were still a great body, but
without their usual soul; they were a State,
but it was of the dis-united Provinces. Their
towns were without order; their burghers with-
out obedience ; their soldiers without discipline ;
and all without heart: whereas, in all sieges,
the hearts of men defend the walls, and not
walls the men: and indeed, it was the name
of England joining in the war against them,
that broke their hearts, and contributed more
to the loss of so many towns, and so much
country, than the armies of Munster, or France.
So that, upon all circumstances considered, it
seems easier to give an account, what it was
that lost them so much, than what saved them
the rest. * * *
JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700)
t»w5c5r<v«.*{^Vv^ «»•> . ' t t ~\
FROM AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY
IL, fry /,, f- >v- v A /fuu3^»v
It was that memorable day, in the first sum-
mer of the late war, when our navy engaged the
Dutch; a day wherein the two most mighty
and best appointed fleets which any age had
ever seen, disputed the command of the greater
half of the globe, the commerce of nations, and
the riches of the universe: while these vast
floating bodies, on either side, moved against
each other in parallel lines, and our country-
men, under the happy conduct of his Royal
Highness, went breaking, by little and little,
into the line of the enemies; the noise of the
cannon from both navies reached our ears about
the city; so that all men being alarmed with it,
and in a dreadful suspense of the event, which
they knew was then deciding, every one went
following the sound as his fancy led him; and
leaving the town almost empty, some took
towards the Park, some cross the river, others
down it; all seeking the noise in the depth of
silence.
Amongst the rest, it was the fortune of Eu.
genius, Crites^ Lisideius, and Neander, to be
in company togetheF! three 6Ttnem~persons
whom their wit and quality have made known
to all the town; and whom I have chose to hide
under these borrowed names, that they may
not suffer by so ill a relation as I am going to
make of their discourse.
Taking then a barge, which a servant of
Lisideius had provided for them, they made
haste to shoot the bridge, and left behind them
that great fall of waters which hindered them •
from hearing what they desired: after which,
having disengaged themselves from many
vessels which rode at anchor in the Thames,
and almost blocked up the passage towards
Greenwich, they ordered the watermen to let
fall their oars more gently ; and then every one
favouring his own curiosity with a strict silence,
it was not long ere they perceived the air to
break about them like the noise of distant
thunder, or of swallows in a chimney: those
little undulations of sound, though almost
vanishing before they reached them, yet still
seeming to retain somewhat of their first horror
which they had betwixt the fleets. After they
had attentively listened till such time as the
sound by little and little went from them,
Eugenius, lifting up his head, and taking notice
of it, was the first who congratulated to the
rest that happy omen of our nation's victory:
adding, that we had but this to desire in con-
firmation of it, that we might hear no more
of that noise which was now leaving the English
coast. When the rest had concurred in the
same opinion, Crites, a person of a sharp judg-
ment, and somewhat too delicate a taste in wit,
which the world hath mistaken in him for ill
nature, said, smiling to us, that if the concern-
ment of this battle had not been so exceeding
great, he could scarce have wished the victory
at the price he knew he must pay for it, in being
subject to the reading and hearing of so many
ill verses as he was sure would be made on that
subject. Adding, that no argument could
AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY
147
'scape some of those eternal rhymers, who
watch a battle with more diligence than the
ravens and birds of prey; and the worst of
them surest to be first in upon the quarry;
while the better able, either out of modesty
writ not at all, or set that due value upon their
poems, as to let them be often desired, and long
expected. There are some of those imperti-
nent people of whom you speak, answered
Lisideius, who, to my knowledge, are already
so provided, either way, that they can produce
not only a panegyric upon the victory, but, if
need be, a funeral elegy on the duke ; wherein,
after they have crowned his valour with many
laurels, they will at last deplore the odds under
which he fell, concluding, that his courage
deserved a better destiny. . . .
If your quarrel (said Eugenius) to those who
now write, be grounded only on your reverence
to antiquity, there is no man more ready to
adore those great Greeks and Romans than I
am: but, on the other side, I cannot think so
-contemptibly of the age in which I live, or so
dishonourably of my own country, as not to
judge we equal the ancients in most kinds of
poesy, and in some surpass them ; neither know
I any reason why I may not be as zealous for
the reputation of our age, as we find the ancients
themselves were in reverence to those who lived
before them. For you hear your Horace say-
ing,
IndignoT quidquam reprehendi, non quia crasse
Compositum, illepideve putetur, scd quia nuper.1
And after:
Si meliora dies, ui vina, poemata reddit,
Scire velim, pretium diartis quotus arroget annus ? 2
But I see I am engaging in a wide dispute,
where the arguments are not like to reach close
on either side ; for poesy is of so large an extent,
and so many, both of the ancients and moderns,
have done well in all kinds of it, that in citing
one against the other, we shall take up more
time this evening, than each man's occasions
will allow him: therefore I would ask Crites
to what part of poesy he would confine his ar-
guments, and whether he would defend the
general cause of the ancients against the mod-
1 I am indignant when anything is blamed, not
because it is regarded as badly or inelegantly written,
but because it was written recently. 2 If time
makes poems better, as it does wines, I should
like to know what length of years confers value on
writings.
erns, or oppose any age of the moderns against
this of ours.
Crites, a little while considering upon this
demand, told Eugenius, that if he pleased he
would limit their dispute to Dramatic Poesy;
in which he thought it not difficult to prove,
either that the ancients were superior to the
moderns, or the last age to this of ours.
Eugenius was somewhat surprised, when he
heard Crites make choice of that subject. For
aught I see, said he, I have undertaken a harder
province than I imagined; for, though I never
judged the plays of the Greek or Roman poets
comparable to ours, yet, on the other side, those
we now see acted come short of many which
were written in the last age. But my comfort
is, if we are overcome, it will be only by our own
countrymen: and if we yield to them in this
one part of poesy, we more surpass them in all
the other; for in the epic or lyric way, it will
be hard for them to show us one such amongst
them, as we have many now living, or who
lately were. They can produce nothing so
courtly writ, or which expresses so much the
conversation of a gentleman, as Sir John Suck-
ling; nothing so even, sweet, and flowing, as
Mr. Waller; nothing so majestic, so correct,
as Sir John Denham; nothing so elevated, so
copious, and full of spirit, as Mr. Cowley.
As for the Italian, French, and Spanish plays,
I can make it evident, that those who now
write, surpass them; and that the drama is
wholly ours.
All of them were thus far of Eugenius his
opinion, that the sweetness of English verse
was never understood or practised by our
fathers; even Crites himself did not much
oppose it: and every one was willing to ac-
knowledge how much our poesv is improved,
by the happiness of some writers yet living;
who first taught us to mould our thoughts into
easy and significant words, to retrench the
superfluities of expression, and to make our
rhyme so properly a part of the verse, that it
should never mislead the sense, but itself be
led and governed by it.
Eugenius was going to continue this discourse,
when Lisideius told him, that it was necessary,
before they proceeded further, to take a stand-
ing measure of their controversy; for how was
it possible to be decided, who wrote the best
plays, before we know what a play should be?
but, this once agreed on by both parties, each
might have recourse to it, either to prove his
own advantages, or to discover the failings of
his adversary.
148
JOHN DRYDEN
He had no sooner said this, but all desired the
favour of him to give the definition of a play;
and they were the more importunate, because
neither Aristotle, nor Horace, nor any other,
who had writ of that subject, had ever done it.
Lisideius, after some modest denials, at last
confessed he had a rude notion of it; indeed
rather a description than a definition ; but which
served to guide him in his private thoughts,
when he was to make a judgment of what
others writ : that he conceived a plav ought to
be, "A just and lively image of human nature,
representing its passions and humours, and
the changes of fortune to which it is subject,
for the delight and instruction of mankind."
This definition (though Crites raised a logi-
cal objection against it — that it was only
a genere et fine, and so not altogether perfect)
was yet well received by the rest: and after
they had given order to the watermen to turn
their barge, and row softly, that they might
take the cool of the evening in their return,
Crites, being desired by the company to begin,
spoke on behalf of the ancients, in this man-
ner: —
If confidence presage a victory, Eugenius,
in his own opinion, has already triumphed over
the ancients: nothing seems more easy to him,
than to overcome those whom it is our greatest
praise to have imitated well ; for we do not only
build upon their foundations, but by their
models. DjgmaJic^jgggy had time enough,
reckoning from Thespis (who first invented it)
to Aristophanes, to be born, to grow up, and
to flourish in maturity. It has been observed
of arts and sciences, that in one and the same
century they have arrived to great perfection:
and no wonder, since every age has a kind of
universal genius, which inclines those that live
in it to some particular studies: the work
then being pushed on by many hands, must of
necessity go forward.
Is it not evident, in these last hundred years,
(when the study of philosophy has been the
business of all the Virtuosi in Christendom,)
that almost a new nature has been revealed to
us? that more errors of the school have been
detected, more useful experiments in philoso-
phy have been made, more noble secrets
in optics, medicine, anatomy, astronomy,
discovered, than in all those credulous and
doting ages from Aristotle to us ? — so true it
is, that nothing spreads more fast than science,
when rightly and generally cultivated.
Add to this, the more than common emula-
tion that was in those times, of writing well;
which though it be found in all ages, and all
persons that pretend to the same reputation,
yet poesy being then in more esteem than now
it is, had greater honours decreed to the pro-
fessors of it, and consequently the rivalship
was more high between them. They had
judges ordained to decide their merit, and
prizes to reward it; and historians have been
diligent to record of ^Eschylus, Euripides,
Sophocles, Lycophron, and the rest of them,
both who they were that vanquished in these
wars of the theatre, and how often they were
crowned: while the Asian kings and Grecian
commonwealths scarce afforded them a nobler
subject, than the unmanly luxuries of a de-
bauched court, or giddy intrigues of a factious
city: Alit cemulatio ingenia, (says Paterculus)
et nunc invidia, nunc admiratio incitationem
accendit: Emulation is the spur of wit; and
sometimes envy, sometimes admiration, quick-
ens our endeavours.
But now since the rewards of honour are
taken away, that virtuous emulation is turned
into direct malice ; yet so slothful, that it contents
itself to condemn and cry down others, without
attempting to do better: 'tis a reputation too
unprofitable, to take the necessary pains for it;
yet wishing they had it, that desire is incite-
ment enough to hinder others from it. And
this, in short, Eugenius, is the reason, why
you have now so few good poets, and so many
severe judges. Certainly, to imitate the an-
cients well, much labour and long study is
required; which pains, I have already shown,
our poets would want encouragement to take,
if yet they had ability to go through the work.
Those ancients have been faithful imitators,
and wise observers of that nature which is so
torn and ill represented in our plays; they
have handed down to us a perfect resemblance
of her; which we, like ill copiers, neglecting
to look on, have rendered monstrous, and dis-
figured. But, that you may know how much
you are indebted to those your masters, and be
ashamed to have so ill requited them, I must
remember you, that all the rules by which we
practise the drama at this day, (either such as
relate to the justness and symmetry of the plot;
or the episodical ornaments, such as descrip-
tions, narrations, and other beauties, which are
not essential to the play;) were delivered to us
from the observations which Aristotle made,
of those poets, who either lived before him,
or were his contemporaries. We have added
nothing of our own, except we have the con-
fidence to say, our wit is better; of which none
AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC TOESY
149
boast in this our age, but such as understand
not theirs. Of that book which Aristotle has
left us, Trept T^S IIoiT/Ti/c?}?, Horace his "Art of
Poetry," is an excellent comment, and, I be-
lieve, restores to us that Second Book of his
concerning comedy, which is wanting in him.
Out of these two have been extracted the
famous rules which the French call Les Trois
Unites, or the JT^rge^^nfties, which ought to
be observed in ever^?gular play; namely, of
time, place, arifj action .
The unity of time they comprehend in twenty-
four hours, the compass of a natural day, or
as near as it can be contrived; and the reason
of it is obvious to every one, — that the^ifij£
of the feigned action, or fable of the play, should
be proportioned as near as can be to the dura-
tion of that time in which it is represented:
since therefore all plays are acted on the theatre
in a space of time much within the compass
of twenty-four hours, that play is to be thought
the nearest imitation of nature, whose plot
or action is confined within that time. And,
by the same rule which concludes this general
proportion of time, it follows, that all the parts
of it are (as near as may be) to be equally sub-
divided; namely, that one act take not up the
supposed time of half a day, which is out of
proportion to the rest ; since the other four are
then to be straitened within the compass of
the remaining half: for it is unnatural, that one
act, which being spoke or written, is not longer
than the rest, should be supposed longer by
the audience; it is therefore the poet's duty,
to take care, that no act should be imagined to
exceed the time in which it is represented on
the stage ; and that the intervals and inequali-
ties of time be supposed to fall out between
the acts.
This rule of time, how well it has been ob-
served by the ancients, most of their plays will
witness. You see them in their tragedies,
(wherein to follow this rule is certainly most
difficult,) from the very beginning of their
plays, falling close into that part of the story
which they intend for the action, or principal
object of it, leaving the former part to be de-
livered by narration : so that they set the au-
dience, as it were, at the post where the race
is to be concluded ; and saving them the tedious
expectation of seeing the poet set out and ride
the beginning of the course, they suffer you not
to behold him, till he is in sight of the goal,
and just upon you.
For the second unity, which is tha^pj£jjlji££f
the ancients meant by it, that the scene ought
to be continued through the play, in the same
place where it was laid in the beginning: for
the stage, on which it is represented, being but
one and the same place, it is unnatural to con-
ceive it many; and those far distant from one
another. I will not deny, but by the varia-
tion of painted scenes, the fancy (which in these
cases will contribute to its own deceit) may
sometimes imagine it several places, with some
appearance of probability; yet it still carries
the greater likelihood of truth, if those places
be supposed so near each other, as in the same
town or city, which may all be comprehended
under the larger denomination of one place:
for a greater distance will bear no proportion
to the shortness of time which is allotted, in
the acting, to pass from one of them to another.
For the observation of this, next to the ancients,
the French are to be most commended. They
tie themselves so strictly to the unity of place,
that you never see in any of their plays, a scene
changed in the middle of an act: if the act
begins in a garden, a street, or chamber, 'tis
ended in the same place; and that you may
know it to be the same, the stage is so supplied
with persons, that it is never empty all the time :
he who enters second, has business with him
who was on before; and before the second
quits the stage, a third appears who has busi-
ness with him. This Corneille calls la liaison
des Scenes, the continuity or joining of the
scenes; and 'tis a good mark of a well-con-
trived play, when all the persons are known
to each other, and every one of them has some
affairs with all the rest.
As for the third unity, which is thjjLt^L^tion,
the ancients meant no other by it than what the
logicians do by their finis, the end or scope of
any action ; that which is the first in intention,
and last in execution. Now the poet is to aim
at one great and complete action, to the carry-
ing on of which all things in his play, even the
very obstacles, are to be subservient; and the
reason of this is as evident as any of the former.
For two actions equally laboured and driven
on by the writer, would destroy the unity of
the poem; it would be no longer one play,
but two: not but that there may be many ac-
tions in a play, as Ben Jonson has observed
in his "Discoveries"; but they must be all
subservient to the great one, which our lan-
guage happily expresses in the name of under-
plots: such as in Terence's "Eunuch" is the
difference and reconcilement of Thais and
Phaedria, which is not the chief business of the
play, but promotes the marriage of Chasrea
JOHN DRYDEN
and Chremes's sister, principally intended by
the poet. There ought to be but one action,
says Corneille, that is, one complete action,
which leaves the mind of the audience in a full
repose; but this cannot be brought to pass,
but by many other imperfect actions, which
conduce to it, and hold the audience in a
delightful suspense of what will be.
If by these rules (to omit many other drawn
from the precepts and practice of the ancients)
we should judge our modern plays, 'tis prob-
able, that few of them would endure the trial:
that which should be the business of a day,
takes up in some of them an age; instead of
one action, they are the epitomes of a man's
life, and for one spot of ground (which the stage
should represent) we are sometimes in more
countries than the map can show us.
But if we allow the ancients to have contrived
well, we must acknowledge them to have writ-
ten better. Questionless we are deprived of a
great stock of wit in the loss of Menander among
the Greek poets, and of Caecilius, Afranius,
and Varius, among the Romans. We may
guess at Menander's excellency, by the plays
of Terence, who translated some of his; and
yet wanted so much of him, that he was called
by C. Caesar the half -Menander; and may
judge of Varius, by the testimonies of Horace,
Martial, and Velleius Paterculus. 'Tis prob-
able that these, could they be recovered, would
decide the controversy; but so long as Aris-
tophanes and Plautus are extant, while the
tragedies of Euripides, Sophocles, and Seneca,
are in our hands, I can never see one of those
plays which are now written, but it increases
my admiration of the ancients. And yet I must
acknowledge further, that to admire them as
we ought, we should understand them better
than we do. Doubtless many things appear
flat to us, the wit of which depended on some
custom or story, which never came to our know-
ledge; or perhaps on some criticism in their
language, which being so long dead, and only
remaining in their books, 'tis not possible they
should make us understand perfectly. To
read Macrobius, explaining the propriety and
elegancy of many words in Virgil, which I
had before passed over without consideration,
as common things, is enough to- assure me, that
I ought to think the same of Tefeacg; an(l
that in the purity of his style, (which Tully so
much valued, that he ever carried his works
about him,) there is yet left in him great room
for admiration, if I knew but where to place it.
In the meantime, I must desire you to take
notice, that the greatest man of the last age
(Ben Jonson) was willing to give place to
them in all things: he was not only a pro-
fessed imitator of Horace, but a learned plagiary
of all the others; you track him everywhere
in their snow. If Horace, Lucan, Petronius
Arbiter, Seneca, and Juvenal, had their own
from him, there are few serious thoughts which
are new in him : you will pardon me, therefore,
if I presume he loved their fashion, when he
wore their clothes. But since I have otherwise
a great veneration for him, and you, Eugenius,
prefer him above all other poets, I will use no
farther argument to you than his example:
I will produce before you father Ben, dressed
in all the ornaments and colours of the ancients;
you will need no other guide to our party, if
you follow him; and whether you consider
the bad plays of our age, or regard the good
plays of the last, both the best and worst of
the modern poets will equally instruct you to
admire the ancients.
Crites had no sooner left speaking, but
Eugenius, who had waited with some impa-
tience for it, thus began : —
I have observed in your speech, that the for-
mer part of it is convincing, as to what the
moderns have profited by the rules of the an-
cients; but in the latter you are careful to
conceal how much they have excelled them.
We own all the helps we have from them, and
want neither veneration nor gratitude, while
we acknowledge, that to overcome them we
must make use of the advantages we have
received from them: but to these assistances
we have joined our own industry; for, had we
sat down with a dull imitation of them, we might
then have lost somewhat of the old perfection,
but never acquired any that was new. We
draw not therefore after their lines, but those
of nature; and having the life before us, be-
sides the experience of all they knew, it is no
wonder if we hit some airs and features which
they have missed. I deny not what you urge
of arts and sciences, that they have flourished
in some ages more than others; but your
instance in philosophy makes for me: for if
natural causes be more known now than in
the time of Aristotle, because more studied, it
follows, that poesy and other arts may, with
the same pains, arrive still nearer to perfection ;
and, that granted, it will rest for you to prove,
that they wrought more perfect images of human
life, than we; which seeing in your discourse
you have avoided to make good, it shall now
be my task to show you some part of their de-
AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY
fects, and some few excellencies of the moderns.
And I think there is none among us can imagine
I do it enviously, or with purpose to detract
from them ; for what interest of fame or profit
can the living lose by the reputation of the
dead? On the other side, it is a great truth
which Velleius Paterculus affirms: Auditavi-
sis libentius laudamus; et prasentia invidia,
prater ita admiratione prosequimur; et his nos
obrui, illis instrui credimus: 1 that praise or
censure is certainly the most sincere, which
unbribed posterity shall give us.
Be pleased then, in the first place, to take
notice, that the Greek poesy, which Crites has
affirmed to have arrived to perfection in the
reign of the old comedy, was so far from it,
that the distinction of it into acts was not
known to. them; or if it were, it is yet so
darkly delivered to us, that we cannot make
it out.
All we know of it is, from the singing of their
chorus; and that too is so uncertain, that in
some of their plays we have reason to conjec-
ture they sung more than five times. Aristotle
indeed divides the integral parts of a play into
four. First, the Pwtiisis. or entrance, which
glvesiight only to the'characters of the persons,
and proceeds very little into any part of the
action. Secondly, the Ebitasis. or working up
of the plot; where the play grows warmer,
the design or action of it is drawing on, and you
see something promising that it will come to
pass. Thirdly, the Ca^^axix. called by the
Romans, Status, the height and full growth of
the play: we may call it properly the counter-
turn, which destroys that expectation, embroils
the action in new difficulties, and leaves you
far distant from that hope in which it found
you; as you may have observed in a violent
stream, resisted by a narrow passage, — it
runs round to an eddy, and carries back the
waters with more swiftness than it brought
them on. Lastly, the Catastrotofye, which the
Grecians called Avert?, the French le denoue-
ment, and we the discovery, or unravelling of
the plot : there you see all things settling again
upon their first foundations, and, the obstacles
which hindered the design or action of the play
once removed, it ends with that resemblance of
truth and nature, that the audience are satis-
fied with the conduct of it. Thus this great
1 We praise things reported more willingly than
those seen; and things of to-day we follow with
envy, those of yesterday with admiration, believing
ourselves to be hindered by the former and helped
by the latter.
man delivered to us the image of a play; and
I must confess it is so lively, that from thence
much light has been derived to the forming it
more perfectly into acts and scenes: but what
poet first limited to five the number of the acts,
I know not; only we see it so firmly established
in the time of Horace, that he gives it for a
rule in comedy, — Neu brevior quinto, neu sit
productior actu.1 So that you see the Grecians
cannot be said to have consummated this art;
writing rather by entrances, than by acts, and
having rather a general indigested notion of
a play, than knowing how, and where to be-
stow the particular graces of it.
But since the Spaniards at this day allow
but three acts, which they call Jornadas, to a
play, and the Italians in many of theirs follow
them, when I condemn the ancients, I declare
it is not altogether because they have not five
acts to every play, but because they have not
confined themselves to one certajn number:
it is building an house without a model; and
when they succeeded in such undertakings,
they ought to have sacrificed to Fortune, not
to the Muses.
Next, for the plot, which Aristotle called TO
ftu0os, and often TWV Trpay/iarov cruv&crts, and
from him the Romans Fabula, it has already
been judiciously observed by a late writer, that
in their tragedies it was only some tale derived
from Thebes or Troy, or at least something that
happened in those two ages; which was worn
so thread-bare by the pens of all the epic poets,
and even by tradition itself of the talkative
Greeklings, (as Ben Jonson calls them,) that
before it came upon the stage, it was already
known to all the audience; and the people, so
soon as ever they heard the name of (Edipus,
knew as well as the poet, that he had killed
his father by a mistake, and committed incest
with his mother, before the play; that they
were now to hear of a great plague, an oracle,
and the ghost of Laius : so that they sate with
a yawning kind of expectation, till he was to
come with his eyes pulled out, and speak a
hundred or more verses in a tragic tone, in com-
plaint of his misfortunes. But one (Edipus,
Hercules, or Medea, had been tolerable; poor
people, they escaped not so good cheap; they
had still the chapon bouille 2 set before them,
till their appetites were cloyed with the same
dish, and, the novelty being gone, the pleasure
vanished; so that one main end of Dramatic
1 Let it be neither shorter nor longer than five acts.
2 boiled chicken
152
JOHN DRYDEN
Poesy in its definition, which was to cause de-
light, was of consequence destroyed.
In their comedies, the Romans generally
borrowed their plots from the Greek poets;
and theirs was commonly a little girl stolen
or wandered from her parents, brought back
unknown to the city, there got with child by
some lewd young fellow, who, by the help of
his servant, cheats his father; and when her
time comes to cry Juno Lucina, fer opem,1
one or other sees a little box or cabinet which
was carried away with her, and so discovers
her to her friends, if some god do not prevent it,
by coming down in a machine, and taking the
thanks of it to himself.
By the plot you may guess much of the char-
acters of the persons. An old father, who
would willingly, before he dies, see his son well
married; his debauched son, kind in his nature
to his mistress, but miserably in want of money ;
a servant or slave, who has so much wit to
strike in with him, and help to dupe his father;
a braggadocio captain, a parasite, and a lady
of pleasure.
As for the poor honest maid, on whom the
story is built, and who ought to be one of the
principal actors in the play, she is commonly
a mute in it ; she has the breeding of the old
Elizabeth way, which was for maids to be seen,
and not to be heard ; and it is enough you know
she is willing to be married, when the fifth act
requires it.
These are plots built after the Italian mode
of houses, — you see through them all at once :
the characters are indeed the imitations of na-
ture, but so narrow, as if they had imitated
only an eye or an hand, and did not dare to
venture on the lines of a face, or the proportion
of a body.
But in how straight a compass soever they
have bounded their plots and characters, we
will pass it by, if they have regularly pursued
them, and perfectly observed those three uni-
ties of time, place, and action ; the knowledge
6t wnicn you say is denve'd to us from them.
But, in the first place, give me leave to tell you,
that the unity of place, however it might be
practised by them, was never any of their rules:
we neither find it in Aristotle, Horace, or any
who have written of it, till in our age the French
poets first made it a precept of the stage. The
unity of time, even Terence himself, who was
the best and most regular of them, has neg-
lected: his "Heautontimorumenos" or Self-
pun isher, takes Up visibly two days, says
Scaliger; the two first acts concluding the first
day, the three last the day ensuing; and
Euripides, in tying himself to one day, has
committed an absurdity never to be forgiven
him ; for in one of his tragedies he has made
Theseus go from Athens to Thebes, which was
about forty English miles, under the walls of
it to give battle, and appear victorious in the
next act; and yet, from the time of his depart-
ure to the return of the Nuntius, who gives
the relation of his victory, .^Ethra and the
Chorus have but thirty -six verses; which is
not for every mile a verse.
The like error is as evident in Terence his
"Eunuch," when Laches, the old man, enters
by mistake into the house of Thais; where,
betwixt his exit, and the entrance of Pythias,
who comes to give ample relation of the dis-
orders he has raised within, Parmeno, who was
left upon the stage, has not above five lines to
speak. C'est bien employer un temps si court,1
says the French poet, who furnished me with
one of the observations: and almost all their
tragedies will afford us examples of the like
nature.
It is true, they have kept the continuity, or,
as you called it, liaison des Scenes, somewhat
better: two do not perpetually come in together,
talk, and go out together; and other two suc-
ceed them, and do the same throughout the
act, which the English call by the name of single
scenes; but the reason is, because they have
seldom above two or three scenes, properly
so called, in every act; for it is to be accounted
a new scene, not only every time the stage is
empty, but every person who enters, though to
others, makes it so; because he introduces a
new business. Now the plots of their plays
being narrow, and the persons few, one of their
acts was written in a less compass than one of
our well-wrought scenes ; and yet they are often
deficient even in this. To go no farther than
Terence, you find in the "Eunuch," Antipho
entering single in the midst of the third act,
after Chremes and Pythias were gone off: in
the same play you have likewise Dorias begin-
ning the fourth act alone; and after she has
made a relation of what was done at the Soldier's
entertainment, (which by the way was very
inartificial, because she was presumed to speak
directly to the audience, and to acquaint them
with what was necessary to be known, but
yet should have been so contrived by the poet,
Help me, O goddess of childbearing !
1 This is making good use of so short a time.
AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY
• as to have been told by persons of the drama
to one another, and so by them to have come
to the knowledge of the people,) she quits the
stage, and Phaedria enters next, alone likewise :
he also gives you an account of himself, and of
his returning from the country, in monologue;
to which unnatural way of narration Terence
is subject in all his plays. In his "Adelphi,
or Brothers," Syrus and Demea enter after the
scene was broken by the departure of Sostrata,
Geta, and Canthara; and indeed you can
scarce look into any of his comedies, where you
will not presently discover the same interruption.
But as they have failed both in laying of their
plots, and in the management, swerving from
the rules of their own art, by misrepresenting
nature to us, in which they have ill satisfied one
intention of a play, which was delight; so in
the instructive part they have erred worse:
instead of punishing vice, and rewarding virtue,
they have often shown a prosperous wickedness,
and an unhappy piety : they have set before us
a bloody image of revenge in Medea, and given
her dragons to convey her safe from punish-
ment. A Priam and Astyanax murdered,
and Cassandra ravished, and the lust and
murder ending in the victory of him who acted
them. In short, there is no indecorum in any
of our modern plays, which, if I would excuse,
I could not shadow with some authority from
the ancients.
*******
But, to return from whence I have digressed,
to the consideration of the ancients' writing,
and their wit ; of which, by this time, you will
grant us in some measure to be fit judges.
Though I see many excellent thoughts in
Seneca, yet he of them who had a genius most
proper for the stage, was Ovid; he had a way
of writing so fit to stir up a pleasing admiration
and concernment, which are the objects of a
tragedy, and to show the various movements
of a soul combating betwixt two different pas-
sions, that had he lived in our age, or in his own
could have writ with our advantages, no man
but must have yielded to him; and therefore
I am confident the "Medea" is none of his;
for though I esteem it for the gravity and sen-
tentiousness of it, which he himself concludes
to be suitable to a tragedy, — Omne genus
scripti gravitate Tragcedia vincit, — yet it
moves not my soul enough to judge that he,
who in the epic way wrote things so near the
drama, as the story of Myrrha, of Caunus and
Biblis, and the rest, should stir up no more
concernment where he most endeavoured it.
The master-piece of Seneca I hold to be that
scene in the "Troades," where Ulysses is seek-
ing for Astyanax to kill him: there you see
the tenderness of a mother, so represented in
Andromache, that it raises compassion to a high
degree in the reader, and bears the nearest
resemblance of anything in the tragedies of
the ancients, to the excellent scenes of passion
in Shakespeare, or in Fletcher. — For love-
scenes you will find few among them; their
tragic poets dealt not with that soft passion,
but with lust, cruelty, revenge, ambition, and
those bloody actions they produced ; which were
more capable of raising horror than compassion
in .an audience : leaving love untouched, whose
gentleness would have tempered them, which
is the most frequent of all the passions, and
which, being the private concernment of every
person, is soothed by viewing its own image in
a public entertainment.
Among their comedies, we find a scene or
two of tenderness, and that where you would
least expect it, in Plautus; but to speak gen-
erally, their lovers say little, when they see
each other, but anima mea, vita mea; £o>^ KOI
\lfvxff, as the women in Juvenal's time used to
cry out in the fury of their kindness. Any
sudden gust of passion (as an ecstasy of love
in an unexpected meeting) cannot better be
expressed than in a word, and a sigh, breaking
one another. Nature is dumb on such occa-
sions; and to make her speak, would be to
represent her unlike herself. But there are
a thousand other concernments of lovers, as
jealousies, complaints, contrivances, and the
like, where not to open their minds at large
to each other, were to be wanting to their own
love, and to the expectation of the audience;
who watch the movements of their minds, as
much as the changes of their fortunes. For
the imagining of the first is properly the work
of a poet; the latter he borrows from the
historian.
Eugenius was proceeding in that part of his
discourse, when Crites interrupted him. I see,
said he, Eugenius and I are never like to have
this question decided betwixt us; for he main-
tains, the moderns have acquired a new per-
fection in writing, I can only grant they have
altered the mode of it. Homer described his
heroes men of great appetites, lovers of beef
broiled upon the coals, and good fellows; con-
trary to the practice of the French romances,
whose heroes neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep,
for love. Virgil makes ./Eneas a bold avower
of his own virtues :
154
JOHN DRYDEN
Sum pius jEneasfama super athera notus;1
which, in the civility of our poets, is the char-
acter of a fanfaron, or Hector: for with us the
knight takes occasion to walk out, or sleep,
to avoid the vanity of telling his own story,
which the trusty squire is ever to perform for
him. So in their love-scenes, of which Euge-
nius spoke last, the ancients were more hearty,
we more talkative : they writ love as it was then
the mode to make it; and I will grant this
much to Eugenius, that perhaps one of their
poets, had he lived in our age,
Siforet hoc nostrum fato delapsus in ezvum,
as Horace says of Lucilius, he had altered
many things; not that they were not natural
before, but that he might accommodate himself
to the age in which he lived. Yet in the mean-
time we are not to conclude anything rashly
against those great men, but preserve to them
the dignity of masters, and give that honour
to their memories, — quos Libitina sacravit,2
— part of which we expect may be paid to us
in future times.
This moderation of Crites, as it was pleasing
to all the company, so it put an end to that dis-
pute; which Eugenius, who seemed to have
the better of the argument, would urge no
farther. But Lisideius, after he had acknow-
ledged himself of Eugenius his opinion concern-
ing the ancients, yet told him, he had forborne,
till his discourse were ended, to ask him, why
he preferred the English plays above those of
other nations? and whether we ought not to
submit our stage to the exactness of our next
neighbours?
Though, said Eugenius, I am at all times
ready to defend the honour of my country
against the French, and to maintain, we are as
well able to vanquish them with our pens, as
our ancestors have been with their swords;
yet, if you please, added he, looking upon Ne-
ander, I will commit this cause to my friend's
management; his opinion of our plays is the
same with mine : and besides, there is no reason,
that Crites and I, who have now left the stage,
should reenter so suddenly upon it; which is
against the laws of comedy.
If the question had been stated, replied
Lisideius, who had writ best, the French or
English, forty years ago, I should have been
of your opinion, and adjudged the honour to
our own nation ; but since that time, (said he,
1 I am pious Ericas, known by fame beyond the sky.
2 Whom Death has made sacred.
turning towards Neander,) we have been so
long together bad Englishmen, that we had not
leisure to be good poets. Beaumont, Fletcher,
and Jonson, (who were only capable of bringing
us to that degree of perfection which we have,)
were just then leaving the world; as if in an
age of so much horror, wit, and those milder
studies of humanity, had no farther business
among us. But the muses, who ever follow
peace, went to plant in another country: it
was then that the great Cardinal of Richelieu
began to take them into his protection; and
that, by his encouragement, Corneille, and some
other Frenchmen, reformed their theatre, which
before was as much below ours, as it now sur-
passes it and the rest of Europe. But because
Crites, in his discourse for the ancients, has
prevented me, by observing many rules of the
stage, which the moderns have borrowed from
them, I shall only, in short, demand of you,
whether you are not convinced that of all
nations the French have observed them? In
the unity-of time you find them so scrupulous,
that it yet remains a dispute among their poets,
whether the artificial day of twelve hours, more
or less, be not meant by Aristotle, rather than
the natural one of twenty-four; and conse-
quently, whether all plays ought not to be
reduced into that compass. This I can testify,
that in all their dramas writ within these last
twenty years and upwards, I have not observed
any that have extended the time to thirty
hours. In the unity of place they are full as
scrupulous; for many of their critics limit it
to that very spot of ground where the play is
supposed to begin; none of them exceed the
compass of the same town or city.
The unity of action in all their plays is yet
more conspicuous; for they do not burden them
with under-plots, as the English do: which
is the reason why many scenes of our tragi-
comedies carry on a design that is nothing of
kin to the main plot; and that we see two dis-
tinct webs in a play, like those in ill-wrought
stuffs; and two actions, that is, two plays,
carried on together, to the confounding of the
audience; who, before they are warm in their
concernments for one part, are diverted to
another; and by that means espouse the interest
of neither. From hence likewise it arises, that
the one half of our actors are not known to the
other. They keep their distances, as if they
were Montagues and Capulets, and seldom
begin an acquaintance till the last scene of the
fifth act, when they are all to meet upon the
stage. There is no theatre in the world has
AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY
155
anything so absurd as the English tragi-
comedy; it is a drama of our own invention,
and the fashion of it is enough to proclaim it
so; here a course of mirth, there another of
sadness and passion, and a third of honour
and a duel: thus, in two hours and a half we
run through all the fits of Bedlam. The French
affords you as much variety on the same day,
but they do it not so unseasonably, or mal a
propos, as we : our poets present you the play
and the farce together; and our stages still
retain somewhat of the original civility of the
Red Bull:
Atque ursum et pugiles media inter carmina poscunt.1
The end of tragedies or serious plays, says
Aristotle, is to beget admiration, compassion,
or concernment; but are not mirth and com-
passion things incompatible ? and is it not evi-
dent, that the poet must of necessity destroy
the former by intermingling of the latter? that
is, he must ruin the sole end and object of his
tragedy, to introduce somewhat that is forced
into it, and is not of the body of it. Would
you not think that physician mad, who, having
prescribed a purge, should immediately order
you to take restringents?
But to leave our plays, and return to theirs.
I have noted one great advantage they have
had in the plotting of their tragedies; that is,
they are always grounded upon some known
history: according to that of Horace, Ex noto
fictum carmen sequar; 2 and in that they have
so imitated the ancients, that they have sur-
passed them. For the ancients, as was observed
before, took for the foundation of their plays
some poetical fiction, such as under that con-
sideration could move but little concernment
in the audience, because they already knew
the event of it. But the French goes farther:
Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet,
Primo ne medium, media ne discrepet imum.3
He so interweaves truth with probable fiction,
that he puts a pleasing fallacy upon us, mends
the intrigues of fate, and dispenses with the
severity of history, to reward that virtue which
has been rendered to us there unfortunate.
Sometimes the story has left the success so
1 And in the midst of the poems they call for the
bears and the boxers. 2 On a known fact I base a
feigned song. 3 He so mixes false with true that the
middle may not disagree with the beginning nor the
end with the middle.
doubtful, that the writer is free, by the privi-
lege of a poet, to take that which of two or more
relations will best suit with his design: as for
example, in the death of Cyrus, whom Justin
and some others report to have perished in the
Cythian war, but Xenophon affirms to have
died in his bed of extreme old age. Nay
more, when the event is past dispute, even then
we are willing to be deceived, and the poet, if
he contrives it with appearance of truth, has
all the audience of his party; at least during
the time his play is acting : so naturally we are
kind to virtue, when our own interest is not in
question, that we take it up as the general
concernment of mankind. On the other side,
if you consider the historical plays of -Shake;
speare, they are rather so many chronicles of
kings, or the business many times of thirty or
forty years, cramped into a representation of
two hours and a half; which is not to imitate
or paint nature, but rather to draw her in
miniature, to take her in little ; to look upon her
through the wrong end of a perspective, and
receive her images not only much less, but
infinitely more imperfect than the life: this,
instead of making a play delightful, renders it
ridiculous:
Quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.1
For the spirit of man cannot be satisfied but
with truth, or at least verisimility ; and a poem
is to contain, if not TO. CTV/WI, yet CTV/U.OIO-IV 6/xoia,
as one of the Greek poets has expressed it.
Another thing in which the French differ
from us and from the Spaniards, is, that they
do not embarrass, or cumber themselves with
too .much plot; they only represent so much of
a story as will constitute one whole and great
action sufficient for a play : we, who undertake'
more, do but multiply adventures; which, not
being produced from one another, as effects
from causes, but barely following, constitute
many actions in the drama, and consequently
make it many plays.
But by pursuing closely one argument,
which is not cloyed with many turns, the French
have gainpf^ jpnrp .jiherty fnr vfirsp, in which
they write: they have leisure to dwell on a
subject which deserves it ; and to represent the
passions, (which we have acknowledged to be
the poet's work,) without being hurried from
one thing to another, as we are in the plays of
Calderon, which we have seen lately upon our
theatres, under the name of Spanish plots. I
1 Whatever you show me thus, I disbelieve and hate.
156
JOHN DRYDEN
have taken notice but of one tragedy of ours,
whose plot has that uniformity and unity of
design in it, which I have commended in the
French; and that is "Rollo," or rather, under
the name of Rollo, the story of Bassianus and
Geta in Herodian: there indeed the plot is
neither large nor intricate, but just enough to
fill the minds of the audience, not to cloy them.
Besides, you see it founded upon the truth of
history, — only the time of the action is not
reduceable to the strictness of the rules; -and
you see in some places a little farce mingled,
which is below the dignity of the other parts;
and in this all our poets are extremely peccant :
even Ben Jonson himself, in "Sejanus" and
"Catiline," has given us this olio of a play,
this unnatural mixture of comedy and tragedy,
which to me sounds just as ridiculously as the
history of David with the merry humours of
Goliah. In "Sejanus" you may take notice
of the scene betwixt Livia and the physician,
which is a pleasant satire upon the artificial
helps of beauty: in "Catiline" you may see
the parliament of women; the little envies of
them to one another; and all that passes
betwixt Curio and Fulvia : scenes admirable in
their kind, but of an ill mingle with the rest.
But I return again to the French writers, who,
as I have said, do not burden themselves too
much with plot, which has been reproached to
them by an ingenious person of our nation as
a fault ; for he says, they commonly make but
one person considerable in a play; they dwell
on him, and his concernments, while the rest
of the persons are only subservient to set him
off. If he intends -this by it, — that there is
one person in the play who is of greater dignity
than the rest, he must tax, not only theirs, but
those of the ancients, and, which he would be
loth to do, the best of ours ; for it is impossible
but that one person must be more conspicuous
in it than any other, and consequently the great-
est share in the action must devolve on him.
We see it so in the management of all affairs;
even in the most equal aristocracy, the balance
cannot be so justly poised, but some one will
be superior to the rest, either in parts, fortune,
interest, or the consideration of some glorious
exploit; which will reduce the greatest part of
business into his hands.
But, if he would have us to imagine, that in
exalting one character the rest of them are
neglected, and that all of them have not some
share or other in the action of the play, I desire
him to produce any of Corneille's tragedies,
wherein every person (like so many servants
in a wen-governed family) has not some- em-
ployment, and who is not necessary to the car-
rying on of the plot, or at least to your under-
standing it.
There are indeed some protatic persons in
the ancients, whom they make use of in their
plays, either to hear, or give the relation: but
the French avoid this with great address,
making their narrations only to, or by such,
who are some way interested in the main design.
And now I am speaking of relations, I cannot
take a fitter opportunity to add this in favour
of the French, that they often use them with
better judgment and more a propos than the
English do. Xot that I commend narrations
in general, — but there are two sorts of them;
one, of those things which are antecedent to
the play, and are related to make the conduct
of it more clear to us ; but it is a fault to choose
such subjects for the stage as will force us on
that rock, because we see they are seldom lis-
tened to by the audience, and that is many times
the ruin of the play; for, being once let pass
without attention, the audience can never
recover themselves to understand the plot;
and indeed it is somewhat unreasonable, that
they should be put to so much trouble, as, that
to comprehend what passes in their sight, they
must have recourse to what was done, perhaps,
ten or twenty years ago.
But there is another sort of relations, that is,
of things happening in the action of the play,
and supposed to be done behind the scenes;
and this is many times both convenient and
beautiful: for, by it the French avoid the
tumult to which we are subject in England,
by representing duels, battles, and the like;
which renders our stage too like the theatres
where they fight prizes. For what is more
ridiculous than to represent an army with a
drum and five men behind it; all which, the
hero of the other side is to drive in before him ?
or to see a duel fought, and one slain with two
or three thrusts of the foils, which we know are
so blunted, that we might give a man an hour
to kill another in good earnest with them ?
I have observed, that in all our tragedies the
audience cannot forbear laughing when the
actors are to die; it is the most comic part
of the whole play. All passions may be lively,,
represented on the stage, if to the well-writing
of them the actor supplies a good commanded
voice, and limbs that move easily, and without
stiffness; but there are many actions which
can never be imitated to a just height: dying
especially is a thing which none but a Roman
AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY
157
gladiator could naturally perform on the stage,
when he did not imitate, or represent, but do
it ; and therefore it is better to omit the repre-
sentation of it.
The words of a good writer, which describe
it lively, will make a deeper impression of belief
in us, than all the actor can insinuate into us,
when he seems to fall dead before us; as a
poet in the description of a beautiful garden,
or a meadow, will please our imagination more
than the place itself can please our sight. When
we see death represented, we are convinced
it is but fiction ; but when we hear it related,
our eyes (the strongest witnesses) are wanting,
which might have undeceived us; and we are
all willing to favour the slight when the poet
does not too grossly impose on us. They,
therefore, who imagine these relations would
make no concernment in the audience, are
deceived, by confounding them with the other,
which are of things antecedent to the play:
those are made often in cold blood, as I may
say, to the audience; but these are warmed
with our concernments, which were before
awakened in the play. What the philosophers
say of motion, that, when it is once begun, it
continues of itself, and will do so to eternity,
without some stop put to it, is clearly true on
this occasion: the soul, being already moved
with the characters and fortunes of those im-
aginary persons, continues going of its own
accord ; and we are no more weary to hear what
becomes of them when they are not on the stage,
than we are to listen to the news of an absent
mistress. But it is objected, that if one part
of the play may be related, then why not all?
I answer, some parts of the action are more fit
to be represented, some to be related. Cor-
neille says judiciously, that the poet is not
obliged to expose to view all particular actions
which conduce to the principal: he ought to
select such of them to be seen, which will
appear with the greatest beauty, either by the
magnificence of the show, or the vehemence
of passions which they produce, or some other
charm which they have in them, and let the
rest arrive to the audience by narration. It
is a great mistake in us to believe the French
present no part of the action on the stage:
every alteration or crossing of a design, every
new-sprung passion, and turn of it, is a part of
the action, and much the noblest, except we
conceive nothing to be action till the players
come to blows; as if the painting of the hero's
mind were not more properly the poet's work,
than the strength of his body.
But I find I have been too long in this dis-
course, since the French have many other
excellencies not common to us; as that you
never see any of their plays end with a con-
version, or simple change of will, which is
the ordinary way which our poets use to end
theirs. It shows little art in the conclusion of
a dramatic poem, when they who have hindered
the felicity during the four acts, desist from it
in the fifth, without some powerful cause to
take them off their design ; and though I deny
not but such reasons may be found, yet it is a
path that is cautiously to be trod, and the poet
is to be sure he convinces the audience, that the
motive is strong enough. As for example, the
conversion of the Usurer in "The Scornful
Lady," seems to me a little forced; for, being
an usurer, which implies a lover of money to
the highest degree of covetousness, (and such
the poet has represented him,) the account he
gives for the sudden change is, that he has
been duped by the wild young fellow; which in
reason might render him more wary another
time, and make him punish himself with harder
fare and coarser clothes to get up again what
he had lost : but that he should look on it as a
judgment, and so repent, we may expect to
hear in a sermon, but I should never endure it
in a play.
I pass by this; neither will I insist on the
care they take, that no person after his first
entrance shall ever appear, but the business
which brings him upon the stage shall be
evident; which rule, if observed, must needs
render all the events in the play more natural ;
for there you see the probability of every acci-
dent, in the cause that produced it; and that
which appears chance in the play, will seem
so reasonable to you, that you will there find
it almost necessary: so that in the exit of the
actor you have a clear account of his purpose
and design in the next entrance; (though, if
the scene be well wrought, the event will com-
monly deceive you;) for there is nothing so
absurd, says Corneille, as for an actor to leave
the stage, only because he has no more to say.
I should now speak of the jbgautv of their
rhyme, and the just reason I "Have to prefer
that way of writing in tragedies before ours in
blank-verse ; but because it is partly received
by us, and therefore not altogether peculiar to
them, I will say no more of it in relation to
their plays. For our own, I doubt not but it
will exceedingly beautify them ; and I can see
but one reason why it should not generally
158
JOHN DRYDEN
obtain, that is, because our poets write so
ill in it. This indeed may prove a more
prevailing argument than all others which
are used to destroy it, and therefore I am
only troubled when great and judicious poets,
and those who are acknowledged such, have
writ or spoke against it : as for others,
they are to be answered by that one sen-
tence of an ancient author: Sed ut primo
ad consequendos eos quos priores ducimus,
accendimur, ita ubi aut praeteriri, aut aequari
eos posse des per animus, studium cum spe
senescit: quod, scilicet, assequi non potest,
sequi desinit; — praeteritoque eo in quo emi-
nere non possumus, aliquid in quo nitamur,
conquirimus.1
Lisideius concluded in this manner; and
Neander, after a little pause, thus answered
him:
I shall grant Lisideius, without much dis-
pute, a great part of what he has urged against
us; for I acknowledge, that the French con-
trive their plots more regularly, and observe
the laws jjfjcpmedy, and decorum of the stage,
(to speak generally,) with more exactness than
the English. Farther, I deny not but he has
taxed us justly in some irregularities of ours,
which he has mentioned; yet, after all, I am
of opinion, that neither our faults, nor their
virtues, are considerable enough to place them
above us.
For the lively imitation of nature being in the
definition of a play, those which best fulfil that
law, ought to be esteemed superior to the others.
'Tis true, those beauties of the French poesy
are such as will raise perfection higher where
it is, but are not sufficient to give it where it is
not: they are indeed the beauties of a statue,
but not of a man, because not animated with
the soul, of poesy, which. is imitation of humour
arid passions: and this Lisideius himself, or
any other, however biassed to their party, can-
not but acknowledge, if he will either compare
the humours of our comedies, or the characters
of our serious plays, with theirs. He who will
look upon theirs which have been written till
these last ten years, or thereabouts, will find
it an hard matter to pick out two or three pass-
able humours amongst them. Corneille him-
1 But as at first we are incited to follow those whom
we regard as superior, so when we have despaired
of being able either to surpass or to equal them, zeal
weakens as hope does: what, forsooth, cannot be
overtaken is not pursued; — and abandoning that in
which we cannot excel, we seek something in which
we may contend.
self, their arch-poet, what has he produced
except "The Liar," and you know how it was
cried up in France ; but when it came upon the
English stage, though well translated, and that
part of Dorant acted to so much advantage
as I am confident it never received in its own
country, the most favourable to it would not
put it" in competition with many of Fletcher's
or Ben Jonson's. In the rest of Corneille's
comedies you have little humour; he tells you
himself, his way is, first to show two lovers in
good intelligence with each other; in the work-
ing up of the play, to embroil them by some
mistake, and in the latter end to clear it, and
reconcile them.
But of late years Moliere, the younger Cor-
neille, Quinault, and some others, have been
imitating afar off the quick turns and graces
of the English stage. They have mixed their
serious plays with mirth, like our tragi-come-
dies, since the death of Cardinal Richelieu,
which Lisideius, and many others, not observ-
ing, have commended that in them for a virtue,
which they themselves no longer practise.
Most of their new plays are, like some of ours,
derived from the Spanish novels. There is
scarce one of them without a veil, and a trusty
Diego, who drolls much after the rate of the
"Adventures." But their humours, if I may
grace them with that name, are so thin sown,
that never above one of them comes up in any
play. I dare take upon me to find more
variety of them in some one play of Ben Jon-
son's, than in all theirs together: as he who has
seen the "Alchemist," "The Silent Woman,"
or "Bartholomew Fair," cannot but acknow-
ledge with me.
I grant the French have performed what
was possible on the ground-work of the Span-
ish plays; what was pleasant before, they have
made regular: but there is not above one good
play to be writ on all those plots ; they are too
much alike to please often, which we need not
the experience of our own stage to justify.
As for their new way of mingling mirth with
serious plot, I do not, with Lisideius, condemn
the thing, though I cannot approve their man-
ner of doing it. He tells us, we cannot so speed-
ily recollect ourselves after a scene of great pas-
sion and concernment, as to pass to another
of mirth and humour, and to enjoy it with
any relish : but why should he imagine the soul
of man more heavy than his senses? Does
not the eye pass from an unpleasant object to a
pleasant, in a much shorter time than is required
to this ? and does not the unpleasantness of the
.
AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY
159
first commend the beauty of the latter? The
old rule of logic might have convinced him,
that contraries, when placed near, set off each
other. A continued gravity keeps the spirit
too much bent; we must refresh it sometimes,
as we bait in a journey, that we may go on with
greater ease. A scene of mirth, mixed with
tragedy, has the same effect upon us which
our music has betwixt the acts; which we find
a relief to us from the best plots and language
of the stage, if the discourses have been long.
I must therefore have stronger arguments, ere
I am convinced that compassion and mirth in
the same subject destroy each other; and in
the meantime, cannot but conclude, to the
honour of our nation, that we have invented,
increased, and perfected, a more pleasant way
of writing for the stage, than was ever known
to the ancients or moderns of any nation, which
is tragi-comedy.
And this leads me to wonder why Lisideius
and many others should cry up the barrenness
of the French plots, ab_ove tjhe^yariety-and
copiousness of the English. Their plots are sin-
gle, they carry on one design, which is pushed
forward by all the actors, every scene in the
play contributing and moving towards it.
Our plays, besides the main design, have under-
plots, or by-concernments, of less considerable
persons and intrigues, which are carried on
with the motion of the main plot: as they say
the orb of the fixed stars, and those of the
planets, though they have motions of their own,
are whirled about by the motion of the primum
mobile, in which they are contained. That
similitude expresses' much of the English stage ;
for if contrary motions may be found in nature
to agree; if a planet can go east and west at
the same time ; — one way by virtue of his own
motion, the other by the force of the first
mover ; — it will not be difficult to imagine
how the under-plot, which is only different, not
contrary to the great design, may naturally be
conducted along with it.
Eugenius has already shown us, from the
confession of the French poets, that the
unity of action is sufficiently preserved, if
all the imperfect actions of the play are
conducing to the main design; but when
those petty intrigues of a play are so ill
ordered, that they have no coherence with
the other, I must grant that Lisideius has
reason to tax that want of due connec-
tion; for coordination in a play is as dan-
gerous and unnatural as in a state. In the
meantime he must acknowledge, our variety,
if well ordered, will -afford a greater pleasure
to the audience.
As for his other argument, that by pursuing
one single theme they gain an advantage to
express and work up the passions, I wish any
example he could bring from them would make
it good ; for I confess their verses are to me the
coldest I have ever read. Neither, indeed, is
it possible for them, in the way they take, so
to express passion, as that the effects of it
should appear in the concernment of an
audience, their speeches being so many decla-
mations, which tire us with the length ; so that
instead of persuading us to grieve for their
imaginary heroes, we are concerned for our
own trouble, as we are in tedious visits of bad
company; we are in pain till they are gone.
When the French stage came to be reformed
by Cardinal Richelieu, those long harangues
were introduced, to comply with the gravity
of a churchman. Look upon the "Cinna"
and the "Pompey"; they are not so properly
to be called plays, as long discourses of reason
of state ; and " Polieucte " in matters of religion
is as solemn as the long stops upon our organs.
Since that time it is grown into a custom, and
their actors speak by the hour-glass, like our
parsons; nay, they account it the grace of
their parts, and think themselves disparaged
by the poet, if they may not twice or thrice in
a play entertain the audience with a speech
of an hundred lines. I deny not but this may
suit well enough with the French; for as we,
who are a more sullen people, come to be
diverted at our plays, so they, who are of an
airy and gay temper, come thither to make
themselves more serious: and this I conceive
to be one reason, why comedies are more pleas-
ing to us, and tragedies to them. But to speak
generally: it cannot be denied, that short
speeches and replies are more apt to move the
passions, and beget concernment in us, than
the other; for it is unnatural for any one, in
a gust of passion, to speak long together; or
for another, in the same condition, to suffer
him without interruption. Grief and passion
are like floods raised in little brooks by a sudden
rain ; they are quickly up, and if the concern-
ment be poured unexpectedly in upon us, it
overflows us: But a long sober shower gives
them leisure to run out as they came in, without
troubling the ordinary current. As for comedy,
repartee is one of its chiefest graces; the great-
est pleasure of the audience is a chace of wit,
kept up on both sides, and swiftly managed.
And this our forefathers, if not we, have had
i6o
JOHN DRYDEN
in Fletcher's plays, to a much higher degree of
perfection, than the French poets can reason-
ably hope to reach.
*******
But to leave this, and pass to the latter part
of Lisideius's discourse, which concerns rela-
tions, I must acknowledge with him, that the
French have reason to hide that part of the
action which would occasion too much tumult
on the stage, and to choose rather to have it
made known by narration to the audience.
Farther, I think it very convenient, for the
reasons he has given, that all incredible actions
were removed; but, whether custom has so
insinuated itself into our countrymen or nature
has so formed them to fierceness, I know not;
but they will scarcely suffer combats and other
objects of horror to be taken from them. And,
indeed, the indecency of tumults is all which
can be objected against fighting : for why may
not our imagination as well suffer itself to be
deluded with the probability of it, as with
any other thing in the play? For my part,
I can with as great ease persuade myself, that
the blows are given in good earnest, as I can,
that they who strike them are kings or princes,
or those persons which they represent. For
objects of incredibility, — I would be satisfied
from Lisideius, whether we have any so re-
moved from all appearance of truth, as are those
of Corneille's "Andromede" ; a play which has
been frequented the most of any he has writ.
If the Perseus, or the son of an heathen god,
the Pegasus, and the Monster, were not capable
to choke a strong belief, let him blame any
representation of ours hereafter. Those indeed
were objects of delight; yet the reason is the
same as to the probability; for he makes it not
a ballet, or masque, but a play, which is to
resemble truth. But for death, that it ought
not to be represented, I have, besides the argu-
ments alleged by Lisideius, the authority of
Ben Jonson, who has forborne it in his trage-
dies ; for both the death of Sejanus and Catiline
are related ; though, in the latter, I cannot but
observe one irregularity of that great poet;
he has removed the scene in the same act, from
Rome to Catiline's army, and from thence
again to Rome; and besides, has allowed a
very considerable time after Catiline's speech,
for the striking of the battle, and the return
of Petreius, who is to relate the event of it to
the senate; which I should not animadvert on
him, who was otherwise a painful observer of
TO TrpeTrov, or the decorum of the stage, if he had
not used extreme severity in his judgment
on the incomparable Shakespeare for the same
fault. To conclude on this subject of relations,
if we are to be blamed for showing too much
of the action, the French are as faulty for dis-
covering too little of it; a mean betwixt both
should be observed by every judicious writer,
so as the audience may neither be left unsatis-
fied by not seeing what is beautiful, or shocked
by beholding what is either incredible or un-
decent.
I hope I have already proved in this discourse,
that though we are not altogether so punctual
as the French, in observing the laws of comedy,
yet our errors are so few, and little, and those
things wherein we excel them so considerable,
that we ought of right to be preferred before
them. But what will Lisideius say, if they
themselves acknowledge they are too strictly
bounded by those laws, for breaking which
he has blamed the English ? I will allege Cor-
neille's words, as I find them in the end of his
Discourse of the three Unities : // est facile aux
speculatifs d'estre severes, etc. "It is easy for
speculative persons to judge severely; but if
they would produce to public view ten or twelve
pieces of this nature, they would perhaps give
more latitude to the rules than I have done,
when, by experience, they had known how
much we are limited and constrained by them,
and how many beauties of the stage they ban-
ished from it." To illustrate a little what he
has said : — by their servile observations of the
unities of time and place, and integrity of scenes,
they have brought on themselves that dearth
of plot, and narrowness of imagination, which
may be observed in all their plays. How many
beautiful accidents might naturally happen in
two or three days, which cannot arrive with
any probability in the compass of twenty-four
hours? There is time to be allowed also for
maturity of design, which amongst great and
prudent persons, such as are often represented
in tragedy, cannot, with any likelihood of truth,
be brought to pass at so short a warning.
Farther, by tying themselves strictly to the unity
of place, and unbroken scenes, they are forced
many times to omit some beauties which cannot
be shown where the act began; but might, if
the scene were interrupted, and the stage cleared
for the persons to enter in another place; and
therefore, the French poets are often forced
upon absurdities: for if the act begins in a
chamber, all the persons in the play must have
some business or other to come thither, or else
they are not to be shown that act; and some-
times their characters are very unfitting to
AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY
161
appear there: as suppose ft were the king's
bed-chamber, yet the meanest man in the trag-
edy must come and despatch his business there,
rather than in the lobby, or court-yard, (which
is fitter for him,) for fear the stage should be
cleared, and the scenes broken. Many times
they fall by it into a greater inconvenience;
for they keep their scenes unbroken, and yet
change the place; as in one of their newest
plays, where the act begins in the street. There
a gentleman is to meet his friend; he sees him
with his man, coming out from his father's
house; they talk together, and the first goes
out: the second, who is a lover, has made an
appointment with his mistress; she appears at
the window, and then we are to imagine the
scene lies under it. This gentleman is called
away, and leaves his servant with his mistress:
presently her father is heard from within; the
young lady is afraid the serving-man should
be discovered, and thrusts him into a place
of safety, which is supposed to be her closet.
After this, the father enters to the daughter,
and now the scene is in a house : for he is seek-
ing from one room to another for this poor
Philipin, or French Diego, who is heard from
within, drolling and breaking many a miserable
conceit on the subject of his sad condition. In
this ridiculous manner the play goes forward,
the stage being never empty all the while:
so that the street, the window, the two houses,
and the closet, are made to walk about, and the
persons to stand still. Now, what, I beseech
you, is more easy than to write a regular French
play, or more difficult than to write an irregular
English one, like those of Fletcher, or of Shake-
speare ?
If they content themselves, as Corneille did,
with some flat design, which, like an ill riddle,
is found out ere it be half proposed, such plots
we can make every way regular as easily as
they; but whenever they endeavour to rise to
any quick turns and counter-turns of plot, as
some of them have attempted, since Corneille's
plays have been less in vogue, you see they
write as irregularly as we, though they cover
it more speciously. Hence the reason is per-
spicuous, why no French plays, when trans-
lated, have, or ever can succeed on the English
stage. For, if you consider the plots, our own
are fuller of variety; if the writing, ours are
more quick and fuller of spirit; and therefore
'tis a strange mistake in those who decry the
way of writing plays in verse, as if the English
therein imitated the French. We have bor-
rowed nothing from them ; our plots are weaved
in English looms: we endeavour therein to
follow the variety and greatness of characters,
which are derived to us from Shakespeare and
Fletcher; the copiousness and well-knitting of
the intrigues we have from Jonson; and for
the verse itself we have English precedents of
elder date than any of Corneille's plays. Not
to name our old comedies before Shakespeare,
which were all writ in verse of six feet, or
Alexandrines, such as the French now use, —
I can show in Shakespeare, many scenes of
rhyme together, and the like in Ben Jonson's
tragedies: in "Catiline" and "Sejanus" some-
times thirty or forty lines, — I mean besides the
chorus, or the monologues ; which, by the way,
showed Ben no enemy to this way of writing,
especially if you read his "Sad Shepherd,"
which goes sometimes on rhyme, sometimes
on blank verse, like an horse who eases himself
on trot and amble. You find him likewise
commending Fletcher's pastoral of "The
Faithful Shepherdess," which is for the most
part rhyme, though not refined to that purity
to which it hath since been brought. And
these examples are enough to clear us from a
servile imitation of the French.
But to return whence I have digressed: I
dare boldly affirm these two things of the
English drama ; — First, that we have many
plays of ours as regular as any of theirs, and
which, besides, have more variety of plot and
characters; and, secondly, that in most of the
irregular plays of Shakespeare or Fletcher,
(for Ben Jonson's are for the most part regular,)
there is a more masculine fancy, and greater
spirit in the writing, than there is in any of
the French. I could produce even in Shake-
speare's and Fletcher's works, some plays which
are almost exactly formed; as the "Merry
Wives of Windsor," and "The Scornful Lady" :
but, because (generally speaking) Shakespeare,
who writ first, did not perfectly observe the laws
of comedy, and Fletcher, who came nearer to
perfection, yet through carelessness made many
faults; I will take the pattern of a perfect
play from Ben Jonson, who was a careful and
learned observer of the dramatic laws, and from
all his comedies I shall select "The Silent
Woman ;" of which I will make a short examen,
according to those rules which the French
observe.
As Neander was beginning to examine "The
Silent Woman," Eugenius, earnestly regarding
him : I beseech you, Neander, said he, gratify
the company, and me in particular, so far as,
before you speak of the play, to give us a charac-
162
JOHN DRYDEN
ter of the author; and tell us frankly your opin-
ion, whether you do not think all writers, both
French and English, ought to give place to him ?
I fear, replied Neander, that, in obeying your
commands, I shall draw some envy on myself.
Besides, in performing them, it will be first
necessary to speak somewhat of Shakespeare
and Fletcher, his rivals in poesy; and one of
them, in my opinion, at least his equal, perhaps
his superior.
To begin then with Shakespeare. He was
the man who of all modern, and perhaps an-
cient poets, had the lajrge§t_and rn^st . Cflmpie.-
hensiy.e_.soul. All the images of nature were
still present to him, and he drew them not labo-
riously, but luckily: when he describes any-
thing, you more than see it, you feel it too.
Those who accuse him to have wanted learning,
give him the greater commendation: he was
naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles
of books to read nature; he locked inarards.
and found her there. I cannot say he is every-
where alike; were he so, I should do him injury
to compare him with the greatest of mankind.
He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit
degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling
into bombast. But he is always great, when
some great occasion is presented to him: no
man can say, he ever had a fit subject for his
wit, and did not then raise himself as high above
the rest of poets,
Quantum Icnta solent inter viburna cupressi.1
The consideration of this made Mr. Hales
of Eton say, that there was no subject of which
any poet ever writ, but he would produce it
much better done in Shakespeare; and how-
ever others are now generally preferred before
him, yet the age wherein he lived, which had
contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson,
never equalled them to him in their esteem:
and in the last king's court, when Ben's repu-
tation was at highest, Sir John Suckling, and
with him the greater part of the courtiers, set
our Shakespeare far above him.
Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next
to speak, had, with the advantage of Shake-
speare's wit, which was their precedent, great
natural _gifts. improved by study-; Beaumont
especially being so accurate a judge of plays,
that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted
all his writings to his censure, and 'tis thought,
used his judgment in correcting, if not contriv-
ing, all his plots. What value he had for him,
1 As do the tall cypresses above the laggard shrubs.
appears by the verses he writ to him; and there-
fore I need speak no farther of it. The first
play that brought Fletcher and him in esteem,
was their "Philaster"; for before that, they
had written two or three very unsuccessfully:
as the like is reported of Ben Jonson, before
he writ "Every Man in his Humour." Their
plots wpre generally more regular ikar^ fitiaVp-
spjgajgls, especially those which were made be-
fore Beaumont's death; and they understood
and imitated^Jihe conversation of gentlemen
much better; whose wild debaucheries, and
quickness of \vil in repartees, no poet before
them could paint as they have done. Humour,
which Ben Jonson derived from particular
persons, they made it not their business to
describe : they represented all the passions very
lively, but above all, love. I am apt to believe
the English language in them arrived to its
highest perfection ; what words have since been
taken in, are rather superfluous than orna-
mental. Their plays are now the most pleas-
ant and frequent entertainments of the stage;
two of theirs being acted through the year for
one of Shakespeare's or Jonson's : the reason is,
because there is a certain gaiety in their come-
dies, and pathos in their more serious plays,
which suits generally with all men's humours.
Shakespeare's language is likewise a little
obsolete, and Ber^ "[yn son's wit comes short
of theirs.
As for Jonson, to whose character I am now
arrived, if we look upon him while he was him-
self, (for his last plays were but his dotages,)
I think him the most learned and judicious
writer which any theatre ever had. He was a
most severe judge of himself, as well as others.
One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that
he was frugal of it. In his works you find little
to retrench or alter. Wit and language, and
humour also in some measure, we had before
him ; but something of art was wanting to the
drama, till he came. He managed his strength
to more advantage than any who preceded him.
You seldom find him making. Loye in any of his
scenes, ur"endeavouring to move the passions;
his" genius was too sullen and saturnine to do
it gracefully, especially when he knew he came
after those who had performed both to such an
height. Humour was his proper sphere ; and
in that he deaglTted most to represent mechanic
people. He was deeply conversant in the
ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he bor-
rowed boldly from them: there is scarce a
poet or historian among the Roman authors of
those times, whom he has not translated in
JOHN LOCKE
163
"Sejanus" and "Catiline." But he has done
his robberies so openly, that one may see he
fears not to be taxed by any law. . He invades
authors like a monarch; and what would be
theft in other poets, is only victory in him.
With the spoils of these writers he so represents
old Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and
customs, that if one of their poets had written
either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it
than in him. If there was any fault in his
language, it was, fha^ he weaved it ton closely
and laboriously, in his comedies especially:
perhaps too, he did a little too much Romanize
our tongue, leaving the words which he trans-
lated almost as much Latin as he found them :
wherein, though he learnedly followed their
language, he did not enough comply with the
idiom of ours. If I would compare him with
Shakespeare, I must acknowledge him the more
correct poet, but Shakespeare the greater~wit.
Shakespeare was the Homer, or father of our
dramatic poets; Jonson was the Virgil, the
pattern of elaborate writing; JLadmire him,
but I love Shakespeare. To conclude of him ;
as he has given us the most correct plays, so
in the precepts which he has laid down in his
" Discoveries," we have as many and profitable
rules for perfecting the stage, as any wherewith
the French can furnish us.
OP Kit. .(1632-1 704)
OF THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDER-
STANDING
i. Introduction. — The last resort a man
has recourse to, in the conduct of himself, is
his understanding; for though we distinguish
the faculties of the mind, and give the supreme
command to the will, as to an agent, yet the
truth is, the man, who is the agent, determines
himself to this or that voluntary action, upon
some precedent knowledge, or appearance of
knowledge, in the understanding. No man
ever sets himself about anything but upon some
view or other, which serves him for a reason for
what he does: and whatsoever faculties he
employs, the understanding, with such light as
it has, well or ill informed, constantly leads;
and by that light, true or false, all his opera-
tive powers are directed. The will itself, how
absolute and uncontrollable soever it may be
thought, never fails in its obedience to the
dictates of the understanding. Temples have
their sacred images, and we see what influence
they have always had over a great part of man-
kind. But in truth, the ideas and images in
men's minds are the invisible powers that con-
stantly govern them, and to these they all
universally pay a ready submission. It is
therefore of the highest concernment that great
care should be taken of the understanding, to
conduct it right in the search of knowledge,
and in the judgments it makes.
The logic now in use has so long possessed
the chair, as the only art taught in the schools,
for the direction of the mind in the study of
the arts and sciences, that it would perhaps be
thought an affectation of novelty to suspect that
rules that have served the learned world these
two or three thousand years, and which, with-
out any complaint of defects, the learned have
rested in, are not sufficient to guide the under-
standing. And I should not doubt but this
attempt would be censured as vanity or pre-
sumption, did not the great Lord Verulam's
authority justify it ; who, not servilely thinking
learning could not be advanced beyond what it
was, because for many ages it had not been,
did not rest in the lazy approbation and ap-
plause of what was, because it was, but enlarged
his mind to what it might be. In his preface
to his Novum Organum, concerning logic, he
pronounces thus: "Qui summas dialecticae
paries tribnerunt, atque inde fidissima scientiis
praesidia comparari putarunt,i -verissime et
optime viderunt intellectum humanum, sibi
permissum, merito suspectum esse debere.
Verum infirmior omnino est malo medicina ;
nee ipsa mali expers. Siquidem dialectica,
quae recepta est, licet ad cimlia et artes, quae in
sermone et opinione positae sunt, rectissime ad-
hibeatur; naturae tamen subtilitatem longo
intervallo non attingit, et prensando quod non
capit, ad errores potius stabttiendos et quasi
figendos, quam ad mam veritati aperiendam
valuit."
"They," says he, "who attributed so much
to logic, perceived very well and truly that it
was not safe to trust the understanding to itself
without the guard of any rules. But the
remedy reached not the evil, but became a
part of it, for the logic which took place,
though it might do well enough in civil affairs
and the arts, which consisted in talk and
opinion, yet comes very far short of subtlety
in the real performances of nature; and,
catching at what it cannot reach, has served
to confirm and establish errors, rather than to
open a way to truth." And therefore a little
after he says, "That it is absolutely necessary
that a better and perfecter use and employ-
164
JOHN LOCKE
ment of the mind and understanding should
be introduced." "Necessario requiritur ut
melior et perfectior mentis et intettectus humani
usus et adoperatio introducatur."
2. Parts. — There is, it is visible, great
variety in men's understandings, and their
natural constitutions put so wide a difference
between some men in this respect, that art
and industry would never be able to master,
end their very natures seem to want a founda-
tion to raise on it that which other men easily
attain unto. Amongst men of equal education
there is great inequality of parts. And the
woods of America, as well as the schools of
Athens, produce men of several abilities in
the same kind. Though this be so, yet I
imagine most men come very short of what
they might attain unto, in their several degrees,
by a neglect of their understandings. A few
rules of logic are thought sufficient in this case
for those who pretend to the highest improve-
ment, whereas I think there are a great many
natural defects in the understanding capable
of amendment, which are overlooked and
wholly neglected. And it is easy to perceive
that men are guilty of a great many faults in
the exercise and improvement of this faculty of
the mind, which hinder them in their progress,
and keep them in ignorance and error all their
lives. Some of them I shall take notice of,
and endeavour to point out proper remedies
for, in the following discourse.
3. Reasoning. — Besides the want of deter-
mined ideas, and of sagacity and exercise in
finding out and laying in order intermediate
ideas, there are three miscarriages that men
are guilty of, in reference to their reason,
whereby this faculty is hindered in them from
that service it might do and was designed for.
And he that reflects upon the actions and dis-
courses of mankind will find their defects in
this kind very frequent and very observable.
i. The first is of those who seldom reason
at all, but do and think according to the
example of others, whether parents, neigh-
bours, ministers, or who else they are pleased
to make choice of to have an implicit faith in,
for the saving of themselves the pains and
trouble of thinking and examining for them-
selves.
2 The second is of those who put passion
in the place of reason, and being resolved that
shall govern their actions and arguments,
neither use their own, nor hearken to other
people's reason, any further than it suits their
humour, interest, or party; and these one
may observe commonly content themselves
with words which have no distinct ideas to
them, though in other matters, that they come
with an unbiassed indifferency to, they want
not abilities to talk and hear reason, where
they have no secret inclination that hinders
them from being tractable to it.
3. The third sort is of those who readily
and sincerely follow reason, but for want of
having that which one may call large, sound,
roundabout sense, have not a full view of all
that relates to the question, and may be of
moment to decide it. We are all shortsighted,
and very often see but one side of a matter;
our views are not extended to all that has a
connection with it. From this defect I think
no man is free. We see but in part, and we
know but in part, and therefore it is no wonder
we conclude not right from our partial views.
This might instruct the proudest esteemer of
his own parts, how useful it is to talk and con-
sult with others, even such as come short of
him in capacity, quickness, and penetration;
for since no one sees all, and we generally
have different prospects of the same thing ac-
cording to our different, as I may say, positions
to it, it is not incongruous to think, nor be-
neath any man to try, whether another may
not have notions of things which have escaped
him, and which his reason would make use of
if they came into his mind. The faculty of
reasoning seldom or never deceives those who
trust to it; its consequences, from what it
builds on, are evident and certain; but that
which it oftenest, if not only, misleads us in is,
that the principles from which we conclude
the grounds upon which we bottom our rea-
soning, are but a part; something is left out
which should go into the reckoning, to make it
just and exact. Here we may imagine a vast
and almost infinite advantage that angels and
separate spirits may have over us, who in their
several degrees of elevation above us may be
endowed with more comprehensive faculties;
and some of them perhaps, having perfect and
exact views of all finite beings that come un-
der their consideration, can, as it were, in the
twinkling of an eye, collect together all their
scattered and almost boundless relations. A
mind so furnished, what reason has it to
acquiesce in the certainty of its conclusions!
In this we may see the reason why some
men of study and thought, that reason right
and are lovers of truth, do make no great
advances in their discoveries of it. Error and
truth are uncertainly blended in their minds;
THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING
165
their decisions are lame and defective, and
they are very often mistaken in their judg-
ments: the reason whereof is, they converse
but with one sort of men, they read but one
sort of books, they will not come in the hear-
ing but of one sort of notions; the truth is,
they canton out to themselves a little Goshen
in the intellectual world, where light shines,
and as they conclude, day blesses them; but
the rest of that vast expansum they give up
to night and darkness, and so avoid coming
near it. They have a pretty traffic with
known correspondents, in some little creek;
within that they confine themselves, and are
dexterous managers enough of the wares and
products of that corner with which they con-
tent themselves, but will not venture out into
the great ocean of knowledge, to survey the
riches that nature hath stored other parts
with, no less genuine, no less solid, no less
useful than what has fallen to their lot, in the
admired plenty and sufficiency of their own
little spot, which to them contains whatsoever
is good in the universe. Those who live thus
mewed up within their own contracted terri-
tories, and will not look abroad beyond the
boundaries that chance, conceit, or laziness
has set to their inquiries, but live separate
from the notions, discourses, and attainments
of the rest of mankind, may not amiss be rep-
resented by the inhabitants of the Marian
Islands, who, being separated by a large tract
of sea from all communion with the habitable
parts of the earth, thought themselves the
only people of the world. And though the
straitness of the conveniences of life amongst
them had never reached so far as to the use of
fire, till the Spaniards, not many years since,
in their voyages from Acapulco to Manilla,
brought it amongst them; yet, in the want
and ignorance of almost all things, they looked
upon themselves, even after that the Spaniards
had brought amongst them the notice of va-
riety of nations, abounding in sciences, arts
and conveniences of life, of which they knew
nothing; they looked upon themselves, I say,
as the happiest and wisest people of the uni-
verse. But for all that, nobody, I think, will
imagine them deep naturalists or solid meta-
physicians; nobody will deem the quickest-
sighted amongst them to have very enlarged
views in ethics or politics; nor can any one
allow the most capable amongst them to be
advanced so far in his understanding as to
have any other knowledge but of the few little
things of his and the neighbouring islands
within his commerce; but far enough from
that comprehensive enlargement of mind
which adorns a soul devoted to truth, assisted
with letters, and a free generation of the
several views and sentiments of thinking men
of all sides. Let not men, therefore, that
would have a sight of what every one pretends
to be desirous to have a sight of, truth in its
full extent, narrow and blind their own pros-
pect. Let not men think there is not truth
but in the sciences that they study, or books
that they read. To prejudge other men's
notions, before we have looked into them, is
not to show their darkness, but to put out our
own eyes. "Try all things, hold fast that
which is good," is a divine rule, coming from
the Father of light and truth, and it is hard to
know what other way men can come at truth,
to lay hold of it, if they do not dig and search
for it as for gold and hid treasure; but he
that does so must have much earth and rub-
bish before he gets the pure metal; sand and
pebbles and dross usually lie blended with it,
but the gold is nevertheless gold, and will en-
rich the man that employs his pains to seek
and separate it. Neither is there any danger
he should be deceived by the mixture. Every
man carries about him a touchstone, if he
will make use of it, to distinguish substantial
gold from superficial glitterings, truth from
appearances. And, indeed, the use and benefit
of this touchstone, which is natural reason, is
spoiled and lost only by assuming prejudices,
overweening presumption, and narrowing our
minds. The want of exercising it in the full
extent of things intelligible, is that which
weakens and extinguishes this noble faculty in
us. Trace it and see whether it be not so.
The day-labourer in a country village has
commonly but a small pittance of knowledge,
because his ideas and notions have been con-
fined to the narrow bounds of a poor conver-
sation and employment : the low mechanic of
a country town does somewhat outdo him:
porters and cobblers of great cities surpass
them. A country gentleman who, leaving
Latin and learning in the university, removes
thence to his mansionhouse, and associates
with neighbours of the same strain, who relish
nothing but hunting and a bottle: with those
alone he spends his time, with those alone he
converses, and can away with no company
whose discourse goes beyond what claret and
dissoluteness inspire. Such a patriot, formed
in this happy way of improvement, cannot
fail, as we see, to give notable decisions upon
i66
JOHN LOCKE
the bench at quarter-sessions, and eminent
proofs of his skill in politics, when the strength
of his purse and party have advanced him to
a more conspicuous station. To such a one,
truly, an ordinary coffee-house gleaner of the
city is an arrant statesman, and as much
superior to as a man conversant about White-
hall and the court is to an ordinary shop-
keeper. To carry this a little further: here is
one muffled up in the zeal and infallibility of
his own sect, and will not touch a b*bok or
enter into debate with a person that will ques-
tion any of those things which to him are
sacred. Another surveys our differences in re-
ligion with an equitable and fair indifference,
and so finds, probably, that none of them are
in everything unexceptionable. These divi-
sions and systems were made by men, and
carry the mark of fallible on them; and in
those whom he differs from, and till he opened
his eyes had a general prejudice against, he
meets with more to be said for a great many
things than before he was aware of, or could
have imagined. Which of these two now is
most likely to judge right in our religious con-
troversies, and to be most stored with truth,
the mark all pretend to aim at? All these
men that I have instanced in, thus unequally
furnished with truth and advanced in know-
ledge, I suppose, of equal natural parts; all the
odds between them has been the different scope
that has been given to their understandings to
range in, for the gathering up of information
and furnishing their heads with ideas and
notions and observations, whereon to employ
their mind and form their understandings.
It will possibly be objected, "who is suf-
ficient for all this?" I answer, more than
can be imagined. Every one knows what his
proper business is, and what, according to the
character he makes of himself, the world may
justly expect of him; and to answer that, he
will find he will have time and opportunity
enough to furnish himself, if he will not de-
prive himself by a narrowness of spirit of
those helps that are at hand. I do not say,
to be a good geographer, that a man should
visit every mountain, river, promontory, and
creek upon the face of the earth, view the
buildings and survey the land everywhere, as
if he were going to make a purchase; but yet
every one must allow that he shall know a
country better that makes often sallies into it
and traverses up and down, than he that like
a mill-horse goes still round in the same track,
cr keeps within the narrow bounds of a field
or two that delight him. He that will inquire
out the best books in every science, and in-
form himself of the most material authors of
the several sects of philosophy and religion,
will not find it an infinite work to acquaint
himself with the sentiments of mankind con-
cerning the most weighty and comprehensive
subjects. Let him exercise the freedom of his
reason and understanding in such a latitude
as this, and his mind will be strengthened, his
capacity enlarged, his faculties improved ; and
the light which the remote and scattered parts
of truth will give to one another will so assist
his judgment, that he will seldom be widely
out, or miss giving proof of a clear head and
a comprehensive knowledge. At least, this is
the only way I know to give the understanding
its due improvement to the full extent of
its capacity, and to distinguish the two most
different things I know in the world, a logi-
cal chicaner from a man of reason. Only, he
that would thus give the mind its flight, and
send abroad his inquiries into all parts after
truth, must be sure to settle in his head deter-
mined ideas of all that he employs his thoughts
about, and never fail to judge himself, and
judge unbiassedly, of all that he receives from
others, either in their writings or discourses.
Reverence or prejudice must not be suffered
to give beauty or deformity to any of their
opinions.
4. Of Practice and Habits. — We are born
with faculties and powers capable almost of
anything, such at least as would carry us further
than can easily be imagined : but it is only the
exercise of those powers which gives us ability
and skill in anything, and leads us towards
perfection.
A middle-aged ploughman will scarce ever
be brought to the carriage and language of a
gentleman, though his body be as well-pro-
portioned, and his joints as supple, and his
natural parts not any way inferior. The legs
of a dancing-master and the fingers of a
musician fall as it were naturally, without
thought or pains, into regular and admirable
motions. Bid them change their parts, and
they will in vain endeavour to produce like
motions in the members not used to them,
and it will require length of time and long
practice to attain but some degrees of a like
ability. What incredible and astonishing ac-
tions do we find rope-dancers and tumblers
bring their bodies to ! Not but that sundry in
almost all manual arts are as wonderful; but
I name those which the world, takes notice of
THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING
167
for such, because on that very account they
give money to see them. All these admired
motions, beyond the reach and almost con-
ception of unpractised spectators, are nothing
but the mere effects of use and industry in
men whose bodies have nothing peculiar in
them from those of the amazed lookers-on.
As it is in the body, so it is in the mind:
practice makes it what it is; and most even
of those excellencies which are looked on
as natural endowments, will be found, when
examined into more narrowly, to be the prod-
uct of exercise, and to be raised to that pitch
only by repeated actions. Some men are re-
marked for pleasantness in raillery ; others for
apologues and apposite diverting stories. This
is apt to be taken for the effect of pure nature,
and that the rather because it is not got by
rules, and those who excel in either of them
never purposely set themselves to the study of
it as an art to be learnt. But yet it is true,
that at first some lucky hit, which took with
somebody and gained him commendation, en-
couraged him to try again, inclined his thoughts
and endeavours that way, till at last he in-
sensibly got a facility in it, without perceiving
how; and that is attributed wholly to nature
which was much more the effect of use and
practice. I do not deny that natural dis-
position may often give the first rise to it, but
that never carries a man far without use and
exercise, and it is practice alone that brings
the powers of the mind, as well as those of the
body, to their perfection. Many a good poetic
vein is buried under a trade, and never pro-
duces anything for want of improvement. We
see the ways of discourse and reasoning are
very different, even concerning the same
matter, at court and in the university. And
he that will go but from Westminster-hall to
the Exchange will find a different genius and
turn in their ways of talking; and yet one
cannot think that all whose lot fell in the city
were born with different parts from those who
were bred at the university or inns of court.
To what purpose all this but to show that
the difference so observable in men's under-
standings and parts does not arise so much
from their natural faculties as acquired habits.
He would be laughed at that should go about
to make a fine dancer out of a country hedger
at past fifty. And he will not have much
better success who shall endeavour at that
age to make a man reason well, or speak
handsomely, who has never been used to it,
though you should lay before him a collection
of all the best precepts of logic or oratory.
Nobody is made anything' by hearing of rules
or laying them up in his memory; practice
must settle the habit of doing without reflect-
ing on the rule; and you may as well hope to
make a good painter or musician extempore,
by a lecture and instruction in the arts of
music and painting, as a coherent thinker or a
strict reasoner by a set of rules showing him
wherein right reasoning consists.
This being so that defects and weakness in
men's understanding, as well as other facul-
ties, come from want of a right use of their
own minds, I am apt to think the fault is
generally mislaid upon nature, and there is
often a complaint of want of parts when the
fault lies in want of a due improvement of
them. We see men frequently dexterous and
sharp enough in making a bargain who, if you
reason with them about matters of religion,
appear perfectly stupid.
5. Ideas. — I will not here, in what relates
to the right conduct and improvement of the
understanding, repeat again the getting clear
and determined ideas, and the employing our
thoughts rather about them than about sounds
put for them, nor of settling the signification
of words which we use with ourselves in the
search of truth, or with others in discoursing
about it. Those hindrances of our under-
standings in the pursuit of knowledge I have
sufficiently enlarged upon in another place,
so that nothing more needs here to be said of
those matters.
6. Principles. — There is another fault that
stops or misleads men in their knowledge
which I have also spoken something of, but
yet is necessary to mention here again, that
we may examine it to the bottom and see the
root it springs from, and that is, a custom of
taking up with principles that are not self-
evident, and very often not so much as true.
It is not unusual to see men rest their opinions
upon foundations that have no more certainty
and solidity than the propositions built on
them and embraced for their sake. Such
foundations are these and the like, viz., the
founders or leaders of my party are good men,
and therefore their tenets are true; it is the
opinion of a sect that is erroneous, therefore
it is false; it hath been long received in the
world, therefore it is true; or, it is new, and
therefore false.
These, and many the like, which are by no
means the measures of truth and falsehood,
the generality of men make the standards by
i68
SAMUEL PEPYS
which they accustom their understanding to
judge. And thus, they falling into a habit of
determining of truth and falsehood by such
wrong measures, it is no wonder they should
embrace error for certainty, and be very posi-
tive in things they have no ground for.
There is not any who pretends to the least
reason, but when any of these his false maxims
are brought to the test, must acknowledge
them to be fallible, and such as he will not
allow in those that differ from him; and yet
after he is convinced of this you shall see him
go on in the use of them, and the very next
occasion that offers argue again upon the same
grounds. Would one not be ready to think
that men are willing to impose upon them-
selves, and mislead their own understandings,
who conduct them by such wrong measures,
even after they see they cannot be relied on?
But yet they will not appear so blamable as
may be thought at first sight; for I think
there are a great many that argue thus in
earnest, and do it not to impose on themselves
or others. They are persuaded of what they
say, and think there is weight in it, though in
a like case they have been convinced there is
none ; but men would be intolerable to them-
selves and contemptible to others if they should
embrace opinions without any ground, and
hold what they could give no manner of reason
for. True or false, solid or sandy, the mind
must have some foundation to rest itself upon,
and, as I have remarked in another place, it
no sooner entertains any proposition but it
presently hastens to some hypothesis to bot-
tom it on ; till then it is unquiet and unsettled.
So much do our own very tempers dispose us
to a right use of our understandings if we
would follow, as we should, the inclinations of
our nature.
In some matters of concernment, especially
those of religion, men are .not permitted to be
always wavering and uncertain, they must em-
brace and profess some tenets or other; and
it would be a shame, nay a contradiction too
heavy for any one's mind to lie constantly
under, for him to pretend seriously to be per-
suaded of the truth of any religion, and yet not
to be able to give any reason of his belief, or
to say anything for his preference of this to
any other opinion: and therefore they must
make use of some principles or other, and those
can be no other than such as they have and
can manage; and to say they are not in ear-
nest persuaded by them, and do not rest upon
those they make use of, is contrary to experi-
ence, and to allege that they are not misled,
when we complain they are .....
SAMUEL PEPYS (1633-1703)
-••••••^ ••• """" ^•••BSSL— . o ,
FROM Trie; nyfiy
Aug. 22d., 1661. To the Privy-Seale, and
sealed: * so home at noon, and there took my
wife by coach to my uncle Fenner's, where
there was both at his house and the Sessions
great deal of company, but poor entertain-
ment, which I wonder at; and the house so
hot, that my uncle Wight, my father, and I
were fain to go out, and stay at an alehouse
awhile to cool ourselves. Then back again
and to church — my father's family being all
in mourning, doing him 2 the greatest honour,
the world believing that he did give us it: so
to church, and staid out the sermon.
23d. To W. Joyce's, where my wife was,
and I took her to the Opera, and showed her
the "Witts," 3 which I had seen already twice,
and was most highly pleased with it.
24th. Called to Sir W. Batten's, to see the
strange creature that Captain Holmes hath
brought with him from Guiny; it is a great
baboon, but so much like a man in most
things, that, though they say there is a species
of them, yet I cannot believe but that it is a
monster got of a man and she-baboon. I do
believe that it already understands much
English, and I am of the mind that it might
be taught to speak or make signs. To the
Opera, and there saw "Hamlet, Prince of
Denmarke," done with scenes 4 very well, but
above all, Betterton did the Prince's part be-
yond imagination.
25th. (Lord's day.) Home; found my
Lady Batten and her daughter to look some-
thing askew upon my wife, because my wife
do not buckle to them, and is not solicitous
for their acquaintance.
27th. Casting up my father's accounts, and
upon the whole I find that all he hath in money
of his own due to him in the world is 45^.,
and he owes about the same sum: so that I
cannot but think in what a condition he had
left my mother, if he should have died before
1 Pepys was deputy for his kinsman and patron,
the Earl of Sandwich, Keeper of the Great Wardrobe
and Clerk of the Privy Seal. 2 Pepys's Uncle
Robert, who had died early in July. 3 a play by
Davenant * The use of modern painted scenes
had only recently been introduced on the English
stage.
HIS DIARY
169
my uncle Robert. To the Theatre, and saw
the "Antipodes," l wherein there is much
mirth, but no great matter else. I found a
letter from my Lord Sandwich, who is now
very well again of his feaver, but not yet gone
from Alicante, where he lay sick, and was
twice there bled. This letter dated the 22nd.
July last, which puts me out of doubt of his
being ill.
ayth. This morning to the Wardrobe, and
there took leave of my Lord Hinchingbroke
and his brother, and saw them go out by
coach toward Rye in their way to France,
whom God bless. Then I was called up to
my Lady's 2 bedside, where we talked an hour
about Mr. Edward Montagu's disposing of the
5ooo/. for my Lord's preparation for Portugal,
and our fears that he will not do it to my
Lord's honour, and less to his profit, which I
am to inquire a little after. My wife and I to
the theatre, and there saw "The Jovial Crew,"
where the King, Duke, and Duchess, and
Madame Palmer, were; and my wife, to her
great content, had a full sight of them all the
while. The play full of mirth.
28th. This day, I counterfeited a letter to
Sir W. Pen, as from the thief that stole his
tankard lately, only to abuse and laugh at
him.
29th. My aunt Bell came to dine with me,
and we were very merry. Mr. Evans, the
taylor, whose daughter we have had a mind
to get a wife for Tom, told us that he hath not
to except against us or our motion, but that
the estate that God hath blessed him with is
too great to give, where there is nothing in
present possession but a trade and house ; and
so we friendly ended.
3oth. My wife and I to Drury Lane to the
French comedy, which was so ill done, and
the scenes and company and everything else
so nasty and out of order and poor, that I was
sick all the while in my mind to be there.
Here my wife met with a son of my Lord
Somerset, whom she knew in France, a pretty
gentleman, but I showed him no great coun-
tenance, to avoid further acquaintance. That
done, there being nothing pleasant but the
foolery of the farce, we went home.
3ist. To Bartholomew fair,3 and there met
with my Ladies Jemimah and Paulina, with
Mr. Pickering and Mademoiselle, at seeing
1 a comedy by Brome 2 the Countess of Sand-
wich 3 a famous fair, held in Smithfield, London,
from 1133 to 1853
the monkeys dance, which was much to see,
when they could be brought to do so, but it
troubled me to sit among such nasty company.
After that, with them into Christ's Hospital,
and there Mr. Pickering brought them some
fairings, and I did give every one of them a
bauble, which was the little globes of glass
with things hanging in them, which pleased
the ladies very well. After that, home with
them in their coach, and there was called up
to my Lady, and she would have me stay to
talk with her, which I did I think a full
hour. . . .
Thus ends the mouth. My mayde Jane
newly gone, and Pall l left now to do all the
work till another mayde comes, which shall not
be till she goes away into the country with my
mother. No money comes in, so that I have
been forced to borrow a great deal for my own
expenses, and to furnish my father, to leave
things in order. I have some trouble about
my brother Tom, who is now left to keep my
father's trade, in which I have great fears that
he will miscarry for want of brains and care.
At Court things are in very ill condition, there
being so much emulacion, poverty, and the
vices of drinking, swearing, and loose amours,
that I know not what will be the end of it,
but confusion. And the Clergy so high, that
all people that I meet with do protest against
their practice. In short, I see no content or
satisfaction any where, in any one sort of
people. The Benevolence 2 proves so little,
and an occasion of so much discontent every-
where, that it had better it had never been set
up. I think to subscribe 2ol. We are at our
Office quiet, only for lack of money all things
go to rack. Our very bills offered to be sold
upon the Exchange at 10 per cent. loss. We
are upon getting Sir R. Ford's house added to
our office; but I see so many difficulties will
follow in pleasing of one another in the divid-
ing of it, and in becoming bound personally
to pay the rent of 2oo/. per annum, that I do
believe it will yet scarce come to pass. The
season very sickly everywhere of strange and
fatal fevers.
September ist. (Lord's day.) Last night
being very rainy, (the water) broke into my
house, the gutter being stopped, and spoiled
all my ceilings almost. At church in the morn-
ing. After dinner we were very merry with
Sir W. Pen about the loss of his tankard,
1 Pepys's sister Paulina 2 a voluntary contri-
bution of the people to the King
i yo
SAMUEL PEPYS
though all be but a cheate, and he do not yet
understand it; but the tankard was stole by
Sir W. Batten, and the letter, as from the
thief, wrote by me, which makes very good
sport. Captain Holmes and I by coach to
White Hall; in our way, I found him by dis-
course to be a great friend of my Lord's, and
he told me there was a many did seek to re-
move him ; but they were old seamen, such as
Sir J. Minnes, but he would name no more,
though he do believe Sir W. Batten is one of
them that do envy him, but he says he knows
that the King do so love him, and the Duke
of York too, that there is no fear of him. He
seems to be very well acquainted with the
King's mind, and with all the several factions
at Court, and spoke all with so much frank-
ness, that I do take him to be my Lord's
good friend, and one able to do him great
service, being a cunning fellow, and one, by
his own confession to me, that can put on two
several faces, and look his enemies in the face
with as much love as his friends. But, good
God! what an age is this, and what a world
is this ! that a man cannot live without play-
ing the knave and dissimulation.
2d. Mr. Pickering and I to Westminster
Hall again, and there walked an houre or two
talking, and, though he be a fool, yet he keeps
much company, and will tell all he sees or
hears, and so a man may understand what the
common talk of the town is. And I find that
there are endeavours to get my Lord out of
play at sea, which I believe Mr. Coventry and
the Duke do think will make them more abso-
lute; but I hope for all this, they will not be
able to do it. My wife tells me that she met
at Change with my young ladies of the Ward-
robe, and there helped them to buy things,
and also with Mr. Somerset, who did give her
a bracelet of rings, which did a little trouble
me, though I know there is no hurt yet in it,
but only for fear of further acquaintance.
3d. Dined at home, and then with my
wife to the Wardrobe, where my Lady's child
was christened, my Lord Crewe and his lady,
and my Lady Montagu, my Lord's mother-in-
law, were the witnesses, and named Catherine,
the Queen elect's name; but to my and all
our trouble, the Parson of the parish christened
her, and did not sign the child with the sign
of the cross. After that was done, we had a
very fine banquet.
4th. My wife come to me to Whitehall,
and we went and walked a good while in St.
James's Parke to see the brave alterations.
5th. Put my mother and Pall into the
wagon, and saw them going presently — Pall
crying exceedingly. To my uncle Fenner's to
dinner, in the way meeting a French footman
with feathers, who was in quest of my wife,
and spoke with her privately, but I could not
tell what it was, only my wife promised to go
to some place to-morrow morning, which do
trouble my mind how to know whither it was.
My wife and I to the fair, and I showed her
the Italians dancing the ropes, and the women
that do strange tumbling tricks.
6th. I went to the Theatre, and saw
"Elder Brother" acted; meeting here with Sir
J. Askew, Sir Theophilus Jones, and another
knight, with Sir W. Pen, we to the Ship taverne,
and there staid, and were merry till late at
night.
7th. Having appointed the young ladies at
the Wardrobe to go with them to the play to-
day, my wife and I took them to the Theatre,
where we seated ourselves close by the King,
and Duke of York, and Madame Palmer,
which was great content; and, indeed, I can
never enough admire her beauty. And here
was "Bartholomew Fayre,"1 with the puppet-
showe, acted to-day, which had not been these
forty years, it being so satyrical against Puri-
tanism, they durst not till now, which is
strange they should already dare to do it, and
the King to countenance it, but I do never a
whit like it the better for the puppets, but
rather the worse. Thence home with the
ladies, it being by reason of our staying a
great while for the King's coming, and the
length of the play, near nine o'clock before it
was done.
8th. (Lord's day.) To church, and com-
ing home again, found our new mayd Doll
asleep, that she could not hear to let us in,
so that we were fain to send a boy in at a
window to open the door to us. Begun to
look over my accounts, and, upon the whole,
I do find myself, by what I can yet see, worth
near 6oo/, for which God be blessed.
9th. To Salisbury Court play-house, where
was acted the first time, "'Tis pity she's a
W — e," * a simple play, and ill acted, only it
was my fortune to sit by a most pretty and
most ingenious lady, which pleased me much.
To the Dolphin, to drink the 30^. that we got
the other day of Sir W. Pen about his tankard.
Here was Sir R. Slingsby, Holmes, Captain
1 a comedy by Ben Jonson
John Ford
3 a tragedy by
f
HIS DIARY
171
Allen, Mr. Turner, his wife and daughter, my
Lady Batten, and Mrs. Martha, &c., and an
excellent company of fiddlers; so we exceed-
ing merry till late; and then we begun to tell
Sir W. Pen the business, but he had been
drinking to-day, and so is almost gone, that
we could not make him understand it, which
caused us more sport.
nth. To Dr. Williams, who did carry me
into his garden, where he hath abundance of
grapes: and he did show me how a dog that
he hath do kill all the cats that come thither
to kill his pigeons, and do afterwards bury
them; and do it with so much care that they
shall be quite covered; that if the tip of the
tail hangs out, he will take up the cat again,
and dig the hole deeper, which is very strange ;
and he tells me, that he do believe he hath
killed above 100 cats. Home to my house to
dinner, where I found my wife's brother Baity
as fine as hands could make him, and his
servant, a Frenchman, to wait on him, and
come to have my wife visit a young lady
which he is a servant ' to, and have hope to
trepan, and get for his wife. I did give way
for my wife to go with him. Walking through
Lincoln's Inn Fields, observed at the Opera
a new play, "Twelfth Night," was acted there,
and the King there: so I, against my own
mind and resolution, could not forbear to go
in, which did make the play seem a burthen
to me; and I took no pleasure at all in it:
and so, after it was done, went home with my
mind troubled for my going thither, after my
swearing to my wife that I would never go to
a play without her. My wife was with her
brother to see his mistress to-day, and says
she is young, rich, and handsome, but not
likely for him to get.
1 2th. To my Lady's to dinner at the Ward-
robe ; and in my way upon the Thames, I saw
the King's new pleasure-boat that is come now
for the King to take pleasure in above bridge,
and also two Gundaloes,2 that are lately
brought, which are very rich and fine. Called
at Sir W. Batten's, and there hear that Sir
W. Pen do take our jest of the tankard very
ill, which I am sorry for.
i3th. I was sent for by my uncle Fenner
to come and advise about the burial of my
aunt, the butcher, who died yesterday. Thence
to the Wardrobe, where I found my wife, and
thence she and I to the water to spend the
afternoon in pleasure, and so we went to old
George's, and there eat as much as we would
of a hot shoulder of mutton, and so to boat
again and home.
1 4th. Before we had dined comes Sir R.
Slingsby, and his lady, and a great deal of
company, to take my wife and I out by barge,
to show them the King's and Duke's yachts.
We had great pleasure, seeing all four yachts,
viz., these two, and the two Dutch ones.
i5th. (Lord's day.) To my aunt Kite's in
the morning, to help my uncle Fenner to put
things in order against anon for the burial.
After sermon, with my wife to the burial of
my aunt Kite, where, besides us and my uncle
Fenner's family, there was none of any quality,
but poor and rascally people. So we went to
church with the corps, and there had service
read at the grave, and back again with Pegg
Kite, who will be, I doubt, a troublesome car-
rion to us executors, but if she will not be
ruled, I shall fling up my executorship.
1 6th. Word is brought me from my brother's,
that there is a fellow come from my father out
of the country, on purpose to speak with me,
and he made a story how he had lost his letter,
but he was sure it was for me to come into the
country, which I believed, but I afterwards
found that it was a rogue that did use to play
such tricks to get money of people, but he got
none of me. Letters from my father informing
me of the Court,1 and that I must come down
and meet him at Impington, which I presently
resolved to do.
1 7th. Got up, telling my wife of my journey,
and she got me to hire her a horse to go along
with me. So I went to my Lady's, and of
Mr. Townsend did borrow a very fine side-
saddle for my wife, and so, after all things were
ready, she and I took coach to the end of the
towne towards Kingsland, and there got upon
my horse, and she upon her pretty mare that
I hired for her, and she rides very well. By
the mare at one time falling, she got a fall, but
no harm ; so we got to Ware, and there supped,
and went to bed.
1 8th. Up early, and begun our march: the
way about Puckridge very bad, and my wife,
in the very last dirty place of all, got a fall,
but no hurt, though some dirt. At last, she
begun, poor wretch, to be tired, and I to be
angry at it, but I was to blame ; for she is a very
good companion as long as she is well. In
1 suitor 2 Two gondolas, presented to the King
by the Duke of Venice.
1 The manorial court under which Pepys held some
of his copyhold estates.
172
SAMUEL PEPYS
the afternoon, we got to Cambridge, where I
left my wife at my cozen Angier's, while I went
to Christ's College, and there found my brother
in his chamber, and talked with him, and so to
the barber's, and then to my wife again, and
remounted for Impington, where my uncle
received me and my wife very kindly.
1 9th. Up early, and my father and I alone
talked about our business, and then we all
horsed away to Cambridge, where my father
and I, having left my wife at the Beare, with
my brother, went to Mr. Sedgewicke, the stew-
ard of Gravely, and there talked with him, but
could get little hopes from anything that he
would tell us; but at last I did give him a fee,
and then he was free to tell me what I asked,
which was something, though not much com-
fort. From thence to our horses, and, with my
wife, went and rode through Sturbridge fayre,
but the fayre was almost done. Set out for
Brampton, where we come in very good time.
2oth. Will Stankes and I set out in the morn-
ing betimes for Gravely, where to an alehouse
and drank, and then, going to the Court House,
met my uncle Thomas and his son Thomas,
with Bradly, the rogue that had betrayed us,
and one Young, a cunning fellow, who guides,
them. I said little, till by and by that we come
to the Court, whjch was a simple meeting of a
company of country rogues, with the Steward,
and two Fellows of Jesus College, that are
lords of the towne; and I producing no sur-
render, though I told them I was sure there is
and must be one somewhere, they found my
uncle Thomas heire at law, as he is; and so
my uncle was admitted and his son also in re-
version. The father paid a year and a half for
his fine, and the son half a year, in all, 48^.,
besides about 3/. fees ; so that I do believe the
charges of his journeys, and what he gives those
two rogues, and other expenses herein, cannot
be less than 'jol., which will be a sad thing for
him, if a surrender be found. After all was
done, I openly wished them joy in it.
2ist. After dinner (there coming this morn-
ing my aunt Hanes and her son from London,
that is to live with my father), I rode to Hunt-
ingdon, and so to Hinchingbroke, where Mr.
Barnwell showed me the condition of the house,
which is yet very backward, and I fear will be
very dark in the cloyster when it is done.
22d. (Lord's day.) To church, where we
had common prayer, and a dull sermon by one
Mr. Case, who yet I heard sing very well.
23d. We took horse, and got early to Bald-
wick, where there was a fair, and we put in,
and eat a mouthful of porke, which they made
us pay i^d. for, which vexed me much. And
so away to Stevenage, and staid till a shower
was over, and so rode easily to Welling. We
supped well, and had two beds in the room,
and so lay single.
24th. We rose, and set forth, but found a most
sad alteration in the roade, by reason of last
night's rains, they being now all dirty and
washy, though not deep. So we rode easily
through, and only drinking at Holloway, at
the sign of a woman with cakes in one hand,
and a pot of ale in the other, which did give
good occasion of mirth, resembling her to the
maid that served us, we got home very timely
and well, and finding there all well, and letters
from sea, that speak of my Lord's being well;
and his Action, though not considerable of any
side, at Algiers.
25th. Sir W. Pen told me that I need not
fear any reflection upon my Lord for their ill
success at Argier, for more could not be done.
Meeting Sir R. Slingsby in St. Martin's Lane,
he and I in his coach through the Mewes,
which is the way that now all coaches are
forced to go, because of a stop at Charing
Crosse, by reason of digging of a drayne there
to clear the streets. To my Lord Crewe's, and
dined with him, where I was used with all im-
aginable kindness both from him and her.
And I see that he is afraid my Lord's reputacon
will a little suffer in common talk by this late
successe; but there is no help for it now.
The Queen of England, as she is now owned
and called, I hear, doth keep open court, and
distinct at Lisbone. To the Theatre, and saw
"The Merry Wives of Windsor" ill done.
26th. With my wife by coach to the Theatre,
to show her "King and no King," it being very
well done.
27th. At noon, met my wife at the Ward-
robe; and there dined, where we found Cap-
tain Country, my little Captain that I loved,
who carried me to the Sound, with some grapes
and millons ! from my Lord at Lisbone, the
first that ever I saw; but the grapes are rare
things. In the afternoon comes Mr. Edward
Montagu, by appointment this morning, to talk
with my Lady and me about the provisions
fit to be bought and sent to my Lord along with
him. And told us, that we need not trouble
ourselves how to buy them, for the King would
pay for all, and that he would take care to get
them : which put my Lady and me into a great
1 melons
ROBERT SOUTH
173
deal of ease of mind. Here we stayed and
supped too; and, after my wife had put up
some of the grapes in a basket for to be sent to
the King, we took coach and home, where we
found a hamper of millons sent to me also.
28th. Sir W. Pen and his daughter, and I
and my wife, to the Theatre, and there saw
"Father's own Son," ' a very good play, and
the first time I ever saw it.
29th. (Lord's day.) What at dinner and
supper I drink, I know not how, of my own
accord, so much wine, that I was even almost
foxed, and my head ached all night; so home
and to bed, without prayers, which I never did
yet, since I come to the house, of a Sunday
night : I being now so out of order that I durst
not read prayers, for fear of being perceived by
my servants in what case I was.
ROBERT SOUTH (1634-1716)
FROM A SERMON PREACHED ON MAY 9,
1686
The generality of mankind is wholly and
absolutely governed by words and names;
•without; nay, for the most part, even against
the knowledge men have of things. The
multitude, or common rout, like a drove of
sheep, or an herd of oxen, may be managed
by any noise, or cry, which their drivers shall
accustom them to.
And, he who will set up for a skilful manager
of the rabble, so long as they have but ears to
hear, needs never inquire, whether they have
any understanding whereby to judge; but with
two or three popular, empty words, such as
popery and superstition, right of the subject,
liberty of conscience, Lord Jesus Christ well
tuned and humoured; may whistle them
backwards and forwards, upwards and down-
wards, till he is weary; and get up upon their
backs when he is so.
As for the meaning of the word itself, that may
shift for itself; and, as for the sense and reason
of it, that has little or nothing to do here ; only
let it sound full and round, and chime right to
the humour, which is at present agog, (just
as a big, long, rattling name is said to com-
mand even adoration from a Spaniard,) and,
no doubt, with this powerful, senseless engine
the rabble-driver shall be able to carry all be-
1 an old play, by an unknown author
fore him, or to draw all after him, as he pleases.
For, a plausible, insignificant word, in the mouth
of an expert demagogue, is a dangerous and a
dreadful weapon.
You know, when Caesar's army mutinied,
and grew troublesome, no argument from
interest, or reason, could satisfy or appease
them : but, as soon as he gave them the appel-
lation of Quirites, the tumult was immediately
hushed; and all were quiet and content, and
took that one word in good payment for all.
Such is the trivial slightness and levity of most
minds. And indeed, take any passion of the
soul of man, while it is predominant, and
afloat, and, just in the critical height of it, nick
it with some lucky, or unlucky word, and you
may as certainly overrule into your own pur-
pose, as a spark of fire, falling upon gunpowder,
will infallibly blow it up.
The truth is, he who shall duly consider
these matters, will find that there is a certain
bewitchery, or fascination in words, which makes
them operate with a force beyond what we
can naturally give an account of. For, would
not a man think, ill deeds, and shrewd turns,
should reach further, and strike deeper than
ill words? And yet many instances might be
given, in which men have much more easily
pardoned ill things done, than ill things said
against them: such a peculiar rancour and
venom do they leave behind them in men's
minds, and so much more poisonously and in-
curably does the serpent bite with his tongue,
than with his teeth.
Nor are men prevailed upon at this odd,
unaccountable rate, by bare words, only
through a defect of knowledge; but sometimes
also do they suffer themselves to be carried
away with these puffs of wind, even contrary
to knowledge and experience itself. For other-
wise, how could men be brought to surrender
up their reason, their interest, and their credit
to flattery? Gross, fulsome, abusive flattery;
indeed more abusive and reproachful upon a
true estimate of things and persons, than the
rudest scoffs, and the sharpest invectives.
Yet so it is, that though men know themselves
utterly void of those qualities and perfections,
which the imprudent sycophant, at the same
time, both ascribes to them, and in his sleeve
laughs at them for believing; nay, though
they know that the flatterer himself knows the
falsehood of his own flatteries, yet they swallow
the fallacious morsel, love the impostor, and
with both arms hug the abuse ; and that to such
a degree, that no offices of friendship, no real
174
ROBERT SOUTH
services shall be able to lie in the balance
against, those luscious falsehoods, which flattery
shall feed the mind of a. fool in power with ; the
sweetness of the one infinitely overcomes the
substance of the other.
And therefore, you shall seldom see, that such
an one cares to have men of worth, honesty,
and veracity about him; for, such persons
cannot fall down and worship stocks and
stones, though they are placed never so
high above them. But their yea is yea, and
their nay, nay; and, they cannot admire a
fox for his sincerity, a wolf for his generosity,
nor an ass for his wit and ingenuity; and
therefore can never be acceptable to those
whose whole credit, interest, and advantage
lies in their not appearing to the world, what
they are really in themselves. None are, or
can be welcome to such, but those who speak
paint and wash ; for that is the thing they love;
and, no wonder, since it is the thing they need.
There is hardly any rank, order, or degree
of men, but more or less have been captivated,
and enslaved by words. It is a weakness, or
rather a fate, which attends both high and low.
The statesman, who holds the helm, as well as
the peasant who holds the plough. So that if
ever you find an ignoramus in place or power,
and can have so little conscience, and so much
confidence, as to tell him to his face, that he
has a wit and understanding above all the world
beside; and that what his own reason cannot
suggest to him, neither can the united reasons
of all mankind put together; I dare undertake,
that, as fulsome a dose as you give him, he
shall readily take it down, and admit the com-
mendation, though he cannot believe the thing:
Blanditiae etiam cum excluduntur placent; l
says Seneca. Tell him, that no history or
antiquity can match his policies and his con-
duct ; and presently the sot (because he knows
neither history, nor antiquity) shall begin to
measure himself by himself, (which is the only
sure way for him not to fall short) ; and so imme-
diately amongst his outward admirers, and his
inward despisers, vouched also by a teste me-
ipso, he steps forth an exact politician ; and,
by a wonderful, and new way of arguing,
proves himself no fool, because, forsooth, the
sycophant, who tells him so, is an egregious
knave.
But to give you a yet grosser instance of the
force of words, and of the extreme variety of
man's nature in being influenced by them,
1 Flattery pleases even when rejected.
hardly shall you meet with any person, man or
woman, so aged, or ill-favoured, but if you will
venture to commend them for their comeliness;
nay, and for their youth too; though time out
of mind is wrote upon every line of their face ;
yet they shall take it very well at your hands,
and begin to think with themselves, that cer-
tainly they have some perfections, which the
generality of the world are not so happy as
to be aware of.
But now, are not these (think we) strange
self-delusions, and yet attested by common
experience, almost every day? But whence,
in the meantime, can all this proceed, but from
that besotting intoxication, which this verbal
magic (as I may so call it) brings upon the
mind of man? For, can anything in nature
have a more certain, deep, and undeniable
effect, than folly has upon man's mind, and age
upon his body? And yet we see, that in both
these, words are able to persuade men out of
what they find and feel, to reverse the very
impressions of sense, and to amuse men with
fancies and paradoxes even in spite of nature,
and experience. But, since it would be end-
less to pursue all the particulars in which this
humour shows itself; whosoever would have
one full, lively, and complete view of an empty,
shallow, self-opinioned grandee, surrounded by
his flatterers, (like a choice dish of meat by
a company of fellows commending, and devour-
ing it at the same time), let him cast his eye
upon Ahab in the midst of his false Prophets,
i Kings 22. Where we have them all with one
voice for giving him a cast of their court-proph-
ecy, and sending him, in a compliment, to
be knocked on the head at Ramoth Gilead.
But, says Jehoshaphat, (who smelt the parasite
through the prophet) in the 7th verse, 7s
there not a Prophet of the Lord besides, that we
may inquire of him? Why yes, says Ahab,
there is yet one man by whom we may inquire
of the Lord; but I hate him, for he doth not
prophesy good concerning me, but evil. Ah!
that was his crime ; the poor man was so good
a subject, and so bad a courtier, as to venture
to serve, and save his Prince, whether he would
or no; for, it seems, to give Ahab such warning,
as might infallibly have prevented his destruc-
tion, was esteemed by him evil, and to push him
on headlong into it, because he was fond of
it, was accounted good. These were his new
measures of good and evil. And therefore,
those who knew how to make their court better,
(as the word is) tell him a bold lie in God's
name, and therewith sent him packing to his
THE FATAL IMPOSTURE AND FORCE OF WORDS
175
certain doom ; thus calling evil good at the cost
of their Prince's crown, and his life too. But
what cared they? they knew that it would
please, and that was enough for them; there
being always a sort of men in the world, (whom
others have an interest to serve by,) who had
rather a great deal be pleased, than be safe.
Strike them under the fifth rib; provided at
the same time you kiss them too, as Joab served
Abner, and you may both destroy and oblige
them with the same blow.
Accordingly in the 3oth of Isaiah we find
some arrived to that pitch of sottishness, and
so much in love with their own ruin, as to own
plainly and roundly what they would be at;
in the loth verse; Prophesy not unto us, say
they, right things, but prophesy to us smooth
things. As if they had said, do but oil the razor
for us, and let us alone to cut our own throats.
Such an enchantment is there in words; and so
fine a thing does it seem to some, to be ruined
plausibly, and to be ushered to their destruc-
tion with panegyric and acclamation ; a shame-
ful, though irrefragable argument of the absurd
empire and usurpation of words over things;
and, that the greatest affairs, and most impor-
tant interests of the world, are carried on by
things, not as they are, but as they are called.
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
DANIEL DEFOE (i66i?-i73i)
FROM THE LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND
PIRACIES, OF THE FAMOUS
CAPTAIN SINGLETON
We cruised near two years in those seas,
chiefly upon the Spaniards; not that we made
any difficulty of taking English ships, or Dutch,
or French, if they came in our way; and
particularly, Captain Wilmot attacked a New
England ship bound from the Madeiras to
Jamaica, and another bound from New York
to Barbados, with provisions; which last was
a very happy supply to us. But the reason
why we meddled as little with English vessels
as we could, was, first, because, if they were
ships of any force, we were sure of more re-
sistance from them ; and, secondly, because we
found the English ships had less booty when
taken, for the Spaniards generally had money
on board, and that was what we best knew
what to do with. Captain Wilmot was, in-
deed, more particularly cruel when he took any
English vessel, that they might not too soon
have advice of him in England; and so the
men-of-war have orders to look out for him.
But this part I bury in silence for the present.
We increased our stock in these two years
considerably, having taken 60,000 pieces of
eight in one vessel, and 100,000 in another;
and being thus first grown rich, we resolved to
be strong too, for we had taken a brigantine
built at Virginia, an excellent sea-boat, and a
good sailer, and able to carry twelve guns;
and a large Spanish frigate-built ship, that sailed
incomparably well also, and which afterwards,
by the help of good carpenters, we fitted up to
carry twenty-eight guns. And now we wanted
more hands, so we put away for the Bay of
Campeachy, not doubting we should ship as
many men there as we pleased ; and so we did.
Here we sold the sloop that I was in; and
Captain Wilmot keeping his own ship, I took
the command of the Spanish frigate as captain,
and my comrade Harris as eldest lieutenant,
and a bold enterprising fellow he was, as any
the world afforded. One culverdine was put
into the brigantine, so that we were now three
stout ships, well manned, and victualled for
twelve months; for we had taken two or three
sloops from New England and New York,
laden with flour, peas, and barrelled beef and
pork, going for Jamaica and Barbados; and
for more beef we went on shore on the island of
Cuba, where we killed as many black cattle as
we pleased, though we had very little salt to
cure them.
Out of all the prizes we took here we took
their powder and bullet, their small-arms and
cutlasses; and as for their men, we always
took the surgeon and the carpenter, as persons
who were of particular use to us upon many
occasions; nor were they always unwilling to
go with us, though for their own security, in
case of accidents, they might easily pretend
they were carried away by force; of which I
shall give a pleasant account in the course of
my other expeditions.
We had one very merry fellow here, a
Quaker, whose name was William Walters,
whom we took out of a sloop bound from Penn-
sylvania to Barbados. He was a surgeon,
and they called him doctor; but he was not
employed in the sloop as a surgeon, but was
going to Barbados to get a berth, as the sailors
call it. However, he had all his surgeon's
chests on board, and we made him go with
us, and take all his implements with him. He
was a comic fellow indeed, a man of very good
solid sense, and an excellent surgeon; but,
what was worth all, very good-humoured and
pleasant in his conversation, and a bold, stout,
brave fellow too, as any we had among us.
I found William, as I thought, not very
averse to go along with us, and yet resolved to
do it so that it might be apparent he was taken
away by force, and to this purpose he comes to
me. "Friend," says he, "thou sayest I must
go with thee, and it is not in my power to resist
thee if I would; but I desire thou wilt oblige
the master of the sloop which I am on board to
certify under his hand, that I was taken away
by force and against my will." And this he
said with so much satisfaction in his face, that
176
THE LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND PIRACIES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 177
I could not but understand him. "Ay, ay,"
says I, "whether it be against your will or no,
I'll make him and all the men give you a cer-
tificate of it, or I'll take them all along with us,
and keep them till they do." So I drew up a
certificate myself, wherein I wrote that he was
taken away by main force, as a prisoner, by a
pirate ship; that they carried away his chest
and instruments first, and then bound his
hands behind him and forced him into their
boat; and this was signed by the master and
all his men.
Accordingly I fell a-swearing at him, and
called to my men to tie his hands behind him,
and so we put him into our boat and carried
him away. When I had him on board, I
called him to me. "Now, friend," says I,
"I have brought you away by force, it is true,
but I am not of the opinion I have brought you
away so much against your will as they imagine.
Come," says I, "you will be a useful man to us,
and you shall have very good usage among us."
So I unbound his hands, and first ordered all
things that belonged to him to be restored to
him, and our captain gave him a dram.
"Thou hast dealt friendly by me," says he,
"and I will be plain with thee, whether I came
willingly to thee or not. I shall make myself
as useful to thee as I can, but thou knowest it
is not my business to meddle when thou art
to fight." "No, no," says the captain, "but
you may meddle a little when we share the
money." "Those things are useful to furnish
a surgeon's chest," says William, and smiled,
"but I shall be moderate."
In short, William was a most agreeable
companion ; but he had the better of us in this
part, that if we were taken we were sure to be
hanged, and he was sure to escape; and he
knew it well enough. But, in short, he was a
sprightly fellow, and fitter to be captain than
any of us. I shall have often an occasion to
speak of him in the rest of the story.
Our cruising so long in these seas began now
to be so well known, that not in England only,
but in France and Spain, accounts had been
made public of our adventures, and many sto-
ries told how we murdered the people in cold
blood, tying them back to back, and throw-
ing them into the sea; one-half of which, how-
ever, was not true, though more was done than
is fit to speak of here.
The consequence of this, however, was, that
several English men-of-war were sent to the
West Indies, and were particularly instructed
to cruise in the Bay of Mexico, and the Gulf
of Florida, and among the Bahama Islands, if
possible, to attack us. We were not so ignorant
of things as not to expect this, after so long a
stay in that part of the world; but the first
certain account we had of them was at Hon-
duras, when a vessel coming in from Jamaica
told us that two English men-of-war were
coming directly from Jamaica thither in quest
of us. We were indeed as it were embayed,
and could not have made the least shift to have
got off, if they had come directly to us; but,
as it happened, somebody had informed them
that we were in the Bay of Campeachy, and
they went directly thither, by which we were
not only free of them, but were so much to the
windward of them, that they could not make
any attempt upon us, though they had known
we were there.
We took this advantage, and stood away for
Carthagena, and from thence with great diffi-
culty beat it up at a distance from under the
shore for St. Martha, till we came to the Dutch
island of Curacoa, and from thence to the island
of Tobago, which, as before, was our rendez-
vous; which, being a deserted, uninhabited
island, we at the same time made use of for a re-
treat. Here the captain of the brigantine died,
and Captain Harris, at that time my lieuten-
ant, took the command of the brigantine.
Here we came to a resolution to go away
to the coast of Brazil, and from thence to the
Cape of Good Hope, and so for the East Indies;
but Captain Harris, as I have said, being now
captain of the brigantine, alleged that his ship
was too small for so long a voyage, but that, if
Captain Wilmot would consent, he would take
the hazard of another cruise, and he would
follow us in the first ship he could take. So we
appointed our rendezvous to be at Madagascar,
which was done by my recommendation of the
place, and the plenty of provisions to be had
there.
Accordingly, he went away from us in an evil
hour; for, instead of taking a ship to follow
us, he was taken, as I heard afterwards, by an
English man-of-war, and being laid in irons,
died of mere grief and anger before he came to
England. His lieutenant, I have heard, was
afterwards executed in England for a pirate;
and this was the end of the man who first brought
me into this unhappy trade.
We parted from Tobago three days after,
bending our course for the coast of Brazil,
but had not been at sea above twenty-four
hours, when we were separated by a terrible
storm, which held three days, with very little
DANIEL DEFOE
abatement or intermission. In this juncture
Captain Wilmot happened, unluckily, to be on
board my ship, to his great mortification; for
we not only lost sight of his ship, but never saw
her more till we came to Madagascar, where
she was cast away. In short, after having
in this tempest lost our fore-topmast, we were
forced to put back to the isle of Tobago for
shelter, and to repair our damage, which brought
us all very near our destruction.
We were no sooner on shore here, and all
very busy looking out for a piece of timber for
a topmast, but we perceived standing in for the
shore an English man-of-war of thirty-six guns.
It was a great surprise to us indeed, because we
were disabled so much ; but, to our great good
fortune, we lay pretty snug and close among
the high rocks, and the man-of-war did not see
us, but stood off again upon his cruise. So we
only observed which way she went, and at night,
leaving our work, resolved to stand off to sea,
steering the contrary way from that which we
observed she went; and this, we found, had
the desired success, for we saw him no more.
We had gotten an old mizzen-topmast on
board, which made us a jury fore-topmast for
the present ; and so we stood away for the isle
of Trinidad, where, though there were Span-
iards on shore, yet we landed some men with
our boat, and cut a very good piece of fir to
make us a new topmast, which we got fitted
up effectually; and also we got some cattle
here to eke out our provisions; and calling a
council of war among ourselves, we resolved to
quit those seas for the present, and steer away
for the coast of Brazil.
The first thing we attempted here was only
getting fresh water, but we learned that there
lay the Portuguese fleet at the bay of All Saints,
bound for Lisbon, ready to sail, and only waited
for a fair wind. This made us lie by, wishing
to see them put to sea, and, accordingly as they
were with or without convoy, to attack or avoid
them.
It sprung up a fresh gale in the evening at
S.W. by W., which, being fair for the Portugal
fleet, and the weather pleasant and agreeable,
we heard the signal given to unmoor, and
running in under the island of Si — , we hauled
our mainsail and foresail up in the brails,
lowered the topsail upon the cap, and clewed
them up, that we might lie as snug as we could,
expecting their coming out, and the next morn-
ing saw the whole fleet come out accordingly,
but not at all to our satisfaction, for they con-
sisted of twenty-six sail, and most of them ships
of force, as well as burthen, both merchant-
men and men-of-war; so, seeing there was no
meddling, we lay still where we were also, till
the fleet was out of sight, and then stood off
and on, in hopes of meeting with further
purchase.
It was not long before we saw a sail, and
immediately gave her chase; but she proved
an excellent sailer, and, standing out to sea, we
saw plainly she trusted to her heels • — that is to
say, to her sails. However, as we were a clean
ship, we gained upon her, though slowly, and
had we had a day before us, we should certainly
have come up with her; but it grew dark apace,
and in that case we knew we should lose sight
of her.
Our merry Quaker, perceiving us to crowd
still after her in the dark, wherein we could not
see which way she went, came very dryly to
me. "Friend Singleton," says he, "dost thee
know what we are a-doing?" Says I, "Yes;
why, we are chasing yon ship, are we not?"
"And how dost thou know that?" said he,
very gravely still. "Nay, that's true," says
I again; "we cannot be sure." "Yes, friend,"
says he, "I think we may be sure that we are
running away from her, not chasing her. I
am afraid," adds he, "thou art turned Quaker,
and hast resolved not to use the hand of power,
or art a coward, and art flying from thy enemy."
"What do you mean?" says I (I think I
swore at him). "What do you sneer at now?
You have always one dry rub or another to give
us."
"Nay," says he, "it is plain enough the ship
stood off to sea due east, on purpose to lose us,
and thou mayest be sure her business does not
lie that way; for what should she do at the
coast of Africa in this latitude, which should
be as far south as Congo or Angola? But as
soon as it is dark, that we would lose sight of
her, she will tack and stand away west again
for the Brazil coast and for the bay, where thou
knowest she was going before ; and are we not,
then, running away from her? I am greatly
in hopes, friend," says the dry, gibing creature,
"thou wilt turn Quaker, for I see thou art not
for fighting."
"Very well, William," says I; "then I shall
make an excellent pirate." However, William
was in the right, and I apprehended what he
meant immediately; and Captain Wilmot, who
lay very sick in his cabin, overhearing us, un-
derstood him as well as I, and called out to
me that William was right, and it was our best
way to change our course, and stand away for
THE LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND PIRACIES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 179
the bay, where it was ten to one but we should
snap her in the morning.
Accordingly we went about-ship, got our lar-
board tacks on board, set the top-gallant sails,
and crowded for the bay of All Saints, where
we came to an anchor early in the morning,
just out of gunshot of the forts; we furled our
sails with rope-yarns, that we might haul home
the sheets without going up to loose them, and,
lowering our main and foreyards, looked just
as if we had lain there a good while.
In two hours afterwards we saw our game
standing in for the bay with all the sail she could
make, and she came innocently into our very
mouths, for we lay still till we saw her almost
within gunshot, when, our foremost gears being
stretched fore and aft, we first ran up our yards,
and then hauled home the topsail sheets, the
rope-yarns that furled them giving way of
themselves; the sails were set in a few minutes;
at the same time slipping our cable, we came
upon her before she could get under way upon
the other tack. They were so surprised that
they made little or no resistance, but struck
after the first broadside.
We were considering what to do with her,
when William came to me. "Hark thee,
friend," says he, "thou hast made a fine piece
of work of it now, hast thou not, to borrow thy
neighbour's ship here just at thy neighbour's
door, and never ask him leave? Now, dost
thou not think there are some men-of-war in
the port? Thou hast given them the alarm
sufficiently; thou wilt have them upon thy
back before night, depend upon it, to ask thee
wherefore thou didst so."
."Truly, William," said I, "for aught I know,
that may be true; what, then, shall we do
next?" Says he, "Thou hast but two things
to do; either to go in and take all the rest, or
else get thee gone before they come out and take
thee; for I see they are hoisting a topmast to
yon great ship, in order to put to sea immedi-
ately, and they won't be long before they come to
talk with thee, and what wilt thou say to them
when they ask thee why thou borrowedst their
ship without leave?"
As William said, so it was. We could see by
our glasses they were all in a hurry, manning
and fitting some sloops they had there, and a
large man-of-war, and it was plain they would
soon be with us. But we were not at a loss what
to do ; we found the ship we had taken was la-
den with nothing considerable for our purpose,
except some cocoa, some sugar, and twenty bar-
rels of flour; the rest of her cargo was hides; so
we took out all we thought fit for our turn, and,
among the rest, all her ammunition, great shot,
and small arms, and turned her off. We also
took a cable and three anchors she had, which
were for our purpose, and some of her sails.
She had enough left just to carry her into port,
and that was all.
Having done this, we stood on upon the
Brazil coast, southward, till we came to the
mouth of the river Janeiro. But as we had
two days the wind blowing hard at S.E. and
S.S.E., we were obliged to come to an anchor
under a little island, and wait for a wind. In
this time the Portuguese had, it seems, given
notice over land to the governor there, that a
pirate was upon the coast; so that, when we
came in view of the port, we saw two men-of-
war riding just without the bar, whereof one,
we found, was getting under sail with all pos-
sible speed, having slipped her cable on pur-
pose to speak with us; the other was not so
forward, but was preparing to follow. In
less than an hour they stood both fair after us,
with all the sail they could make.
Had not the night come on, William's words
had been made good ; they would certainly have
asked us the question what we did there, for
we found the foremost ship gained upon us,
especially upon one tack, for we plied away
from them to windward ; but in the dark losing
sight of them, we resolved to change our course
and stand away directly for sea, not doubting
that we should lose them in the night.
Whether the Portuguese commander guessed
we would do so or no, I know not; but in the
morning, when the daylight appeared, instead
of having lost him, we found him in chase of
us about a league astern; only, to our great
good fortune, we could see but one of the two.
However, this one was a great ship, carried
six-and-forty guns, and an admirable sailer, as
appeared by her outsailing us ; for our ship was
an excellent sailer too, as I have said before.
When I found this, I easily saw there was no
remedy, but we must engage; and as we knew
we could expect no quarter from these scoun-
drels the Portuguese, a nation I had an original
aversion to, I let Captain Wilmot know how it
was. The captain, sick as he was, jumped
up in the cabin, and would be led out upon the
deck (for he was very weak) to see how it was.
"Well," says he, "we'll fight them!"
Our men were all in good heart before, but
to see the captain so brisk, who had lain ill
of a calenture ten or eleven days, gave them
double courage, and they went all hands to
i8o
DANIEL DEFOE
work to make a clear ship and be ready. Will-
iam, the Quaker, comes to me with a kind of
a smile. "Friend," says he, "what does yon
ship follow us for?" "Why," says I, "to
fight us, you may be sure." "Well," says he,
"and will he come up with us, dost thou think?"
"Yes," said I, "you see she will." "Why,
then, friend," says the dry wretch, "why dost
thou run from her still, when thou seest she
will overtake thee? Will it be better for us
to be overtaken farther off than here?"
"Much as one for that," says I; "why, what
would you have us do?" "Do!" says he;
"let us not give the poor man more trouble
than needs must ; let us stay for him and hear
what he has to say to us." "He will talk to
us in powder and ball," said I. "Very well,
then," says he, "if that be his country language,
we must talk to him in the same, must we not ?
or else how shall he understand us?" "Very
well, William," says I, "we understand you."
And the captain, as ill as he was, called to me,
"William's right again," says he; "as good
here as a league farther." So he gives a word
of command, "Haul up the main-sail; we'll
shorten sail for him."
Accordingly we shortened sail, and as we
expected her upon our lee-side, we being then
upon our starboard tack, brought eighteen of
our guns to the larboard side, resolving to give
him a broadside that should warm him. It
was about half-an-hour before he came up
with us, all which time we luffed up, that we
might keep the wind of him, by which he was
obliged to run up under our lee, as we designed
him; when we got him upon our quarter, we
edged down, and received the fire of five or
six of his guns. By this time you may be sure
all our hands were at their quarters, so we
clapped our helm hard a-weather, let go the
lee-braces of the main -topsail, and laid it a-back
and so our ship fell athwart the Portuguese
ship's hawse; then we immediately poured in
our broadside, raking them fore and aft, and'
killed them a great many men.
The Portuguese, we could see, were in the
utmost confusion ; and not being aware of our
design, their ship having fresh way, ran their
bowsprit into the fore part of our main shrouds,
as that they could not easily get clear of us,
and so we lay locked after that manner. The
enemy could not bring above five or six guns,
besides their small arms, to bear upon us, while
we played our whole broadside upon him.
In the middle of the heat of this fight, as I
was very busy upon the quarter-deck, the cap-
tain calls to me, for he never stirred from us,
"What the devil is friend William a-doing
yonder?" says the captain; "has he any
business upon deck?" I stepped forward, and
there was friend William, with two or three
stout fellows, lashing the ship's bowsprit fast
to our main-masts, for fear they should get
away from us; and every now and then he
pulled a bottle out of his pocket, and gave the
men a dram to encourage them. The shot
flew about his ears as thick as may be supposed
in such an action, where the Portuguese, to
give them their due, fought very briskly, be-
lieving at first they were sure of their game,
and trusting to their superiority; but there was
William, as composed, and in as perfect tran-
quillity as to danger, as if he had been over a
bowl of punch, only very busy securing the
matter, that a ship of forty-six guns should
not run away from a ship of eight-and-
twenty.
This work was too hot to hold long; our men
behaved bravely: our gunner, a gallant man,
shouted below, pouring in his shot at such a
rate, that the Portuguese began to slacken their
fire ; we had dismounted several of their guns
by firing in at their forecastle, and raking them,
as I said, fore and aft. Presently comes Will-
iam up to me. "Friend," says he, very calmly,
"what dost thou mean? Why dost thou not
visit thy neighbour in the ship, the door being
open for thee ? " I understood him immediately,
for our guns had so torn their hull, that we had
beat two port-holes into one, and the bulk-
head of their steerage was split to pieces, so
that they could not retire to their close quarters;
so I gave the word immediately to board them.
Our second lieutenant, with about thirty men,
entered in an instant over the forecastle, fol-
lowed by some more with the boatswain, and
cutting in pieces about twenty-five men that
they found upon the deck, and then throwing
some grenadoes into the steerage, they entered
there also; upon which the Portuguese cried
quarter presently, and we mastered the ship,
contrary indeed to our own expectation; for
we would have compounded with them if they
would have sheered off: but laying them
athwart the hawse at first, and following our
fire furiously, without giving them any time to get
clear of us and work their ship; by this means,
though they had six-and-forty guns, they were
not able to fight above five or six, as I said
above, for we beat them immediately from their
guns in the forecastle, and killed them abun-
dance of men between decks, so that when we
THE LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND PIRACIES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 181
entered they had hardly found men enough to
fight us hand to hand upon their deck.
The surprise of joy to hear the Portuguese
cry quarter, and see their ancient struck, was
so great to our captain, who, as I have said,
was reduced very weak with a high fever,
that it gave him new life. Nature conquered
the distemper, and the fever abated that very
night; so that in two or three days he was
sensibly better, his strength began to come, and
he was able to give his orders effectually in every-
thing that was material, and in about ten days
was entirely well and about the ship.
In the meantime I took possession of the
Portuguese man-of-war; and Captain Wilmot
made me, or rather I made myself, captain of
her for the present. About thirty of their sea-
men took service with us, some of which were
French, some Genoese ; and we set the rest on
shore the next day on a little island on the coast
of Brazil, except some wounded men, who were
not in a condition to be removed, and whom
we were bound to keep on board; but we had
an occasion afterwards to dispose of them at
the Cape, where, at their own request, we set
them on shore.
Captain Wilmot, as soon as the ship was
taken, and the prisoners stowed, was for
standing in for the river Janeiro again, not
doubting but we should meet with the other
man-of-war, who, not having been able to find
us, and having lost the company of her com-
rade, would certainly be returned, and might
be surprised by the ship we had taken, if we
carried Portuguese colours; and our men were
all for it.
But our friend William gave us better counsel,
for he came to me, "Friend," says he, "I under-
stand the captain is for sailing back to the Rio
Janeiro, in hopes to meet with the other ship
that was in chase of thee yesterday. Is it
true, dost thou intend it?" "Why, yes,"
says I, "William, pray why not?" "Nay,"
says he, "thou mayest do so if thou wilt."
"Well, I know that too, William," said I,
"but the captain is a man will be ruled by rea-
son; what have you to say to it?" "Why,"
says William gravely, "I only ask what is thy
business, and the business of all the people
thou hast with thee? Is it not to get money?"
"Yes, William, it is so, in our honest way."
"And wbuldest thou," says he, "rather have
money without fighting, or fighting without
money ? I mean which wouldest thou have by
choice, suppose it to be left to thee?" "O
William," says I, "the first of the two, to be
sure." "Why, then," says he, "what great
gain hast thou made of the prize thou hast
taken now, though it has cost the lives of thir-
teen of thy men, besides some hurt ? It is true
thou hast got the ship and some prisoners;
but thou wouldest have had twice the booty
in a merchant-ship, with not one-quarter of the
fighting; and how dost thou know either what
force or what number of men may be in the
other ship, and what loss thou mayest suffer,
and what gain it shall be to thee if thou take
her? I think, indeed, thou mayest much better
let her alone."
"Why, William, it is true," said I, "and I'll
go tell the captain what your opinion is, and
bring you word what he says." Accordingly
in I went to the captain and told him William's
reasons; and the captain was of his mind, that
our business was indeed fighting when we could
not help it, but that our main affair was money,
and that with as few blows as we could. So
that adventure was laid aside, and we stood
along shore again south for the river De la
Plata, expecting some purchase thereabouts;
especially we had our eyes upon some of the
Spanish ships from Buenos Ayres, which are
generally very rich in silver, and one such prize
would have done our business. We plied
about here, in the latitude of — south, for near
a month, and nothing offered; and here we
began to consult what we should do next,
for we had come to no resolution yet. Indeed,
my design was always for the Cape de Bona
Speranza, and so to the East Indies. I had
heard some flaming stories of Captain Avery,
and the fine things he had done in the Indies,
which were doubled and doubled, even ten
thousand fold; and from taking a great prize
in the Bay of Bengal, where he took a lady,
said to be the Great Mogul's daughter, with a
great quantity of jewels about her, we had a
story told us, that he took a Mogul ship, so the
foolish sailors called it, laden with diamonds.
I would fain have had friend William's
advice whither we should go, but he always
put it off with some quaking quibble or other.
In short, he did not care for directing us neither;
whether he made a piece of conscience of it,
or whether he did not care to venture having
it come against him afterwards or no, this I
know not; but we concluded at last without
him.
We were, however, pretty long in resolving,
and hankered about the Rio de la Plata a long
time. At last we spied a sail to windward, and
it was such a sail as I believe had not been
182
DANIEL DEFOE
seen in that part of the world a great while.
It wanted not that we should give it chase, for
it stood directly towards us, as well as they that
steered could make it ; and even that was more
accident of weather than .anything else, for if
the wind had chopped about anywhere they
must have gone with it. I leave any man that
is a sailor, or understands anything of a ship,
to judge what a figure this ship made when we
first saw her, and what we could imagine was
the matter with her. Her maintop-mast was
come by the board about six foot above the
cap, and fell forward, the head of the topgallant-
mast hanging in the fore-shrouds by the stay;
at the same time the parrel of the mizzen-
topsail-yard by some accident giving way, the
mizzen-topsail-braces (the standing part of
which being fast to the main-topsail shrouds)
brought the mizzen -topsail, yard and all,
down with it, which spread over part of
the quarter-deck like an awning; the fore-
topsail was hoisted up two-thirds of the mast,
but the sheets were flown; the fore-yard was
lowered down upon the forecastle, the sail loose,
and part of it hanging overboard. In this
manner she came down upon us with the
wind quartering. In a word, the figure the
whole ship made was the most confounding
to men that understood the sea that ever was
seen. She had no boat, neither had she any
colours out.
When we came near to her, we fired a gun
to bring her to. She took no notice of it, nor
of us, but came on just as she did before. We
fired again, but it was all one. At length we
came within pistol-shot of one another, but
nobody answered nor appeared; so we began
to think that it was a ship gone ashore some-
where in distress, and the men having forsaken
her, the high tide had floated her off to sea.
Coming nearer to her, we ran up alongside of
her so close that we could hear a noise within
her, and see the motion of several people
through her ports.
Upon this we manned out two boats full of
men, and very well armed, and ordered them
to board her at the same minute, as near as
they could, and to enter one at her fore-chains
on the one side, and the other amidships on the
other side. As soon as they came to the ship's
side, a surprising multitude of black sailors,
such as they were, appeared upon deck, and,
in short, terrified our men so much that the
boat which was to enter her men in the waist
stood off again, and durst not board her; and
the men that entered out of the other boat,
finding the first boat, as they thought, beaten
off, and seeing the ship full of men, jumped
all back again into their boat, and put off, not
knowing what the matter was. Upon this we
prepared to pour in a broadside upon her; but
our friend William set us to rights again here;
for it seems he guessed how it was sooner than
we did, and coming up to me (for it was our
ship that came up with her), "Friend," says
he, "I am of opinion that thou art wrong in
this matter, and thy men have been wrong also
in their conduct. I'll tell thee how thou shalt
take this ship, without making use of those
things called guns." "How can that be,
William?" said I. "Why," said he, "thou
mayest take her with thy helm; thou seest
they keep no steerage, and thou seest the con-
dition they are in ; board her with thy ship upon
her lee quarter, and so enter her from the ship.
I am persuaded thou wilt take her without
fighting, for there is some mischief has befallen
the ship, which we know nothing of."
In a word, it being a smooth sea, and little
wind, I took his advice, and laid her aboard.
Immediately our men entered the ship, where
we found a large ship, with upwards of 600
negroes, men and women, boys and girls, and
not one Christian or white man on board.
I was struck with horror at the sight; for
immediately I concluded, as was partly the case,
that these black devils had got loose, had mur-
dered all the white men, and thrown them
into the sea; and I had no sooner told my
mind to the men, but the thought so enraged
them that I had much ado to keep my men
from cutting them all in pieces. But William,
with many persuasions, prevailed upon them,
by telling them that it was nothing but what, if
they were in the negroes' condition, they would
do if they could; and that the negroes had
really the highest injustice done them, to be
sold for slaves without their consent; and that
the law of nature dictated it to them; that
they ought not to kill them, and that it would
be wilful murder to do it.
This prevailed with them, and cooled their
first heat; so they only knocked down twenty
or thirty of them, and the rest ran all down
between decks to their first places, believing,
as we fancied, that we were their first masters
come again.
It was a most unaccountable difficulty we
had next ; for we could not make them under-
stand one word we said, nor could we under-
stand one word ourselves that they said. We
endeavoured by signs to ask them whence
THE LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND PIRACIES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 183
they came ; but they could make nothing of it.
We pointed to the great cabin, to the round-
house, to the cook-room, then to our faces, to
ask if they had no white men on board, and
where they were gone; but they could not
understand what we meant. On the other
hand, they pointed to our boat and to their
ship, asking questions as well as they could,
and said a thousand things, and expressed
themselves with great earnestness; but we
could not understand a word of it all, or know
what they meant by any of their signs.
We knew very well they must have been
taken on board the ship as slaves, and that it
must be by some European people too. We
could easily see that the ship was a Dutch-
built ship, but very much altered, having
been built upon, and, as we supposed, in France ;
for we found two or three French books on board,
and afterwards we found clothes, linen, lace,
some old shoes, and several other things. We
found among the provisions some barrels of
Irish beef, some Newfoundland fish, and
several other evidences that there had been
Christians on board, but saw no remains of
them. We found not a sword, gun, pistol, or
weapon of any kind, except some cutlasses;
and the negroes had hid them below where they
lay. We asked them what was become of all
the small arms, pointing to our own and to the
places where those belonging to the ship haS
hung. One of the negroes understood me
presently, and beckoned to me to come upon
the deck, where, taking my fuzee, which I
never let go out of my hand for some time after
we had mastered the ship — I say, offering to
take hold of it, he made the proper motion
of throwing it into the sea ; by which I under-
stood, as I did afterwards, that they had
thrown all the small arms, powder, shot,
swords, etc., into the sea, believing, as I sup-
posed, those things would kill them, though the
men were gone.
After we understood this we made no ques-
tion but that the ship's crew, having been sur-
prised by these desperate rogues, had gone the
same way, and had been thrown overboard
also. We looked all over the ship to see if we
could find any blood, and we thought we did
perceive some in several places; but the heat
of the sun, melting the pitch and tar upon the
decks, made it impossible for us to discern it
exactly, except in the round-house, where we
plainly saw that there had been much blood.
We found the scuttle open, by which we sup-
posed that the captain and those that were with
him had made their retreat into the great cabin,
or those in the cabin had made their escape
up into the round-house.
But that which confirmed us most of all in
what had happened was that, upon further
inquiry, we found that there were seven or
eight of the negroes very much wounded, two
or three of them with shot, whereof one had
his leg broken and lay in a miserable condition,
the flesh being mortified, and, as our friend
William said, in two days more he would have
died. William was a most dexterous surgeon,
and he showed it in this cure; for though all
the surgeons we had on board both our ships
(and we had no less than five that called them-
selves bred surgeons, besides two or three who
were pretenders or assistants) — though all
these gave their opinions that the negro's leg
must be cut off, and that his life could not be
saved without it; that the mortification had
touched the marrow in the bone, that the
tendons were mortified, and that he could
never have the use of his leg if it should be
cured, William said nothing in general, but that
his opinion was otherwise, and that he desired
the wound might be searched, and that he
would then tell them further. Accordingly
he went to work with the leg; and, as he de-
sired that he might have some of the surgeons
to assist him, we appointed him two of the
ablest of them to help, and all of them to look
on, if they thought fit.
William went to work his own way, and some
of them pretended to find fault at first. How-
ever, he proceeded and searched every part of
the leg where he suspected the mortification had
touched it; in a word, he cut off a great deal
of mortified flesh, in all which the poor fellow
felt no pain. William proceeded till he brought
the vessels which he had cut to bleed, and the
man to cry out; then he reduced the splinters
of the bone, and, calling for help, set it, as we
call it, and bound it up, and laid the man to
rest, who found himself much easier than
before.
At the first opening the surgeons began to
triumph; the mortification seemed to spread,
and a long red streak of blood appeared from
the wound upwards to the middle of the man's
thigh, and the surgeons told me the man would
die in a few hours. I went to look at it, and
found William himself under some surprise;
but when I asked him how long he thought the
poor fellow could live, he looked gravely at
me, and said, "As long as thou canst; I am
not at all apprehensive of his life," said he,
184
JONATHAN SWIFT
"but I would cure him, if I could, without
making a cripple of him." I found he was
not just then upon the operation as to his leg,
but was mixing up something to give the poor
creature, to repel, as I thought, the spreading
contagion, and to abate or prevent any feverish
temper that might happen in the blood; after
which he went to work again, and opened the
leg in two places above the wound, cutting out
a great deal of mortified flesh, which it seemed
was occasioned by the bandage, which had
pressed the parts too much; and withal, the
blood being at the time in a more than com-
mon disposition to mortify, might assist to
spread it.
Well, our friend William conquered all this,
cleared the spreading mortification, and the
red streak went off again, the flesh began to
heal, and the matter to run; and in a few
days the man's spirits began to recover, his
pulse beat regular, he had no fever, and gathered
strength daily ; and, in a word, he was a perfect
sound man in about ten weeks, and we kept him
amongst us, and made him an able seaman.
But to return to the ship: we never could come
at a certain information about it, till sgme of
the negroes which we kept on board, and whom
we taught to speak English, gave the account
of it afterwards, and this maimed man in
particular.
We inquired, by all the signs and motions
we could imagine, what was become of the peo-
ple, and yet we could get nothing from them.
Our lieutenant was for torturing some of them
to make them confess, but William opposed
that vehemently; and when he heard it was
under consideration he came to me. "Friend,"
says he, "I make a request to thee not to put
any of these poor wretches to torment." "Why,
William," said I, "why not? You see they
will not give any account of what is become of
the white men." "Nay," says William, "do
not say so; I suppose they have given thee a
full account of every particular of it." "How
so?" says I; "pray what are we the wiser for
all their jabbering?" "Nay," says William,
"that may be thy fault, for aught I know; thou
wilt not punish the poor men because they
cannot speak English ; and perhaps they never
heard a word of English before. Now, I
may very well suppose that they have given
thee a large account of everything; for thou
seest with what earnestness, and how long,
some of them have talked to thee ; and if thou
canst not understand their language, nor they
thine, how can thev help that? At the best,
thou dost but suppose that they have not told
thee the whole truth of the story; and, on
the contrary, I suppose they have; and how
wilt thou decide the question, whether thou art
right or whether I am right? Besides, what
can they say to thee when thou askest them a
question, upon the torture, and at the same
time they do not understand the question, and
thou dost not know whether they say ay or
no?"
It is no compliment to my moderation to say
I was convinced by these reasons; and yet we
had all much ado to keep our second lieutenant
from murdering some of them, to make them
tell. What if they had told? He did not un-
derstand one word of it; but he would not
be persuaded but that the negroes must needs
understand him when he asked them whether
the ship had any boat or no, like ours, and what
was become of it.
But there was no remedy but to wait till we
made these people understand English, and to
adjourn the story till that time.
JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745)
FROM THE TALE OF A TUB
THE PREFACE
The wits of the present age being so very
numerous and penetrating, it seems the gran-
dees of Church and State begin to fall under
horrible apprehensions lest these gentlemen, dur-
ing the intervals of a long peace, should find leis-
ure to pick holes in the weak sides of religion
and government. To prevent which, there has
been much thought employed of late upon
certain projects for taking off the force and
edge of those formidable inquirers from can-
vassing and reasoning upon such delicate
points. They have at length fixed upon one,
which will require some time as well as cost
to perfect. Meanwhile, the danger hourly in-
creasing, as by new levies of wits, all appointed
(as there is reason to fear) with pen, ink, and
paper, which may at an hour's warning be
drawn out into pamphlets and other offensive
weapons ready for immediate execution, it
was judged of absolute necessity that some
present expedient be thought on till the main
design can be brought to maturity. To this
end, at a grand committee, some days ago,
this important discovery was made by a certain
curious and refined observer, that seamen have
a custom when they meet a Whale to fling him
THE TALE OF A TUB
out an empty Tub, by way of amusement, to
divert him from laying violent hands upon the
Ship. This parable was immediately mythol-
ogised; the Whale was interpreted to be
Hobbes's "Leviathan," which tosses and plays
with all other schemes of religion and govern-
ment, whereof a great many are hollow, and
dry, and empty, and noisy, and wooden, and
given to rotation. This is the Leviathan from
whence the terrible wits of our age are said
to borrow their weapons. The Ship in danger
is easily understood to be its old antitype the
commonwealth. But how to analyse the Tub
was a matter of difficulty, when, after long
inquiry and debate, the literal meaning was
preserved, and it was decreed that, in order to
prevent these Leviathans from tossing and
sporting with the commonwealth, which of
itself is too apt to fluctuate, they should be
diverted from that game by "A Tale of a Tub."
And my genius being conceived to lie not un-
happily that way, I had the honour done me
to be engaged in the performance.
This is the sole design in publishing the
following treatise, which I hope will serve for
an interim of some months to employ those
unquiet spirits till the perfecting of that great
work, into the secret of which it is reasonable
the courteous reader should have some little
light.
It is intended that a large Academy be
erected, capable of containing nine thousand
seven hundred forty and three persons, which,
by modest computation, is reckoned to be pretty
near the current number of wits in this island.
These are to be disposed into the several schools
of this Academy, and there pursue those stud-
ies to which their genius most inclines them.
The undertaker himself will publish his pro-
posals with all convenient speed, to which I
shall refer the curious reader for a more par-
ticular account, mentioning at present only a
few of the principal schools. There is, first,
a large pederastic school, with French and
Italian masters; there is also the spelling
school, a very spacious building; the school
of looking-glasses; the school of swearing;
the school of critics; the school of salivation;
the school of hobby-horses ; the school of poetry ;
the school of tops; the school of spleen; the
school of gaming; with many others too tedious
to recount. No person to be admitted member
into any of these schools without an attesta-
tion under two sufficient persons' hands certi-
fying him to be a wit.
But to return. I am sufficiently instructed in
the principal duty of a preface if my genius
were capable of arriving at it. Thrice have I
forced my imagination to take the tour of my
invention, and thrice it has returned empty,
the latter having been wholly drained by the
following treatise. Not so my more success-
ful brethren the moderns, who will by no
means let slip a preface or dedication without
some notable distinguishing stroke to surprise
the reader at the entry, and kindle a wonderful
expectation of what is to ensue. Such was that
of a most ingenious poet, who, soliciting his
brain for something new, compared himself
to the hangman and his patron to the patient.
This was insigne, recens, indicium ore alio.1
When I went through that necessary and noble
course of study,2 I had the happiness to observe
many such egregious touches, which I shall not
injure the authors by transplanting, because I
have remarked that nothing is so very tender
as a modern piece of wit, and which is apt to
suffer so much in the carriage. Some things
are • extremely witty to-day, or fasting, or in
this place, or at eight o'clock, or over a bottle,
or spoke by Mr. Whatdyecall'm, or in a sum-
mer's morning, any of which, by the smallest
transposal or misapplication, is utterly anni-
hilate. Thus wit has its walks and purlieus,
out of which it may not stray the breadth of a
hair, upon peril of being lost. The moderns
have artfully fixed this Mercury, and reduced
it to the circumstances of time, place, and per-
son. Such a jest there is that will not pass
out of Covent Garden, and such a one that is
nowhere intelligible but at Hyde Park Corner.
Now, though it sometimes tenderly affects me
to consider that all the towardly passages I
shall deliver in the following treatise will grow
quite out of date and relish with the first shifting
of the present scene, yet I must need subscribe
to the justice of this proceeding, because I can-
not imagine why we should be at expense to
furnish wit for succeeding ages, when the former
have made no sort of provision for ours ; wherein
1 speak the sentiment of the very newest, and
consequently the most orthodox refiners, as
well as my own. However, being extremely
solicitous that every accomplished person
who has got into the taste of wit calculated
for this present month of August 1697 should
descend to the very bottom of all the sublime
throughout this treatise, I hold it fit to lay down
this general maxim. Whatever reader desires
1 Notable, new, and unspoken by another.
2 Reading prefaces, etc. — Swift's note.
i86
JONATHAN SWIFT
to have a thorough comprehension of an author's
thoughts, cannot take a better method than by
putting himself into the circumstances and pos-
ture of life that the writer was in upon every
important passage as it flowed from his pen,
for this will introduce a parity and strict cor-
respondence of ideas between the reader and
the author. Now, to assist the diligent reader
in so delicate an affair — as far as brevity
will permit — I have recollected that the
shrewdest pieces of this treatise were conceived
in bed in a garret. At other times (for a reason
best known to myself) I thought fit to sharpen
my invention with hunger, and in general the
whole work was begun, continued, and ended
under a long course of physic and a great
want of money. Now, I do affirm it will be
absolutely impossible for the candid peruser to
go along with me in a great many bright pas-
sages, unless upon the several difficulties
emergent he will please to capacitate and pre-
pare himself by these directions. And this
I lay down as my principal posttilatum.1 •
Because I have professed to be a most de-
voted servant of all modern forms, I appre-
hend some curious wit may object against me
for proceeding thus far in a preface without
declaiming, according to custom, against the
multitude of writers whereof the whole mul-
titude of writers most reasonably complain.
I am just come from perusing some hundreds of
prefaces, wherein the authors do at the very
beginning address the gentle reader concern-
ing this enormous grievance. Of these I have
preserved a few examples, and shall set them
down as near as my memory has been able to
retain them.
'One begins thus: "For a man to set up for
a writer when the press swarms with," etc.
Another: "The tax upon paper does not
lessen the number of scribblers who daily
pester," etc.
Another: "When every little would-be wit
takes pen in hand, 'tis in vain to enter the lists,"
etc.
Another: "To observe what trash the press
swarms with," etc.
Another: "Sir, it is merely in obedience to
your commands that I venture into the public,
for who upon a less consideration would be of
a party with such a rabble of scribblers," etc.
Now, I have two words in my own defence
against this objection. First, I am far from
granting the number of writers a nuisance to
1 postulate
our nation, having strenuously maintained the
contrary in several parts of the following dis-
course ; secondly, I do not well understand the
justice of this proceeding, because I observe
many of these polite prefaces to be not only
from the same hand, but from those who are
most voluminous in their several productions;
upon which I shall tell the reader a short tale.
A mountebank in Leicester Fields had drawn
a huge assembly about him. Among the rest,
a fat unwieldy fellow, half stifled in the press,
would be every fit crying out, "Lord! what a
filthy crowd is here. Pray, good people, give
way a little. Bless me ! what a devil has raked
this rabble together. Z — ds, what squeezing
is this? Honest friend, remove your elbow."
At last a weaver that stood next him could
hold no longer. "A plague confound you,"
said he, "for an overgrown sloven; and who in
the devil's name, I wonder, helps to make up the
crowd half so much as yourself? Don't you
consider that you take up more room with that
carcass than any five here ? Is not the place as
free for us as for you? Bring your own guts
to a reasonable compass, and then I'll engage
we shall have room enough for us all."
There are certain common privileges of a
writer, the benefit whereof I hope ther" will
be no reason to doubt; particular!) that
where I am not understood, it shall be con-
cluded that something very useful and profound
is couched underneath; and again, that what-
ever word or sentence is printed in a different
character shall be judged to contain some-
thing extraordinary either of wit or sublime.
As for the liberty I have thought fit to take
of praising myself, upon some occasions or
none, I am sure it will need no excuse if a
multitude of great examples be allowed suffi-
cient authority; for it is here to be noted that
praise was originally a pension paid by the
world, but the moderns, finding the trouble
and charge too great in collecting it, have
lately bought out the fee-simple, since which
time the right of presentation is wholly in
ourselves. For this reason it is that when an
author makes his own eulogy, he uses a cer-
tain form to declare and insist upon his title,
which is commonly in these or the like words,
"I speak without vanity," which I think
plainly shows it to be a matter of right and
justice. Now, I do here once for all declare,
that in every encounter of this nature through
the following treatise the form aforesaid is im-
plied, which I mention to save the trouble of
repeating it on so many occasions.
THE TALE OF A TUB
187
It is a great ease to my conscience that I
have written so elaborate and useful a dis-
course without one grain of satire intermixed,
which is the sole point wherein I have taken
leave to dissent from the famous originals of
our age and country. I have observed some
satirists to use the public much at the rate that
pedants do a naughty boy ready horsed for
discipline. First expostulate the case, then
plead the necessity of the rod from great provo-
cations, and conclude every period with a
lash. Now, if I know anything of mankind,
these gentlemen might very well spare their
reproof and correction, for there is not through
all Nature another so callous and insensible a
member as the world's posteriors, whether you
apply to it the toe or the birch. Besides, most
of our late satirists seem to lie under a sort of
mistake, that because nettles have the pre-
rogative to sting, therefore all other weeds
must do so too. I make not this comparison
out of the least design to detract from these
worthy writers, for it is well known among
mythologists that weeds have the preeminence
over all other vegetables; and therefore the
first monarch of this island whose taste and
judgment were so acute and refined, did very
wisely root out the roses from the collar of
the order and plant the thistles in their stead,
as the nobler flower of the two. For which
reason it is conjectured by profounder anti-
quaries that the satirical itch, so prevalent in
this part of our island, was first brought among
us from beyond the Tweed. Here may it long
flourish and abound; may it survive and neg-
lect the scorn of the world with as much ease
and contempt as the world is insensible to
the lashes of it. May their own dulness, or
that of their party, be no discouragement for
the authors to proceed; but let them remem-
ber it is with wits as with razors, which are
never so apt to cut those they are employed
on as when they have lost their edge. Be-
sides, those whose teeth are too rotten to bite
are best of all others qualified to revenge that
defect with their breath.
I am not, like other men, to envy or under-
value the talents I cannot reach, for which
reason I must needs bear a true honour to
this large eminent sect of our British writers.
And I hope this little panegyric will not be
offensive to their ears, since it has the ad-
vantage of being only designed for themselves.
Indeed, Nature herself has taken order that
fame and honour should be purchased at a
better pennyworth by satire than by any other
productions of the brain, the world being
soonest provoked to praise by lashes, as men
are to love. There is a problem in an ancient
author why dedications and other bundles of
flattery run all upon stale musty topics, with-
out the smallest tincture of anything new, not
only to the torment and nauseating of the
Christian reader, but, if not suddenly pre-
vented, to the universal spreading of that
pestilent disease the lethargy in this island,
whereas there is very little satire which has
not something in it untouched before. The
defects of the former are usually imputed to
the want of invention among those who are
dealers in that kind; but I think with a great
deal of injustice, the solution being easy and
natural, for the materials of panegyric, being
very few in number, have been long since
exhausted; for as health is but one thing, and
has been always the same, whereas diseases
are by thousands, besides new and daily
additions, so all the virtues that have been
ever in mankind are to be counted upon a few
fingers, but his follies and vices are innumer-
able, and time adds hourly to the heap. Now
the utmost a poor poet can do is to get by
heart a list of the cardinal virtues and deal
them with his utmost liberality to his hero or
his patron. He may ring the changes as far
as it will go, and vary his phrase till he has
talked round, but the reader quickly finds it
is all pork, with a little variety of sauce, for
there is no inventing terms of art beyond our
ideas, and when ideas are exhausted, terms of
art must be so too.
But though the matter for panegyric were
as fruitful as the topics of satire, yet would it
not be hard to find out a sufficient reason why
the latter will be always better received than
the first; for this being bestowed only upon
one or a few persons at a time, is sure to raise
envy, and consequently ill words, from the
rest who have no share in the blessing. But
satire, being levelled at all, is never resented
for an offence by any, since every individual
person makes bold to understand it of others,
and very wisely removes his particular part of
the burden upon the shoulders of the World,
which are broad enough and able to bear it.
To this purpose I have sometimes reflected
upon the difference between Athens and Eng-
land with respect to the point before us. In
the Attic commonwealth it was the privilege
and birthright of every citizen and poet to
rail aloud and in public, or to expose upon
the stage by name any person they pleased,
i88
JONATHAN SWIFT
though of the greatest figure, whether a Creon,
an Hyperbolus, an Alcibiades, or a Demos-
thenes. But, on the other side, the least
reflecting word let fall against the people in
general was immediately caught up and
revenged upon the authors, however con-
siderable for their quality or their merits;
whereas in England it is just the reverse of
all this. Here you may securely display your
utmost rhetoric against mankind in the face
of the world; tell them that all are gone
astray; that there is none that doeth good,
no, not one; that we live in the very dregs of
time; that knavery and atheism are epidemic
as the pox; that honesty is fled with Astraea;
with any other common-places equally new
and eloquent, which are furnished by the
splendida bilis; l and when you have done,
the whole audience, far from being offended,
shall return you thanks as a deliverer of
precious and useful truths. Nay, further, it is
but to venture your lungs, and you may preach
in Covent Garden against foppery and forni-
cation, and something else; against pride, and
dissimulation, and bribery at Whitehall. You
may expose rapine and injustice in the Inns-
of-Court chapel, and in a City pulpit be as
fierce as you please against avarice, hypocrisy,
and extortion. It is but a ball bandied to and
fro, and every man carries a racket about
him to strike it from himself among the rest
of the company. But, on the other side, who-
ever should mistake the nature of things so
far as to drop but a single hint in public how
such a one starved half the fleet, and half
poisoned the rest; how such a one, from a
true principle of love and honour, pays no
debts but for wenches and play; how such a
one runs out of his estate; how Paris, bribed
by Juno and Venus, loath to offend either
party, slept out the whole cause on the bench;
or how such an orator makes long speeches in
the Senate, with much thought, little sense,
and to no purpose ; — whoever, I say, should
venture to be thus particular must expect to
be imprisoned for scandalum magnatum? to
have challenges sent him, to be sued for defa-
mation, and to be brought before the bar of
the House.
But I forget that I am expatiating on a sub-
ject wherein I have no concern, having neither
a talent nor an inclination for satire. On the
other side, I am so entirely satisfied with the
1 The spleen, or what we now call hypochondria.
* libel of the great
whole present procedure of human things,
that I have been for some years preparing
material towards "A Panegyric upon the
World"; to which I intended to add a second
part, entitled "A Modest Defence of the Pro-
ceedings of the Rabble in all Ages." Both
these I had thoughts to publish by way of
appendix to the following treatise; but find-
ing my common -place book fill much slower
than I had reason to expect, I have chosen to
defer them to another occasion. Besides, i
have been unhappily prevented in that design
by a certain domestic misfortune, in the partic-
ulars whereof, though it would be very season-
able, and much in the modern way, to inform
the gentle reader, and would also be of great
assistance towards extending this preface into
the size now in vogue — which by rule ought
to be large in proportion as the subsequent
volume is small — yet I shall now dismiss our
impatient reader from any further attendance
at the porch; and having duly prepared his
mind by a preliminary discourse, shall gladly
introduce him to the sublime mysteries that
ensue.
SECTION II
Once upon a time there was man who had
three sons by one wife and all at a birth,
neither could the midwife tell certainly which
was the eldest. Their father died while they
were young, and upon his death-bed, calling
the lads to him, spoke thus:
"Sons, because I have purchased no estate,
nor was born to any, I have long considered of
some good legacies to bequeath you, and at
last, with much care as well as expense, have
provided each of you (here they are) a new
coat. Now, you are to understand that these
coats have two virtues contained in them;
one is, that with good wearing they will last
you fresh and sound as long as you live; the
other is, that they will grow in the same pro-
portion with your bodies, lengthening and
widening of themselves, so as to be always fit.
Here, let me see them on you before I die.
So, very well! Pray, children, wear them
clean and brush them often. You will find
in my will (here it is) full instructions in every
particular concerning the wearing and manage-
ment of your coats, wherein you must be very
exact to avoid the penalties I have appointed
for every transgression or neglect, upon which
your future fortunes will entirely depend. I
have also commanded in my will that you
should live together in one house like brethren
THE TALE OF A TUB
189
and friends, for then you will be sure to thrive
and not otherwise."
Here the story says this good father died,
and the three sons went all together to seek
their fortunes.
I shall not trouble you with recounting what
adventures they met for the first seven years, any
farther than by taking notice that they carefully
observed their father's will and kept their coats
in very good order; that they travelled through
several countries, encountered a reasonable
quantity of giants, and slew certain dragons.
Being now arrived at the proper age for
producing themselves, they came up to town
and fell in love with the ladies, but especially
three, who about that time were in chief repu-
tation, the Duchess d'Argent, Madame de
Grands-Titres, and the Countess d'Orgueil.
On their first appearance, our three adven-
turers met with a very bad reception, and soon
with great sagacity guessing out the reason,
they quickly began to improve in the good
qualities of the town. They wrote, and rallied,
and rhymed, and sung, and said, and said
nothing; they drank, and fought, and slept,
and swore, and took snuff; they went to new
plays on the first night, haunted the chocolate-
houses, beat the watch; they bilked hackney-
coachmen, ran in debt with shopkeepers, and
lay with their wives; they killed bailiffs,
kicked fiddlers downstairs, ate at Locket's,
loitered at Will's; they talked of the drawing-
room and never came there; dined with lords
they never saw; whispered a duchess and
spoke never a word; exposed the scrawls of
their laundress for billet-doux of quality;
came ever just from court and were never seen
in it; attended the levee sub dio; l got a list
of peers by heart in one company, and with
great familiarity retailed them in another.
Above all, they constantly attended those
committees of Senators who are silent in the
House and loud in the coffee-house, where
they nightly adjourn to chew the cud of poli-
tics, and are encompassed with a ring of
disciples who lie in wait to catch up their
droppings. The three brothers had acquired
forty other qualifications of the like stamp too
tedious to recount, and by consequence were
justly reckoned the most accomplished persons
in town. But all would not suffice, and the
ladies aforesaid continued still inflexible. To
clear up which difficulty, I must, with the
reader's good leave and patience, have re-
1 in the open air
course to some points of weight which the
authors of that age have not sufficiently illus-
trated.
For about this time it happened a sect arose
whose tenets obtained and spread very far,
especially in the grand monde, and among
everybody of good fashion. They worshipped
a sort of idol, who, as their doctrine delivered,
did daily create men by a kind of manufactory
operation. This idol they placed in the
highest parts of the house on an altar erected
about three feet. He was shown in the pos-
ture of a Persian emperor sitting on a super-
ficies with his legs interwoven under him.
This god had a goose for his ensign, whence
it is that some learned men pretend to deduce
his original from Jupiter Capitolinus. At his
left hand, beneath the altar, Hell seemed to
open and catch at the animals the idol was
creating, to prevent which, certain of his
priests hourly flung in pieces of the unin-
formed mass or substance, and sometimes
whole limbs already enlivened, which that
horrid gulf insatiably swallowed, terrible to
behold. The goose was also held a subaltern
divinity or Deus minorum gentium,1 before
whose shrine was sacrificed that creature
whose hourly food is human gore, and who is
in so great renown abroad for being the de-
light and favourite of the Egyptian Cercopi-
thecus. Millions of these animals were cruelly
slaughtered every day to appease the hunger
of that consuming deity. The chief idol was
also worshipped as the inventor of the yard
and the needle, whether as the god of seamen,
or on account of certain other mystical attri-
butes, hath not been sufficiently cleared.
The worshippers of this deity had also a
system of their belief which seemed to turn
upon the following fundamental. They held
the universe to be a large suit of clothes which
invests everything; that the earth is invested
by the air; the air is invested by the stars;
and the stars are invested by the Primnm
Mobile.2 Look on this globe of earth, you
will find it to be a very complete and fashion-
able dress. What is that which some call
land but a fine coat faced with green, or the
sea but a waistcoat of water-tabby? Proceed
to the particular works of the creation, you
will find how curious journeyman Nature hath
been to trim up the vegetable beaux; observe
how sparkish a periwig adorns the head of a
1 a god of the lesser peoples 2 In the Ptolemaic
system of astronomy, the hollow sphere inclosing the
universe and moving all things with it.
JONATHAN SWIFT
beech, and what a fine doublet of white satin
is worn by the birch. To conclude from all,
what is man himself but a microcoat, or rather
a complete suit of clothes with all its trim-
mings? As to his body there can be no dis-
pute, but examine even the acquirements of
his mind, you will find them all contribute in
their order towards furnishing out an exact
dress. To instance no more, is not religion a
cloak, honesty a pair of shoes worn out in the
dirt, self-love a surtout, vanity a shirt, and
conscience a pair of breeches, which, though a
cover for lewdness as well as nastiness, is
easily slipped down for the service of both.
These postulata being admitted, it will
follow in due course of reasoning that those
beings which the world calls improperly suits
of clothes are in reality the most refined species
of animals, or, to proceed higher, that they are
rational creatures or men. For is it not mani-
fest that they live, and move, and talk, and
perform all other offices of human life? Are
not beauty, and wit, and mien, and breeding
their inseparable proprieties? In short, we
see nothing but them, hear nothing but them.
Is it not they who walk the streets, fill up
Parliament-, coffee-, play-, bawdy-houses? It
is true, indeed, that these animals, which are
vulgarly called suits of clothes or dresses, do
according to certain compositions receive dif-
ferent appellations. If one of them be trimmed
up with a gold chain, and a red gown, and a
white rod, and a great horse, it is called a
Lord Mayor; if certain ermines and furs be
placed in a certain position, we style them a
Judge, and so an apt conjunction of lawn and
black satin we entitle a Bishop.
Others of these professors, though agreeing
in the main system, were yet more refined
upon certain branches of it; and held that
man was an animal compounded of two
dresses, the natural and the celestial suit,
which were the body and the soul; that the
soul was the outward, and the body the in-
ward clothing; that the latter was ex traduce,
but the former of daily creation and circum-
fusion. This last they proved by Scripture,
because in them we live, and move, and have
our being: as likewise by philosophy, because
they are all in all, and all in every part. Be-
sides, said they, separate these two, and you
will find the body to be only a senseless un-
savoury carcass. By all which it is 'manifest
that the outward dress must needs be the soul.
To this system of religion were tagged
several subaltern doctrines, which were enter-
tained with great vogue; as particularly the
faculties of the mind were deduced by the
learned among them in this manner: em-
broidery was sheer wit, gold fringe was agree-
able conversation, gold lace was repartee, a
huge long periwig was humour, and- a coat full
of powder was very good raillery. All which
required abundance of finesse and delicatesse
to manage with advantage, as well as a strict
observance after times and fashions.
I have with much pains and reading col-
lected out of ancient authors this short sum-
mary of a body of philosophy and divinity
which seems to have been composed by a vein
and race of thinking very different from any
other systems, either ancient or modern. And
it was not merely to entertain or satisfy the
reader's curiosity, but rather to give him light
into several circumstances of the following
story, that, knowing the state of dispositions
and opinions in an age so remote, he may
better comprehend those great events which
were the issue of them. I advise, therefore,
the courteous reader to peruse with a world of
application, again and again, whatever I have
written upon this matter. And so leaving
these broken ends, I carefully gather up the
chief thread of my story, and proceed.
These opinions, therefore, were so universal,
as well as the practices of them, among the
refined part of court and town, that our three
brother adventurers, as their circumstances
then stood, were strangely at a loss. For, on
the one side, the three ladies they addressed
themselves to (whom we have named already)
were ever at the very top of the fashion, and
abhorred all that were below it but the breadth
of a hair. On the other side, their father's
will was very precise, and it was the main
precept in it, with the greatest penalties an-
nexed, not to add to or diminish from their
coats one thread without a positive command
in the will. Now the coats their father had
left them were, it is true, of very good cloth,
and besides, so neatly sewn you would swear
they were all of a piece, but, at the same time,
very plain, with little or no ornament; and it
happened that before they were a month in
town great shoulder-knots came up. Straight
all the world was shoulder-knots; no approach-
ing the ladies' ruelles without the quota of
shoulder-knots. "That fellow," cries one,
"has no soul: where is his shoulder-knot?"
Our three brethren soon discovered their
want by sad experience, meeting in their
walks with forty mortifications and indignities.
THE TALE OF A TUB
191
If they went to the play-house, the doorkeeper
showed them into the twelve-penny gallery.
If they called a boat, says a waterman, "I
am first sculler." If they stepped into the
" Rose" to take a bottle, the drawer would cry,
"Friend, we sell no ale." If they went to
visit a lady, a footman met them at the door
with "Pray, send up your message." In this
unhappy case they went immediately to con-
sult their father's will, read it over and over,
but not a word of the shoulder-knot. What
should they do? What temper should they
find? Obedience was absolutely necessary,
and yet shoulder-knots appeared extremely
requisite. After much thought, one of the
brothers, who happened to be more book-
learned than the other two, said he had found
an expedient. "It is true," said he, "there is
nothing here in this will, totidem verbis,1
making mention of shoulder-knots, but I dare
conjecture we may find them inclusive, or
lotidcm syllabis." 2 This distinction was im-
mediately approved by all; and so they fell
again to examine the will. But their evil star
had so directed the matter that the first syllable
was not to be found in the whole writing;
upon which disappointment, he who found the
former evasion took heart, and said, "Brothers,
there is yet hopes; for though we cannot find
them totidem verbis nor totidem syllabis, I dare
engage we shall make them out tertio modo 3
or tolidcm literis." * This discovery was also
highly commended, upon which they fell once
more to the scrutiny, and soon picked out
S, H, O, U, L, D, E, R, when the same planet,
enemy to their repose, had wonderfully con-
trived that a K was not to be found. Here
was a weighty difficulty ! But the distinguish-
ing brother (for whom we shall hereafter find
a name), now his hand was in, proved by a
very good argument that K was a modern
illegitimate letter, unknown to the learned
ages, nor anywhere to be found in ancient
manuscripts. "It is true," said he, "the word
Calcndae had in Q. V- C.5 been sometimes
writ with a K, but erroneously, for in the best
copies it is ever spelled with a C ; and by con-
sequence it was a gross mistake in our language
to spell 'knot' with a K," but that from hence-
forward he would take care it should be writ
with a C. Upon this all further difficulty
vanished; shoulder-knots were made clearly
1 in exactly those words 2 in those very syllables
3 in a third way 4 in those very letters 6 certain old
Mss.
out to be jure paterno,1 and our three gentle-
men swaggered with as large and as flaunting
ones as the best.
But as human happiness is of a very short
duration, so in those days were human fashions,
upon which it entirely -depends. Shoulder-
knots had their time, and we must now imagine
them in their decline, for a certain lord came
just from Paris with fifty yards of gold lace
upon his coat, exactly trimmed after the court
fashion of that month. In two days all man-
kind appeared closed up in bars of gold lace.
Whoever durst peep abroad without his com-
plement of gold lace was as scandalous as a
— , and as ill received among the women.
What should our three knights do in this
momentous affair? They had sufficiently
strained a point already in the affair of shoulder-
knots. Upon recourse to the will, nothing ap-
peared there but altum silentium.2 That of
the shoulder-knots was a loose, flying, circum-
stantial point, but this of gold lace seemed too
considerable an alteration without better war-
rant. It did aliquo modo essentiae adhaerere,3
and therefore required a positive precept. But
about this time it fell out that the learned
brother aforesaid had read "Aristotelis Dia-
lectica," and especially that wonderful piece
de Interpretalione, which has the faculty of
teaching its readers to find out a meaning in
everything but itself, like commentators on
the Revelations, who proceed prophets with-
out understanding a syllable of the text.
"Brothers," said he, "you are to be informed
that of wills, duo sunt genera* nuncupatory
and scriptory, that in the scriptory will here
before us there is no precept or mention about
gold lace, conceditur? but si idem affirmetur de
nuncupatorio negatur.6 For, brothers, if you
remember, we heard a fellow say when we
were boys that he heard my father's man say
that he heard my father say that he would
advise his sons to get gold lace on their coats
as soon as ever they could procure money to
buy it." "That is very true," cries the other.
"I remember it perfectly well," said the third.
And so, without more ado, they got the largest
gold lace in the parish, and walked about as
fine as lords.
A while after, there came up all in fashion a
pretty sort of flame-coloured satin for linings,
1 by paternal authority 2 absolute silence 3 it be-
longed in a manner to the essential meaning * are of
two kinds 8 it is admitted • but if the same is affirmed
of a nuncupatory will, we deny it
192
JONATHAN SWIFT
and the mercer brought a pattern of it im-
mediately to our three gentlemen. "An please
your worships," said he, "my Lord C —
and Sir J. W. had linings out of this very
piece last night; it takes wonderfully, and I
shall not have a remnant left enough to make
my wife a pin-cushion by to-morrow morning
at ten o'clock." Upon this they fell again to
rummage the will, because the present case
also required a positive precept, the lining
being held by orthodox writers to be of the
essence of the coat. After long search they
could fix upon nothing to the matter in hand,
except a short advice in their father's will to
take care of fire and put out their candles
before they went to sleep. This, though a
good deal for the purpose, and helping very
far towards self-conviction, yet not seeming
wholly of force to establish a command, and
being resolved to avoid further scruple, as
well as future occasion for scandal, says he
that was the scholar, "I remember to have
read in wills of a codicil annexed, which is
indeed a part of the will, and what it contains
hath equal authority with the rest. Now I
have been considering of this same will here
before us, and I cannot reckon it to be com-
plete for want of such a codicil. I will there-
fore fasten one in its proper place very dex-
terously. I have had it by me some time; it
was written by a dog-keeper of my grand-
father's, and talks a great deal, as good luck
would have it, of this very flame-coloured
satin." The project was immediately ap-
proved by the other two; an old parchment
scroll was tagged on according to art, in the
form of a codicil annexed, and the satin bought
and worn.
Next winter a player, hired for the purpose
by the Corporation of Fringemakers, acted his
part in a new comedy, all covered with silver
fringe, and according to the laudable custom
gave rise to that fashion. Upon which the
brothers, consulting their father's will, to their
great astonishment found these words: "Item,
I charge and command my said three sons to
wear no sort of silver fringe upon or about
their said coats," etc., with a penalty in case
of disobedience too long here to insert. How-
ever, after some pause, the brother so often
mentioned for his erudition, who was well
skilled in criticisms, had found in a certain
author, which he said should be nameless,
that the same word which in the will is called
fringe does also signify a broom-stick, and
doubtless ought to have the same interpre-
tation in this paragraph. This another of
the brothers disliked, because of that epithet
silver, which could not, he humbly conceived,
in propriety of speech be reasonably applied to
a broom-stick; but it was replied upon him
that this epithet was understood in a mytho-
logical and allegorical sense. However, he
objected again why their father should forbid
them to wear a broom-stick on their coats, a
caution that seemed unnatural and imperti-
nent; upon which he was taken up short, as
one that spoke irreverently of a mystery which
doubtless was very useful and significant, but
ought not to be over-curiously pried into or
nicely reasoned upon. And in short, their
father's authority being now considerably
sunk, this expedient was allowed to serve as a
lawful dispensation for wearing their full
proportion of silver fringe.
A while after was revived an old fashion,
long antiquated, of embroidery with Indian
figures of men, women, and children. Here
they had no occasion to examine the will.
They remembered but too well how their
father had always abhorred this fashion; that
he made several paragraphs on purpose, im-
porting his utter detestation of it, and bestow-
ing his everlasting curse to his sons whenever
they should wear it. For all this, in a few
days they appeared higher in the fashion than
anybody else in the town. But they solved
the matter by saying that these figures were
not at all the same with those that were formerly
worn and were meant in the will; besides, they
did not wear them in that sense, as forbidden
by their father, but as they were a commend-
able custom, and of great use to the public.
That these rigorous clauses in the will did
therefore require some allowance and a favour-
able interpretation, and ought to be under-
stood cum grano salts.1
But fashions perpetually altering in that
age, the scholastic brother grew weary of
searching further evasions and solving ever-
lasting contradictions. Resolved, therefore, at
all hazards to comply with the modes of the
world, they concerted matters together, and
agreed unanimously to lock up their father's
will in a strong-box, brought out of Greece or
Italy (I have forgot which), and trouble them-
selves no farther to examine it, but only refer
to its authority whenever they thought fit.
In consequence whereof, a while after it grew
a general mode to wear an infinite number of
1 with a grain of salt
THE TALE OF A TUB
193
points, most of them tagged with silver; upon
which the scholar pronounced ex cathedra 1
that points were absolutely jure paterno, as
they might very well remember. It is true,
indeed, the fashion prescribed somewhat more
than were directly named in the will; how-
ever, that they, as heirs-general of their father,
had power to make and add certain clauses
for public emolument, though not deducible
todidcm verbis from the letter of the will, or
else multa absurda sequerentur ? This was
understood for canonical, and therefore on the
following Sunday they came to church all
covered with points.
The learned brother so often mentioned
was reckoned the best scholar in all that or
the next street to it; insomuch, as having run
something behindhand with the world, he
obtained the favour from a certain lord to
receive him into his house and to teach his
children. A while after the lord died, and he,
by long practice upon his father's will, found
the way of contriving a deed of conveyance of
that house to himself and his heirs; upon
which he took possession, turned the young
squires out, and received his brothers in their
stead. .
A MODEST PROPOSAL FOR PREVENTING
THE CHILDREN OF POOR PEOPLE IN
IRELAND FROM BEING A BURDEN
TO THEIR PARENTS OR COUN-
TRY, AND FOR MAKING THEM
BENEFICIAL TO THE PUBLIC
It is a melancholy object to those who walk
through this great town, or travel in the coun-
try, when they see the streets, the roads, and
cabin -doors, crowded with beggars of the
female sex, followed by three, four, or six
children, all in rags, and importuning every
passenger for an alms. These mothers, in-
stead of being able to work for their honest
livelihood, are forced to employ all their time
in strolling to beg sustenance for their help-
less infants : who, as they grow up, either turn
thieves for want of work, or leave their dear
native country to fight for the Pretender in
Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.
I think it is agreed by all parties, that this
prodigious number of children in the arms,
or on the backs, or at the heels of their mothers,
and frequently of their fathers, is, in the
present deplorable state of the kingdom, a very
1 officially 2 many absurd consequences would follow
great additional grievance; and, therefore,
whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and easy
method of making these children sound, use-
ful members of the commonwealth, would
deserve so well of the public, as to have his
statue set up for a preserver of the nation.
But my intention is very far from being
confined to provide only for the children of
professed beggars; it is of a much greater
extent, and shall take in the whole number
of infants at a certain age, who are born of
parents in effect as little able to support them
as those who demand our charity in the streets.
As to my own part, having turned my
thoughts for many years upon this important
subject, and maturely weighed the several
schemes of our projectors, I have always found
them grossly mistaken in their computation.
It is true, a child, just born, may be supported
by its mother's milk for a solar year, with
little other nourishment; at most, not above
the value of two shillings, which the mother
may certainly get, or the value in scraps, by
her lawful occupation of begging; and it is
exactly at one year old that I propose to pro-
vide for them in such a manner, as, instead of
being a charge upon their parents, or the
parish, or wanting food and raiment for the
rest of their lives, they shall, on the contrary,
contribute to the feeding, and partly to the
clothing, of many thousands.
There is likewise another great advantage
in my scheme, that it will prevent those volun-
tary abortions, and that horrid practice of
women murdering their bastard children, alas,
too frequent among us! sacrificing the poor
innocent babes, I doubt, more to avoid the
expense than the shame, which would move
tears and pity in the most savage and inhuman
breast.
The number of souls in this kingdom being
usually reckoned one million and a half, of
these I calculate there may be about two hun-
dred thousand couple whose wives are breeders;
from which number I subtract thirty thousand
couple, who are able to maintain their own
children, (although I apprehend there cannot
be so many, under the present distresses of the
kingdom) ; but this being granted, there will
remain a hundred and seventy thousand
breeders. I again subtract fifty thousand, for
those women who miscarry, or whose children
die by accident or disease within the year.
There only remain a hundred and twenty
thousand children of poor parents annually
born. The question therefore is, How this
194
JONATHAN SWIFT
number shall be reared and provided for?
which, as I have already said, under the
present situation of affairs, is utterly impossible
by all the methods hitherto proposed. For we
can neither employ them in handicraft or
agriculture; we neither build houses (I mean
in the country), nor cultivate land: they can
very seldom pick up a livelihood by stealing,
till they arrive at six years old, except where
they are of towardly parts; although I confess
they learn the rudiments much earlier; during
which time they can, however, be properly
looked upon only as probationers; as I have
been informed by a principal gentleman in the
country of Cavan, who protested to me, that
he never knew above one or two instances
under the age of six, even in a part of the
kingdom so renowned for the quickest pro-
ficiency in that art.
I am assured by our merchants, that a boy
or a girl before twelve years old is no saleable
commodity; and even when they come to this
age they will not yield above three pounds or
three pounds and half-a-crown at most, on
the exchange; which cannot turn to account
either to the parents or kingdom, the charge
of nutriment and rags having been at least four
times that value.
I shall now, therefore, humbly propose my
own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable
to the least objection.
I have been assured by a very knowing Amer-
ican of my acquaintance in London, that a
young healthy child, well nursed, is, at a year
old, a most delicious, nourishing, and whole-
some food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or
boiled; and I make no doubt that it will
equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout.
I do therefore humbly offer it to public con-
sideration, that of the hundred and twenty
thousand children already computed, twenty
thousand may be reserved for breed, whereof
only one-fourth part to be males; which is
more than we allow to sheep, black-cattle,
or swine : and my reason is, that these children
are seldom the fruits of marriage, a circum-
stance not much regarded by our savages,
therefore one male will be sufficient for four
females. That the remaining hundred thou-
sand may, at a year old, be offered in sale to
the persons of quality and fortune through the
kingdom; always advising the mother to let
them suck plentifully in the last month, so as
to render them plump and fat for a good table.
A child will make two dishes at an entertain-
ment for friends; and when the family dines
alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a
reasonable dish, and, seasoned with a little
pepper or salt, will be very good boiled on the
fourth day, especially in winter.
I have reckoned, upon a medium, that a child
just born will weigh twelve pounds, and in a
solar year, if tolerably nursed, will increase to
twenty-eight pounds.
I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and
therefore very proper for landlords, who, as
they have already devoured most of the parents,
seem to have the best title to the children.
Infants' flesh will be in season throughout
the year, but more plentifully in March, and a
little before and after: for we are told by a
grave author, an eminent French physician,
that fish being a prolific diet, there are more
children born in Roman Catholic countries
about nine months after Lent, than at any
other season; therefore, reckoning a year after
Lent, the markets will be more glutted than
usual, because the number of Popish infants
is at least three to one in this kingdom; and
therefore it will have one other collateral
advantage, by lessening the number of Papists
among us.
I have already computed the charge of
nursing a beggar's child (in which list I reckon
all cottagers, labourers, and four-fifths of the
farmers) to be about two shillings per annum,
rags included; and I believe no gentleman
would repine to give ten shillings for the car-
cass of a good fat child, which, as I have said,
will make four dishes of excellent nutritive
meat, when he has only some particular friend,
or his own family, to dine with him. Thus
the squire will learn to be a good landlord,
and grow popular among his tenants; the
mother will have eight shillings net profit,
and be fit for work till she produces another
child.
Those who are more thrifty (as I must con-
fess the times require) may flay the carcass;
the skin of which, artificially dressed, will
make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer-
boots for fine gentlemen.
As to our city of Dublin, shambles may be
appointed for this purpose in the most con-
venient parts of it, and butchers we may be
assured will not be wanting; although I rather
recommend buying the children alive, then
dressing them hot from the knife, as we do
roasting pigs.
A very worthy person, a true lover of his
country, and whose virtues I highly esteem,
was lately pleased, in discoursing on this matter,
A MODEST PROPOSAL
to offer a refinement upon my scheme. He
said, that many gentlemen of this kingdom,
having of late destroyed their deer, he conceived
that the want of venison might be well supplied
by the bodies of young lads and maidens,
not exceeding fourteen years of age, nor under
twelve; so great a number of both sexes in
every country being now ready to starve for
want of work and service; and these to be dis-
posed of by their parents, if alive, or otherwise
by their nearest relations. But, with due def-
erence to so excellent a friend, and so deserv-
ing a patriot, I cannot be altogether in his
sentiments; for as to the males, my American
acquaintance assured me, from frequent ex-
perience, that their flesh was generally tough
and lean, like that of our schoolboys, by con-
tinual exercise, and their taste disagreeable;
and to fatten them would not answer the charge.
Then as to the females, it would, I think, with
humble submission, be a loss to the public,
because they soon would become breeders
themselves: and besides, it is not improbable
that some scrupulous people might be apt to
censure such a practice, (although indeed very
unjustly,) as a little bordering upon cruelty;
which, I confess, has always been with me the
strongest objection against any project, how
well soever intended.
But in order to justify my friend, he con-
fessed that this expedient was put into his head
by the famous Psalmanazar, a native of the
island Formosa, who came from thence to
London above twenty years ago; and in con-
versation told my friend, that in his country,
when any young person happened to be put
to death, the executioner sold the carcass to
persons of quality as a prime dainty; and that
in his time the body of a plump girl of fifteen,
who was crucified for an attempt to poison the
emperor, was sold to his imperial majesty's
prime minister of state, and other great man-
darins of the court, in joints from the gibbet,
at four hundred crowns. Neither indeed can
I deny, that if the same use were made of several
plump young girls in this town, who, without
one single groat to their fortunes, cannot stir
abroad without a chair, and appear at play-
house and assemblies in foreign fineries which
they never will pay for, the kingdom would not
be the worse.
Some persons of a desponding spirit are in
great concern about that vast number of poor
people, who are aged, diseased, or maimed;
and I have been desired to employ my thoughts,
what course may be taken to ease the nation of
so grievous an encumbrance. But I am not
in the least pain upon that matter, because it is
very well known, that they are every day dying,
and rotting, by cold and famine, and filth and
vermin, as fast as can be reasonably expected.
And as to the young labourers, they are now in
almost as hopeful a condition : they cannot get
work, and consequently pine away for want of
nourishment, to a degree, that if at any time
they are accidentally hired to common labour,
they have not strength to perform it; and thus
the country and themselves are happily de-
livered from the evils to come.
I have too long digressed, and therefore shall
return to my subject. I think the advantages
by the proposal which I have made, are obvious
and many, as well as of the highest importance.
For first, As I have already observed, it would
greatly lessen the number of Papists, with
whom we are yearly over-run, being the prin-
cipal breeders of the nation, as well as our
most dangerous enemies; and who stay at
home on purpose to deliver the kingdom to
the Pretender, hoping to take their advantage
by the absence of so many good Protestants,
who have chosen rather to leave their country,
than stay at home and pay tithes against their
conscience to an Episcopal curate.
Secondly, The poorer tenants will have some-
thing valuable of their own, which by law may
be made liable to distress, and help to pay their
landlord's rent; their corn and cattle being
already seized, and money a thing unknown.
Thirdly, Whereas the maintenance of a
hundred thousand children, from two years old
and upward, cannot be computed at less than
ten shillings apiece per annum, the nation's
stock will be thereby increased fifty thousand
pounds per annum, beside the profit of a new
dish introduced to the tables of all gentlemen
of fortune in the kingdom, who have any refine-
ment in taste. And the money will circulate
among ourselves, the goods being entirely of
our own growth and manufacture.
Fourthly, The constant breeders, beside
the gain of eight shillings sterling per annum
by the sale of their children, will be rid of the
charge of maintaining them after the first year.
Fifthly, This food would likewise bring great
custom to taverns; where the vintners will
certainly be so prudent as to procure the best
receipts for dressing it to perfection, and, conse-
quently, have their houses frequented by all
the fine gentlemen, who justly value themselves
upon their knowledge in good eating: and a
skilful cook, who understands how to oblige
196
JONATHAN SWIFT
his guests, will contrive to make it as expensive
as they please.
Sixthly, This would be a great inducement to
marriage, which all wise nations have either
encouraged by rewards, or enforced by laws
and penalties: It would increase the care and
tenderness of mothers toward their children,
when they were sure of a settlement for life
to the poor babes, provided in some sort by
the public, to their annual profit or expense.
We should see an honest emulation among the
married women, which of them could bring the
fattest child to the market. Men would become
as fond of their wives during the time of their
pregnancy, as they are now of their mares in foal,
their cows in calf, their sows when they are ready
to farrow; nor offer to beat or kick them (as is
too frequent a practice) for fear of a miscarriage.
Many other advantages might be enumer-
ated. For instance, the addition of some thou-
sand carcasses in our exportation of barrelled
beef; the propagation of swine's flesh, and
improvement in the art of making good bacon,
so much wanted among us by the great destruc-
tion of pigs, too frequent at our table; which
are no way comparable in taste or magnificence
to a well-grown, fat, yearling child, which,
roasted whole, will make a considerable figure
at a lord mayor's feast, or any other public
entertainment. But this, and many others, I
omit, being studious of brevity.
Supposing that one thousand families in this
city would be constant customers for infants'
flesh, beside others who might have it at merry-
meetings, particularly at weddings and chris-
tenings, I compute that Dublin would take off
annually about twenty thousand carcasses;
and the rest of the kingdom (where probably
they will be sold somewhat cheaper) the re-
maining eighty thousand.
I can think of no one objection that will
possibly be raised against this proposal, unless
it should be urged, that the number of people
will be thereby much lessened in the kingdom.
This I freely own, and it was indeed one prin-
cipal design in offering it to the world. I
desire the reader will observe, that I calculate
my remedy for this one individual kingdom of
Ireland, and for no other that ever was, is, or
I think ever can be, upon earth. Therefore let
no man talk to me of other expedients: of
taxing our absentees at five shillings a pound:
of using neither clothes, nor household-furni-
ture, except what is our own growth and manu-
facture: of utterly rejecting the materials and
instruments that promote foreign luxury: of
curing the expensiveness of pride, vanity, idle-
ness, and gaming in our women ; of introducing
a vein of parsimony, prudence, and temper-
ance: of learning to love our country, in the
want of which we differ even from Laplanders,
and the inhabitants of Topinamboo: of quit-
ting our animosities and factions, nor acting
any longer like the Jews, who were murdering
one another at the very moment their city was
taken: of being a little cautious not to sell our
country and conscience for nothing : of teaching
landlords to have at least one degree of mercy
toward their tenants: lastly, of putting a spirit
of honesty, industry, and skill into our shop-
keepers; who, if a resolution could now be
taken to buy only our native goods, would
immediately unite to cheat and exact upon us
in the price, the measure, and the goodness,
nor could ever yet be brought to make one fair
proposal of just dealing, though often and
earnestly invited to it.
Therefore I repeat, let no man talk to me of
these and the like expedients, till he has at least
some glimpse of hope, that there will be ever some
hearty and sincere attempt to put them in practice.
But, as to myself, having been wearied out
for many years with offering vain, idle, visionary
thoughts, and at length utterly despairing of
success, I fortunately fell upon this proposal;
which, as it is wholly new, so it has something
solid and real, of no expense and little trouble,
full in our own power, and whereby we can
incur no danger in disobliging England. For
this kind of commodity will not bear exporta-
tion, the flesh being of too tender a consistence
to admit a long continuance in salt, although
perhaps I could name a country, which would
be glad to eat up our whole nation without it.
After all, I am not so violently bent upon my
own opinion as to reject any offer proposed by
wise men, which shall be found equally inno-
cent, cheap, easy, and effectual. But before
something of that kind shall be advanced in
contradiction to my scheme, and offering a
better, I desire the author, or authors, will be
pleased maturely to consider two points. First,
as things now stand, how they will be able to
find food and raiment for a hundred thousand
useless mouths and backs. And, secondly,
there being a round million of creatures in
human figure throughout this kingdom, whose
whole subsistence put into a common stock
would leave them in debt two millions of
pounds sterling, adding those who are beggars
by profession, to the bulk of farmers, cottagers,
and labourers, with the wives and children
THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY
197
who are beggars in effect; I desire those poli-
ticians who dislike my overture, and may
perhaps be so bold as to attempt an answer,
that they will first ask the parents of these
mortals, whether they would not at this day
think it a great happiness to have been sold for
food at a year old, in the manner I prescribe,
and thereby have avoided such a perpetual
scene of misfortunes, as they have since gone
through, by the oppression of landlords, the
impossibility of paying rent without money or
trade, the want of common sustenance, with
neither house nor clothes to cover them from
the inclemencies of the weather, and the most
inevitable prospect of entailing the like, or
greater miseries, upon their breed for ever.
I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that
I have not the least personal interest in endeav-
ouring to promote this necessary work, having
no other motive than the public good of my
country, by advancing our trade, providing
for infants, relieving the poor, and giving
some pleasure to the rich. I have no children
by which I can propose to get a single penny;
the youngest being nine years old, and my
wife past child-bearing.
'
ANTHONY ASHLEY COOPER.
THIRD EARL OF SHAFTES-
BURY
, CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN, MANNERS,
OPINIONS, TIMES, ETC.
FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR
PART III. SECTION III
You have heard it, my friend, as a common
saying, that interest governs the world. But,
^ I believe, whoever looks narrowly into the
affairs of it will find that passion, humour,
caprice, zeal, faction, and a thousand other
springs, which are counter to self-interest, have
as considerable a part in the movements of this
machine. There are more wheels and counter-
poises in this engine than are easily imagined.
'Tis of too complex a kind to fall under one
simple view, or be explained thus briefly in a
word or two. The studiers of this mechanism
must have a very partial eye to overlook all
other motions besides those of the lowest and
narrowest compass. 'Tis hard that in the plan
or description of this clock-work no wheel or
balance should be allowed on the side of the
better and more enlarged affections; that
nothing should be understood to be done in
kindness or generosity, nothing in pure good-
nature or friendship, or through any social or
natural affection of any kind; when, perhaps,
the mainsprings of this machine will be found
to be either these very natural affections them-
selves, or a compound kind derived from them,
and retaining more than one half of their nature.
But here, my friend, you must not expect
that I should draw you up a formal scheme
of the passions, or pretend to show you ther
genealogy and relation: how they are inter-
woven with one another, or interfere with our
happiness and interest. 'Twould be out of the
genius and compass of such a letter as this, to
frame a just plan or model by which you might,
with an accurate view, observe what proportion
the friendly and natural affections seem to
bear in this order of architecture.
Modern projectors, I know, would willingly
rid their hands of these natural materials, and
would fain build after a more uniform way.
They would new-frame the human heart, and
have a mighty fancy to reduce all its motions,
balances, and weights, to that one principle
and foundation of a cool and deliberate self-
ishness. Men, it seems, are unwilling to
think they can be so outwitted and imposed
on by Nature, as to be made to serve her pur-
poses rather than their own. They are ashamed
to be drawn thus out of themselves, and forced
from what they esteem their true interest.
There has been in all times a sort of narrow-
minded philosophers, who have thought to set
this difference to rights by conquering Nature
in themselves. A primitive father and founder
among these, saw well this power of Nature,
and understood it so far, that he earnestly
exhorted his followers neither to beget children
nor serve their country. There was no dealing
with Nature, it seems, while these alluring
objects stood in the way. Relations, friends,
countrymen, laws, politic constitutions, the
beauty of order and government, and the
interest of society and mankind, were objects
which, he well saw, would naturally raise a
stronger affection than any which was grounded
upon the narrow bottom of mere self. His
advice, therefore, not to marry, nor engage at
all in the public, was wise, and suitable to his
design. There was no way to be truly a dis-
ciple of this philosophy, but to leave family,
friends, country, and society, to cleave to it.
. . . And, in good earnest, who would not,
if it were happiness to do so ? — The phi-
losopher, however, was kind in telling us his
thought. 'Twas a token of his fatherly love
of mankind —
198
JOSEPH ADDISON
Tu pater, et rerum inventor ! Tu patria nobis
Suppeditas praecepta ! 1
\
But the revivers of this philosophy in latter
days appear to be of a lower genius. They
seem to have understood less of this force of
Nature, and thought to alter the thing by
shifting a name. They would so explain all
the social passions and natural affections as to
denominate them of the selfish kind. Thus
civility, hospitality, humanity towards strangers
or people in distress, is only a more deliberate
selfishness. An honest heart is only a more
cunning one; and honesty and good-nature,
a more deliberate or better-regulated self-love.
The love of kindred, children and posterity,
is purely love of self and of one's own immediate
blood; as if, by this reckoning, all mankind
were not included : all being of one blood, and
joined by inter-marriages and alliances, as
they have been transplanted in colonies and
mixed one with another. And thus love of
one's country and love of mankind must also
be self-love. Magnanimity and courage, no
doubt, are modifications of this universal self-
love ! For courage, says our modern philoso-
pher, is constant anger; and all men, says a
witty poet, would be cowards if they durst.
That the poet and the philosopher both were
cowards, may be yielded perhaps without dis-
pute. They may have spoken the best of their
knowledge. But for true courage, it has so
little to do with anger, that there lies always
the strongest suspicion against it where this
passion is highest. The true courage is the
cool and calm. The bravest of men have the
least of a brutal bullying insolence ; and in the
very time of danger are found the most serene,
pleasant, and free. Rage, we' know, can make
a coward forget himself and fight. But what
is done in fury or anger can never be placed to
the account of courage. Were it otherwise,
womankind might claim to be the stoutest sex;
for their hatred and anger have ever been al-
lowed the strongest and most lasting.
Other authors there have been of a yet in-
ferior kind: a sort of distributors and petty
retailers of this wit, who have run changes, and
divisions without end, upon this article of self-
love. You have the very same thought spun
out a hundred ways, and drawn into mottoes
and devices to set forth this riddle, that "act
as disinterestedly or generously as you please,
self still is at the bottom, and nothing else."
1 Thou, father and beginner of things, do thou give
us fatherly counsels.
Now if these gentlemen who delight so much in
the play of words, but are cautious how they
grapple closely with definitions, would tell us
only what self-interest was, and determine
happiness and good, there would be an end of
this enigmatical wit. For in this we should all
agree, that happiness was to be pursued, and in
fact was always sought after ; but whether found
in following Nature, and giving way to common
affection, or in suppressing it, and turning every
passion towards private advantage, a narrow
self-end, or the preservation of mere life, this
would be the matter in debate between us. The
question would not be, "who loved himself, or
who not," but "who loved and served himself
the Tightest, and after the truest manner."
'Tis the height of wisdom, no doubt, to be
rightly selfish. And to value life, as far as life
is good, belongs as much to courage as to dis-
cretion; but a wretched life is no wise man's
wish. To be without honesty is, in effect,
to be without natural affection or sociableness
of any kind. And a life without natural af-
fection, friendship, or sociableness would be
found a wretched one were it to be tried. 'Tis
as these feelings and affections are intrinsically
valuable and worthy that self-interest is to be
rated and esteemed. A man is by nothing so
much himself as by his temper and the char-
acter of his passions and affections. If he
loses what is manly and worthy in these, he is
as much lost to himself as when he loses his
memory and understanding. The least step
into villainy or baseness changes the character
and value of a life. He who would preserve
life at any rate must abuse himself more than
any one can abuse him. And if life be not a
dear thing indeed, he who has refused to live
a villain and has preferred death to a base
action has been a gainer by the bargain.
JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719)
THE SPECTATOR
NO. 10. MONDAY, MARCH 12, 1711
Non aliter quam qui adverse vix flumine lembum
Remigiis subigit : si brachia forte remisit,
Atque ilium in praeceps prono rapit alveus amni.1
— VlRG.
It is with much satisfaction that I hear this
great city inquiring day by day after these my
1 So the boat's brawny crew the current stem,
And, slow advancing, struggle with the stream;
But if they slack their hands or cease to strive,
Then down the flood with headlong haste thej
drive. — DRYDEN.
THE SPECTATOR
199
papers, and receiving my morning lectures
with a becoming seriousness and attention.
My publisher tells me, that there are already
three thousand of them distributed every day:
So that if I allow twenty readers to every paper,
which I look upon as a modest computation,
I may reckon about threescore thousand
disciples in London and Westminster, who I
hope will take care to distinguish themselves
from the thoughtless herd of their ignorant and
unattentive brethren. Since I have raised to
myself so great an audience, I shall spare no
pains to make their instruction agreeable, and
their diversion useful. For which reasons I
shall endeavour to enliven morality with wit,
and to temper wit with morality, that my
readers may, if possible, both ways find their
account in the speculation of the day. And
to the end that their virtue and discretion may
not be short transient intermitting starts of
thoughts, I have resolved to refresh their
memories from day to day, till I have recovered
them out of that desperate state of vice and
folly into which the age is fallen. The mind
that lies fallow but a single day, sprouts up
in follies that are only to be killed by a con-
stant and assiduous culture. It was said of
Socrates, that he brought philosophy down from
heaven, to inhabit among men; and I shall be
ambitious to have it said of me, that I have
brought philosophy out of closets and libra-
ries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs
and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-
houses.
I would therefore in a very particular manner
recommend these my speculations to all well-
regulated families, that set apart an hour in
every morning for tea and bread and butter;
and would earnestly advise them for their good
to order this paper to be punctually served up,
and to be looked upon as a part of the tea
equipage.
Sir Francis Bacon observes, that a well-
written book, compared with its rivals and
antagonists, is like Moses's serpent, that im-
mediately swallowed up and devoured those
of the Egyptians. I shall not be so vain as to
think, that where the Spectator appears, the
other public prints will vanish; But shall
leave it to my reader's consideration, whether,
Is it not much better to be let into the
knowledge of one's self, than to hear what
passes in Muscovy or Poland; and to amuse
ourselves with such writings as tend to
the wearing out of ignorance, passion, and
prejudice, than such as naturally conduce
to inflame hatreds, and make enmities irrecon-
cileable ?
In the next place, I would recommend this
paper to the daily perusal of those gentlemen
whom I cannot but consider as my good
brothers and allies, I mean the fraternity of
Spectators, who live in the world without having
anything to do in it; and either by the affluence
of their fortunes, or laziness of their dispositions,
have no other business with the rest of man-
kind, but to look upon them. Under this class
of men are comprehended all contemplative
tradesmen, titular physicians, Fellows of the
Royal -society, Templars that are not given to
be contentious, and statesmen that are out of
business; in short, everyone that considers the
world as a theatre, and desires to form a right
judgment of those who are the actors on it.
There is another set of men that I must like-
wise lay a claim to, whom I have lately called
the blanks of society, as being altogether un-
furnished with ideas, till the business and con-
versation of the day has supplied them. I have
often considered these poor souls with an eye
of great commiseration, when I have heard
them asking the first man they have met with,
whether there was any news stirring? and by
that means gathering together materials for
thinking. These needy persons do not know
what to talk of, till about twelve a clock in the
morning; for by that time they are pretty good
judges of the weather, know which way the
wind sits, and whether the Dutch mail be come
in. As they lie at the mercy of the first man
they meet, and are grave or impertinent all the
day long, according to the notions which they
have imbibed in the morning, I would earnestly
entreat them not to stir out of their chambers
till they have read this paper, and do promise
them that I will daily instil into them such sound
and wholesome sentiments, as shall have a good
effect on their conversation for the ensuing
twelve hours.
But there are none to whom this paper will
be more useful, than to the female world.
I have often thought there has not been suffi-
cient pains taken in finding out proper employ-
ments and diversions for the fair ones. Their
amusements seem contrived for them, rather
as they are women, than as they are reason-
able creatures; and are more adapted to the
sex than to the species. The toilet .is their
great scene of business, and the right adjusting
of their hair the principal employment of their
lives. The sorting of a suit of ribbons is reck-
oned a very good morning's work; and if they
20O
JOSEPH ADDISON
make an excursion to a mercer's or a toy -shop,
so great a fatigue makes them unfit for any thing
else all the day after. Their more serious occu-
pations are sewing and embroidery, and their
greatest drudgery the preparation of jellies
and sweet-meats. This, I say, is the state of
ordinary women; though I know there are
multitudes of those of a more elevated life and
conversation, that move in an exalted sphere
of knowledge and virtue, that join all the
beauties of the mind to the ornaments of dress,
and inspire a kind of awe and respect, as well
as love, into their male beholders. I hope to
encrease the number of these by publishing
this daily paper, which I shall always endeav-
our to make an innocent IS not an improving
entertainment, and by that means at least
divert the minds of my female readers from
greater trifles. At the same time, as I would
fain give some finishing touches to those which
are already the most beautiful pieces in human
nature, I shall endeavour to point out all those
imperfections that are the blemishes, as well
as those virtues which are the embellishments
of the sex. In the meanwhile I hope these my
gentle readers, who have so much time on their
hands, will not grudge throwing away a quarter
of an hour in a day on this paper, since they
may do it without any hindrance to business.
I know several of my friends and well-wishers
are in great pain for me, lest I should not be
able to keep up the spirit of a paper which I
oblige myself to furnish every day: But to
make them easy in this particular, I will promise
them faithfully to give it over as soon as I
grow dull. This I know will be matter of great
raillery to the small Wits; who will frequently
put me in mind of my promise, desire me to
keep my word, assure me that it is high time
to give over, with many other little pleasantries
of the like nature, which men of a little smart
genius cannot forbear throwing out against
their best friends, when they have such a handle
given them of being witty. But let them re-
member that I do hereby enter my caveat
against this piece of raillery.
THOUGHTS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY
NO. 26. FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 1711
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum labernas
Regumque turres, O beate Sexti.
Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam,
Jam te premet nox, fabulaeque manes,
Et domus exilis Plutonia.
— HOR. i. Od. iv. 13.
With equal foot, rich friend, impartial fate
Knocks at the cottage, and the palace gate:
Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares,
And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years:
Night soon will seize, and you must quickly go
To story'd ghosts, and Pluto's house below.
When I am in a serious humour, I very often
walk by myself in Westminster Abbey; where
the gloominess of the place, and the use to
which it is applied, with the solemnity of the
building, and the condition of the people who
lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of
melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is
not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole
afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and
the church, amusing myself with the tomb-
stones and inscriptions that I met with in those
several regions of the dead. Most of them
recorded nothing else of the buried person,
but that he was born upon one day, and died
upon another: the whole history of his life
being comprehended in those two circumstances
that are common to all mankind. I could not
but look upon these registers of existence,
whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire
upon the departed persons; who left no other
memorial of them, but that they were born,
and that they died. They put me in mind of
several persons mentioned in the battles of
heroic poems, who have sounding names given
them, for no other reason but that they may
be killed, and are celebrated for nothing but
being knocked on the head.
" T\avKov re MeSoi'Ta re ©eptriAoxoi' re."
— HOM.
"Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochumque."
— VlRG.
"Glaucus, and Medon, and Thersilochus."
The life of these men is finely described in
Holy Writ by "the path of an arrow," which is
immediately closed up and lost.
Upon my going into the church, I entertained
myself with the digging of a grave; and saw
in every shovel-full of it that was thrown up,
the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed with
a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that some time
or other had a place in the composition of an
human body. Upon this I began to consider
with myself, what innumerable multitudes of
people lay confused together under the pave-
ment of that ancient cathedral; how men and
women, friends and enemies, priests and
soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were
crumbled amongst one another, and blended
THE SPECTATOR
201
together in the same common mass; how
beauty, strength, and youth, with old age,
weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished
in the same promiscuous heap of matter.
After having thus surveyed this great maga-
zine of mortality, as it were in the lump, I ex-
amined it more particularly by the accounts
which I found on several of the monuments
which are raised in every quarter of that ancient
fabric. Some of them were covered with such
extravagant epitaphs, that if it were possible
for the dead person to be acquainted with them,
he would blush at the praises which his friends
have bestowed on him. There are others so
excessively modest, that they deliver the char-
acter of the person departed in Greek or He-
brew, and by that means are not understood
once in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quar-
ter, I found there were poets who had no monu-
ments, and monuments which had no poets.
I observed, indeed, that the present war had
filled the church with many of these unin-
habited monuments, which had been erected
to the memory of persons whose bodies were,
perhaps, buried in the plains of Blenheim, or
in the bosom of the ocean.
I could not but be very much delighted with
several modern epitaphs, which are written with
great elegance of expression and justness of
thought, and therefore do honour to the living
as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very
apt to conceive an idea of the ignorance or
politeness of a nation from the turn of their
public monuments and inscriptions, they should
be submitted to the perusal of men of learning
and genius before they are put in execution.
Sir Cloudesley Shovel's monument has very
often given me great offence. Instead of the
brave, rough, English admiral, which was the
distinguishing character of that plain, gallant
man, he is represented on his tomb by the figure
of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and repos-
ing himself upon velvet cushions under a can-
opy of state. The inscription is answerable
to the monument; for, instead of celebrating
the many remarkable actions he had performed
in the service of his country, it acquaints us
only with the manner of his death, in which it
was impossible for him to reap any honour.
The Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for
want of genius, show an infinitely greater taste
of antiquity and politeness in their buildings
and works of this nature, than what we meet
with in those of our own country. The monu-
ments of their admirals, which have been erected
at the public expense, represent them like them-
selves, and are adorned with rostral crowns
and naval ornaments, with beautiful festoons
of sea-weed, shells, and coral.
But to return to our subject. I have left the
repository of our English kings for the con-
templation of another day, when I shall find
my mind disposed for so serious an amusement.
I know that entertainments of this nature are
apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timor-
ous minds and gloomy imaginations; but for
my own part, though I am always serious, I do
not know what it is to be melancholy ; and can
therefore take a view of nature in her deep and
solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her
most gay and delightful ones. By this means I
can improve myself with those objects, which
others consider with terror. When I look
upon the tombs of the great, every emotion
of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs
of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes
out ; when I meet with the grief of parents upon
a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion :
when I see the tomb of the parents themselves,
I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom
we must quickly follow. When I see kings
lying by those who deposed them, when I con-
sider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy
men that divided the world with their contests
and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonish-
ment on the little competitions, factions, and
debates of mankind. When I read the several
dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday,
and some six hundred years ago, I consider that
great day when we shall all of us be contem-
poraries, and make our appearance together.
THE HEAD-DRESS
NO. 98. FRIDAY, JUNE 22, 1711
Tanta est quaerendi euro, decoris.
— Juv. Sat. vi. 500.
So studiously their persons they adorn.
There is not so variable a thing in nature as
a lady's head-dress. Within my own memory
I have known it rise and fall above thirty
degrees. About ten years ago it shot up to a
very great height, insomuch that the female
part of our species were much taller than the
men. The women were of such an enormous
stature, that "we appeared as grasshoppers
before them;" at present the whole sex is in a
manner dwarfed, and shrunk into a race of
beauties that seems almost another species.
I remember several ladies, who were once very
202
JOSEPH ADDISON
near seven foot high, that at present want some
inches of five. How they came to be thus cur-
tailed I cannot learn. Whether the whole sex
be at present under any penance which we
know nothing of; or whether they have cast
their head-dresses in order to surprise us with
something in that kind which shall be entirely
new ; or whether some of the tallest of the sex,
being too cunning for the rest, have contrived
this method to make themselves appear size-
able, ii still a secret; though I find most are
of opinion, they are at present like trees new
lopped and pruned, that will certainly sprout up
and flourish with greater heads than before. For
my own part, as I do not love to be insulted by
women who are taller than myself, I admire the
sex much more in their present humiliation,
which has reduced them to their natural di-
mensions, than when they had extended their
persons and lengthened themselves out into
formidable and gigantic figures. I am not for
adding to the beautiful edifices of nature, nor
for raising any whimsical superstructure upon
her plans: I must therefore repeat it, that I
am highly pleased with the coiffure now in
fashion, and think it shows the good sense which
at present very much reigns among the valuable
part of the sex. One may observe that women
in all ages have taken more pains than men to
adorn the outside of their heads; and indeed
I very much admire, that those female archi-
tects who raise such wonderful structures out of
ribands, lace, and wire, have not been recorded
for their respective inventions. It is certain
there have been as many orders in these kinds of
building, as in those which have been made of
marble. Sometimes they rise in the shape of a
pyramid, sometimes like a tower, and some-
times like a steeple. In Juvenal's time the
building grew by several orders and stories,
as he has very humorously described it :
"Tot premit ordinibus, tot adhuc compagibus altum
Aedificat caput: Andromachen a f rente videbis;
Post minor est: aliam credas."
— Juv. Sat. vi. 501.
"With curls on curls they build her head before,
And mount it with a formidable tower:
A giantess she seems; but look behind,
And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind."
But I do not remember in any part of my
reading, that the head-dress aspired to so great
an extravagance as in the fourteenth century;
when it was built up in a couple of cones or
spires, which stood so excessively high on each
side of the head, that a woman, who was but a
Pigmy without her head-dress, appeared like
a Colossus upon putting it on. Monsieur
Paradin says, "That these old-fashioned fon-
tanges rose an ell above the head; that they
were pointed like steeples; and had long loose
pieces of crape fastened to the tops of them,
which were curiously fringed, and hung down
their backs like streamers."
The women might possibly have carried this
Gothic building much higher, had not a famous
monk, Thomas Conecte by name, attacked it
with great zeal and resolution. This holy man
travelled from place to place to preach down
this monstrous commode; and succeeded so
well in it, that, as the magicians sacrificed their
books to the flames upon the preaching of an
apostle, many of the women threw down their
head-dresses in the middle of his sermon, and
made a bonfire of them within sight of the pul-
pit. He was so renowned, as well for the
sanctity of his life as his manner of preaching,
that he had often a congregation of twenty
thousand people; the men placing themselves
on the one side of his pulpit, and the women
on the other, that appeared (to use the simili-
tude of an ingenious writer) like a forest of
cedars with their heads reaching to the clouds.
He so warmed and animated the people against
this monstrous ornament, that it lay under a
kind of persecution ; and, whenever it appeared
in public, was pelted down by the rabble, who
flung stones at the persons that wore it. But
notwithstanding this prodigy vanished while
the preacher was among them, it began to ap-
pear again some months after his departure,
or, to tell it in Monsieur Paradin's own words,
"the women, that like snails in a fright had
drawn in their horns, shot them out again as
soon as the danger was over." This extrava-
gance of the women's head-dresses in that age
is taken notice of by Monsieur d'Argentre in
his History of Bretagne, and by other historians,
as well as the person I have here quoted.
It is usually observed, that a good reign is
the only proper time for the making of laws
against the exorbitance of power; in the same
manner an excessive head-dress may be attacked
the most effectually when the fashion is against
it. I do therefore recommend this paper to
my female readers by way of prevention.
I would desire the fair sex to consider how
impossible it is for them to add anything that
can be ornamental to what is already the
masterpiece of nature. The head has the
most beautiful appearance, as well as the high-
THE SPECTATOR
203
est station, in a human figure. Nature has
laid out all her art in beautifying the face ; she
has touched it with vermilion, planted in it a
double row of ivory, made it the seat of smiles
and blushes, lighted it up and enlivened it with
the brightness of the eyes, hung it on each side
with the curious organs of sense, giving it airs
and graces that cannot be described, and sur-
rounded it with such a flowing shade of hair
as sets all its beauties in the most agreeable
light. In short, she seems to have designed the
head as the cupola to the most glorious of her
works; and when we load it with such a pile
of supernumerary ornaments, we destroy the
symmetry of the human figure, and foolishly
contrive to call off the eye from great and
real beauties, to childish gewgaws, ribands, and
bone-lace.
THE VISION OF MIRZA
NO. 159. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER i, 1711
Omnem, quae nunc obducta tuenti
Mortales hebetat visus tibi, et humida circum
Caligat, nubem eripiam . . .
— VIRG. Aen. ii. 604.
The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light,
Hangs o'er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal sight,
I will remove . . .
When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up
several Oriental manuscripts, which I have
still by me. Among others I met with one
entitled "The Visions of Mirza," which I have
read over with great pleasure. I intend to give
it to the public when I have no other enter-
tainment for them; and shall begin with the
first vision, which I have translated word for
word as follows :
"On the fifth day of the moon, which accord-
ing to the custom of my forefathers I always
keep holy, after having washed myself, and
offered up my morning devotions, I ascended
the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the
rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As
I was here airing myself on the tops of the moun-
tains, I fell into a profound contemplation on
the vanity of human life; and passing from
one thought to another, 'Surely,' said I, 'man
is but a shadow, and life a dream.' Whilst
I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the
summit of a rock that was not far from me,
where I discovered one in the habit of a shep-
herd, with a musical instrument in his hand.
As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips,
and began to play upon it. The sound of it
was exceedingly sweet, and wrought into a
variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melo-
dious, and altogether different from anything
I had ever heard. They put me in mind of
those heavenly airs that are played to the de-
parted souls of good men upon their first arrival
in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of their
last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures
of that happy place. My heart melted away
in secret raptures.
"I had been often told that the rock before
me was the haunt of a Genius; and that several
had been entertained with music who had
passed by it, but never heard that the musician
had before made himself visible. When he
had raised my thoughts by those transporting
airs which he played to taste the pleasures of his
conversation, as I looked upon him like one
astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the
waving of his hand directed me to approach
the place where he sat. I drew near with that
reverence which is due to a superior nature;
and as my heart was entirely subdued by the
captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at
his feet and wept. The Genius smiled upon
me with a look of compassion and affability
that familiarized him to my imagination, and
at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions
with which I approached him. He lifted me
from the ground, and taking me by the hand,
'Mirza,' said he, 'I have heard thee in thy
soliloquies; follow me.'
"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of
the rock, and placing me on the top of it, ' Cast
thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what
thou seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and
a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.'
'The valley that thou seest,' said he, ' is the Vale
of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest
is part of the great Tide of Eternity.' 'What
is the reason,' said I, 'that the tide I see rises
out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses
itself in a thick mist at the other?' 'What
thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of eternity
which is called time, measured out by the sun,
and reaching from the beginning of the world
to its consummation. Examine now,' said he,
'this sea that is bounded with darkness at both
ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.'
'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst
of the tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he,
'is Human Life: consider it attentively.' Upon
a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it con-
sisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with
several broken arches, which added to those
204
JOSEPH ADDISON
that were entire, made up the number about a
hundred. As I was counting the arches, the
Genius told me that this bridge consisted at
first of a thousand arches; but that a great
flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge
in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But
tell me farther,' said he, 'what thou discoverest
on it.' 'I see multitudes of people passing over
it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each
end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I
saw several of the passengers dropping through
the bridge into the great tide that flowed under-
neath it; and upon farther examination, per-
ceived there were innumerable trap-doors that
lay concealed in the bridge, which the pas-
sengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell
through them into the tide, and immediately
disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set
very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that
throngs of people no sooner broke through the
cloud, but many of them fell into them. They
grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied
and lay closer together towards the end of the
arches that were entire.
"There were indeed some persons, but their
number was very small, that continued a kind
of hobbling march on the broken arches, but.
fell through one after another, being quite tired
and spent with so long a walk.
"I passed some time in the contemplation of
this wonderful structure, and the great variety
of objects which it presented. My heart was
filled with a deep melancholy to see several
dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth
and jollity, and catching at everything that
stood by them to save themselves. Some were
looking up towards the heavens in a thought-
ful posture, and in the midst of a speculation
stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were
very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glit-
tered in their eyes and danced before them ;
but often when they thought themselves within
the reach of them, their footing failed and down
they sunk. In this confusion of objects, I
observed some with scimitars in their hands,
and others with urinals, who ran to and fro
upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on
trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their
way, and which they might have escaped had
they not been thus forced upon them.
"The Genius seeing me indulge myself on
this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt
long enough upon it. 'Take thine eyes off
the bridge,' said he, 'and tell me if thou yet
seest anything thou dost not comprehend.'
Upon looking up, 'What mean,' said I, 'those
great flights of birds that are perpetually hover
ing about the bridge, and settling upon it from
time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens,
cormorants, and among many other feathered
creatures several little winged boys, that perch
in great numbers upon the middle arches.'
'These,' said the Genius, 'are Envy, Avarice,
Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares
and passions that infest human life.'
"I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,' said I,
' Man was made in vain ! how is he given away
to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and
swallowed up in death ! ' The Genius being
moved with compassion towards me, bid me
quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no
more,' said he, 'on man in the first stage of his
existence, in his setting out for eternity; but
cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the
tide bears the several generations of mortals
that fall into it.' I directed my sight as I was
ordered, and (whether or no the good Genius
strengthened it with any supernatural force,
or dissipated part of the mist that was before
too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the
valley opening at the farther end, and spreading
forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge
rock of adamant running through the midst
of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The
clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch
that I could discover nothing in it; but the
other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with
innumerable islands, that were covered with
fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thou-
sand little shining seas that ran among them.
I could see persons dressed inglorious habits
with garlands upon their heads, passing among
the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains,
or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear
a confused harmony of singing birds, falling
waters, human voices, and musical instruments.
Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so
delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an
eagle, that I might fly away to those happy
seats; but the Genius told me there was no
passage to them except through the gates of
death that I saw opening every moment upon
the bridge. 'The islands,' said he, 'that lie
so fresh and green before thee, and with which
the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as
far as thou canst see, are more in number than
the sands on the sea-shore: there are myriads
of islands behind those which thou here dis-
coverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or
even thine imagination can extend itself.
These are the mansions of good men after
death, who, according to the degree and kinds
THE SPECTATOR
205
of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed
among these several islands, which abound with
pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suit-
able to the relishes and perfections of those
who are settled in them : every island is a para-
dise accommodated to its respective inhabit-
ants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations
worth contending for? Does life appear mis-
erable that gives thee opportunities of earning
such a reward ? Is death to be feared that will
convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think
not man was made in vain, who has such an
eternity reserved for him.' I gazed with in-
expressible pleasure on these happy islands.
At length, said I, 'Show me now, I beseech thee,
the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds
which cover the ocean on the other side of the
rock of adamant.' The Genius making me no
answer, I turned me about to address myself to
him a second time, but I found that he had left
me; I then turned again to the vision which
I had been so long contemplating; but instead
of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the
happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hol-
low valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and
camels grazing upon the sides of it."
HILPA AND SHALUM
NO. 584. MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1714
Hie gelidi f antes, hie mollia prata, Lycori,
Hie nemus, hie tola tecum consumerer aevo.
— ViRG. Eel. x. 42.
Come see what pleasures in our plains abound;
The woods, the fountains, and the flow'ry ground,
Here I could live, and love, and die, with only you.
Hilpa was one of the hundred and fifty
daughters of Zilpah, of the race of Cohu, by
whom some of the learned think is meant Cain.
She was exceedingly beautiful; and, when she
was but a girl of threescore and ten years of
age, received the addresses of several who made
love to her. Among these were two brothers,
Harpath and Shalum. Harpath, being the first-
born, was master of that fruitful region which
lies at the foot of Mount Tirzah, in the southern
parts of China. Shalum (which is to say the
planter in the Chinese language) possessed all
the neighbouring hills, and that great range of
mountains which goes under the name of Tir-
zah. Harpath was of a haughty contemptuous
spirit; Shalum was of a gentle disposition,
beloved both by God and man.
It is said, that among the antediluvian wo-
men, the daughters of Cohu had their minds
wholly set upon riches; for which reason the
beautiful Hilpa preferred Harpath to Shalum,
because of his numerous flocks and herds that
covered all the low country which runs along
the foot of Mount Tirzah, and is watered by
several fountains and streams breaking out of
the sides of that mountain.
Harpath made so quick a despatch of his
courtship, that he married Hilpa in the hun-
dredth year of her age; and, being of an in-
solent temper, laughed to scorn his brother
Shalum for having pretended to the beautiful
Hilpa, when he was master of nothing but a
long chain of rocks and mountains. This so
much provoked Shalum, that he is said to have
cursed his brother in the bitterness of his heart,
and to have prayed that one of his mountains
might fall upon his head if ever he came within
the shadow of it.
From this time forward Harpath would never
venture out of the valleys, but came to an un-
timely end in the two hundred and fiftieth
year of his age, being drowned in a river as he
attempted to cross it. This river is called to
this day, from his name who perished in it, the
river Harpath: and, what is very remarkable,
issues out of one of those mountains which
Shalum wished might fall upon his brother,
when he cursed him in the bitterness of his
heart.
Hilpa was in the hundred and sixtieth year
of her age at the death of her husband, having
brought him but fifty children before he was
snatched away, as has been already related.
Many of the antediluvians made love to the
young widow; though no one was thought so
likely to succeed in her affections as her first
lover Shalum, who renewed his court to her
about ten years after the death of Harpath;
for it was not thought decent in those days that
a widow should be seen by a man within ten
years after the decease of her husband.
Shalum falling into a deep melancholy, and
resolving to take away that objection which had
been raised against him when he made his first
addresses to Hilpa, began, immediately after
her marriage with Harpath, to plant all that
mountainous region which fell to his lot in the
division of this country. He knew how to
adapt every plant to its proper soil, and is
thought to have inherited many traditional
secrets of that art from the first man. This
employment turned at length to his profit as
well as to his amusement; his mountains were
in a few years shaded with young trees, that
gradually shot up into groves, woods, and for-
ests, intermixed with walks, and lawns, and gar-
2O6
JOSEPH ADDISON
dens; insomuch that the whole region, from
a naked and desolate prospect, began now to
look like a second Paradise. The pleasant-
ness of the place, and the agreeable disposition
of Shalum, who was reckoned one of the mildest
and wisest of all who lived before the flood,
drew into it multitudes of people, who were
perpetually employed in the sinking of wells,
the digging of trenches, and the hollowing of
trees, for the better distribution of water through
every part of this spacious plantation.
The habitations of Shalum looked every year
more beautiful in the eyes of Hilpa, who, after
the space of seventy autumns, was wonderfully
pleased with the distant prospect of Shalum's
hills, which were then covered with innumer-
able tufts of trees and gloomy scenes, that gave
a magnificence to the place, and converted it
into one of the finest landscapes the eye of
man could behold.
The Chinese record a letter which Shalum
is said to have written to Hilpa in the eleventh
year of her widowhood. I shall here translate
it, without departing from that noble simplicity
of sentiment and plainness of manners which
appears in the original.
Shalum was at this time one hundred and
eighty years old, and Hilpa one hundred and
seventy.
" SHALUM, MASTER OF MOUNT TIRZAH, TO HILPA,
MISTRESS OF THE VALLEYS
"In the 788th year of the creation.
"What have I not suffered, O thou daughter
of Zilpah, since thou gavest thyself away in mar-
riage to my rival ! I grew weary of the light
of the sun, and have been ever since covering
myself with woods and forests. These three-
score and ten years have I bewailed the loss
of thee on the top of Mount Tirzah; and soothed
my melancholy among a thousand gloomy
shades of my own raising. My dwellings are
at present as the garden of God; every part
of them is filled with fruits, and flowers, and
fountains. The whole mountain is perfumed
for thy reception. Come up into it, O my
beloved, and let us people this spot of the new
world with a beautiful race of mortals; let us
multiply exceedingly among these delightful
shades, and fill every quarter of them with
sons and daughters. Remember, O thou
daughter of Zilpah, that the age of man is but
a thousand years; that beauty is the admira-
tion but of a few centuries. It flourishes as a
mountain oak, or as a cedar on the top of Tir-
zah, which in three or four hundred years will
fade away, and never be thought of by pos-
terity, unless a young wood springs from its
roots. Think well on this, and remember thy
neighbour in the mountains."
Having here inserted this letter, which I
look upon as the only antediluvian billet-doux
now extant, I shall in my next paper give the
answer to it, and the sequel of this story.
NO. 585. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1714
Ipsi laetitia voces ad sidera jactant
Intonsi monies: ipsae jam carmina rupes,
Ipsa sonant arbusta.
— VIRG. Ed. v. 62.
The mountain tops unshorn, the rocks rejoice;
The lowly shrubs partake of human voice.
THE SEQUEL OF THE STORY OF SHALUM AND
HILPA
The letter inserted in my last had so good an
effect upon Hilpa, that she answered in less
than a twelvemonth, after the following man-
ner:
" HILPA, MISTRESS OF THE VALLEYS, TO SHALUM,
MASTER OF MOUNT TIRZAH
"In the 789111 year of the creation.
"What have I to do with thee, O Shalum?
Thou praisest Hilpa's beauty, but art thou not
secretly enamoured with the verdure of her
meadows? Art thou not more affected with
the prospect of her green valleys than thou
wouldest be with the sight of her person?
The lowings of my herds and the bleatings of
my flocks make a pleasant echo in thy moun-
tains, and sound sweetly in thy ears. What
though I am delighted with the wavings of thy
forests, and those breezes of perfumes which
flow from the top of Tirzah, are these like
the riches of the valley?
"I know thee, O Shalum; thou art more
wise and happy than any of the sons of men.
Thy dwellings are among the cedars; thou
searchest out the diversity of soils, thou under-
standest the influences of the stars, and markest
the change of seasons. Can a woman appear
lovely in the eyes of such a one? Disquiet
me not, O Shalum; let me alone, that I may
enjoy those goodly possessions which are fallen
to my lot. Win me not by thy enticing words.
May thy trees increase and multiply! mayest
thou add wood to wood, and shade to shade!
but tempt not Hilpa to destroy thy solitude,
and make thy retirement populous."
The Chinese say that a little time afterwards
SIR RICHARD STEELE
207
she accepted of a treat in one of the neighbour-
ing hills to which Shalum had invited her.
This treat lasted for two years, and is said to
have cost Shalum five hundred antelopes, two
thousand ostriches, and a thousand tun of
milk; but what most of all recommended it,
was that variety of delicious fruits and pot-
herbs, in which no person then living could
any way equal Shalum.
He treated her in the bower which he had
planted amidst the wood of nightingales. The
wood was made up of such fruit-trees and plants
as are most agreeable to the several kinds of
singing-birds; so that it had drawn into it all
the music of the country, and was filled from
one end of the year to the other with the most
agreeable concert in season.
He showed her every day some beautiful
and surprising scene in this new region of wood-
lands; and, as by this means he had all the
opportunities he could wish for, of opening
his mind to her, he succeeded so well, that upon
her departure she made him a kind of promise,
and gave him her word to return him a positive
answer in less than fifty years.
She had not been long among her own people
in the valleys, when she received new over-
tures, and at the same time a most splendid
visit from Mishpach, who was a mighty man
of old, and had built a great city, which he
called after his own name. Every house was
made for at least a thousand years, nay, there
were some that were leased out for three lives;
so. that the quantity of stone and timber con-
sumed in this building is scarce to be imagined
by those who live in the present age of the
world. This great man entertained her with
the voice of musical instruments which had
been lately invented, and danced before her
to the sound of the timbrel. He also presented
her with several domestic utensils wrought in
brass and iron, which had been newly found
out for the conveniency of life. In the mean-
time Shalum grew very uneasy with himself,
and was sorely displeased at Hilpa for the re-
- ception which she had given to Mishpach, in-
somuch that he never wrote to her or spoke
of her during a whole revolution of Saturn;
but, finding that this intercourse went no farther
than a visit, he again renewed his addresses to
her; who, during his long silence, is said very
often to have cast a wishing eye upon Mount
Tirzah. .
Her mind continued wavering about twenty
years longer between Shalum and Mishpach;
for though her inclinations favoured the
former, her interest pleaded very powerfully
for the other. While her heart was in this
unsettled condition, the following accident
happened, which determined .her choice. A
high tower of wood that stood in the city of
Mishpach having caught fire by a flash of
lightning, in a few days reduced the whole
town to ashes. Mishpach resolved to rebuild
the place, whatever it should cost him: and,
having already destroyed all the timber of
the country, he was forced to have recourse to
Shalum, whose forests were now two hundred
years old. He purchased these woods with so
many herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, and
with such a vast extent of fields and pastures,
that Shalum was now grown more wealthy
than Mishpach; and therefore appeared so
charming in the eyes of Zilpah's daughter,
that she no longer refused him in marriage.
On the day in which he brought her up into the
mountains he raised a most prodigious pile of
cedar, and of every sweet smelling wood, which
reached above three hundred cubits in height;
he also cast into the pile bundles of myrrh
and sheaves of spikenard, enriching it with
every spicy shrub, and making it fat with the
gums of his plantations. This was the burnt-
offering which Shalum offered in the day of
his espousals: the smoke of it ascended up to
heaven, and filled the whole country with in-
cense and perfume.
SIR RICHA.RD_STEELE 11672-1720)
THE TATLER
NO. 82. OCTOBER 18, 1709
Ubi idem et maximus et honestissimus amor est,
aliquando praestat morte jungi, quam -vita distrahi.1
— VAL. MAX.
After the mind has been employed on con-
templations suitable to its greatness, it is un-
natural to run into sudden mirth or levity;
but we must let the soul subside, as it rose,
by proper degrees. My late considerations of
the ancient heroes impressed a certain gravity
upon my mind, which is much above the little
gratification received from starts of humour
and fancy, and threw me into a pleasing sad-
ness. In this state of thought I have been
looking at the fire, and in a pensive manner
reflecting upon the great misfortunes and
calamities incident to human life ; among which
1 Where there is at once the greatest and most
honourable love, it is sometimes better to be joined by
death than separated by life.
208
SIR RICHARD STEELE
there are none that touch so sensibly as those
which befall persons who eminently love, and
meet with fatal interruptions of their happiness
when they least expect it. The piety of chil-
dren to parents, and the affection of parents to
their children, are the effects of instinct; but
the affection between lovers and friends is
founded on reason and choice, which has
always made me think the sorrows of the latter
much more to be pitied than those of the former.
The contemplation of distresses of this sort
softens the mind of man, and makes the heart
better. It extinguishes the seeds of envy and
ill will towards mankind, corrects the pride of
prosperity, and beats down all that fierceness
and insolence which are apt to get into the
minds of the daring and fortunate.
For this reason the wise Athenians, in their
theatrical performances, laid before the eyes
of the people the greatest afflictions which
could befall human life, and insensibly polished
their tempers by such representations. Among
the moderns, indeed, there has arisen a chi-
merical method of disposing the fortune of the
persons represented, according to what they
call poetical justice; and letting none be
unhappy but those who deserve it. In such
cases, an intelligent spectator, if he is concerned,
knows he ought not to be so; and can learn
nothing from such a tenderness, but that he is
a weak creature, whose passions cannot follow
the dictates of his understanding. It is very
natural, when one is got into such a way of
thinking, to recollect those examples of sorrow
which have made the strongest impression upon
our imaginations. An instance or two of such
you will give me leave to communicate.
A young gentleman and lady of ancient and
honourable houses in Cornwall had, from their
childhood, entertained for each other a gener-
ous and noble passion, which had been long
opposed by their friends, by reason of the in-
equality of their fortunes; but their constancy
to each other, and obedience to those on whom
they depended, wrought so much upon their
relations, that these celebrated lovers were
at length joined in marriage. Soon after their
nuptials, the bridegroom was obliged to go
into a foreign country, to take care of a con-
siderable fortune, which was left him by a
relation, and came very opportunely to improve
their moderate circumstances. They received
the congratulations of all the country on this
occasion; and I remember it was a common
sentence in every one's mouth, "You see how
faithful love is rewarded."
He took this agreeable voyage, and sent home
every post fresh accounts of his success in his
affairs abroad; but at last, though he designed
to return with the next ship, he lamented, in
his letters, that "business would detain him
some time longer from home," because he would
give himself the pleasure of an unexpected arrival.
The young lady, after the heat of the day,
walked every evening on the sea-shore, near
which she lived, with a familiar friend, her
husband's kinswoman; and diverted herself
with what objects they met there, or upon dis-
courses of the future methods of life, in the
happy change of their circumstances. They
stood one evening on the shore together in a
perfect tranquillity, observing the setting of the
sun, the calm face of the deep, and the silent
heaving of the waves, which gently rolled towards
them, and broke at their feet; when at a dis-
tance her kinswoman saw something float on
the waters, which she fancied was a chest;
and with a smile told her, "she saw it first,
and if it came ashore full of jewels, she had a
right to it." They both fixed their eyes upon
it, and entertained themselves with the subject
of the wreck, the cousin still asserting her
right; but promising, "if it was a prize, to
give her a very rich coral for the child of
which she was then big, provided she might
be godmother." Their mirth soon abated,
when they observed, upon the nearer ap-
proach, that it was a human body. The young
lady, who had a heart naturally filled with
pity and compassion, made many melancholy
reflections on the occasion. "Who knows," said
she, "but this man may be the only hope and
heir of a wealthy house; the darling of indulgent
parents, who are now in impertinent mirth,
and pleasing themselves with the thoughts of
offering him a bride they have got ready for
him ? or, may he not be the master of a family
that wholly depended upon his life? There
may, for aught we know, be half a dozen father-
less children, and a tender wife, now exposed
to poverty by his death. What pleasure might
he have promised himself in the different wel-
come he was to have from her .and them!
But let us go away; it is a dreadful sight!
The best office we can do, is to take care that
the poor man, whoever he is, may be decently
buried." She turned away, when a wave threw
the carcass on the shore. The kinswoman
immediately shrieked out, "Oh my cousin!"
and fell upon the ground. The unhappy wife
went to help her friend, when she saw her
own husband at her feet, and dropped in a
THE TATLER
209
swoon upon the body. An old woman, who
had been the gentleman's nurse, came out about
this time to call the ladies in to supper, and
found her child, as she always called him, dead
on the shore, her mistress and kinswoman
both lying dead by him. Her loud lamentations,
and calling her young master to life, soon awaked
the friend from her trance; but the wife was
gone for ever.
When the family and neighbourhood got to-
gether round the bodies, no one asked any ques-
tion, but the objects before them told the story.
Incidents of this nature are the more moving
when they are drawn by persons concerned in
the catastrophe, notwithstanding they are often
oppressed beyond the power of giving them in
a distinct light, except we gather their sorrow
from their inability to speak it.
I have two original letters, written both on
the same day, which are to me exquisite in
their different kinds. The occasion was this:
A gentlemen who had courted a most agreeable
young woman, and won her heart, obtained
also the consent of her father, to whom she was
an only child. The old man had a fancy that
they should be married in the same church
where he himself was, in a village in West-
moreland, and made them set out while he was
laid up with the gout at London. The bride-
groom took only his man, the bride her maid:
they had the most agreeable journey imagi-
nable to the place of marriage; from whence
the bridegroom writ the following letter to
his wife's father.
« c "March 18, 1672.
"After a very pleasant journey hither,
we are preparing for the happy hour in which
I am to be your son. I assure you the bride
carries it, in the eye of the vicar who married
you, much beyond her mother; though he
says, your open sleeves, pantaloons, and
shoulder-knot, made a much better show than
the finical dress I am in. However, I am con-
tented to be the second fine man this village
ever saw, and shall make it very merry before
night, because I shall write myself from thence,
"Your most dutiful son,
"T. D."
"The bride gives her duty, and is as hand-
some as an angel. ... I am the happiest
man breathing."
The villagers were assembling about the
church, and the happy couple took a walk in a
private garden. The bridegroom's man knew
his master would leave the place on a sudden
after the wedding, and, seeing him draw his
pistols the night before, took this opportunity
to go into his chamber and charge them.
Upon their return from the garden, they went
into that room; and, after a little fond raillery
on the subject of their courtship, the lover
took up a pistol, which he knew he had unloaded
the night before, and, presenting it to her, said,
with the most graceful air, whilst she looked
pleased at his agreeable flattery; "Now,
madam, repent of all those cruelties you have
been guilty of to me ; consider, before you die,
how often you have made a poor wretch
freeze under your casement; you shall die,
you tyrant, you shall die, with all those instru-
ments of death and destruction about you, with
that enchanting smile, those killing ringlets
of your hair " — "Give fire ! " said she, laughing.
He did so ; and shot her dead. Who can speak
his condition ? but he bore it so patiently as to
call up his man. The poor wretch entered,
and his master locked the door upon him.
"Will," said he, "did you charge these pistols?"
He answered, "Yes." Upon which he shot
him dead with that remaining. After this,
amidst a thousand broken sobs, piercing groans,
and distracted motions, he writ the following
letter to the father of his dead mistress.
"SIR,
"I, who two hours ago told you truly
I was the happiest man alive, am now the most
miserable. Your daughter lies dead at my
feet, killed by my hand, through a mistake of
my man's charging my pistols unknown to me.
Him have I murdered for it. Such is my
wedding day. ... I will immediately follow my
wife to her grave; but, before I throw myself
upon my sword, I command my distraction so
far as to explain my story to you. I fear my
heart will not keep together until I have stabbed
it. Poor, good old man ! . . . Remember, he
that killed your daughter died for it. In the
article of death, I give you my thanks, and pray
for you, though I dare not for myself. If it
be possible, do not curse me."
NO. 95. NOVEMBER 17, 1709
Inter ea dulces pendent circum oscula nati,
Casio, pudicitiam servat domus.1
— VIR.G. Georg. ii. 523.
There are several persons who have many
pleasures and entertainments in their posses-
1 Meanwhile his sweet children hang upon his
kisses and his chaste home is the abode of virtue.
2IO
SIR RICHARD STEELE
sion, which they do not enjoy. It is, therefore,
a kind and good office to acquaint them with
their own happiness, and turn their attention
to such instances of their good fortune as they
are apt to overlook. Persons in the married
state often want such a monitor; and pine
away their days, by looking upon the same
condition in anguish and murmur, which car-
ries with it in the opinion of others a complica-
tion of all the pleasures of life, and a retreat
from its inquietudes.
I am led into this thought by a visit I made an
old friend, who was formerly my school-fellow.
He came to town last week with his family
for the winter, and yesterday morning sent me
word his wife expected me to dinner. I am,
as it were, at home at that house, and every
member of it knows me for their well-wisher.
I cannot indeed express the pleasure it is, to
be met by the children with so much joy as
I am when I go thither. The boys and girls
strive who shall come first, when they think it
is I that am knocking at the door; and that
child which loses the race to me runs back
c again to tell the father it is Mr. Bick,erstaff.
! ' This day I was led in by a pretty girl, -that we
i all thought must have forgot me; for the
family has been out of town these two years.
Her knowing me again was a mighty subject
with us, and took up our discourse at the first
entrance. After which, they began to rally
me upon a thousand little stories they heard
in the country, about my marriage to one of
my neighbour's daughters. Upon which the
gentleman, my friend, said, "Nay, if Mr.
Bickerstaff marries a child of any of his old
companions, I hope mine shall have the pref-
erence; there is Mrs. Mary is now sixteen,
and would make him as fine a widow as the
best of them. But I know him too well; he is
so enamoured with the very memory of those
who flourished in our youth, that he will not
so much as look upon the modern beauties.
I remember, old gentleman, how often you
went home in a day to refresh your countenance
and dress when Teraminta reigned in your
heart. As we came up in the coach, I repeated
to my wife some of your verses on her." With
such reflections on little passages which hap-
pened long ago, we passed our time, during a
cheerful and elegant meal. After dinner, his
lady left the room, as did also the children.
As soon as we were alone, he took me by the
hand; "Well, my good friend," says he, "I
am heartily glad to see thee; I was afraid you
would never have seen all the company that
dined with you to-day again. Do not you
think the good woman of the house a little
altered since you followed her from the play-
house, to find out who she was, for me?"
I perceived a tear fall down his cheek as he
spoke, which moved me not a little. But, to
turn the discourse, I said, "She is not indeed
quite that creature she was, when she returned
me the letter I carried from you; and told me,
'she hoped, as I was a gentleman, I would be
employed no more to trouble her, who had
never offended me; but would be so much the
gentleman's friend, as to dissuade him from
a pursuit, which he could never succeed in.'
You may remember, I thought her in earnest;
and you were forced to employ your cousin
Will, who made his sister get acquainted with
her, for you. You cannot expect her to be for
ever fifteen." "Fifteen!" replied my good
friend: "Ah! you little understand, you that
have lived a bachelor, how great, how exquisite
a pleasure there is, in being really beloved!
It is impossible, that the most beauteous face
in nature should raise in me such pleasing ideas,
as when I look upon that excellent woman.
That fading in her countenance is chiefly caused
by her watching with me, in my fever. This
was followed by a fit of sickness, which had like
to have carried her off last winter. I tell you
sincerely, I have so -many obligations to her,
that I cannot, with any sort of moderation,
think of her present state of health. But as to
what you say of fifteen, she gives me every day
pleasures beyond what I ever' knew in the
possession of her beauty, when I was in the
vigour of youth. Every moment of her life
brings me fresh instances of her complacency
to my inclinations, and her prudence in regard
to my fortune. Her face is to me much more
beautiful than when I first saw it; there is no
decay in any feature, which I cannot trace,
from the very instant it was occasioned by some
anxious concern for my welfare and interests.
Thus, at the same time, methinks, the love I
conceived towards her for what she was, is
heightened by my gratitude for what she is.
The love of a wife is as much above the idle
passion commonly called by that name, as the
loud laughter of buffoons is inferior to the ele-
gant mirth of gentlemen. Oh ! she is an
inestimable jewel. In her examination of her
household affairs, she shows a certain fearful-
ness to find a fault, which makes her servants
obey her like children ; and the meanest we have
has an ingenuous shame for an offence, not
always to be seen in children in other families.
THE TATLER
211
1 speak freely to you, my old friend ; ever since
her sickness, things that gave me the quickest
joy before, turn now to a certain anxiety.
As the children play in the next room, I know
the poor things by their steps, and am consider-
ing what they must do, should they lose their
mother in their tender years. The pleasure I
used to take in telling my boy stories of battles,
and asking my girl questions about the dis-
posal of her baby, and the gossiping of it, is
turned into inward reflection and melancholy."
He would have gone on in this tender way,
when the good lady entered, and with an in-
expressible sweetness in her countenance told
us, "she had been searching her closet for
something very good, to treat such an old friend
as I was." Her husband's eyes sparkled with
pleasure at the cheerfulness of her counte-
nance; and I saw all his fears vanish in an
instant. The lady observing something in our
looks which showed we had been more serious
than ordinary, and seeing her husband receive
her with great concern under a forced cheer-
fulness, immediately guessed at what we had
been talking of; and applying herself to me,
said, with a smile, "Mr. Bickerstaff, do not
believe a word of what he tells you, I shall
still live to have you for my second, as I have
often promised you, unless he takes more care
of himself than he has done since his coming to
town. You must know, he tells me that he
finds London is a much more healthy place
than the country ; for he sees several of his old
acquaintance and school-fellows are here young
fellows with fair full-bottomed periwigs.1 I
could scarce keep him in this morning from
going out open-breasted."2 My friend, who is
always extremely delighted with her agreeable
humour, made her sit down with us. She did
it with that easiness which is peculiar to women
of sense ; and to keep up the good humour she
had brought in with her, turned her raillery
upon me. "Mr. Bickerstaff, you remember
you followed me one night from the play-house;
suppose you should carry me thither to-morrow
night, and lead me into the front box." This
put us into a long field of discourse about the
beauties, who were mothers to the present, and
shined in the boxes twenty years ago. I told
her, "I was glad she had transferred so many
of her charms, and I did not question but her
eldest daughter was within half-a-year of being
a toast."
1 Such as only young men wore. 2 With his
coat unbuttoned, like a young gallant.
We were pleasing ourselves with this fan-
tastical preferment of the young lady, when on
a sudden we were alarmed with the noise of a
drum, and immediately entered my little god-
son to give me a point of war. His mother,
between laughing and chiding, would have put
him out of the room ; but I would not part with
him so. I found, upon conversation with him,
though he was a little noisy in his mirth, that
the child had excellent parts, and was a great
master of all the learning on the other side
eight years old. I perceived him a very great
historian in ^Esop's Fables: but he frankly
declared to me his mind, "that he did not de-
light in that learning, because he did not believe
they were true;" for which reason I found he
had very much turned his studies, for about a
twelvemonth past, into the lives and adventures
of Don Belianis of Greece, Guy of Warwick,
the Seven Champions,1 and other historians of
that age. I could not but observe the satis-
faction the father took in the forwardness of
his son; and that these diversions might turn
to some profit, I found the boy had made re-
marks, which might be of service to him dur-
ing the course of his whole life. He would
tell you the mismanagements of John Hicker-
thrift, find fault with the passionate temper in
Bevis of Southampton, and loved St. George l
for being the champion of England; and by
this means had his thoughts insensibly moulded
into the notions of discretion, virtue, and
honour. I was extolling his accomplishments,
when the mother told me, that the little girl
who led me in this morning was in her way a
better scholar than he. "Betty," said she,
"deals chiefly in fairies and sprights; and
sometimes in a winter-night will terrify the
maids with her accounts, until they are afraid
to go up to bed."
I sat with them until it was very late, some-
times in merry, sometimes in serious discourse,
with this particular pleasure, which gives the
only true relish to all conversation, a sense
that every one of us liked each other. I went
home, considering the different conditions of a
married life and that of a bachelor; and I must
confess it struck me with a secret concern, to
reflect, that whenever I go off I shall leave no
traces behind me. In this pensive mood I
returned to my family; that is to say, to my
maid, my dog, and my cat, who only can be
the better or worse for what happens to me.
1 These heroes of the earlier romances had become
in the eighteenth century the subjects of chap-books
for children and the common people.
212
SIR RICHARD STEELE
THE TATLER
NO. 167. MAY 4, 1710
Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures,
Quam quae sunt oculis submissa fidelibus.1 — HOR.
From my own Apartment, May 2.
Having received notice, that the famous actor,
Mr. Betterton, was to be interred this evening
in the cloisters near Westminster Abbey, I
was resolved to walk thither, and see the last
office done to a man whom I had always very
much admired, and from whose action I had
received more strong impressions of what is
great and noble in human nature, than from the
arguments of the most solid philosophers, or
the descriptions of the most charming poets I
had ever read. As the rude and untaught
multitude are no way wrought upon more
effectually than by seeing public punishments
and executions; so men of letters and education
feel their humanity most forcibly exercised,
when they attend the obsequies of men who
had arrived at any perfection in liberal accom-
plishments. Theatrical action is to be esteemed
as such, except it be objected, that we. cannot
call that an art which cannot be attained by
art. Voice, stature, motion, and other gifts,
must be very bountifully bestowed by nature,
or labour and industry will but push the un-
happy endeavour in that way, the farther off
his wishes.
Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be
recorded with the same respect as Roscius
among the Romans. The greatest orator has
thought fit to quote his judgment, and cele-
brate his life. Roscius was the example to all
that would form themselves into proper and
winning behaviour. His action was so well
adapted to the sentiments he expressed, that
the youth of Rome thought they only wanted
to be virtuous to be as graceful in their appear-
ance as Roscius. The imagination took a
lovely impression of what was great and good ;
and they who never thought of setting up for
the art of imitation, became themselves in-
imitable characters.
There is no human invention so aptly
calculated for the forming a free-born people
as that of a theatre. Tully reports, that the
celebrated player of whom I am speaking, used
frequently to say, "The perfection of an actor
is only to become what he is doing." Young
1 Things told move us less than those seen by our
own faithful eyes.
men, who are too inattentive to receive lectures,
are irresistibly taken with performances. Hence
it is, that I extremely lament the little relish
the gentry of this nation have at present for the
just and noble representations in some of our
tragedies. The operas, which are of late in-
troduced, can leave no trace behind them that
can be of service beyond the present moment.
To sing and to dance, are accomplishments very
few have any thoughts of practising; but to
speak justly, and move gracefully, is what every
man thinks he does perform, or wishes he did.
I have hardly a notion, that any performer
of antiquity could surpass the action of Mr. Bet-
terton in any of the occasions in which he has
appeared on our stage. The wonderful agony
which he appeared in, when he examined the
circumstance of the handkerchief in Othello;
the mixture of love that intruded upon his
mind, upon the innocent answers Desdemona
makes, betrayed in his gesture such a variety
and vicissitude of passions, as would admon-
ish a man to be afraid of his own heart, and
perfectly convince him, that it is to stab it, to
admit that worst of daggers, jealousy. Who-
ever reads in his closet this admirable scene,
will find that he cannot, except he has as warm
an imagination as Shakespeare himself, find
any but dry, incoherent, and broken sentences:
but a reader that has seen Betterton act it,
observes there could not be a word added;
that longer speeches had been unnatural, nay,
impossible, in Othello's circumstances. The
charming passage in the same tragedy, where he
tells the manner of winning the affection of his
mistress, was urged with so moving and grace-
ful an energy, that while I walked in the Clois-
ters, I thought of him with the same concern as
if I waited for the remains of a person who
had in real life done all that I had seen him
represent. The gloom of the place, and faint
lights before the ceremony appeared, contributed
to the melancholy disposition I was in; and I
began to be extremely afflicted, that Brutus and
Cassius had any difference; that Hotspur's
gallantry was so unfortunate; and that the
mirth and good humour of Falstaff could not
exempt him from the grave. Nay, this occasion
in me, who look upon the distinctions amongst
men to be merely scenical, raised reflections
upon the emptiness of all human perfection
and greatness in general; and I could not but
regret, that the sacred heads which lie buried
in the neighbourhood of this little portion of
earth in which my poor old friend is deposited,
are returned to dust as well as he, and that there
THE TATLER
213
is no difference in the grave between the
imaginary and the real monarch. This made
me say of human life itself with Macbeth:
To-morrow, to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in a stealing pace from day to day,
To the last moment of recorded time !
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
To the eternal night ! Out, out, short candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
-„ And then is heard no more.
The mention I have here made of Mr. Better-
ton, for whom I had, as long as I have known
anything, a very great esteem and gratitude
for the pleasure he gave me, can do him no
good; but it may possibly be of service to the
unhappy woman he has left behind him, to
have it known, that this great tragedian was
never in a scene half so moving, as the cir-
cumstances of his affairs created at his de-
parture. His wife after the cohabitation of
forty years in the strictest amity, has long
pined away with a sense of his decay, as well
in his person as his little fortune; and, in
proportion to that, she has herself decayed
both in her health and reason. Her husband's
death, added to her age and infirmities, would
certainly have determined her life, but that
the greatness of her distress has been her
relief, by a present deprivation of her senses.
This absence of reason is her best defence
against sorrow, poverty, and sickness. I dwell
upon this account so distinctly, in obedience to
a certain great spirit, who hides her name, and
has by letter applied to me to recommend to
her some object of compassion, from whom
she may be concealed.
This, I think, is a proper occasion for exert-
ing such heroic generosity; and as there is an
ingenuous shame in those who have known
better fortune to be reduced to receive obliga-
tions, as well as a becoming pain in the truly
generous to receive thanks; in this case both
these delicacies are preserved; for the person
obliged is as incapable of knowing her bene-
factress, as her benefactress is unwilling to be
known by her.
THE TATLER
NO. 264. DECEMBER 16, 1710
Favete linguis.1 — HOR. Od. iii. 2. 2.
Boccalini, in his "Parnassus," indicts a la-
conic writer for speaking that in three words
1 Spare speech.
which he might have said in two, and sen-
tences him for his punishment to read over all
the words of Guicciardini. This Guicciardini
is so very ptrpHx and circumstantial in his
writings, thatT remember our countryman,
Doctor Donne, speaking of that majestic and
concise manner in which Moses has described
the creation of the world, adds, "that if such
an author as Guicciardini were to have written
on such a subject, the world itself would not
have been able to have contained the books
that gave the history of its creation."
I look upon a tedious talker, or what is
generally known by the name of a story-teller,
to be much more insufferable than even a
prolix writer. An author may be tossed out
of your hand, and thrown aside when he grows
dull and tiresome; but such liberties are so
far from being allowed towards your orators
in common conversation, that I have known
a challenge sent a person for going out of the
room abruptly, and leaving a man of honour
in the midst of a dissertation. This evil is at
present so very common and epidemical, that
there is scarce a coffee-house in town that has
not some speakers belonging to it, who utter
their political essays, and draw parallels out
of Baker's "Chronicle" to almost every part
of her majesty's reign. It was said of two
ancient authors, who had very different beauties
in their style, "that if you took a word from
one of them, you only spoiled his eloquence;
but if you took a word from the other, you
spoiled his sense." I have often applied the
first part of this criticism to several of these
coffee-house speakers whom I have at present
in my thoughts, though the character that is
given to the last of those authors, is what I
would recommend to the imitation of my
loving countrymen. But it is not only public
places of resort, but private clubs and con-
versations over a bottle, that are infested with
this loquacious kind of animal, especially with
that species which I comprehend under the
name of a story-teller. I would earnestly
desire these gentlemen to consider, that no
point of wit or mirth at the end of a story can
atone for the half hour that has been lost
before they come at it. I would likewise lay
it home to their serious consideration, whether
they think that every man in the company has
not a right to speak as well as themselves? and
whether they do not think they are invading
another man's property, when they engross the
time which should be divided equally among
the company to their own private use ?
214
SIR RICHARD STEELE
What makes this evil the much greater in
conversation is, that these humdrum com-
panions seldom endeavour to wind up their
narrations into a point of mirth or instruction,
which might make some amends for the
tediousness of them; but think they have a
right to tell anything that has happened within
their memory. They look upon matter of
fact to be a sufficient foundation for a story,
and give us a long account of things, not be-
cause they are entertaining or surprising, but
because they are true.
My ingenious kinsman, Mr. Humphry
Wagstaff, used to say, "the life of man is too
short for.. a story-teller."
""Methusalem might be half an hour in tell-
ing what o'clock it was: but as for us post-
diluvians, we ought to do everything in haste;
and in our speeches, as well as actions, remem-
ber that our time is short. A man that talks
for a quarter of an hour together in company,
if I meet him frequently, takes up a great part
of my span. A quarter of an hour may be
reckoned the eight-and-fortieth part of a day,
a day the three hundred and sixtieth part of a
year, and a year the threescore and tenth part
of life. By this moral arithmetic, supposing a
man to be in the talking world one third part
of the day, whoever gives another a quarter of
an hour's hearing, makes him a sacrifice of
more than the four hundred thousandth part
of his conversable life.
I would establish but one great general rule
to be observed in all conversation, which is
this, " that, men should not talk to please
them selvesTbut tfiose thai hear them." U'his
would" make1 Ilium- ColisiJeT, wltelher what
they speak be worth hearing; whether there
be either wit or sense in what they are about
to say; and, whether it be adapted to the
time when, the place where, and the person to
whom, it is spoken.
^ For the utter extirpation of these orators
and story-tellers, which I look upon as very
great pests of society, I have invented a watch
which divides the minute into twelve parts,
after the same manner that the ordinary
watches are divided into hours: and will en-
deavour to get a patent, which shall oblige
every club or company to provide themselves
with one of these watches, that shall lie upon
the table as an hour-glass is often placed near
the pulpit, to measure out the length of a
discourse.
I shall be willing to allow a man one round
of my watch, that is, a whole minute, to speak
in; but if he exceeds that time, it shall be
lawful for any of the company to look upon
the watch, or to call him down to order.
Provided, however, that if any one can
make it appear he is turned of threescore, he
may take two, or, if he pleases, three rounds
of the watch without giving offence. Pro-
vided, also, that this rule be not construed to
extend to the fair sex, who shall still be at
liberty to talk by the ordinary watch that is
now in use. I would likewise earnestly recom-
mend this little automaton, which may be
easily carried in the pocket without any in-
cumbrance, to all such as are troubled with
this infirmity of speech, that upon pulling out
their watches, they may have frequent occa-
sion to consider what they are doing, and by
that means cut the thread of the story short,
and hurry to a conclusion. I shall only add,
that this watch, with a paper of directions
how to use it, is sold at Charles Lillie's.
I am afraid a Tatler will be thought a very
improper paper to censure this humour of
being talkative; but I would have my readers
know that there is a great difference between
tattle and loquacity, as I shall show at large in a
following lucubration; it being my design to
throw away a candle upon that subject, in
order to explain the whole art of tattling in
all its branches and subdivisions.
THE SPECTATOR
NO. ii. MARCH 13, 171-1
Dot veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas.1
— Tuv. Sat. ii. 63.
4t(*j
Arietta is visited by all persons of both
sexes, who have any pretence to wit and
gallantry. She is in that time of life which is
neither affected with the follies of youth, nor
infirmities of age; and her conversation is so
mixed with gaiety and prudence, that she is
agreeable both to the young and the old.
Her behaviour is very frank, without being in
the least blameable: and as she is out of the
track of any amorous or ambitious pursuits
of her own, her visitants entertain her with
accounts of themselves very freely, whether
they concern their passions or their interests.
I made her a visit this afternoon, having been
formerly introduced to the honour of her
acquaintance by my friend Will Honeycomb,
who has prevailed upon her to admit me
1 Censure spares the crows and attacks the doves.
THE SPECTATOR
215
sometimes into her assembly, as a civil in-
offensive man. I found her accompanied with
one person only, a common-place talker, who,
upon my entrance, arose, and after a very
slight civility sat down again; then, turning to
Arietta, pursued his discourse, which I found
was upon the old topic of constancy in love.
He went on with great facility in repeating
what he talks every day of his life; and with
the ornaments of insignificant laughs and
gestures, enforced his arguments by quotations
out of plays and songs, which allude to the
perjuries of the fair, and the general levity of
women. Methought he strove to shine more
than ordinarily in his talkative way, that he
might insult my silence, and distinguish him-
self before a woman of Arietta's taste and
understanding. She had often an inclination
to interrupt him, but could find no oppor-
tunity, till the larum ceased of itself, which it
did not till he had repeated and murdered the
celebrated story of the Ephesian Matron.
Arietta seemed to regard this piece of
raillery as an outrage done to her sex ; as in-
deed I have always observed that women,
whether out of a nicer regard to their honour,
or what other reason I cannot tell, are more
sensibly touched with those general aspersions
which are cast upon their sex, than men are
by what is said of theirs.
When she had a little recovered herself from
the serious anger she was in, she replied in the
following manner:
"Sir, when I consider how perfectly new all
/you have said on this subject is, and that the
\story you have given us is not quite two thou-
•sand years old, I cannot but think it a piece
of presumption to dispute it with you; but
your quotations put me in mind of the fable
of the lion and the man. The man walking
with that noble animal, showed him, in the
ostentation of human superiority, a sign of a
man killing a lion. Upon which, the lion said
very justly, 'We lions are none of us painters,
else we could show a hundred men killed by
lions for one lion killed by a man.' You men
are writers, and can represent us women as
unbecoming as you please in your works,
while we are unable to return the injury. You
have twice or thrice observed in your dis-
course, that hypocrisy is the very foundation
of our education ; and that an ability to dis-
semble our affections is a professed part of
our breeding. These and such other reflec-
tions are sprinkled up and down the writings
of all ages, by authors, who leave behind them
memorials of their resentment against the
scorn of particular women, in invectives against
the whole sex. Such a writer, I doubt not,
was the celebrated Petronius, who invented the
pleasant aggravations of the frailty of the
Ephesian lady; but when we consider this
question between the sexes, which has been
either a point of dispute or raillery ever since
there were men and women, let us take facts
from plain people, and from such as have not
either ambition or capacity to embellish their
narrations with any beauties of imagination.
I was the other day amusing myself with
Ligon's Account of Barbadoes; and, in answer
to your well-wrought tale, I will give you, (as
it dwells upon my memory) out of that honest
traveller, in his fifty-fifth page, the history of
Inkle and Yarico.
'"Mr. Thomas Inkle, of London, aged
twenty years, embarked in the Downs, on the
good ship called the Achilles, bound for the
West Indies, on the i6th of June, 1647, in
order to improve his fortune by trade and
merchandise. Our adventurer was the third
son of an eminent citizen, who had taken
particular care to instil into his mind an early
love of gain, by making him a perfect master
of numbers, and consequently giving him a
quick view of loss and advantage, and pre-
venting the natural impulses of his passions,
by prepossession towards his interests. With
a mind thus turned, young Inkle had a per-
son every way agreeable, a ruddy vigour in his
countenance, strength in his limbs, with ring-
lets of fair hair loosely flowing on his shoulders.
It happened, in the course of the voyage, that
the Achilles, in some distress, put into a creek
on the main of America, in search of pro-
visions. The youth, who is the hero of my
story, among others went on shore on this
occasion. From their first landing they were
observed by a party of Indians, who hid them-
selves in the woods for that purpose. The
English unadvisedly marched a great distance
from the shore into the country, and were in-
tercepted by the natives, who slew the greatest
number of them. Our adventurer escaped
among others, by flying into a forest. Upon
his coming into a remote and pathless part of
the wood, he threw himself, tired and breath-
less, on a little hillock, when an Indian maid
rushed from a thicket behind him. After the
first surprise they appeared mutually agree-
able to each other. If the European was
highly charmed with the limbs, features, and
wild graces of the naked American ; the Ameri-
2l6
GEORGE BERKELEY
can was no less taken with the dress, com-
plexion, and shape of an European, covered
from head to foot. The Indian grew im-
mediately enamoured of him, and consequently
solicitous for his preservation. She therefore
conveyed him to a cave, where she gave him
a delicious repast of fruits, and led him to a
stream to slake his thirst. In the midst of
these good offices, she would sometimes play
with his hair, and delight in the opposition of
its colour to that of her fingers: then open his
bosom, then 'laugh at him for covering it.
She was, it seems, a person of distinction,
for she every day came to him in a different
dress, of the most beautiful shells, bugles, and .
bredes. She likewise brought him a great
many spoils, which her other lovers had pre-
sented to her, so that his cave was richly
adorned with all the spotted skins of beasts,
and most party-coloured feathers of fowls,
which that world afforded. To make his
confinement more tolerable, she would carry
him in the dusk of the evening, or by the
favour of moonlight, to unfrequented groves
and solitudes, and show him where to lie down
in safety, and sleep amidst the falls of waters
and melody of nightingales. Her part was to
watch and hold him awake in her arms, for
fear of her countrymen, and wake him on
occasions to consult his safety. In this man-
ner did the lovers pass away their time, till
they had learned a language of their own, in
which the voyager communicated to his mis-
tress how happy he should be to have her in
his country, where she should be clothed in
such silks as his waistcoat was made of, and
be carried in houses drawn by horses, without
being exposed to wind or weather. All this
he promised her the enjoyment of, without
such fears and alarms as they were there tor-
mented with. In this tender correspondence
these lovers lived for several months, when
Yarico, instructed by her lover, discovered a
vessel on the coast, to which she made signals;
and in the night, with the utmost joy and
satisfaction, accompanied him to a ship's crew
of his countrymen bound to Barbadoes. When
a vessel from the main arrives in that island, it
seems the planters come down to the shore,
where there is an immediate market of the
Indians and other slaves, as with us of horses
and oxen.
'"To be short, Mr. Thomas Inkle, now
coming into English territories, began seriously
to reflect upon his loss of time, and to weigh
with himself how many days' interest of his
money he had lost during his stay with Yarico.
This thought made the young man very pen-
sive, and careful what account he should be
able to give his friends of his voyage. Upon
which consideration, the prudent and frugal
young man sold Yarico to a Barbadian mer-
chant; notwithstanding that the poor girl, to
incline him to commiserate her condition, told
him that she was with child by him: but he
only made use of that information, to rise in
his demands upon the purchaser.'"
I was so touched with this story (which I
think should be always a counterpart to the
Ephesian Matron) that I left the room with
tears in my eyes, which a woman of Arietta's
good sense did, I am sure, take for greater
applause than any compliments I could make
her.
GEORGE BERKELEY (1685-1753)
FROM A PROPOSAL FOR A COLLEGE
TO BE ERECTED IN THE SUM-
MER ISLANDS1
Although there are several excellent persons
of the Church of England, whose good inten-
tions and endeavours have not been wanting
to propagate the Gospel in foreign parts, who
have even combined into Societies for that
very purpose, and given great encouragement,
not only for English missionaries in the West
Indies, but also for the reformed of other
nations, led by their example, to propagate
Christianity in the East; it is nevertheless
acknowledged that there is at this day but
little sense of religion, and a most notorious
corruption of manners, in the English Colonies
settled on the Continent of America, and the
Islands. It is also -acknowledged that the
Gospel hath hitherto made but a very incon-
siderable progress among the neighbouring
Americans, who still continue in much the
same ignorance and barbarism in which we
found them above a hundred years ago.
I shall therefore venture to submit my
thoughts, upon a point that I have long con-
sidered, to better judgments, in hopes that
any expedient will be favourably hearkened to
which is proposed for the remedy of these
evils. Now, in order to effect this, it should
1 The complete title is: A Proposal for the Belter
Supplying of Churches in our Foreign Plantations, and
for Converting the Savage Americans to Christianity,
by a College to be erected in the Summer Islands,
otherwise called the Isles of Bermudas.
A PROPOSAL FOR A COLLEGE TO BE ERECTED
seem the natural proper method to provide,
in the first place, a constant supply of worthy
clergymen for the English churches in those
parts; and, in the second place, a like con-
stant supply of zealous missionaries, well fitted
for propagating Christianity among the savages.
For, though the surest means to reform the
morals, and soften the behaviour of men be,
to preach to them the pure uncorrupt doctrine
of the Gospel, yet it cannot be denied that the
success of preaching dependeth in good meas-
ure on the character and skill of the preacher.
Forasmuch as mankind are more apt to copy
characters than to practise precepts, and foras-
much as argument, to attain its full strength,
doth not less require the life of zeal than the
weight of reason; and the same doctrine which
maketh great impression when delivered with
decency and address loseth very much of its
force by passing through awkward or unskil-
ful hands.
Now the clergy sent over to America have
proved, too many of them, very meanly qualified
both in learning and morals for the discharge
of their office. And indeed little can be ex-
pected from the example or instruction of
those who quit their native country on no
other motive than that they are unable to pro-
cure a livelihood in it, which is known to be
often the case.
To this may be imputed the small care that
hath been taken to convert the negroes of our
Plantations, who, to the infamy of England
and scandal of the world, continue heathen
under Christian masters, and in Christian
countries. Which could never be, if our
planters were rightly instructed and made
sensible that they disappointed their own bap-
tism by denying it to those who belong to
them: that it would be of advantage to their
affairs to have slaves who should "obey in all
things their masters according to the flesh, not
with eye-service as men-pleasers, but in single-
ness of heart, as fearing God:" that Gospel
liberty consists with temporal servitude; and
that their slaves would only become better
slaves by being Christian.
And though it be allowed that some of the
clergy in our Colonies have approved them-
selves men of merit, it will at the same time
be allowed that the most zealous and able
missionary from England must find himself
but ill qualified for converting the American
heathen, if we consider the difference of
language, their wild way of living, and, above
all, the great jealousy and prejudice which
savage nations have towards foreigners, or
innovations introduced by them.
These considerations make it evident, that
a College or Seminary in those parts is very
much wanted; and therefore the providing
such a Seminary is earnestly proposed and
recommended to all those who have it in their
power to contribute to so good a work. By
this, two ends would be obtained:
First, the youth of our English Plantations
might be themselves fitted for the ministry;
and men of merit would be then glad to fill
the churches of their native country, which
are now a drain for the very, dregs and refuse
of ours.
At present, there are, I am told, many
churches vacant in our Plantations, and many
very ill supplied ; nor can all the vigilance and
wisdom of that great prelate, whose peculiar
care it is, prevent this, so long as the aforesaid
churches are supplied from England.
And supplied they must be with such as
can be picked up in England or Ireland, until
a nursery of learning for the education of the
natives is founded. This indeed might pro-
vide a constant succession of learned and
exemplary pastors; and what effect this
might be supposed to have on their flocks I
need not say.
Secondly, the children of savage Americans,
brought up in such a Seminary, and well in-
structed in religion and learning, might make
the ablest and properest missionaries for
spreading the Gospel among their country-
men; who would be less apt to suspect, and
readier to embrace a doctrine recommended
by neighbours or relations, men of their own
blood and language, than if it were proposed
by foreigners, who would not improbably be
thought to have designs on the liberty or
property of their converts.
The young Americans necessary for this
purpose may, in the beginning, be procured,
either by peaceable methods from those savage
nations which border on our Colonies, and
are in friendship with us, or by taking captive
the children of our enemies.
It is proposed to admit into the aforesaid
College only such savages as are under ten
years of age, before evil habits have taken a
deep root; and yet not so early as to prevent
retaining their mother-tongue, which should
be preserved by intercourse among themselves.
It is farther proposed to ground these young
Americans thoroughly in religion and morality,
and to give them a good tincture of other
218
GEORGE BERKELEY
learning; particularly of eloquence, history,
and practical mathematics; to which it may
not be improper to add some skill in physic.
If there were a yearly supply of ten or a
dozen such missionaries sent abroad into their
respective countries, after they had received
the degree of master of arts in the aforesaid
College, and holy orders in England (till such
time as Episcopacy be established in those
parts), it is hardly to be doubted but, in a
little time, the world would see good and great
effects thereof.
For, to any considering man, the employ-
ing American missionaries for the conversion
of America will, of all others, appear the most
likely method to succeed ; especially if care be
taken that, during the whole course of their
education, an eye should be had to their
mission; that they should be taught betimes
to consider themselves as trained up in that
sole view, without any other prospect of pro-
vision or employment ; that a zeal for religion
and love of their country should be early and
constantly instilled into their minds, by re-
peated lectures and admonitions; that they
should not only be incited by the common
topics of religion and nature, but farther ani-
mated and inflamed by the great examples in
past ages of public spirit and virtue, to rescue
their countrymen from their savage manners
to a life of civility and religion.
If his Majesty would graciously please to
grant a Charter for a College to be erected in
a proper place for these uses, it is to be hoped
a fund may be soon raised, by the contribu-
tion of well-disposed persons, sufficient for
building and endowing the same. For, as the
necessary expense would be small, so there
are men of religion and humanity in England
who would be pleased to see any design set
forward for the glory of God and the good of
mankind.
A small expense would suffice to subsist
and educate the American missionaries in a
plain simple manner, such as might make it
easy for them to return to the coarse and poor
methods of life in use among their country-
men; and nothing can contribute more to
lessen this expense, than a judicious choice of
the situation where the Seminary is to stand.
Many things ought to be considered in the
choice of a situation. It should be in a good
air; in a place where provisions are cheap
and plenty; where an intercourse might easily
be kept up with all parts of America and the
Islands; in a place of security, not exposed
to the insults of pirates, savages, or other
enemies; where there is no great trade which
might tempt the Readers or Fellows of the
College to become merchants, to the neglect
of their proper business; where there are
neither riches nor luxury to divert or lessen
their application, or to make them uneasy and
dissatisfied with a homely frugal subsistence;
lastly, where the inhabitants, if such a place
may be found, are noted for innocence and
simplicity of manners. I need not say of how
great importance this point would be towards
forming the morals of young students, and
what mighty influence it must have on the
mission.
It is evident the College long since pro-
jected in Barbadoes would be defective in
many of these particulars; for, though it may
have its use among the inhabitants, yet a
place of so high trade, so much wealth and
luxury, and such dissolute morals (not to
mention the great price and scarcity of pro-
visions) must, at first sight, seem a very
improper situation for a general Seminary
intended for the forming missionaries, and
educating youth in religion and sobriety of
manners. The same objections lie against the
neighbouring islands.
And, if we consider the accounts given of
their avarice and licentiousness, their coldness
in the practice of religion, and their aversion
from propagating it (which appears in the
withholding their slaves from baptism), it is
to be feared, that the inhabitants in the popu-
lous parts of our Plantations on the Continent
are not much fitter than those in the islands
above mentioned, to influence or assist such
a design. And, as to the more remote and
less frequented parts, the difficulty of being
supplied with necessaries, the danger of being
exposed to the inroads of savages, and, above
all, the want of intercourse with other places,
render them improper situations for a Semi-
nary of religion and learning.
It will not be amiss to insert here an obser-
vation I remember to have seen in an Abstract
of the Proceedings, &c., annexed to the Dean
of Canterbury's Sermon before the Society for
the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign
Parts; that the savage Indians who live on
the Continent will not suffer their children to
learn English or Dutch, lest they should be
debauched by conversing with their European
neighbours; which is a melancholy but strong
confirmation of the truth of what hath been
now advanced.
A PROPOSAL FOR A COLLEGE TO BE ERECTED
219
A general intercourse and correspondence
with all the English Colonies, both on the
Islands and the Continent, and with other
parts of America, hath been before laid down
as a necessary circumstance, the reason whereof
is very evident. But this circumstance is
hardly to be found. For, on the Continent,
where there are neither inns, nor carriages,
nor bridges over the rivers, there is no travel-
ling by land between distant places. And the
English settlements are reputed to extend
along the sea-coast for the space of fifteen
hundred miles. It is therefore plain there
can be no convenient communication between
them otherwise than by sea; no advantage
therefore, in this point, can be gained by
settling on the Continent.
There is another consideration which equally
regards the Continent and the Islands, that
the general course of trade and correspondence
lies from all those Colonies to Great Britain
alone. Whereas, for our present purpose, it
would be necessary to pitch upon a place, if
such could be found, which maintains a con-
stant intercourse with all the other Colonies,
and whose- commerce lies chiefly or altogether
(not in Europe, but) in America.
There is but one spot that I can find to
which this circumstance agrees; and that is,
the Isles of Bermuda, otherwise called the
Summer Islands. These, having no rich com-
modity or manufacture, such as sugar, tobacco,
or the like, wherewithal to trade to England,
are obliged to become carriers for America, as
the Dutch are for Europe. The Berrnudans
are excellent ship-wrights and sailors, and
have a great number of very good sloops,
which are always passing and repassing from
all parts of America. They drive a constant
trade to the islands of Jamaica, Barbadoes,
Antigua, &c., with butter, onions, cabbages,
and other roots and vegetables, which they
have in great plenty and perfection. They
have also some small manufactures of joiner's
work and matting, which they export to the
Plantations on the Continent. Hence Ber-
mudan sloops are oftener seen in the ports of
America than in any other. And, indeed, by
the best information I could get, it appears
they are the only people of all the British
Plantations who hold a general correspondence
with the rest.
And as the commerce of Bermuda renders
it a very fit place wherein to erect a Seminary,
so likewise doth its situation, it being placed
between our Plantations on the Continent and
those in the Isles, so as equally to respect
both. To which may be added, that it lies
in the way of vessels passing from America
to Great Britain; all which makes it plain
that the youth, to be educated in a Seminary
placed in the Summer Islands would have fre-
quent opportunities of going thither and corre-
sponding with their friends. It must indeed
be owned that some will be obliged to go a
long way to any one place which we suppose
resorted to from all parts of our Plantations;
but if we were to look out a spot the nearest
approaching to an equal distance from all the
rest, I believe it would be found to be Ber-
muda. It remains that we see whether it
enjoys the other qualities or conditions laid
down as well as this.
The Summer Islands are situated near the
latitude of thirty -three degrees; no part of
the world enjoys a purer air, or a more tem-
perate climate, the great ocean which environs
them at once moderating the heat of the south
winds, and the severity of the north-west.
Such a latitude on the Continent might be
thought too hot; but the air in Bermuda is
perpetually fanned and kept cool by sea-
breezes, which render the weather the most
healthy and delightful that could be wished,
being (as is affirmed by persons who have long
lived there) of one equal tenor almost through-
out the whole year, like the latter end of a
fine May; insomuch that it is resorted to as
the Montpelier of America.
Nor are these isles (if we may believe the
accounts given of them) less remarkable for
plenty than for health; there being, besides
beef, mutton, and fowl, great abundance of
fruits, and garden-stuff of all kinds in per-
fection : to this, if we add the great plenty and
variety of fish which is every day taken on their
coasts, it would seem, that a Seminary could
nowhere be supplied with better provisions, or
cheaper than here.
About forty years ago, upon cutting down
many tall cedars that sheltered their orange
trees from the north wind (which sometimes
blows even there so as to affect that delicate
plant), great part of their orange plantations
suffered; but other cedars are since grown
up, and no doubt a little industry would again
produce as great plenty of oranges as ever was
there heretofore. I mention this because some
have inferred from the present scarcity of that
fruit, for which Bermuda was once so famous,
that there hath been a change in the soil
and climate for the worse. But this, as hath
22O
GEORGE BERKELEY
been observed, proceeded from another cause,
which is now in great measure taken away.
Bermuda is a cluster of small islands, which
lie in a very narrow compass, containing, in all,
not quite twenty thousand acres. This group of
isles is (to use Mr. Waller's expression) walled
round with rocks, which render them inac-
cessible to pirates or enemies; there being but
two narrow entrances, both well guarded by
forts. It would therefore be impossible to find
anywhere a more secure retreat for students.
The trade of Bermuda consists only in garden-
stuff, and some poor manufactures, principally
of cedar and the palmetto-leaf. Bermuda hats
are worn by our ladies : they are made of a sort
of mat, or (as they call it) platting made of the
palmetto-leaf, which is the only commodity
that I can find exported from Bermuda to
Great Britain ; and as there is no prospect of
making a fortune by this small trade, so it can-
not be supposed to tempt the Fellows of the
College to engage in it, to the neglect of their
peculiar business, which might possibly be the
case elsewhere.
Such as their trade is, such is their wealth ;
the inhabitants being much poorer than the
other Colonies, who do not fail to despise them
upon that account. But, if they have less
wealth, they have withal less vice and expen-
sive folly than their neighbours. They are repre-
sented as a contented, plain, innocent sort of
people, free from avarice and luxury, as well as
the other corruptions that attend those vices.
I am also informed that they are more con-
stant attendants on Divine service, more kind
and respectful to their pastor (when they have
one), and shew much more humanity to their
slaves, and charity to one another, than is ob
served among the English in the other Planta-
tions. One reason of this may be that con-
demned criminals, being employed in the
manufactures of sugar and tobacco, were never
transported thither. But, whatever be the
cause, the facts are attested by a clergyman of
good credit, who lived among them.
Among a people of this character, and in a
situation thus circumstantiated, it would seem
that a Seminary of religion and learning might
very fitly be placed. The correspondence with
other parts of America, the goodness of the
air, the plenty and security of the place, the
frugality and innocence of the inhabitants, all
conspiring to favour such a design. Thus
much at least is evident, that young students
would be there less liable to be corrupted in
their morals ; and the governing part would be
easier, and better contented with a small sti-
pend, and a retired academical life, in a corner
from whence avarice and luxury are excluded,
than they can be supposed to be in the midst of
a full trade and great riches, attended with all
that high living and parade which our planters
affect, and which, as well as all fashionable
vices, should be far removed from the eyes of
the young American missionaries, who are to
lead a life of poverty and self-denial among
their countrymen.
After all, it must be acknowledged, that
though everything else should concur with our
wishes, yet if a set of good Governors and
Teachers be wanting, who are acquainted
with the methods of education, and have the
zeal and ability requisite for carrying on a
design of this nature, it would certainly come
to nothing.
An institution of this kind should be set on
foot by men of prudence, spirit, and zeal, as
well as competent learning, who should be led
to it by other motives than the necessity of
picking up a maintenance. For, upon this
view, what man of merit can be supposed to
quit his native country, and take up with a
poor college subsistence in another part of the
world, where there are so many considerable
parishes actually void, and so many others ill
supplied for want of fitting incumbents ? Is it
likely that Fellowships of fifty or sixty pounds
a year should tempt abler or worthier men
than benefices of many times their value?
And except able and worthy men do first
engage in this affair, with a resolution to exert
themselves in forming the manners of the
youth, and giving them a proper education, it
is evident the Mission and the College will be
but in a very bad way. This inconvenience
seems the most difficult to provide against,
and if not provided against, it will be the most
likely to obstruct any design of this nature.
So true it is, that where ignorance or ill manners
once take place in a Seminary, they are sure
to be handed down in a succession of illiterate
or worthless men.
But this apprehension, which seems so well
grounded, that a College in any part of America
would either lie unprovided, or' be worse pro-
vided than their churches are, hath no place
in Bermuda; there being at this time several
gentlemen, in all respects very well qualified,
and in possession of good preferments and fair
prospects at home, who, having seriously con-
sidered the great benefits that may arise to the
Church and to Mankind from such an under-
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
221
taking, are ready to engage in it, and to dedi-
cate the remainder of their lives to the instruct-
ing the youth of America, and prosecuting their
own studies, upon a very moderate subsistence,
in a retirement, so sweet and so secure, and
every way so well fitted for a place of education
and study, as Bermuda.
Thus much the writer hereof thought him-
self obliged to say of his associates. For him-
self he can only say that, as he values no pre-
ferment upon earth so much as that of being
employed in the execution of this design, so
he hopes to make up for other defects, by the
sincerity of his endeavours. * * *
SAMUEL RICHARDSON (1689-1761)
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE
LETTER XVI
Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE TO Miss HOWE
Friday, March 3.
Oh my dear friend, I have had a sad conflict !
Trial upon trial ; conference upon conference !
— But what law, what ceremony, can give a
man a right to a heart which abhors him more
than it does any living creature?
I hope my mother will be able to prevail
for me. — But I will recount all, though I
sit up the whole night to do it; for I have a
vast deal to write, and will be as minute as you
wish me to be.
I concluded my last in a fright. It was
occasioned by a conversation that passed be-
tween my mother and my aunt, part of which
Hannah overheard. I need not give you the
particulars; since what I have to relate to you
from different conversations that have passed
between my mother and me, in the space of a
very few hours, will include them all. I will
begin then.
I went down this morning when breakfast was
ready with a very uneasy heart, from what
Hannah had informed me of yesterday after-
noon ; wishing for an opportunity, however, to
appeal to my mother, in hopes to engage her
interest in my behalf, and purposing to try to
find one when she retired to her own apartment
after breakfast: but unluckily there was the
odious Solmes sitting asquat between my mother
and sister, with so much assurance in his looks !
— But you know, my dear, that those we love
not cannot do anything to please us.
Had the wretch kept his seat, it might have
been well enough: but the bent and broad-
shouldered creature must needs rise, and
stalk towards a chair, which was just by that
which was set for me.
I removed it to a distance, as if to make way
to my own : and down I sat, abruptly I believe ;
what I had heard all in rriy head.
But this was not enough to daunt him. The
man is a very confident, he is a very bold, staring
man ! — Indeed, my dear, the man is very
confident.
He took the removed chair, and drew it so
near mine, squatting in it with his ugly weight,
that he pressed upon my hoop. — I was so
offended (all I had heard, as I said, in my
head) that I removed to another chair. I own
I had too little command of myself. It gave
my brother and sister too much advantage.
I daresay they took it. But I did it involun-
tarily, I think. I could not help it. — I knew
not what I did.
I saw that my father was excessively dis-
pleased. When angry, no man's countenance
ever shows it so much as my father's. "Clarissa
Harlowe !" said he with a big voice — and there
he stopped. — "Sir," said I, trembling and
courtesying (for I had not then sat down again) ;
and put my chair nearer the wretch, and sat
down — my face, as I could feel, all in a glow.
"Make tea, child," said my kind mamma:
"sit by me, love, and make tea."
I removed with pleasure to the seat the man
had quitted; and being thus indulgently put
into employment, soon recovered myself; and
in the course of the breakfasting officiously
asked two or three questions of Mr. Solmes,
which I would not have done, but to make
up with my father. — "Proud spirits may be
brought to!" whisperingly spoke my sister to
me over her shoulder, with an air of triumph
and scorn: but I did not mind her.
My mother was all kindness and conde-
scension. I asked her once, if she were pleased
with the tea ? She said softly (and again called
me dear} she was pleased with all I did. I was
very proud of this encouraging goodness : and
all blew over, as I hoped, between my father
and me ; for he also spoke kindly to me two or
three times.
Small accidents these, my dear, to trouble you
with ; only as they lead to greater, as you shall
hear.
Before the usual breakfast-time was over,
my father withdrew with my mother, telling
her he wanted to speak to her. Then my
sister and next my aunt (who was with us)
dropped away.
222
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
My brother gave himself some airs of insult,
which I understood well enough; but which
Mr. Solmes could make nothing of: and at last
he arose from his seat — "Sister," said he, "I
have a curiosity to show you. I will fetch it."
And away he went shutting the door close after
him.
I saw what all this was for. I arose ; the man
hemming up for a speech, rising and beginning
to set his splay-feet (indeed, my dear, the man
in all his ways is hateful to me) in an approach-
ing posture. — "I will save my brother the
trouble of bringing to me his curiosity," said
I. I courtesied — "Your servant, sir!" —
The man cried, " Madam, madam," twice,
and looked like a fool. — But away I went — to
find my brother, to save my word. — But my
brother, indifferent as the weather was, was
gone to walk in the garden with my sister. A
plain case that he had left his curiosity with me,
and designed to show me no other.
I had but just got into my own apartment, and
began to think of sending Hannah to beg an
audience of my mother (the more encouraged
by her condescending goodness at breakfast),
when Shorey, her woman, brought me her com-
mands to attend her in her closet.
My father, Hannah told me, was just gone
out of it with a positive angry countenance.
Then I as much dreaded the audience as I had
wished for it before.
I went down, however; but apprehending the
subject she intended to talk to me upon, ap-
proached her trembling, and my heart in visible
palpitations.
She saw my concern. Holding out her kind
arms, as she sat, "Come, kiss me, my dear,"
said she, with a smile like j^ sunbeam, breaking
through the cloud 'that overshadowed her
naturally benign"~aspect — "why flutters my
jewel so?"
This preparative sweetness, with her good-
ness just before, confirmed my apprehensions.
My mother saw the bitter pill wanted gilding.
"Oh, my mamma!" was all I could say;
and I clasped my arms round her neck, and my
face sunk into her bosom.
"My child! my child! restrain," said she,
"your powers of moving ! I dare not else trust
myself with you." — And my tears trickled
down her bosom, as hers bedewed my neck.
Oh the words of kindness, all to be expressed
in vain, that flowed from her lips !
"Lift up your sweet face, my best child,
my own Clarissa Harlbwe ! — Oh, my daughter,
best beloved of my heart, lift up a face so ever
amiable to me! — Why these sobs? — Is an
apprehended duty so affecting - a thing, that
before I can speak — but I am glad, my love,
you can guess at what I have to say to you.
I am spared the pains of breaking to you what
was a task upon me reluctantly enough under-
taken to break to you."
Then rising, she drew a chair near her own,
and made me sit down by her, overwhelmed
as I was with tears of apprehension of what she
had to say, and of gratitude for her truly ma-
ternal goodness to me — sobs still my only lan-
guage.
And drawing her chair still nearer to mine,
she put her arms round my neck, and my
glowing cheek wet with my tears, close to her
own: "Let me talk to you, my child. Since
silence is your choice, hearken to me, and be
silent.
"You know, my dear, what I every day
forego, and undergo, for the sake of peace.
Your papa is a very good man, and means
well; but he will not be controlled; nor yet
persuaded. You have sometimes seemed to
pity me, that I am obliged to give up every point.
Poor man ! his reputation the less for it ; mine
the greater; yet would I not have this credit
if I could help it, at so dear a rate to him and
to myself. You are a dutiful, a prudent, and a
•wise child," she was pleased to say, in hope,
no doubt, to make me so : " you would not add,
I am sure, to my trouble: you would not wil-
fully break that peace which costs your mother
so much to preserve. Obedience is better
than sacrifice. Oh, my Clary Harlowe, re-
joice my heart, by telling me I have appre-
hended too much ! — I see your concern ! I
see your perplexity ! I see your conflict (loosing
her arm, and rising, not willing I should see
how much she herself was affected). I will
leave you a moment. — Answer me not —
(for I was essaying to speak, and had, as soon
as she took her dear cheek from mine, dropped
down on my knees, my hands clasped, and
lifted up in a supplicating manner) — I am
not prepared for your irresistible expostula-
tion," she was pleased to say. "I will leave you
to recollection: and I charge you, on my
blessing, that all this my truly maternal ten-
derness be not thrown away upon you."
And then she withdrew into the next apart-
ment; wiping her eyes as she went from me;
as mine overflowed; my heart taking in the
whole compass of her meaning.
She soon returned, having recovered more
steadiness.
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE
223
Still on my knees, I had thrown my face
across the chair she had sat in.
"Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe — No
sullenness, I hope !"
"No, indeed, my ever to-be-revered mamma."
— And I arose. I bent my knee.
She raised me. "No kneeling to me, but
with knees of duty and compliance. Your
heart, not your knees, must bend. It is ab-
solutely determined. Prepare yourself there-
fore to receive your father, when he visits you
by and by, as he would wish to receive you.
But on this one quarter of an hour depends
the peace of my future life, the satisfaction of
all the family, and your own security from a
man of violence: and I charge you besides,
on my blessing, that you think of being Mrs.
Solmes."
There went the dagger to my heart, and down
I sunk: and when I recovered found myself
in the arms of my Hannah, my sister's Betty
holding open my reluctantly-opened palm, my
laces cut, my linen scented with hartshorn;
and my mother gone. Had I been less kindly
treated, the hated name still forborne to be
mentioned, or mentioned with a little more
preparation and reserve, I had stood the horrid
sound with less visible emotion — but to be
bid, on the blessing of a mother so dearly be-
loved, so truly reverenced, to think of being
Mrs. Solmes — what a denunciation was that !
Shorey came in with a message (delivered in
her solemn way): "Your mamma, Miss, is
concerned for your disorder: she expects you
down again in an hour; and bid me say,
that she then hopes everything from your
duty."
I made no reply; for what could I say?
And leaning upon my Hannah's arm, withdrew
to my own apartment. There you will guess
how the greatest part of the hour was em-
ployed.
Within that time my mother came up to me.
"I love," she was pleased to say, "to come
into this apartment. — No emotions, child !
No flutters! — Am I not your mother? Am
I not your fond, your indulgent mother? — Do
not discompose me by discomposing yourself!
Do not occasion me uneasiness, when I would
give you nothing but pleasure. Come, my dear,
we will go into your closet."
She took my hand, led the way, and made me
sit down by her: and after she had inquired
how I did, she began in a strain as if she had
supposed I had made use of the intervening
space to overcome all my objections.
She was pleased to tell me, that my father
and she, in order to spare my natural modesty,
had taken the whole affair upon themselves —
"Hear me out; and then speak;" for I
was going to expostulate. ' ' You are no stranger
to the end of Mr. Solmes's visits —
"O Madam !-
"Hear me out; and then speak. — He is
not indeed everything I wish him to be; but
he is a man of probity, and has no vices — "
"No vices, Madam ! —
"Hear me out, child. — You have not be-
haved much amiss to him: we have seen with
pleasure that you have not —
"O Madam, must I not now speak !"
"I shall have done presently. — A young
creature of your virtuous and pious turn,"
she was pleased to say, "cannot surely love
a profligate: you love your brother too well,
to wish to marry one who had like to have
killed him, and who threatened your uncles,
and defies us all. You have had your own way
six or seven times : we want to secure you against
a man so vile. Tell me (I have a right to know)
whether you prefer this man to all others ? —
Yet God forbid that I should know you do;
for such a declaration would make us all mis-
erable. Yet tell me, are your affections en-
gaged to this man?"
I knew what the inference would be, if I
had said they were not.
"You hesitate — You answer me not —
You cannot answer me." — Rising — "Never
more will I look upon you with an eye of
favour —
"O Madam, Madam! Kill me not with
your displeasure — I would not, I need not,
hesitate one moment, did I not dread the in-
ference, if I answer you as you wish. — Yet be
that inference what it will, your threatened dis-
pleasure will make me speak. And I declare
to you, that I know not my own heart, if it be
not absolutely free. And pray, let me ask my
dearest mamma, in what has my conduct been
faulty, that, like a giddy creature, I must be
forced to marry, to save me from — from what ?
Let me beseech you, Madam, to be the guar
clian of my reputation ! Let not your Clarissa
be precipitated into a state she wishes not to
enter into with any man ! And this upon a
supposition that otherwise she shall marry
herself, and disgrace her whole family."
"Well then, Clary (passing over the force
of my plea), if your heart be free —
"Oh, my beloved mamma, let the usual
generosity of your dear heart operate in my
224
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
favour. Urge not upon me the inference that
made me hesitate."
"I won't be interrupted, Clary — You have
seen, in my behaviour to you on this occasion,
a truly maternal tenderness ; you have observed
that I have undertaken the task with some re-
luctance, because the man is not everything;
and because I know you carry your notions of
perfection in a man too high —
"Dearest Madam, this one time excuse me!
— Is there then any danger that I should be
guilty of an imprudent thing for the man's sake
you hint at?"
"Again interrupted! — Am I to be ques-
tioned, and argued with? You know this
won't do somewhere else. You know it won't.
What reason then, ungenerous girl, can you
have for arguing with me thus, but because you
think from my indulgence to you, you may?"
" What can I say? What caw I do? What
must that cause be that will not bear being
argued upon?"
"Again ! Clary Harlowe ! "
"Dearest Madam, forgive me: it was always
my pride and my pleasure to obey you. But
look upon that man — see but the disagree-
ableness of his person —
"Now, Clary, do I see whose person you have
in your eye ! — Now is Mr. Solmes, I see, but
comparatively disagreeable; disagreeable only
as another man has a much more specious
person."
"But, Madam, are not his manners equally
so ? — Is not his person the true representa-
tive of his mind ? — That other man is not,
shall not be, anything to me, release me but
from this one man, whom my heart, unbidden,
resists."
"Condition thus with your father. Will he
bear, do you think, to be thus dialogued with ?
Have I not conjured you, as you value my
peace — What is it that I do not give up? —
This very task, because I apprehended you
would not be easily persuaded, is a task in-
deed upon me. And will you give up nothing ?
Have you not refused as many as have been
offered to you? If you would not have us
guess for whom, comply; for comply you must,
or be looked upon as in a state of defiance with
your whole family."
And saying this, she arose, and went from
me. But at the chamber-door stopped; and
turned back: "I will not say below in what
disposition I leave you. Consider of every-
thing. The matter is resolved upon. As
you value your father's blessing and mine,
and the satisfaction of all the family, resolve
to comply. I will leave you for a few moments.
I will come up to you again. See that I find
you as I wish to find you; and since your
heart is free, let your duty govern it."
In about half an hour, my mother returned.
She found me in tears. She took my hand:
"It is my part evermore," said she, "to be of
the acknowledging side. I believe I have
needlessly exposed myself to your opposition,
by the method I have taken with you. I first
began as if I expected a denial, and by my
indulgence brought it upon myself."
"Do not, my dearest mamma! do not say
so!"
"Were the occasion for this debate," pro-
ceeded-she, "to have risen from myself; were
it in my power to dispense with your com-
' pliance; you too well know what you can do
with me."
Would anybody, my dear Miss Howe, wish
to marry, who sees a wife of such a temper, and
blessed with such an understanding as my
mother is noted for,, not only deprived of all
power, but obliged to be even active in bringing
to bear points of high importance, which she
thinks ought not to be insisted upon?
"When I came to you a second time," pro-
ceeded she, "knowing that your opposition
would avail you nothing, I refused to hear
your reasons: and in this I was wrong too,
because a young creature who loves to reason,
and used to love to be convinced by reason,
ought to have all her objections heard: I now
therefore, this third time, see you; and am
come resolved to hear all you have to say:
and let me, my dear, by my patience, engage
your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it,
because it is to you I speak, who used to have
a mind wholly generous. — Let me, if your
heart be really free, let me see what it will induce
you to do to oblige me: and so as you permit
your usual discretion to govern you, I will hear
all you have to say; but with this intimation,
that say what you will, it will be of no avail
elsewhere."
"What a dreadful saying is that! But
could I engage your pity, Madam, it would be
somewhat."
"You have as much of my pity as of my love.
But what is person, Clary, with one of your
prudence, and your heart disengaged?"
"Should the eye be disgusted, when the heart
is to be engaged ? — O Madam, who can think
of marrying when the heart is shocked at the
first appearance, and where the disgust must
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE
225
be confirmed by every conversation after-
wards?"
"This, Clary, is owing to your prepossession.
Let me not have cause to regret that noble
firmness of mind in so young a creature which
I thought your glory, and which was my boast
in your character. In this instance it would be
obstinacy, and want of duty. — Have you not
made objections to several — "
"That was to their minds, to their principles,
Madam. — But this man —
"Is an honest man, Clary Harlowe. He has
a good mind. He is a virtuous man."
"He an honest man? His a good mind,
Madam ? He a virtuous man ? —
"Nobody denies him these qualities."
"Can he be an honest man who offers terms
that will rob all his own relations of their just
expectations? — Can his mind be good — "
"You, Clary Harlowe, for whose sake he
offers so much, are the last person that should
make this observation."
" Give me leave to say, Madam, that a person
preferring happiness to fortune, as I do; that
want not even what I have, and can give up
the use of that, as an instance of duty — "
"No more, no more of your merits! — You
know you will be a gainer by that cheerful
instance of your duty; not a loser. You know
you have but cast your bread upon the waters —
so no more of that ! — For it is not understood
as a merit by everybody, I assure you ; though
I think it a high one ; and so did your father and
uncles at the time — "
"At the time, Madam! — How unworthily
do my brother and sister, who are afraid that
the favour I was so lately in —
"I hear nothing against your brother and
sister. What family feuds have I in prospect,
at a time when I hoped to have most comfort
from you all!"
"God bless my brother and sister in all
their worthy views ! You shall have no family
feuds if I can prevent them. You yourself,
Madam, shall tell me what I shall bear from
them, and I will bear it: but let my actions,
not their misrepresentations (as I am sure by
the disgraceful prohibitions I have met with has
been the case), speak for me."
Just then up came my father, with a stern-
ness in his looks that made me tremble. — He
took two or three turns about my chamber,
though pained by his gout; and then said to
my mother, who was silent as soon as she saw
him —
"My dear, you are long absent. — Dinner
is near ready. What you had to say lay in a
very little compass. Surely you have nothing
to do but to declare your will, and my will —
but perhaps you may be talking of the prepa-
rations — let us have you soon down — your
daughter in your hand, if worthy of the
name."
And down he went, casting his eye upon me
with a look so stern, that I was unable to say
one word to him, or even for a few minutes to
my mother.
Was not this very intimidating, my dear?
My mother, seeing my concern, seemed
to pity me. She called me her good child,
and kissed me; and told me that my father
should not kndw I had made such opposition.
"He has kindly furnished us with an excuse
for being so long together," said she. — " Come,
my dear — dinner will be upon table pres-
ently— shall we go down?" — And took my
hand.
This made me start: "What, Madam, go
down to let it be supposed we were talking
of preparations! — Oh, my beloved mamma,
command me not down upon such a supposi-
tion."
"You see, child, that to stay longer together,
will be owning that you are debating about an
absolute duty; and that will not be borne.
Did not your father himself some days ago tell
you he would be obeyed? I will a third time
leave you. I must say something by way of
excuse for you: and that you desire not to go
down to dinner — that your modesty on the
occasion — "
"O Madam! say not my modesty on such
an occasion : for that will be to give hope —
"And design you not to give hope? — Per-
verse girl!" — Rising and flinging from me;
"take more time for consideration! — Since
it is necessary, take more time — and when I
see you next, let me know what blame I have
to cast upon myself, or to bear from your
father, for my indulgence to you."
She made, however, a little stop at the cham-
ber-door; and seemed to expect that I would
have besought her to make the gentlest con-
struction for me; for, hesitating, she was
pleased to say, "I suppose you would not have
me make a report —
"O Madam!" interrupted I, "whose favour
can I hope for, if I lose my mamma's?"
To have desired a favourable report, you
know, my dear, would have been qualifying
upon a point that I was too much determined
upon, to give room for any of my friends to
226
HENRY FIELDING
think I have the least hesitation about it. And
so my mother went down stairs.
I will deposit thus far; and as I know you
will not think me too minute in the relation of
particulars so very interesting to one you hon-
our with your love, proceed in the same way.
As matters stand, I don't care to have papers
so freely written about me.
Pray let Robert call every day, if you can
spare him, whether I have anything ready or
not.
I should be glad you would not send him
empty handed. What a generosity will it be
in you, to write as frequently from friendship
as I am forced to do from misfortune ! The
letters being taken away will ie an assurance
that you have them. As I shall write and de-
posit as I have opportunity, the formality of
super and «/i-scription will be excused. For
I need not say how much I am
Your sincere and ever affectionate
Cl. Harlowe.
HENRY FIELDINGi fi7o7-i7j^
TOM JONES
BOOK I
CHAP. I. — THE INTRODUCTION TO THE WORK,
OR BILL OF FARE TO THE FEAST
An author ought to consider himself, not as
a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosy-
nary treat, but rather as one who keeps a pub-
lic ordinary, at which all persons are welcome
for their money. In the former case, it is well
known that the entertainer provides what fare
he pleases; and though this should be very
indifferent and utterly disagreeable to the taste
of his company, they must not find any fault:
nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces
them outwardly to approve and to commend
whatever is set before them. Now the con-
trary of this happens to the master of an
ordinary: men who pay for what they eat,
will insist on gratifying their palates, however
nice and whimsical these may prove; and if
everything is not agreeable to their taste, will
challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to
d — n their dinner without control.
To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their
customers by any such disappointment, it
has been usual with the honest and well-
meaning host to provide a bill of fare, which all
persons may peruse at their first entrance into
the house; and, having thence acquainted
themselves with the entertainment which they
may expect, may either stay and regale with
what is provided for them, or may depart to
some other ordinary better accommodated to
their taste.
As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom
from any man who is capable of lending us
either, we have condescended to take a hint
from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix
not only a general bill of fare to our whole
entertainment, but shall likewise give the
reader particular bills to every course which is
to be served up in this volume.
The provision, then, which we have here
made, is no other than Human Nature: nor do
I fear that my sensible reader, though most
luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be
offended because I have named but one article.
The tortoise, as the alderman of Bristol, well
learned in eating, knows by much experience,
besides the delicious calipash and calipee, con-
tains many different kinds of food ; nor can the
learned reader be ignorant, that in human
nature, though here collected under one general
name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook
will have sooner gone through all the several
species of animal and vegetable food in the
world, than an author will be able to exhaust
so extensive a subject.
An objection may perhaps be apprehended
from the more delicate, that this dish is too
common and vulgar; for what else is the sub-
ject of all the romances, novels, plays, and
poems, with which the stalls abound? Many
exquisite viands might be rejected by the epi-
cure, if it was a sufficient cause for his contemn-
ing of them as common and vulgar, that some-
thing was to be found in the most paltry alleys
under the same name. In reality, true nature
is as difficult to be met with in authors, as the
Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be
found in the shops.
But the whole, to continue the same meta-
phor, consists in the cookery of the author;
for, as Mr. Pope tells us, —
True wit is nature to advantage dress' d;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.
The same animal which hath the honour to
have some part of his flesh eaten at the table
of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another
part, and some of his limbs gibbetted, as it
were, in the vilest stall in town. Where then
lies the difference between the food of the noble-
man and the porter, if both are at dinner on the
TOM JONES
227
same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dress-
ing, the garnishing, and the setting forth?
Hence the one provokes and incites the most
languid appetite, and the other turns and palls
that which is the sharpest and keenest.
In like manner the excellence of the mental
entertainment consists less in the subject than
in the author's skill in well dressing it up.
How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find
that we have, in the following work, adhered
closely to one of the highest principles of the
best cook which the present age, or perhaps that
of Heliogabalus, hath produced? This great
man, as is well known to all lovers of polite
eating, begins at first by setting plain things
before his hungry guests, rising afterwards by
degrees, as their stomachs may be supposed to
decrease, to the very quintessence of sauce and
spices. In like manner we shall represent
human nature at first, to the keen appetite
of our reader, in that more plain and simple
manner in which it is found in the country,
and shall hereafter hash and ragout it with
all the high French and Italian seasoning of
affectation and vice which courts and cities
afford. By these means, we doubt not but our
reader may be rendered desirous to read on for
ever, as the great person just above mentioned
is supposed to have made some persons eat.
Having premised thus much, we will now
detain those who like our bill of fare no longer
from their diet, and shall proceed directly to
serve up the first course of our history for their
entertainment.
BOOK II
CHAP. I. — SHOWING WHAT KIND OF HISTORY
THIS IS J WHAT IT IS LIKE, AND WHAT
IT IS NOT LIKE
Though we have properly enough entitled
this our work a history, and not a life; nor an
apology for a life, as is more in fashion ; yet we
intend in it rather to pursue the method of
those writers who profess to disclose the revo-
lutions of countries, than to imitate the painful
and voluminous historian, who, to preserve the
regularity of his series, thinks himself obliged
to fill up as much paper with the details of
months and years in which nothing remarkable
happened, as he employs upon those notable
eras when the greatest scenes have been trans-
acted on the human stage. Such histories as
these do in reality very much resemble a news-
paper, which consists of just the same number
of words, whether there be any news in it or not.
They may likewise be compared to a stage
coach, which performs constantly the same
course empty as well as full : the writer indeed
seems to think himself obliged to keep even
pace with Time, whose amanuensis he is;
and like his master, travels as slowly through
centuries of monkish dulness, when the world
seems to have been asleep, as through that
bright and busy age so nobly distinguished by
the excellent Latin poet:
Ad confligendum venientibus undique Poenis,
Omnia cum. belli trepido concussa tumultu
Horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris auris;
In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum
Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique:
of which we wish we could give our reader a
more adequate translation than that by Mr.
Creech:
When dreadful Carthage frighted Rome with arms,
And all the world was shook with fierce alarms;
Whilst undecided yet which part should fall,
Which nation rise the glorious lord of all.
Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages,
to pursue a contrary method : when any extraor-
dinary scene presents itself, as we trust will
often be the case, we shall spare no pains nor
paper to open it at large to our reader; but if
whole years should pass without producing any
thing worthy his notice, we shall not be afraid
of a chasm in our history, but shall hasten on
to matters of consequence, and leave such pe-
riods of time totally unobserved. These are
indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand
lottery of Time : we therefore, who are the regis-
ters of that lottery, shall imitate those sagacious
persons who deal in that which is drawn at
Guildhall, and who never trouble the public
with the many blanks they dispose of; but when
a great prize happens to be drawn, the news-
papers are presently filled with it, and the
world is sure to be informed at whose office it
was sold: indeed commonly two or three dif-
ferent offices lay claim to the honour of having
disposed of it; by which I suppose the ad-
venturers are given to understand that certain
brokers are in the secrets of Fortune, and in-
deed of her cabinet council.
My reader then is not to be surprised, if in
the course of this work he shall find some
chapters very short and others altogether as
long; some that contain only the time of a
single day and others that comprise years; in
a word, if my history sometimes seems to stand
still, and sometimes to fly: for all which I shall
228
HENRY FIELDING
not look on myself as accountable to any court
of critical jurisdiction whatever; for as I am
in reality the founder of a new province of
writing, so I am at liberty to make what laws
I please therein; and these laws my readers,
whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to
believe in and to obey; with which, that they
may readily and cheerfully comply, I do hereby
assure them that I shall principally regard
their ease and advantage in all such institu-
tions; for I do not, like a jure divino tyrant,
imagine that they are my slaves or my com-
modity. I am indeed set over them for their
own good only, and was created for their use
and not they for mine; nor do I doubt, while
I make their interest the great rule of my
writings, they will unanimously concur in sup-
porting my dignity, and in rendering me all
the honour I shall deserve or desire.
BOOK V
CHAP. I. — OF THE SERIOUS IN WRITING, AND
FOR WHAT PURPOSE IT is INTRODUCED
Peradventure there may be no parts in this
prodigious work which will give the reader less
pleasure in the perusing, than those which
have given the author the greatest pain in com-
posing. Among these probably may be reck-
oned those initial essays which we have prefixed
to the historical matter contained in every
book; and which we have determined to be
essentially necessary to this kind of writing,
of which we have set ourselves at the head.
For this our determination we do not hold our-
selves strictly bound to assign any reason ; it
being abundantly sufficient that we have laid
it down as a rule necessary to be observed in all
prosai-comi-epic writing. Who ever demanded
the reasons of that nice unity of time or place
which is now established to be so essential to
dramatic poetry? What critic has ever been
asked, why a play may not contain two days
as well as one? or why the audience, provided
they travel like electors, without any expense,
may not be wafted fifty miles as well as five?
Has any commentator well accounted for the
limitation which an ancient critic has set to the
drama, which he will have contain neither more
nor less than five acts? or has any one living
attempted to explain what the modern judges
of our theatres mean by that word Low; by
which they have happily succeeded in banish-
ing all humour from the stage, and have made
the theatre as dull as a drawing-room? Upon
all these occasions the world seems to have
embraced a maxim of our law, viz., cuicunque
in arte sua perito credendum est: for it seems
perhaps difficult to conceive that any one should
have had enough of impudence to lay down
dogmatical rules in any art or science without
the least foundation: in such cases, therefore,
we are apt to conclude there are sound and good
reasons at the bottom, though we are unfor-
tunately not able to see so far. Now in reality
the world have paid too great a compliment
to critics, and have imagined them men of much
greater profundity than they really are : from this
complaisance the critics have been emboldened
to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far
succeeded that they have now become the mas-
ters, and have the assurance to give laws to
those authors from whose predecessors they
originally received them. The critic, rightly
considered, is no more than the clerk, whose
office it is to transcribe the rules and laws laid
down by those great judges, whose vast strength
of genius has placed them in the light of legis-
lators in the several sciences over which they
presided: this office was all which the critics
of old aspired to; nor did they ever dare to
advance a sentence, without supporting it by
the authority of the judge from whence it was
borrowed. But in process of time, and in
ages of ignorance, the clerk began to invade the
power and assume the dignity of his master;
the laws of writing were no longer founded on
the practice of the author, but on the dictates
of the critic: the clerk became the legislator,
and those very peremptorily gave laws whose
business it was at first only to transcribe them.
Hence arose an obvious and perhaps an un-
avoidable error; for these critics, being men of
shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere
form for substance: they acted as a judge
would who should adhere to the lifeless letter
of law, and reject the spirit. Little circum-
stances, which were perhaps accidental in a
great author, were by these critics considered to
constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as
essentials to be observed by all his successors;
to these encroachments, time and ignorance,
the two great supporters of imposture, gave
authority; and thus many rules for good writ-
ing have been established, which have not the
least foundation in truth or nature ; and which
commonly serve for no other purpose than to
curb and restrain genius in the same manner
as it would have restrained the dancing master,
had the many excellent treatises on that art
laid it down as an essential rule that every
man must dance in chains. To avoid, there-
TOM JONES
229
fore, all imputation of laying down a rule for
posterity, founded only on the authority of
ipse dixit, — for which, to say the truth, we
have not the profoundest veneration, — we
shall here waive the privilege above contended
for, and proceed to lay before the reader the
reasons which have induced us to intersperse
these several digressive essays in the course of
this work. And here we shall of necessity be
led to open a new vein of knowledge, which, if
it has been discovered, has not to our remem-
brance been wrought on by any ancient or
modern writer: this vein is no other than that
of contrast, which runs through all the works
of the creation, and may probably have a large
share in constituting in us the idea of all beauty,
as well natural as artificial: for what demon-
strates the beauty and excellence of anything
but its reverse? Thus the beauty of day, and
that of summer, is set off by the horrors of night
and winter; and I believe, if it was possible
for a man to have seen only the two former,
he would have a very imperfect idea of their
beauty. But to avoid too serious an air; can
it be doubted but that the finest woman in the
world would lose all benefit of her charms in
the eyes of a man who had never seen one of
another cast? The ladies themselves seem
so sensible of this, that they are all industrious
to procure foils; nay, they will become foils
to themselves: for I have observed, at Bath
particularly, that they endeavour to appear as
ugly as possible in the morning, in order to set
off that beauty which they intend to show you
in the evening. Most artists have this secret
in practice, though some perhaps have not
much studied the theory; the jeweller knows
that the finest brilliant requires a foil; and
the painter, by the contrast of his figures, often
acquires great applause.
A great genius among us will illustrate this
matter fully. I cannot indeed range him under
any general head of common artists, as he has a
title to be placed among those
Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes:
Who by invented arts have life improved.
I mean here, the inventor of that most exquisite
entertainment, called the English pantomime.
This entertainment consisted of two parts,
which the inventor distinguished by the names
of the serious and the comic. The serious ex-
hibited a certain number of heathen gods and
heroes, who were certainly the worst and dullest
company into which an audience was ever in-
troduced; and, which was a secret known to
few, were actually intended so to be, in order to
contrast the comic part of the entertainment,
and to display the tricks of Harlequin to the
better advantage. This was, perhaps, no very
civil use of such personages, but the contriv-
ance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough,
and had its effect. And this will now plainly
appear, if, instead of serious and comic, we
supply the words duller and dullest, for the
comic was certainly duller than anything before
shown on the stage, and could be set off only
by that superlative degree of dullness which
composed the serious. So intolerably serious,
indeed, were these gods and heroes, that Harle-
quin (though the English gentleman of that
name is not at all related to the French family,
for he is of a much more serious disposition)
was always welcome on the stage, as he relieved
the audience from worse company. Judicious
writers have always practised this art of con-
trast, with great success. I have been surprised
that Horace should cavil at this art in Homer;
but, indeed, he contradicts himself in the very
next line:
Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus,
Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum:
I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep;
Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep:
for we are not here to understand, as perhaps
some have, that an author actually falls asleep
while he is writing. It is true that readers are
too apt to be so overtaken. But if the work
was as long as any of Oldmixon, the author
himself is too well entertained to be subject
to the least drowsiness: he is, as Mr. Pope
observes,
Sleepless himself to give his readers sleep.
To say the truth, these soporific parts are so
many serious scenes artfully interwoven, in
order to contrast and set off the rest; and this
is the true meaning of a late facetious writer,
who told the public that, whenever he was dull,
they might be assured there was a design in it.
In this light, then, or rather in this darkness, I
would have the reader to consider these initial
essays; and, after this warning, if he shall be
of opinion that he can find enough of serious
in other parts of this history, he may pass over
these, in which we profess to be laboriously
dull, and begin the following books at the
second chapter.
230
HENRY FIELDING
BOOK VIII
CHAP. I. — A WONDERFUL LONG CHAPTER CON-
CERNING THE MARVELLOUS; BEING MUCH THE
LONGEST OF ALL OUR INTRODUCTORY CHAPTERS
As we are now entering upon a book, in which
the course of our history will oblige us to relate
some matters of a more strange and surprising
kind than any which have hitherto occurred,
it may not be amiss, in the prolegomenous or
introductory chapter, to say something of that
species of writing which is called the marvel-
lous. To this we shall, as well for the sake
of ourselves as of others, endeavour to set some
certain bounds; and, indeed, nothing can be
more necessary, as critics of very different com-
plexions are here apt to run into very different
extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier,
ready to allow, that the same thing which is
impossible may yet be probable, others have so
little historic or poetic faith, that they believe
nothing to be either possible or probable, the
like to which has not occurred to their own
observation. First, then, I think it may very
reasonably be required of every writer, that he
keeps within the bounds of possibility ; and still
remembers that what it is not possible for man
to perform, it is scarce possible for man to be-
lieve he did perform. This conviction, perhaps,
gave birth to many stories of the ancient heathen
deities, for most of them are of poetical original.
The poet, being desirous to indulge a wanton
and extravagant imagination, took refuge in
that power, of the extent of which his readers
were no judges, or rather which they imagined
to be infinite, and consequently they could not
be shocked at any prodigies related of it. This
has been strongly urged in defence of Homer's
miracles: and it is perhaps a defence; not, as
Mr. Pope would have it, because Ulysses told
a set of lies to the Pheacians, who were a very
dull nation; but because the poet himself
wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables
were articles of faith.
For my own part, I must confess, so com-
passionate is my temper, I wish Polypheme
had confined himself to his milk diet, and pre-
served his eye ; nor could Ulysses be much more
concerned than myself, when his companions
were turned into swine by Circe, who showed,
I think, afterwards too much regard for man's
flesh, to be supposed capable of converting
it into bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my
heart, that Homer could have known the rule
prescribed by Horace, to introduce super-
natural agents as seldom as possible : we should
not then have seen his gods coming on trivial
errands, and often behaving themselves so as
not only to forfeit all title to respect, but to
become the objects of scorn and derision; a
conduct which must have shocked the cre-
dulity of a pious and sagacious heathen ; and
which could never have been defended, unless
by agreeing with a supposition to which I have
been sometimes almost inclined, that this most
glorious poet, as he certainly was, had an intent
to burlesque the superstitious faith of his own
age and country. But I have rested too long
on a doctrine which can be of no use to a Chris-
tian writer; for as he cannot introduce into his
works any of that heavenly host which make a
part of his creed, so is it horrid puerility to
search the heathen theology for any of those
deities who have been long since dethroned from
their immortality. Lord Shaftesbury observes,
that nothing is more cold than the invocation of
a Muse by a modern: he might have added,
that nothing can be more absurd. A modern
may, with much more elegance, invoke a
ballad, as some have thought Homer did, or a
mug of ale, with the author of Hudibras;
which latter may perhaps have inspired much
more poetry, as well as prose, than all the
liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.
The only supernatural agents which can in
any manner be allowed to us moderns, are
ghosts; but of these I would advise an author
to be extremely sparing. These are indeed,
like arsenic, and other dangerous drugs in
physic, to be used with the utmost caution:
nor would I adyise the introduction of them at
all in those works, or by those authors, to which,
or to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader would
be any great prejudice or mortification. As
for elves and fairies, and other such mummery,
I purposely omit the mention of them, as I
should be very unwilling to confine within any
bounds those surprising imaginations, for
whose vast capacity the limits of human na-
ture are too narrow; whose works are to be
considered as a new creation; and who have,
consequently, just right to do what they will
with their own. Man, therefore, is the high-
est subject, unless on very extraordinary occa-
sions indeed, which presents itself to the pen
of our historian, or of our poet; and, in relating
his actions, great care is to be taken that we do
not exceed the capacity of the agent we de-
scribe. Nor is possibility alone sufficient to
justify us; we must keep likewise within the
rules of probability. It is, I think, the opinion
of Aristotle ; or, if not, it is the opinion of some
TOM JONES
231
wise man, whose authority will be as weighty
when it is as old, "That it is no excuse for a poet
who relates what is incredible, that the thing
related is a matter of fact." This may, per-
haps, be allowed true with regard to poetry,
but it may be thought impracticable to extend
it to the historian; for he is obliged to record
matters as he finds them, though they may
be of so extraordinary a nature as will require
no small degree of historical faith to swallow
them. Such was the successless armament
of Xerxes, described by Herodotus, or the suc-
cessful expedition of Alexander, related by
Arrian: such of later years was the victory
of Agincourt, obtained by Harry the Fifth, or
that of Narva, won by Charles the Twelfth of
Sweden : all which instances, the more we reflect
on them, appear still the more astonishing.
Such facts, however, as they occur in the
thread of the story, nay, indeed, as they con-
stitute the essential part of it, the historian is
not only justifiable in recording as they really
happened, but indeed would be unpardonable
should he omit or alter them. But there are
other facts, not of such consequence nor so
necessary, which, though ever so well attested,
may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion,
in complaisance to the scepticism of a reader:
such is that memorable story of the ghost of
George Villiers, which might with more pro-
priety have been made a present of to Dr.
Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost of Mrs.
Veale company, at the head of his "Discourse
upon Death," than have been introduced into
so solemn a work as the "History of the Rebel-
lion." To say the truth, if the historian will
confine himself to what really happened, and
utterly reject any circumstance, which, though
ever so well attested, he must be well assured
is false, he will sometimes fall into the marvel-
lous, but never into the incredible: he will often
raise the wonder and surprise of his reader, but
never that incredulous hatred mentioned by
Horace. It is by falling into fiction therefore
that we generally offend against this rule, of
deserting probability, which the historian sel-
dom, if ever, quits till he forsakes his character,
and commences a writer of romance. In this,
however, those historians who relate public
transactions, have the advantage of us, who con-
fine ourselves to scenes of private life. The
credit of the former is by common notoriety
supported for a long time ; and public records,
with the concurrent testimony of many authors,
bear evidence to their truth in future ages.
Thus a Trajan and an Antoninus, a Nero and
a Caligula, have all met with the belief of pos-
terity ; and no one doubts but that men so very
good and so very bad were once the masters of
mankind: but we, who deal in private char-
acter, who search into the most retired recesses,
and draw forth examples of virtue and vice
from holes and corners of the world, are in a
more dangerous situation. As we have no
public notoriety, no concurrent testimony,
no records to support and corroborate what
we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the
limits not only of possibility, but of probability
too; and this more especially in painting what
is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and
folly, though ever so exorbitant, will more easily
meet with assent, for ill-nature adds great sup-
port and strength to faith. Thus we may per-
haps with little danger, relate the history of
Fisher, who having long owed his bread to the
generosity of Mr. Derby, and having one morn-
ing received a considerable bounty from his
hands, yet in order to possess himself of what
remained in his friend's escritoire, concealed
himself in a public office of the Temple, through
which there was a passage into Mr. Derby's
chambers. Here he overheard Mr. Derby for
many hours solacing himself at an entertain-
ment which he that evening gave his friends,
and to which Fisher had been invited; during
all this time no tender, no grateful reflections
arose to restrain his purpose; but when the
poor gentleman had let his company out through
the office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurk-
ing-place, and, walking softly behind his friend
into his chamber, discharged a pistol-ball into
his head. This may be believed when the
bones of Fisher are as rotten as his heart.
Nay, perhaps, it will be credited, that the
villain went .two days afterwards with some
young ladies to the play of Hamlet, and, with
an unaltered countenance heard one of the
ladies, who little suspected how near she was
to the person, cry out, "Good God ! if the man
that murdered Mr. Derby was now present!"
manifesting in this a more seared and callous
conscience than even Nero himself; of whom
we are told by Suetonius, "that the conscious-
ness of his guilt, after the death of his mother,
became immediately intolerable, and so con-
tinued; nor could all the congratulations of
the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay
the horrors of his conscience."
But now, on the other hand, should I tell
my reader, that I had known a man whose
penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a
large fortune in a way where no beginning was
232
HENRY FIELDING
chalked out to him ; that he had done this with
the most perfect preservation of his integrity,
and not only without the least injustice or in-
jury to any one individual person, but with the
highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase
of the public revenue; that he had expended
one part of the income of this fortune in dis-
covering a taste superior to most, by works
where the highest dignity was united with the
purest simplicity, and another part in displaying
a degree of goodness superior to all men, by
acts of charity to objects whose only recom-
mendations were their merits or their wants;
that he was most industrious in searching after
merit in distress, most eager to relieve it, and
then as careful, perhaps too careful, to conceal
what he had done; that his house, his furni-
ture, his gardens, his table, his private hos-
pitality, and his public beneficence, all denoted
the mind from which they flowed, and were all
intrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or
external ostentation; that he filled every rela-
tion in life with the most adequate virtue;
that he was most piously religious to his Creator,
most zealously loyal to his sovereign, a most
tender husband to his wife, a kind relation, a
munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a
knowing and a cheerful companion, indulgent
to his servants, hospitable to his neighbours,
charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all
mankind : — should I add to these the epithets
of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed every other
epithet in our language; I might surely say,
. . . Quis credet? nemo, Hercule! nemo:
Vel duo, vel nemo : l
and yet I know a man who is all I have here
described. But a single instance (and I really
know not such another) is not sufficient to
justify us, while we are writing to thousands
who never heard of the person, nor of anything
like him. Such rarae aves 2 should be remitted
to the epitaph-writer, or to some poet, who may
condescend to hitch him in a distich, or to slide
him into a rhyme with an air of carelessness and
neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.
In the last place, the actions should be such
as may not only be within the compass of human
agency, and which human agents may probably
be supposed to do; but they should be likely
for the very actors and characters themselves
to have performed; for what may be only
wonderful and surprising in one man, may
1 Who will believe it ? No one, by Hercules 1
no one ; two at most, or none. 2 rare birds
become improbable, or indeed impossible, when
related of another. This last requisite is what
the dramatic critics call conservation of char-
acter; and it requires a very extraordinary
degree of judgment, and a most exact know-
ledge of human nature.
It is admirably remarked by a most excellent
writer, that zeal can no more hurry a man to
act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapid
stream can carry a boat against its own current.
I will venture to say, that for a man to act in
direct contradiction to the dictates of his nature,
is, if not impossible, as improbable and as
miraculous as anything which can be well con-
ceived. Should the best parts of the story of
M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should
the worst incidents of Nero's life be imputed to
Antoninus, what would be more shocking to
belief than either instance? whereas both
these, being related of their proper agent, con-
stitute the truly marvellous. Our modern
authors of comedy have fallen almost univer-
sally into the error here hinted at : their heroes
generally are notorious rogues, and their hero-
ines abandoned jades, during the first four
acts; but in the fifth, the former become very
worthy gentlemen, and the latter women of
virtue and discretion; nor is the writer often
so kind as to give himself the least trouble to
reconcile or account for this monstrous change
and incongruity. There is indeed no other
reason to be assigned for it, than because the
play is drawing to a conclusion ; as if it was no
less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act
of a play, than in the last of his life ; which we.
perceive to be generally the case at Tyburn, a
place which might indeed close the scene of
some comedies with much propriety, as the
heroes in these are commonly eminent for
those very talents which not only bring men to
the gallows, but enable them to make an heroic
figure when they are there.
Within these few restrictions, I think, every
writer may be permitted to deal as much in the
wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps
within the rules of credibility, the more he can
surprise the reader, the more he will engage
his attention, and the more he will charm him.
As a genius of the highest rank observes in his
fifth chapter of the Bathos, "The great art of
all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in order
to join the credible with the surprising:" for
though every good author will confine himself
within the bounds of probability, it is by no
means necessary that his characters or his
incidents should be trite, common, or vulgar;
TOM JONES
233
such as happen in every street or in every house,
or which may be met with in the home articles
of a newspaper ; nor must he be inhibited from
showing many persons and things, which may
possibly have never fallen within the knowledge
of great part of his readers. If the writer
strictly observes the rules above-mentioned, he
has discharged his part; and is then entitled
to some faith from his reader, who is indeed
guilty of critical infidelity if he disbelieves him.
For want of a portion of such faith, I remember
the character of a young lady of quality was
condemned on the stage for being unnatural,
by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly
of clerks and apprentices, though it had the
previous suffrages of many ladies of the first
rank ; one of whom, very eminent for her under-
standing, declared it was the picture of half the
young people of her acquaintance.
BOOK X
CHAP. I. — CONTAINING INSTRUCTIONS VERY
NECESSARY TO BE PERUSED BY
MODERN CRITICS
Reader, it is impossible we should know
what sort of person thou wilt be; for perhaps
thou mayest be as learned in human nature as
Shakspeare himself was, and perhaps thou
mayest be no wiser than some of his editors.
Now, lest this latter should be the case, we
think proper, before we go any farther together,
to give thee a few wholesome admonitions,
that thou mayest not as grossly misunderstand
and misrepresent us, as some of the said editors
have misunderstood and misrepresented their
author. First, then, we warn thee not too
hastily to condemn any of the incidents in this
our history as impertinent and foreign to our
main design, because thou dost not immediately
conceive in what manner such incident may
conduce to that design. This work may,
indeed, be considered as a great creation of our
own ; and for a little reptile of a critic to pre-
sume to find fault with any of its parts, without
knowing the manner in which the whole is
connected, and before he comes to the final
catastrophe, is a most presumptuous absurdity.
The allusion and metaphor we have here made
use of, we must acknowledge to be infinitely
too great for our occasion ; but there is, indeed,
no other which is at all adequate to express the
difference between an author of the first rate
and a critic of the lowest. Another caution we
would give thee, my good reptile, is, that thou
dost not find out too near a resemblance between
certain characters here introduced; as, for
instance, between the landlady who appears
in the seventh book and her in the ninth.
Thou art to know, friend, that there are certain
characteristics in which most individuals of
every profession and occupation agree: to be
able to preserve these characteristics, and at the
same time to diversify their operations, is one
talent of a good writer. Again, to mark the
nice distinction between two persons actuated
by the same vice or folly, is another; and as
this last talent is found in very few writers,
so is the true discernment of it found in as few
readers; though, I believe, the observation of
this forms a very principal pleasure in those
who are capable of the discovery. Every
person, for instance, can distinguish between
Sir Epicure Mammon and Sir Fopling Flutter;
but to note the difference between Sir Fopling
Flutter and Sir Courtly Nice requires a more
exquisite judgment, for want of which, vulgar
spectators of plays very often do great injustice
in the theatre, where I have sometimes known
a poet in danger of being convicted as a thief,
upon much worse evidence than the resemblance
of hands has been held to be in the law. In
reality, I apprehend every amorous widow on
the stage would run the hazard of being con-
demned as a servile imitation of Dido, but that
happily very few of our playhouse critics under-
stand enough of Latin to read Virgil.
In the next place, we must admonish thee,
my worthy friend (for perhaps thy heart may
be better than thy head), not to condemn a
character as a bad one because it is not perfectly
a good one. If thou dost delight in these
models of perfection, there are books enow
written to gratify thy taste; but as we have
not, in the course of our conversation, ever
happened to meet with any such person, we
have not chosen to introduce any such here.
To say the truth, I a little question whether
mere man ever arrived at this consummate
degree of excellence, as well as whether there
has ever existed a monster bad enough to verify
that
. . . nulla virtute redemptum
A vitiis * . . .
in Juvenal : nor do I, indeed, conceive the good
purposes served by inserting characters of such
angelic perfection, or such diabolical depravity,
in any work of invention ; since, from contem-
plating either, the mind of man is more likely
1 by no virtue redeemed from his vices
234
SAMUEL JOHNSON
to be overwhelmed with sorrow and shame,
than to draw any good uses from such patterns ;
for, in the former instance, he may be both
concerned and ashamed to see a pattern of
excellence in his nature, which he may reason-
ably despair of ever arriving at: and, in con-
templating the latter, he may be no less af-
fected with those uneasy sensations, at seeing
the nature, of which he is a partaker, degraded
into so odious and detestable a creature. In
fact, if there be enough of goodness in a char-
acter to engage the admiration and affection of
a well-disposed mind, though there should
appear some of those little blemishes, quas
humana parum ca-vit natura,1 they will raise
our compassion rather than our abhorrence.
Indeed, nothing can be of more moral use than
the imperfections which are seen in examples
of this kind; since such form a kind of surprise,
more apt to affect and dwell upon our minds,
than the faults of very vicious and wicked
persons. The foibles and vices of men, in
whom there is a great mixture of good, become
more glaring objects from the virtues which
contrast them and show their deformity; and
when we find such vices attended with their
evil consequence to our favourite characters,
we are not only taught to shun them for our own
sake, but to hate them for the mischiefs they
have already brought on those we love. And
now, my friend, having given you these few
admonitions, we will, if you please, once more
set forward with our history.
SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784)
CONGREVE
William Congreve descended from a family
in Staffordshire, of so great antiquity that it
claims a place among the few that extend their
line beyond the Norman Conquest; and was
the son of William Congreve, second son of
Richard Congreve, of Congreve and Stratton.
He visited, once at least, the residence of his
ancestors; and, I believe, more places than one
are still shown, in groves and gardens, where
he is related to have written his "Old Bach-
elor."
Neither the time nor place of his birth are
certainly known; if the inscription upon his
monument be true, he was born in 1672. For
the place ; it was said by himself, that he owed
his nativity to England, and by every body
1 which human nature too little avoids
else that he was born in Ireland. Southern
mentioned him with sharp censure, as a man
that meanly disowned his native country. The
biographers assign his nativity to Bardsa, near
Leeds in Yorkshire, from the account given by
himself, as they suppose, to Jacob.
To doubt whether a man of eminence has
told the truth about his own birth, is, in appear-
ance, to be very deficient in candour; yet no-
body can live long without knowing that false-
hoods of convenience or vanity, falsehoods
from which no evil immediately visible ensues,
except the general degradation of human
testimony, are very lightly uttered, and once
uttered are sullenly supported. Boileau, who
desired to be thought a rigorous and steady
moralist, having told a petty lie to Lewis XIV,
continued it afterwards by false dates; "think-
ing himself obliged in honour," says his admirer,
"to maintain what, when he said it, was so
well received."
Wherever Congreve was born, he was edu-
cated first at Kilkenny, and afterwards at
Dublin, his father having some military employ-
ment that stationed him in Ireland: but, after
having passed through the usual preparatory
studies, as may be reasonably supposed, with
great celerity and success, his father thought it
proper to assign him a profession, by which
something might be gotten; and about the
time of the Revolution sent him, at the age of
sixteen, to study law in the Middle Temple,
where he lived for several years, but with very
little attention to Statutes or Reports.
His disposition to become an author appeared
very early, as he very early felt that force of
imagination, and possessed that copiousness of
sentiment, by which intellectual pleasure can
be given. His first performance was a novel,
called "Incognita, or Love and Duty recon-
ciled:" it is praised by the biographers, who
quote some part of the Preface, that is, indeed,
for such a time of life, uncommonly judicious.
I would rather praise it than read it.
His first dramatic labour was "The Old
Bachelor;" of which he says, in his defence
against Collier, "that the comedy was written,
as several know, some years before it was acted.
When I wrote it, I had little thoughts of the
stage; but did it to amuse myself in a slow
recover}- from a fit of sickness. Afterwards,
through my indiscretion, it was seen, and in
some little time more it was acted; and I,
through the remainder of my indiscretion, suf-
fered myself to be drawn into the prosecution
of a difficult and thankless study, and to be
CONGREVE
235
involved in a perpetual war with knaves and
fools."
There seems to be a strange affectation in
authors of appearing to have done every thing
by chance. "The Old Bachelor" was written
for amusement in the languor of convalescence.
Yet it is apparently composed with great elabo-
rateness of dialogue, and incessant ambition
of wit. The age of the writer considered, it
is indeed a very wonderful performance;
for, whenever written, it was acted (1693)
when he was not more than twenty-one years
old; and was then recommended by Mr.
Dryden, Mr. Southern, and Mr. Maynwaring.
Dryden said that he never had seen such a first
play; but they found it deficient in some things
requisite to the success of its exhibition, and by
their greater experience fitted it for the stage.
Southern used to relate of one comedy, prob-
ably of this, that, when Congreve read it to
the players, he pronounced it so wretchedly, that
they had almost rejected it; but they were
afterwards so well persuaded of its excellence,
that, for half a year before it was acted, the
manager allowed its author the privilege of the
house.
Few plays have ever been so beneficial to
the writer; for it procured him the patronage
of Halifax, who immediately made him one of
the commissioners for licensing coaches, and
soon after gave him a place in the pipe-office,
and another in the customs of six hundred
pounds a year. Congreve's conversation must
surely have been at least equally pleasing with
his writings.
Such a comedy, written at such an age, re-
quires some consideration. As the lighter
species of dramatic poetry professes the imi-
tation of common life, of real manners, and
daily incidents, it apparently presupposes a
familiar knowledge of many characters, and
exact observation of the passing world; the
difficulty therefore is, to conceive how this
knowledge can be obtained by a boy.
But if "The Old Bachelor" be more nearly
examined, it will be found to be one of those
comedies which may be made by a mind vigor-
ous and acute, and furnished with comic char-
acters by the perusal of other poets, without
much actual commerce with mankind. The
dialogue is one constant reciprocation of con-
ceits, or clash of wit, in which nothing flows
necessarily from the occasion or is dictated by
nature. The characters both of men and wo-
men are either fictitious and artificial, as those
of Heartwell and the Ladies; or easy and
common, as Wittol a tame idiot, Bluff a swag-
gering coward, and Fondlewife a jealous puri-
tan ; and the catastrophe arises from a mistake
not very probably produced, by marrying a
woman in a mask.
Yet this gay comedy, when all these deduc-
tions are made, will still remain the work of
very powerful and fertile faculties; the dia-
logue is quick and sparkling, the incidents such
as seize the attention, and the wit so exuberant
that it " o'er-informs its tenement."
Next year he gave another specimen of his
abilities in "The Double Dealer," which was
not received with equal kindness. He writes
to his patron the lord Halifax a dedication, in
which he endeavours to reconcile the reader
to that which found few friends among the
audience. These apologies are always useless:
"de gustibus non est disputandum ; " men may
be convinced, but they cannot be pleased,
against their will. But, though taste is ob-
stinate, it is very variable : and time often pre-
vails when arguments have failed.
Queen Mary conferred upon both those
plays the honour of her presence; and when
she died soon after, Congreve testified his
gratitude by a despicable effusion of elegiac
pastoral ; a composition in which all is unnat-
ural, and yet nothing is new.
In another year (1695) his prolific pen pro-
duced "Love for Love;" a comedy of nearer
alliance to life, and exhibiting moje real
manners than either of the former. The char-
acter of Foresight was then common. Dryden
calculated nativities; both Cromwell and King
William had their lucky days ; and Shaftesbury
himself, though he had no religion, was said
to regard predictions. The Sailor is not ac-
counted very natural, but he is very pleasant.
With this play was opened the New Theatre,
under the direction of Betterton the tragedian ;
where he exhibited two years afterwards (1687)
"The Mourning Bride," a tragedy, so written
as to show him sufficiently qualified for either
kind of dramatic poetry.
In this play, of which, when he afterwards
revised it, he reduced the versification to greater
regularity, there is more bustle than sentiment ;
the plot is busy and intricate, and the events
take hold on the attention ; but, except a very
few passages, we are rather amused with noise,
and perplexed with stratagem, than enter-
tained with any true delineation of natural
characters. This, however, was received with
more benevolence than any other of his works,
and still continues to be acted and applauded.
236
SAMUEL JOHNSON
But whatever objections may be made either
to his comic or tragic excellence, they are lost
at once in the blaze of admiration, when it is re-
membered that he had produced these four plays
before he had passed his twenty-fifth year,
before other men, even such as are sometime
to shine in eminence, have passed their proba-
tion of literature, or presume to hope for any
other notice than such as is bestowed on dili-
gence and inquiry. Among all the efforts of
early genius which literary history records, I
doubt whether any one can be produced that
more surpasses the common limits of nature
than the plays of Congreve.
About this time began the long-continued
controversy between Collier and the poets.
In the reign of Charles the First the Puritans
had raised a violent clamour against the drama,
which they considered as an entertainment
not lawful to Christians, an opinion held by
them in common with the church of Rome;
and Prynne published " Histriomastix," a huge
volume, in which stage-plays were censured.
The outrages and crimes of the Puritans
brought afterwards their whole system of doc-
trine into disrepute, and from the Restoration
the poets and players were left at quiet; for
to have molested them would have had the
appearance of tendency to puritanical malig-
nity.
This danger, however, was worn away by
time; and Collier, a fierce and implacable
Nonjuror, knew that an attack upon the theatre
would never make him suspected for a Puritan;
he therefore (1698) published "A short View
of the Immorality and Profaneness of the
English Stage," I believe with no other motive
than religious zeal and honest indignation. He
was formed for a controvertist ; with sufficient
learning; with diction vehement and pointed,
though often vulgar and incorrect ; with uncon-
querable pertinacity; with wit in the highest
degree keen and sarcastic; and with all those
powers, exalted and invigorated by just con-
fidence in his cause.
Thus qualified, and thus incited, he walked
out to battle, and assailed at once most of the
living writers, from Dryden to D'Urfey. His
onset was violent; those passages, which,
while they stood single had passed with little
notice, when they were accumulated and ex-
posed together, excited horror; the wise and
the pious caught the alarm; and the nation
wondered why it had so long suffered irreligion
and licentiousness to be openly taught at the
public charge.
Nothing now remained for the poets but
to resist or fly. Dryden's conscience, or his
prudence, angry as he was, withheld him from
the conflict : Congreve and Vanbrugh attempted
answers. Congreve, a very young man, elated
with success, and impatient of censure, as-
sumed an air of confidence and security. His
chief artifice of controversy is to retort upon his
adversary his own words; he is very angry,
and, hoping to conquer Collier with his own
weapons, allows himself in the use of every
term of contumely and contempt; but he has
the sword without the arm of Scanderbeg; he
has his antagonist's coarseness, but not his
strength. Collier replied; for contest was his
delight, he was not to be frighted from his pur-
pose or his prey.
The cause of Congreve was not tenable;
whatever glosses he might use for the defence
or palliation of single passages, the general
tenor and tendency of his plays must always
be condemned. It is acknowledged, with uni-
versal conviction, that the perusal of his works
will make no man better; and that their ulti-
mate effect is to represent pleasure in alliance
with vice, and to relax those obligations by
which life ought to be regulated.
The stage found other advocates, and the
dispute was protracted through ten years: but
at last Comedy grew more modest; and
Collier lived to see the reward of his labour
in the reformation of the theatre.
Of the powers by which this important vic-
tory was achieved, a quotation from "Love
for Love," and the remark upon it, may afford
a specimen:
"Sir Samps. Sampson's a very good name;
for your Sampsons were strong dogs from the
beginning.
"Angel. Have a care — If you remember,
the strongest Sampson of your name pull'd
an old house over his head at last."
Here you have the Sacred History bur-
lesqued; and Sampson once more brought
into the house of Dagon, to make sport for
the Philistines.
Congreve's last play was "The Way of the
World;" which, though as he hints in his
dedication it was written with great labour
and much thought, was received with so little
favour, that, being in a high degree offended
and disgusted, he resolved to commit his quiet
and his fame no more to the caprices of an
audience.
From this time his life ceased to the public;
he lived for himself and for his friends; and
CONGREVE
among his friends was able to name every
man of his time whom wit and elegance had
raised to reputation. It may be therefore
reasonably supposed that his manners were
polite, and his conversation pleasing.
He seems not to have taken much pleasure
in writing, as he contributed nothing to the
Spectator, and only one paper to the Tatler,
though published by men with whom he might
be supposed willing to associate; and though
he lived many years after the publication of
his "Miscellaneous Poems," yet he added
nothing to them, but lived on in literary indo-
lence; engaged in no controversy, contending
with no rival, neither soliciting flattery by
public commendations, nor provoking enmity
by malignant criticism, but passing his time
among the great and splendid, in the placid
enjoyment of his fame and fortune.
Having owed his fortune to Halifax, he con-
tinued always of his patron's party, but, as
it seems, without violence or acrimony; and
his firmness was naturally esteemed, as his
abilities were reverenced. His security there-
fore was never violated; and when, upon the
extrusion of the Whigs, some intercession was
used lest Congreve should be displaced, the
earl of Oxford made this answer:
" Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Poeni,
Nee tarn aversus equos Tyria sol jungit ab urbe." l
He that was thus honoured by the adverse
party might naturally expect to be advanced
when his friends returned to power, and he
was accordingly made secretary for the island
of Jamaica; a place, I suppose, without trust
or care, but which, with his post in the cus-
toms, is said to have afforded him twelve hun-
dred pounds a year.
His honours were yet far greater than his
profits. Every writer mentioned him with
respect; and, among other testimonies to his
merit, Steele made him the patron of his Mis-
cellany, and Pope inscribed to him his trans-
lation of the Iliad.
But he treated the Muses with ingratitude;
for, having long conversed familiarly with the
great, he wished to be considered rather as a
man of fashion than of wit; and, when he
received a visit from Voltaire, disgusted him
by the despicable foppery of desiring to be
considered not as an author but a gentleman;
1 We Carthaginians bear not such blunted souls
nor does the sun averse from our city yoke his steeds.
to which the Frenchman replied, "that, if he
had been only a gentleman, he should not have
come to visit him."
In his retirement he may be supposed to
have applied himself to books ; for he discovers
more literature than the poets have commonly
attained. But his studies were in his latter
days obstructed by cataracts in his eyes, which
at last terminated in blindness. This melan-
choly state was aggravated by the gout, for
which he sought relief by a journey to Bath;
but, being overturned in his chariot, com-
plained from that time of a pain in his side,
and died at his house in Surrey-street in
the Strand, Jan. 29, 1728-9. Having lain
in state in the Jerusalem-chamber, he was
buried in Westminster-abbey, where a monu-
ment is erected to his memory by Henrietta,
duchess of Marlborough, to whom, for reasons
either not known or not mentioned, he be-
queathed a legacy of about ten thousand
pounds; the accumulation of attentive parsi-
mony, which though to her superfluous and
useless, might have given great assistance to
the ancient family from which he descended,
at that time, by the imprudence of his relation,
reduced to difficulties and distress.
Congreve has merit of the highest kind; he
is an original writer, who borrowed neither
the models of his plot nor the manner of his
dialogue. Of his plays I cannot speak dis-
tinctly; for since I inspected them many years
have passed; but what remains upon my
memory is, that his characters are commonly
fictitious and artificial, with very little of
nature, and not much of life. He formed a
peculiar idea of comic excellence, which he
supposed to consist in gay remarks and un-
expected answers; but that which he en-
deavoured, he seldom failed of performing.
His scenes exhibit not much of humour,
imagery, or passion ; his personages are a kind
of intellectual gladiators; every sentence is to
ward or strike; the contest of smartness is
never intermitted; his wit is a meteor play-
ing to and fro with alternate coruscations.
His comedies have therefore, in some degree,
the operation of tragedies ; they surprise rather
than divert, and raise admiration oftener than
merriment. But they are the works of a mind
replete with images, and quick in combination.
Of his miscellaneous poetry I cannot say
any thing very favourable. The powers of
Congreve seem to desert him when he leaves
the stage, as Antaeus was no longer strong
than when he could touch the ground. It
238
SAMUEL JOHNSON
cannot be observed without wonder, that a
mind so vigorous and fertile in dramatic com-
positions should on any other occasion dis-
cover nothing but impotence and poverty. He
has in these little pieces neither elevation of
fancy, selection of language, nor skill in versi-
fication; yet, if I were required to select from
the whole mass of English poetry the most
poetical paragraph, I know not what I could
prefer to an exclamation in "The Mourning
Bride":
Aim. It was a fancy'd noise; for all is hush'd.
Leo. It bore the accent of a human voice.
Aim. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle:
We'll listen —
Leo. Hark!
Aim. No, all is hush'd and still as death. — 'Tis
dreadful !
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immoveable,
Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment
the powers of a poet ; he feels what he remem-
bers to have felt before; but he feels it with
great increase of sensibility; he recognizes a
familiar image, but meets it again amplified
and expanded, embellished with beauty, and
enlarged with majesty.
Yet could the author, who appears here to
have enjoyed the confidence of Nature, lament
the death of queen Mary in lines like these :
The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills
Furrow the brows of all the impending hills.
The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn,
And each, with streaming eyes, supplies his wanting
urn.
The Fauns forsake the woods, the Nymphs the grove,
And round the plain in sad distractions rove:
In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,
And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.
With their sharp nails, themselves the Satyrs wound,
And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief the
ground.
Lo Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak,
Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke.
See Pales weeping too, in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bosom bare.
And see yon fading myrtle, where appears
The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing tears;
See how she wrings her hands, and beats her breast,
And tears her useless girdle from her waist !
Hear the sad murmurs of her sighing doves !
For grief they sigh, forgetful of their loves.
And, many years after, he gave no proof that
time had improved his wisdom or his wit ; for,
on the death of the marquis of Blandford, this
was his song:
And now the winds, which had so long been still,
Began the swelling air with sighs to fill !
The water nymphs, who motionless remain'd,
Like images of ice, while she complain' d,
Now loos'd their streams; as when descending rains
Roll the steep torrents headlong o'er the plains.
The prone creation, who so long had gaz'd,
Charm'd with her cries, and at her griefs amaz'd,
Began to roar and howl with horrid yell,
Dismal to hear, and terrible to tell !
Nothing but groans and sighs were heard around,
And Echo multiplied each mournful sound.
In both these funeral poems, when he has
yelled out many syllables of senseless dolour,
he dismisses his reader with senseless conso-
lation: from the grave of Pastora rises a light
that forms a star; and where Amaryllis wept
for Amyntas, from every tear sprung up a
violet.
But William is his hero, and of William he
will sing:
The hovering winds on downy wings shall wait around,
And catch, and waft to foreign lands, the flying sound.
It cannot but be proper to show what they
shall have to catch and carry:
'Twas now when flowery lawns the prospect made,
And flowing brooks beneath a forest shade,
A lowing heifer, loveliest of the herd,
Stood feeding by; while two fierce bulls prepar'd
Their armed heads for fight, by fate of war to prove
The victor worthy of the fair-one's love;
Unthought presage of what met next my view;
For soon the shady scene withdrew.
And now, for woods and fields, and springing flowers,
Behold a town arise, bulwark'd with walls and
lofty towers;
Two rival armies all the plain o'erspread,
Each in battalia rang'd, and shining arms array'd;
With eager eyes beholding both from far
Namur, the prize and mistress of the war.
The "Birth of the Muse" is a miserable
fiction. One good line it has, which was
ESSAYS FROM THE RAMBLER
239
borrowed from Dryden. The concluding verses
are these:
This said, no more remain' d. Th' etherial host
Again impatient crowd the crystal coast.
The father, now, within his spacious hands;
Encompass'd all the mingled mass of seas and
lands;
And, having heav'd aloft the ponderous sphere,
He launch'd the world to float in ambient air.
Of his irregular poems, that to Mrs. Ara-
bella Hunt seems to be the best: his ode for
St. Cecilia's Day, however, has some lines
which Pope had in his mind when he wrote
his own.
His imitations of Horace are feebly para-
phrastical, and the additions which he makes
are of little value. He sometimes retains
what were more properly omitted, as when he
talks of vervain and gums to propitiate Venus.
Of his translations, the satire of Juvenal
was written very early, and may therefore be
forgiven though it have not the massiness and
vigour of the original. In all his versions
strength and sprightliness are wanting: his
Hymn to Venus, from Homer, is perhaps the
best. His lines are weakened with expletives,
and his rhymes are frequently imperfect.
His petty poems are seldom worth the cost
of criticism ; sometimes the thoughts are false,
and sometimes common. In his verses on
Lady Gethin, the latter part is in imitation of
Dryden's ode on Mrs. Killigrew; and Doris,
that has been so lavishly flattered by Steele,
has indeed some lively stanzas, but the ex-
pression might be mended; and the most
striking part of the character had been already
shown in "Love for Love." His "Art of
Pleasing" is founded on a vulgar, but perhaps
impracticable principle, and the staleness of
the sense is not concealed by any novelty of
illustration or elegance of diction.
This tissue of poetry, from which he seems
to have hoped a lasting name, is totally neg-
lected, and known only as appended to his
plays.
While comedy or while tragedy is regarded,
his plays are likely to be read; but, except
what relates to the stage, I know not that he
has ever written a stanza that is sung, or a
couplet that is quoted. The general character
of his "Miscellanies" is, that they show little
wit, and little virtue.
Yet to him it must be confessed, that we
are indebted for the correction of a national
error, and for the cure of our Pindaric mad-
ness. He first taught the English writers that
Pindar's odes were regular; and though cer-
tainly he had not the fire requisite for the
higher species of lyric poetry, he has shown
us, that enthusiasm has its rules, and that in
mere confusion there is neither grace nor
greatness.
ESSAYS FROM THE RAMBLER
NO. 68. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1750
Vivendum recte, cum propter plurima, tune his
Praecipue causis, ut linguas mancipiorum
Contemnas ; nam lingua mali pars pessima servi.
— Juv.
Let us live well : were it alone for this
The baneful tongue of servants to despise:
Slander, that worst of poisons, ever finds
An easy entrance to ignoble minds. — HERVEY.
The younger Pliny has very justly observed,
that of actions that deserve our attention, the
most splendid are not always the greatest.
Fame, and wonder, and applause, are not
excited but by external and adventitious cir-
cumstances, often distinct and separate from
virtue and heroism. Eminence of station,
greatness of effect, and all the favours of for-
tune, must concur to place excellence in public
view; but fortitude, diligence, and patience,
divested of their show, glide unobserved through
the crowd of life, and suffer and act, though
with the same vigour and constancy, yet with-
out pity and without praise.
This remark may be extended to all parts of
life. Nothing is to be estimated by its effect
upon common eyes and common ears. A
thousand miseries make silent and invisible
inroads on mankind, and the heart feels in-
numerable throbs which never break into com-
plaint. Perhaps, likewise, our pleasures are
for the most part equally secret, and most are
borne up by some private satisfaction, some
internal consciousness, some latent hope, some
peculiar prospect, which they never communi-
cate, but reserve for solitary hours, and clandes-
tine meditation.
The main of life is, indeed, composed of
small incidents and petty occurrences; of
wishes for objects not remote, and grief for
disappointments of no fatal consequence; of
insect vexations which sting us and fly away,
impertinences which buzz awhile about us,
and are heard no more; of meteorous pleas-
ures which dance before us and are dissipated;
of compliments which glide off the soul like
240
SAMUEL JOHNSON
other music, and are forgotten by him that
gave and him that received them.
Such is the general heap out of which every
man is to cull his own condition; for, as the
chemists tell us, that all bodies are resolvable
into the same elements, and that the bound-
less variety of things arises from the different
proportions of very few ingredients; so a few
pains and a few pleasures are all the materials
of human life, and of these the proportions are
partly allotted by Providence, and partly left
to the arrangement of reason and of choice.
As these are well or ill disposed, man is for
the most part happy or miserable. For very
few are involved in great events, or have their
thread of life entwisted with the chain of
causes on which armies or nations are sus-
pended; and even those who seem wholly
busied in public affairs, and elevated above
low cares, or trivial pleasures, pass the chief
part of their time in familiar and domestic
scenes; from these they came into public life,
to these they are every hour recalled by pas-
sions not to be suppressed; in these they have
the reward of their toils, and to these at last
they retire.
The great end of prudence is to give cheer-
fulness to those hours, which splendour can-
not gild and acclamation cannot exhilarate;
those soft intervals of unbended amusement,
in which a man shrinks to his natural dimen-
sions, and throws aside the ornaments or dis-
guises, which he feels in privacy to be useless
encumbrances, and so lose all effect when they
become familiar. To be happy at home is
the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to
which every enterprise and labour tends, and
of which every desire prompts the prosecution.
It is, indeed, at home that every man must
be known by those who would make a just
estimate either of his virtue or felicity; for
smiles and embroidery are alike occasional,
and the mind is often dressed for show in
painted honour and fictitious benevolence.
Ever}' man Inust have found some whose
lives, in every house but their own, was a
continual series of hypocrisy, and who con-
cealed under fair appearances bad qualities,
which, whenever they thought themselves out
of the reach of censure, broke out from their
restraint, like winds imprisoned in their caverns,
and whom every one had reason to love, but
they whose love a wise man is chiefly solicitous
to procure. And there are others who, with-
out any show of general goodness, and without
the attractions by which popularity is con-
ciliated, are received among their own families
as bestowers of happiness, and reverenced as
instructors, guardians, and benefactors.
The most authentic witnesses of any man's
character are those who know him in his own
family, and see him without any restraint or
rule of conduct, but such as he voluntarily
prescribes to himself. If a man carries virtue
with him into his private apartments, and takes
no advantage of unlimited power or probable
secrecy; if we trace him through the round of
his time, and find that his character, with
those allowances which mortal frailty must
always want, is uniform and regular, we have
all the evidence of his sincerity, that one man
can have with regard to another: and, indeed,
as hypocrisy cannot be its own reward, we
may, without hesitation, determine that his
heart is pure.
The highest panegyric, therefore, that
private virtue can receive, is the praise of
servants. For, however vanity or insolence
may look down with contempt on the suffrage
of men undignified by wealth, and unen-
lightened by education, it very seldom happens
that they commend or blame without justice.
Vice and virtue are easily distinguished. Op-
pression, according to Harrington's aphorism,
will be felt by those that cannot see it; and,
perhaps, it falls out very often that, in moral
questions, the philosophers in the gown, and
in the livery, differ not so much in their senti-
ments, as in their language, and have equal
power of discerning right, though they can-
not point it out to others with equal address.
There are very few faults to be committed
in solitude, or without some agents, partners,
confederates, or witnesses; and, therefore, the
servant must commonly know the secrets of a
master, who has any secrets to entrust; and
failings, merely personal, are so frequently ex-
posed by that security which pride and folly
generally produce, and so inquisitively watched
by that desire of reducing the inequalities of
condition, which the lower orders of the world
will always feel, that the testimony of a menial
domestic can seldom be considered as defective
for want of knowledge. And though its im-
partiality may be sometimes suspected, it is at
least as credible as that of equals, where rivalry
instigates censure, or friendship dictates pallia-
tions.
The danger of betraying our weaknesses to
our servants, and the impossibility of conceal-
ing it from them, may be justly considered as
one motive to a regular and irreproachable
ESSAYS FROM THE RAMBLER
241
life. For no condition is more hateful or
despicable, than his who has put himself in
the power of his servant; in the power of him
whom, perhaps, he has first corrupted by mak-
ing him subservient to his vices, and whose
fidelity he therefore cannot enforce by any
precepts of honesty or reason. It is seldom
known that authority thus acquired, is pos-
sessed without insolence, or that the master is
not forced to confess by his tameness or for-
bearance, that he has enslaved himself by
some foolish confidence. And his crime is
equally punished, whatever part he takes of
the choice to which he is reduced; and he is
from that fatal hour, in which he sacrificed
his dignity to his passions, in perpetual dread
of insolence or defamation; of a controller at
home, or an accuser abroad. He is condemned
to purchase, by continual bribes, that secrecy
which bribes never secured, and which, after a
long course of submission, promises, and anxi-
eties, he will find violated in a fit of rage,
or in a frolic of drunkenness.
To dread no eye, and to suspect no tongue,
is the great prerogative of innocence; an
exemption granted only to invariable virtue.
But, guilt has always its horrors and solici-
tudes; and to make it yet more shameful and
detestable, it is doomed often to stand in awe
of those, to whom nothing could give influence
or weight, but their power of betraying.
NO. 69. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1750
Flet quoque, ut in specula rugas adspexit aniles,
Tyndaris ; et secum, cur sit bis rapta, requirit.
Tempus edax rerum, iuqu,e invidiosa vetustas
Omnia destruitis ; vitiataque dentibus aevi
Paulatim lenta consumitis omnia morte. — OVID.
The dreadful wrinkles when poor Helen spy'd,
Ah ! why this second rape ? — with tears she cry'd.
Time, thou devourer, and thou envious age,
Who all destroy with keen corroding rage,
Beneath your jaws, whate'er have pleas'd or please,
Must sink, consum'd by swift or slow degrees.
— ELPHINSTON.
An old Greek epigrammatist, intending to
show the miseries that attend the last stage
of man, imprecates upon those who are so
foolish as to wish for long life, the calamity
of continuing to grow old from century to
century. He thought that no adventitious or
foreign pain was requisite; that decrepitude
itself was an epitome of whatever is dreadful;
and nothing could be added to the curse of
age, but that it should be extended beyond its
natural limits.
The most indifferent or negligent spectator
can indeed scarcely retire without heaviness of
heart, from a view of the last scenes of the trag-
edy of life, in which he finds those, who in the
former parts of the drama, were distinguished
by opposition of conduct, contrariety of de-
signs, and dissimilitude of personal qualities,
all involved in one common distress, and all
struggling with affliction which they cannot
hope to overcome.
The other miseries, which waylay our pass-
age through the world, wisdom may escape,
and fortitude may conquer: by caution and
circumspection we may steal along with very
little to obstruct or incommode us; by spirit
and vigour we may force a way, and reward
the vexation of contest by the pleasures of
victory. But a time must come when our
policy and bravery shall be equally useless;
when we shall all sink into helplessness and
sadness, without any power of receiving solace
from the pleasures that have formerly delighted
us, or any prospect of emerging into a second
possession of the blessings that we have lost.
The industry of man has, indeed, not been
wanting in endeavours to procure comforts for
these hours of dejection and melancholy, and
to gild the dreadful gloom with artificial light.
The most usual support of old age is wealth.
He whose possessions are large, and whose
chests are full, imagines himself always forti-
fied against invasions on his authority. If he
has lost all other means of government, if his
strength and his reason fail him, he can at
last alter his will; and therefore all that have
hopes must likewise have fears, and he may
still continue to give laws to such as have not
ceased to regard their own interest.
This is, indeed, too frequently the citadel of
the dotard, the last fortress to which age re-
tires, and in which he makes the stand against
the upstart race that seizes his domains, dis-
putes his commands, and cancels his prescrip-
tions. But here, though there may be safety,
there is no pleasure; and what remains is but
a proof that more was once possessed.
Nothing seems to have been more univer-
sally dreaded by the ancients than orbity, or
want of children; and, indeed, to a man who
has survived all the companions of his youth,
all who have participated his pleasures and
his cares, have been engaged in the same
events, and filled their minds with the same
conceptions, this full-peopled world is a dismal
242
SAMUEL JOHNSON
solitude. He stands forlorn and silent, neg-
lected or insulted, in the midst of multitudes,
animated with hopes which he cannot share,
and employed in business which he is no
longer able to forward or retard; nor can he
find any to whom his life or his death are of
importance, unless he has secured some do-
mestic gratifications, some tender employ-
ments, and endeared himself to some whose
interest and gratitude may unite them to
him.
So different are the colours of life as we
look forward to the future, or backward to the
past; and so different the opinions and senti-
ments which this contrariety of appearance
naturally produces, that the conversation of
the old and young ends generally with con-
tempt or pity on either side. To a young man
entering the world with fulness of hope, and
ardour of pursuit, nothing is so unpleasing as
the cold caution, the faint expectations, the
scrupulous diffidence, which experience and
disappointments certainly infuse; and the old
wonders in his turn that the world never can
grow wiser, that neither precepts, nor testi-
monies can cure boys of their credulity and
sufficiency; and that no one can be convinced
that snares are laid for him, till he finds him-
self entangled.
Thus one generation is always the scorn and
wonder of the other, and the notions of the old
and young are like liquors of different gravity
and texture which never can unite. The
spirits of youth sublimed by health, and
volatilised by passion, soon leave behind them
the phlegmatic sediment of weariness and
deliberation, and burst out in temerity and
enterprise. The tenderness therefore which
nature infuses, and which long habits of be-
neficence confirm, is necessary to reconcile such
opposition; and an old man must be a father
to bear with patience those follies and absurdi-
ties which he will perpetually imagine himself
to find in the schemes and expectations, the
pleasures and the sorrows, of those who have
not yet been hardened by time, and chilled by
frustration.
Yet it may be doubted, whether the pleasure
of seeing children ripening into strength, be
not overbalanced by the pain of seeing some
fall in their blossom, and others blasted in
their growth ; some shaken down with storms,
some tainted with cankers, and some shrivelled
in the shade; and whether he that extends his
care beyond himself, does not multiply his
anxieties more than his pleasures, and weary
himself to no purpose, by superintending what
he cannot regulate.
But, though age be to every order of human
beings sufficiently terrible, it is particularly to
be dreaded by fine ladies, who have had no
other end or ambition than to fill up the day
and the night with dress, diversions, and
flattery, and who, having made no acquaint-
ance with knowledge, or with business, have
constantly caught all their ideas from the
current prattle of the hour, and been indebted
for all their happiness to compliments and
treats. With these ladies, age begins early,
and very often lasts long; it begins when their
beauty fades, when their mirth loses its spright-
liness, and their motion its ease. From that
time all which gave them joy vanishes from
about them; they hear the praises bestowed
on others, which used to swell their bosoms
with exultation. They visit the seats of
felicity, and endeavour to continue the habit
of being delighted. But pleasure is only re-
ceived when we believe that we give it in
return. Neglect and petulance inform them
that their power and their value are past;
and what then remains but a tedious and
comfortless uniformity of time, without any
motion of the heart, or exercise of the reason?
Yet, however age may discourage us by its
appearance from considering it in prospect,
we shall all by degrees certainly be old; and
therefore we ought to inquire what provision
can be made against that time of distress?
what happiness can be stored up against the
winter of life? and how we may pass our
latter years with serenity and cheerfulness?
If it has been found by the experience of
mankind, that not even the best seasons of
life are able to supply sufficient gratifications,
without anticipating uncertain felicities, it
cannot surely be supposed that old age, worn
with labours, harassed with anxieties, and
tortured with diseases, should have any glad-
ness of its own, or feel any satisfaction from
the contemplation of the present. All the
comfort that can now be expected must be
recalled from the past, or borrowed from the
future; the past is very soon exhausted, all
the events or actions of which the memory
can afford pleasure are quickly recollected;
and the future lies beyond the grave, where it
can be reached only by virtue and devotion.
Piety is the only proper and adequate relief
of decaying man. He that grows old without
religious hopes, as he declines into imbecility,
and feels pains and sorrows incessantly crowd-
DAVID HUME
243
ing upon him, falls into a gulf of bottomless
misery, in which every reflection must plunge
him deeper, and where he finds only new
gradations of anguish, and precipices of horror.
DAVID HUME (1711-1776)
AN INQUIRY CONCERNING THE PRIN-
CIPLES OF MORALS
SECT. V. — WHY UTILITY PLEASES
PART II
Self-love is a principle in human nature of
such extensive energy, and the interest of each
individual is, in general, so closely connected
with that of the community, that those philoso-
phers were excusable, who fancied, that all
our concern for the public might be resolved
into a concern for our own happiness and
preservation. They saw every moment, in-
stances of approbation or blame, satisfaction
or displeasure towards characters and actions;
they denominated the objects of these senti-
ments, virtues, or vices; they observed, that
the former had a tendency to increase the
happiness, and the latter the misery of man-
kind; they asked, whether it were possible
that we could have any general concern for
society, or any disinterested resentment of the
welfare or injury of others; they found it
simpler to consider all these sentiments as
modifications of self-love; and they discovered
a pretence, at least, for this unity of principle,
in that close union of interest, which is so
observable between the public and each
individual.
But notwithstanding this frequent confusion
of interests, it is easy to attain what natural
philosophers, after Lord Bacon, have affected
to call the experimentum crucis, or that ex-
periment which points out the right way in
any doubt or ambiguity. We have found in-
stances, in which private interest was separate
from public; in which it was even contrary:
And yet we observed the moral sentiment to
continue, notwithstanding this disjunction of
interests. And wherever these distinct in-
terests sensibly concurred, we always found a
sensible increase of the sentiment, and a more
warm affection to virtue, and detestation of
vice, or what we properly call, gratitude and
revenge. Compelled by these instances, we
must renounce the theory which accounts for
every moral sentiment by the principle of self-
love. We must adopt a more public affection
and allow, that the interests of society are not,
even on their own account, entirely indifferent
to us. Usefulness is only a tendency to a cer-
tain end; and it is a contradiction in terms,
that anything pleases as means to an end,
where the end itself no wise affects us. If
usefulness, therefore, be a source of moral
sentiment, and if this usefulness be not always
considered with a reference to self; it follows,
that everything, which contributes to the hap-
piness of society, recommends itself directly
to our approbation and good-will. Here is a
principle, which accounts, in great part, for
the origin of morality: And what need we
seek for abstruse and remote systems, when
there occurs one so obvious and natural?
Have we any difficulty to comprehend the
force of humanity and benevolence? Or to
conceive, that the very aspect of happiness,
joy, prosperity, gives pleasure; that of pain,
suffering, sorrow, communicates uneasiness?
The human countenance, says Horace, borrows
smiles or tears from the human countenance.
Reduce a person to solitude, and he loses all
enjoyment, except either of the sensual or
speculative kind; and that because the move-
ments of his heart are not forwarded by cor-
respondent movements in his fellow-creatures.
The signs of sorrow and mourning, though
arbitrary, affect us with melancholy; but the
natural symptoms, tears and cries and groans,
never fail to infuse compassion and uneasiness.
And if the effects of misery touch us in so lively
a manner; can we be supposed altogether in-
sensible or indifferent towards its causes ; when
a malicious or treacherous character and be-
haviour are presented to us?
We enter, I shall suppose, into a convenient,
warm, well-contrived apartment: We neces-
sarily receive a pleasure from its very survey;
because it presents us with the pleasing ideas
of ease, satisfaction, and enjoyment. The
hospitable, good-humoured, humane landlord
appears. This circumstance surely must em-
bellish the whole; nor can we easily forbear
reflecting, with pleasure, on the satisfaction
which results to every one from his intercourse
and good offices.
His whole family, by the freedom, ease, con-
fidence, and calm enjoyment, diffused over
their countenances, sufficiently express their
happiness. I have a pleasing sympathy in
the prospect of so much joy, and can never con-
sider the source of it, without the most agree-
able emotions.
244
DAVID HUME
He tells me, that an oppressive and powerful
neighbour had attempted to dispossess him of
his inheritance, and had long disturbed all his
innocent and social pleasures. I feel an im-
mediate indignation arise in me against such
violence and injury.
But it is no wonder, he adds, that a private
wrong should proceed from a man, who had
enslaved provinces, depopulated cities, and
made the field and scaffold stream with human
blood. I am struck with horror at the prospect
of so much misery, and am actuated by the
strongest antipathy against its author.
In general, it is certain, that, wherever we
go, whatever we reflect on or converse about,
everything still presents us with the view of
human happiness or misery, and excites in our
breast a sympathetic movement of pleasure
or uneasiness. In our serious occupations,
in our careless amusements, this principle
still exerts its active energy.
A man, who enters the theatre, is immediately
struck with the view of so great a multitude,
participating of one common amusement; and
experiences, from their very aspect, a supe-
rior sensibility or disposition of being affected
with every sentiment, which he shares with
his fellow-creatures.
He observes the actors to be animated by the
appearance of a full audience, and raised to a
degree of enthusiasm, which they cannot com-
mand in any solitary or calm moment.
Every movement of the theatre, by a skilful
poet, is communicated, as it were by magic,
to the spectators; who weep, tremble, resent,
rejoice, and are inflamed with all the variety
of passions, which actuate the several person-
ages of the drama.
Where any event crosses our wishes, and
interrupts the happiness of the favourite char-
acters, we feel a sensible anxiety and concern.
But where their sufferings proceed from the
treachery, cruelty, or tyranny of an enemy, our
breasts are affected with the liveliest resent-
ment against the author of these calamities.
It is here esteemed contrary to the rules of
art to represent anything cool and indifferent.
A distant friend, or a confidant who has no
immediate interest in the catastrophe, ought,
if possible, to be avoided by the poet; as com-
municating a like indifference to the audience,
and checking the progress of the passions.
Few species of poetry are more entertaining
than pastoral; and every one is sensible, that
the chief source of its pleasure arises from
those images of a gentle and tender tran-
quillity, which it represents in its personages,
and of which it communicates a like sentiment
to the reader. Sannazarius, who transferred
the scene to the sea-shore, though he presented
the most magnificent object in nature, is con-
fessed to have erred in his choice. The idea of
toil, labour, and danger, suffered by the fisher-
men, is painful; by an unavoidable sympathy,
which attends every conception of human
happiness or misery.
When I was twenty, says a French poet,
Ovid was my favourite: Now I am forty, I
declare for Horace. We enter, to be sure,
more readily into sentiments, which resemble
those we feel every day: But no passion, when
well represented, can be entirely indifferent to
us ; because there is none, of which every man
has not, within him, at least the seeds and
first principles. It is the business of poetry
to bring every affection near to us by lively
imagery and representation, and make it look
like truth and reality: A certain proof, that,
wherever reality is found, our minds are
disposed to be strongly affected by it.
Any recent event or piece of news, by which
the fate of states, provinces, or many individ-
uals is affected, is extremely interesting even
to those whose welfare is not immediately
engaged. Such intelligence is propagated with
celerity, heard with avidity, and inquired into
with attention and concern. The interest of
society appears, on this occasion, to be, in some
degree, the interest of each individual. The
imagination is sure to be affected; though the
passions excited may not always be so strong
and steady as to have great influence on the
conduct and behaviour.
The perusal of a history seems a calm en-
tertainment; but would be no. entertainment
at all, did not our hearts beat with correspond-
ent movements to those which are described
by the historian.
Thucydides and Guicciardin support with
difficulty our attention; while the former
describes the trivial rencounters of the small
cities of Greece, and the latter the harmless
wars of Pisa. The few persons interested, and
the small interest fill not the imagination, and
engage not the affections. The deep distress
of the numerous Athenian army before Syra-
cuse; the danger, which so nearly threatens
Venice; these excite compassion; these move
terror and anxiety.
The indifferent, uninteresting style of Sue-
tonius, equally with the masterly pencil of
Tacitus, may convince us of the cruel de-
AN INQUIRY CONCERNING THE PRINCIPLES OF MORALS 245
pravity of Nero or Tiberius: But what a differ-
ence of sentiment ! While the former coldly
relates the facts; and the latter sets before
our eyes the venerable figures of a Soranus and
a Thrasea, intrepid in their fate, and only
moved by the melting sorrows of their friends
and kindred. What sympathy then touches
every human heart ! What indignation against
the tyrant, whose causeless fear or unprovoked
malice gave rise to such detestable barbarity!
If we bring these subjects nearer: If we
remove all suspicion of fiction and deceit:
What powerful concern is excited, and how
much superior, in many instances, to the nar-
row attachments of self-love and private inter-
est! Popular sedition, party zeal, a devoted
obedience to factious leaders; these are some
of the most visible, though less laudable effects
of this social sympathy in human nature.
The frivolousness of the subject too, we may
observe, is not able to detach us entirely from
what carries an image of human sentiment and
affection.
When a person stutters, and pronounces with
difficulty, we even sympathise with this trivial
uneasiness, and suffer for him. And it is a
rule in criticism, that every combination of
syllables or letters, which gives pain to the
organs of speech in the recital, appears also,
from a species of sympathy, harsh and disa-
greeable to the ear. Nay, when we run over
a book with our eye, we are sensible of such
unharmonious composition; because we still
imagine, that a person recites it to us, and
suffers from the pronunciation of these jarring
sounds. So delicate is our sympathy !
Easy and unconstrained postures and motions
are always beautiful: An air of health and vig-
our is agreeable : Clothes which warm, without
burdening the body; which cover, without
imprisoning the limbs, are well-fashioned.
In every judgment of beauty, the feelings of the
person affected enter into consideration, and
communicate to the spectator similar touches
of pain or pleasure. What wonder, then, if
we can pronounce no judgment concerning the
character and conduct of men, without con-
sidering the tendencies of their actions, and the
happiness or misery which thence arises to
society? What association of ideas would
ever operate, were that principle here totally
unactive?
If any man from a cold insensibility, or nar-
row selfishness of temper, is unaffected with the
images of human happiness or misery, he must
be equally indifferent to the images of vice
and virtue: As, on the other hand, it is
always found, that a warm concern for the
interests of our species is attended with a
delicate feeling of all moral distinctions; a
strong resentment of injury done to men;
a lively approbation of their welfare. In this
particular, though great superiority is observ-
able of one man above another; yet none are
so entirely indifferent to the interest of their
fellow-creatures, as to perceive no distinc-
tions of moral good and evil, in consequence of
the different tendencies of actions and prin-
ciples. How, indeed, can we suppose it pos-
sible in any one, who wears a human heart, that
if there be subjected to his censure, one char-
acter or system of conduct, which is beneficial,
and another, which is pernicious, to his species
or community, he will not so much as give a
cool preference to the former, or ascribe to it
the smallest merit or regard? Let us suppose
such a person ever so selfish; let private
interest have engrossed ever so much his at-
tention; yet in instances, where that is not
concerned, he must unavoidably feel some pro-
pensity to the good of mankind, and make
it an object of choice, if everything else be
equal. Would any man, who is walking along,
tread as willingly on another's gouty toes,
whom he has no quarrel with, as on the hard
flint and pavement? There is here surely a
difference in the case. We surely take into
consideration the happiness and misery of
others, in weighing the several motives of action,
and incline to the former, where no private
regards draw us to seek our own promotion or
advantage by the injury of our fellow-creatures.
And if the principles of humanity are capable,
in many instances, of influencing our actions,
they must, at all times, have some authority
over our sentiments, and give us a general
approbation of what is useful to society, and
blame of what is dangerous or pernicious.
The degrees of these sentiments may be the
subject of controversy; but the reality of their
existence, one should think, must be admitted,
in every theory or system.
A creature, absolutely malicious and spite-
ful, were there any such in nature, must be
worse than indifferent to the images of vice
and virtue. All his sentiments must be in-
verted, and directly opposite to those which
prevail in the human species. Whatever con-
tributes to the good of mankind, as it crosses
the constant bent of his wishes and desires,
must produce uneasiness and disapprobation;
and on the contrary, whatever is the source of
246
DAVID HUME
disorder and misery in society, must, for the
same reason, be regarded with pleasure and
complacency. Timon, who, probably from
his affected spleen, more than any inveterate
malice, was denominated the man-hater, em-
braced Alcibiades, with great fondness. Go
on my boy! cried he, acquire the confidence
of the people: You will one day, I foresee, be
the cause of great calamities to them: Could we
admit the two principles of the Manicheans,
it is an infallible consequence, that their senti-
ments of human actions, as well as of every-
thing else, must be totally opposite, and that
every instance of justice and humanity, from
its necessary tendency, must please the one
deity and displease the other. All mankind
so far resemble the good principle, that, where
interest or revenge or envy perverts not our
disposition, we are always inclined, from our
natural philanthropy, to give the preference
to the happiness of society, and consequently
to virtue, above its opposite. Absolute, un-
provoked, disinterested malice has never, per-
haps, place in any human breast; or if it
had, must there pervert all the sentiments of
morals, as well as the feelings of humanity.
If the cruelty of Nero be allowed entirely
voluntary, and not rather the effect of constant
fear and resentment; it is evident, that Tigel-
linus, preferably to Seneca or Burrhus, must
have possessed his steady and uniform appro-
bation.
A statesman or patriot, who serves our own
country, in our own time, has always a more
passionate regard paid to him, than one whose
beneficial influence operated on distant ages
or remote nations; where the good, resulting
from his generous humanity, being less con-
nected with us, seems more obscure, and arTects
us with a less lively sympathy. We may own
the merit to be equally great, though our
sentiments are not raised to an equal height,
in both cases. The judgment here corrects
the inequalities of our internal emotions and
perceptions; in like manner, as it preserves
us from error, in the several variations of
images, presented to our external senses. The
same object, at a double distance, really throws
on the eye a picture of but half the bulk; yet
we imagine that it appears of the same size
in both situations; because we know, that on
our approach to it, its image would expand
on the eye, and that the difference consists not
in the object itself, but in our position with
regard to it. And, indeed, without such a
correction of appearances, both in internal and
external sentiment, men could never think or
talk steadily on any subject; while their fluc-
tuating situations produce a continual varia-
tion on objects, and throw them into such
different and contrary lights and positions.
The more we converse with mankind, and
the greater social intercourse we maintain, the
more shall we be familiarised to these general
preferences and distinctions, without which our
conversation and discourse could scarcely be
rendered intelligible to each other. Every
man's interest is peculiar to himself, and the
aversions and desires, which result from it,
cannot be supposed to affect others in a like
degree. General language, therefore, being
formed for general use, must be moulded on
some more general views, and must affix the
epithets of praise or blame, in conformity to
sentiments, which arise from the general in-
terests of the community. And if these senti-
ments, in most men, be not so strong as those,
which have a reference to private good; yet
still they must make some distinction, even in
persons the most depraved and selfish; and
must attach the notion of good to a beneficent
conduct, and of evil to the contrary. Sym-
pathy, we shall allow, is much fainter than our
concern for ourselves, and sympathy with per-
sons remote from us, much fainter than that
with persons near and contiguous; but for
this very reason, it is necessary for us, in our
calm judgments and discourse concerning
the characters of men, to neglect all these
differences, and render our sentiments more
public and social. Besides, that we ourselves
often change our situation in this particular,
we every day meet with persons, who are
in a situation different from us, and who could
never converse with us, were we to remain
constantly in that position and point of view,
which is peculiar to ourselves. The inter-
course of sentiments, therefore, in society and
conversation, makes us form some general
unalterable standard, by which we may ap-
prove or disapprove of characters and man-
ners. And though the heart takes not part with
those general notions, nor regulates all its love
and hatred, by the universal, abstract differ-
ences of vice and virtue, without regard to self,
or the persons with whom we are more inti-
mately connected; yet have these moral dif-
ferences a considerable influence, and being
sufficient, at least, for discourse, serve all
our purposes in company, in the pulpit, on
the theatre and in the schools.
Thus, in whatever light we take this subject,
LAURENCE STERNE
247
the merit, ascribed to the social virtues, appears
still uniform, and arises chiefly from that regard,
which the natural sentiment of benevolence
engages us to pay to the interests of mankind
and society. If we consider the principles
of the human make, such as they appear to
daily experience and observation, we must,
a priori, conclude it impossible for such a
creature as man to be totally indifferent to the
well or ill being of his fellow -creatures, and not
readily, of himself, to pronounce, where noth-
ing gives him any particular bias, that what
promotes their happiness is good, what tends
to their misery is evil, without any farther re-
gard or consideration. Here then are the faint
rudiments, at least, or outlines, of a general
distinction between actions; and in proportion
as the humanity of the person is supposed to
increase, his connection with those who are
injured or benefited, and his lively conception
of their misery or happiness; his consequent
censure or approbation acquires proportionable
vigour. There is no necessity, that a generous
action, barely mentioned in an old history
or remote gazette, should communicate any
strong feelings of applause and admiration.
Virtue, placed at such a distance, is like a
fixed star, which, though to the eye of reason,
it may appear as luminous as the sun in his
meridian, is so infinitely removed, as to affect
the senses, neither with light nor heat. Bring
this virtue nearer, by our acquaintance or con-
nection with the persons, or even by an eloquent
recital of the case ; our hearts are immediately
caught, our sympathy enlivened, and our cool
approbation converted into the warmest senti-
ments of friendship and regard. These seem
necessary and infallible consequences of the
general principles of human nature, as dis-
covered in common life and practice.
Again; reverse these views and reasonings:
Consider the matter a posteriori; and weighing
the consequences, inquire if the merit of social
virtue be not, in a great measure, derived from
the feelings of humanity, with which it affects
the spectators. It appears to be matter of fact,
that the circumstance of utility, in all subjects,
is a source of praise and approbation : That it
is constantly appealed to in all moral decisions
concerning the merit and demerit of actions:
That it is the sole source of that high regard
paid to justice, fidelity, honour, allegiance,
and chastity: That it is inseparable from all
the other social virtues, humanity, generosity,
charity, affability, lenity, mercy, and modera-
tion: And, in a word, that it is a foundation
of the chief part of morals, which has a ref-
erence to mankind and our fellow-creatures.
It appears also, that, in our general appro-
bation of characters and manners, the useful
tendency of the social virtues moves us not by
any regards to self-interest, but has an influence
much more universal and extensive. It ap-
pears, that a tendency to public good, and to the
promoting of peace, harmony, and order in
society, does always, by affecting the benevolent
principles of our frame, engage us on the side
of the social virtues. And it appears, as an
additional confirmation, that these principles
of humanity and sympathy enter so deeply into
all our sentiments, and have so powerful an
influence, as may enable them to excite the
strongest censure and applause. The present
theory is the simple result of all these infer-
ences, each of which seems founded on uniform
experience and observation.
Were it doubtful, whether there were any such
principle in our nature as humanity or a con-
cern for others, yet when we see, in number-
less instances, that whatever has a tendency
to promote the interests of society, is so highly
approved of, we ought thence to learn the force
of the benevolent principle; since it is impos-
sible for anything to please as means to an
end, where the end is totally indifferent. On
the other hand, were it doubtful, whether there
were, implanted in our nature, any general
principle of moral blame and approbation, yet
when we see, in numberless instances, the in-
fluence of humanity, we ought thence to con-
clude, that it is impossible, but that every-
thing, which promotes the interest of society,
must communicate pleasure, and what is
pernicious give uneasiness. But when these
different reflections and observations concur
in establishing the same conclusion, must they
not bestow an undisputed evidence upon it?
It is however hoped, that the progress of this
argument will bring a farther confirmation of
the present theory, by showing the rise of other
sentiments of esteem and regard from the same
or like principles.
LAURENCE STERNE (1713-1768)
TRISTRAM SHANDY
VOL. VIII
CHAPTER XXIII
As soon as the Corporal had finished the
story of his amour, — or rather my uncle Toby
248
LAURENCE STERNE
for him, — Mrs. Wadman silently sallied forth
from her arbour, replaced the pin in her mob,
passed the wicker-gate, and advanced slowly
towards my uncle Toby's sentry-box: the dis-
position which Trim had made in my uncle
Toby's mind was too favourable a crisis to be
let slip
— The attack was determined upon : it was
facilitated still more by my uncle Toby's
having ordered the Corporal to wheel off the
pioneer's shovel, the spade, the pick-axe, the
picquets, and other military stores which lay
scattered upon the ground where Dunkirk
stood. — The Corporal had marched ; — the
field was clear.
Now, consider, Sir, what nonsense it is,
either in fighting, or writing, or anything else
(whether in rhyme to it or not), which a man
has occasion to do, — to act by plan : for if
ever Plan, independent of all circumstances,
deserved registering in letters of gold (I mean
in the archives of Gotham) — it was certainly
the plan of Mrs. Wadman's attack of my uncle
Toby in his sentry-box, by Plan. Now, the
plan hanging up in it at this juncture, being the
Plan of Dunkirk, — and the tale of Dunkirk
a tale of relaxation, it opposed every impression
she could make: and, besides, could she have
gone upon it, — the manoeuvre of fingers and
hands in the attack of the sentry-box was so
outdone by that of the fair Beguine's, in Trim's
story, — that just then, that particular attack,
however successful before — became the most
heartless attack that could be made.
O ! let woman alone for this. Mrs. Wad-
man had scarce opened the wicker-gate, when
her genius sported with the change of circum-
stances.
She formed a new attack in a moment.
CHAPTER XXIV
— I am half distracted, Captain Shandy, said
Mrs. Wadman, holding up her cambric-hand-
kerchief to her left eye, as she approached the
door of my uncle Toby's sentry-box; a mote,
— or sand, — or something, — I know not
what, has got into this eye of mine; — do look
into it: — it is not in the white. —
In saying which, Mrs. Wadman edged her-
self close in beside my uncle Toby and squeezing
herself down upon the corner of his bench, she
gave him an opportunity of doing it without
rising up. . . . Do look into it, said she.
Honest soul ! thou didst look into it with as
much innocency of heart as ever child looked
into a raree-show -box; and 'twere as much a
sin to have hurt thee.
If a man will be peeping of his own accord
into things of that nature, I've nothing to say
to it.
My uncle Toby never did : and I will answer
for him that he would have sat quietly upon a
sofa from June to January (which, you know,
takes in both the hot and cold months), with
an eye as fine as the Thracian Rhodope's
beside him, without being able to tell whether
it was a black or a blue one.
The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to
look at one at all.
'Tis surmounted. And
I see him yonder, with his pipe pendulous
in his hand, and the ashes falling out of it, —
looking, — and looking, — then rubbing his
eyes, — and looking again, with twice the
good-nature that ever Galileo looked for a
spot in the sun.
In vain ! for, by all the powers which ani-
mate the organ — Widow Wadman's left eye
shines this moment as lucid as her right; —
there is neither mote, nor sand, nor dust, nor
chaff, nor speck, nor particle of opaque matter
floating in it. — There is nothing, my dear pa-
ternal uncle ! but one lambent delicious fire,
furtively shooting out from every part of it,
in all directions into thine.
If thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this
mote one moment longer, thou art undone.
CHAPTER XXV
An eye is, for all the world, exactly like a
cannon, in this respect, that it is not so much the
eye or the cannon, in themselves, as it is the
carriage of the eye — and the carriage of the
cannon ; by which both the one and the other
are enabled to do so much execution. I don't
think the comparison a bad one: however, as
'tis made and placed at the head of the chapter,
as much for use as ornament ; all I desire in
return is that, whenever I speak of Mrs. Wad-
man's eyes (except once in the next period)
that you keep it in your fancy.
I protest, Madam, said my uncle Toby, I can
see nothing whatever in your eye.
. . . It is not in the white, said Mrs. Wadman.
— My uncle Toby looked with might and main
into the pupil.
Now, of all the eyes which ever were created,
from your own, Madam, up to those of Venus
herself, which certainly were as venereal
a pair of eyes as ever stood in a head, there
never was an eye of them all so fitted to rob
TRISTRAM SHANDY
249
my uncle Toby of his repose as the very eye
at which he was looking; — it was not, Madam,
a rolling eye, — a romping, or a wanton one ;
— nor was it an eye sparkling, petulant, or
imperious — of high claims and terrifying
exactions, which would have curdled at once
that milk of human nature of which my uncle
Toby was made up; — but 'twas an eye full
of gentle salutations, — and soft responses, —
speaking, — not like the trumpet-stop of some
ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk
to, holds coarse converse, but whispering soft,
— like the last low accents of an expiring saint,
— "How can you live comfortless, Captain
Shandy, and alone, without a bosom to lean
your head on, — or trust your cares to?"
It was an eye —
But I shall be in love with it myself, if I say
another word about it.
It did my uncle Toby's business.
CHAPTER XXVI
There is nothing shows the characters of my
father and my uncle Toby in a more entertain-
ing light than their different manner of deport-
ment under the same accident ; — for I call
not love a misfortune, from a persuasion that a
man's heart is ever the better for it. — Great
God ! what must my uncle Toby's have been,
when 'twas all benignity without it ! —
My father, as appears from many of his
papers, was very subject to this passion before
he married; — but, from a little subacid kind
of drollish impatience in his nature, whenever
it befell him, he would never submit to it like
a Christian; but would pish, and huff, and
bounce, and kick, and play the Devil, and write
the bitterest Philippics against the eye that
ever man wrote : — there is one in verse upon
somebody's eye or other, that for two or three
nights together, had put him by his rest ; which,
in his first transport of resentment against it,
he begins thus : —
"A Devil 'tis — and mischief such doth work
As never yet did Pagan, Jew, or Turk."
In short, during the whole paroxysm, my
father was all abuse and foul language, ap-
proaching rather towards malediction ; — only
he did not do it with as much method as
Ernulphus; he was too impetuous; nor with
Ernulphus's policy; — for tho' my father, with
the most intolerant spirit, would curse both
this and that, and everything under Heaven,
which was either aiding or abetting to his love,
— yet he never concluded his chapter, curses
upon it, without cursing himself into the bar-
gain, as one of the most egregious fools and cox-
combs, he would say, that ever was let loose in
the world.
My uncle Toby, on the contrary, took it like
a lamb, — sat still, and let the poison work in
his veins without resistance : — in the sharpest
exacerbations of his wound (like that on his
groin) he never dropped one fretful or dis-
contented word, — he blamed neither heaven
nor earth, — nor thought, nor spoke an in-
jurious thing of any body, nor any part of it;
he sat solitary and pensive with his pipe, —
looking at his lame leg, — then whiffing out
a sentimental heigh-ho! which, mixing, with
the smoke, incommoded no one mortal.
He took it like a lamb, I say.
In truth, he had mistook it at first; for,
having taken a ride with my father that very
morning, to save, if possible, a beautiful wood,
which the dean and chapter were hewing down
to give to the poor; which said wood being in
full view of my uncle Toby's house, and of
singular service to him in his description of
the battle of Wynendale, — by trotting on too
hastily to save it, upon an uneasy saddle, worse
horse, etc., etc. — it had so happened that the
serous part of the blood had got betwixt the
two skins in the nethermost part of my uncle
Toby, — the first shootings of which (as my
uncle Toby had no experience of love) he had
taken for a part of the passion, till the blister
breaking in the one case, and the other remain-
ing, my uncle Toby was presently convinced
that his wound was not a skin-deep wound, but
that it had gone to his heart.
CHAPTER XXVII
The world is ashamed of being virtuous. —
My uncle Toby knew little of the world; and
therefore, when he felt he was in love with
Widow Wadman, he had no conception that
the thing was any more to be made a mystery
of than if Mrs. Wadman had given him a cut
with a gapp'd knife across his finger. Had it
been otherwise, — yet, as he ever looked upon
Trim as a humble friend, and saw fresh rea-
sons every day of his life to treat him as such,
— it would have made no variation in the
manner in which he informed him of the affair.
"I am in love, Corporal!" quoth my uncle
Toby.
250
LAURENCE STERNE
CHAPTER XXVIII
In love ! — said the Corporal, — your Honour
was very well the day before yesterday, when
I was telling your Honour the story of the King
of Bohemia . . . Bohemia! said my uncle
Toby — musing a long time — What became
of that story, Trim?
. . . We lost it, an' please your Honour,
somehow betwixt us; but your Honour was as
free from love then as I am. . . . 'Twas just
as thou went'st off with the wheelbarrow, —
with Mrs. Wadman, quoth my uncle Toby. —
She has left a ball here, added my uncle Toby,
pointing to his breast.
. . . She can no more, an' please your
Honour, stand a siege than she could fly, cried
the Corporal.
. . . But, as we are neighbours, Trim, the
best way, I think, is to let her know it civilly
at first, quoth my uncle Toby.
. . . Now, if I might presume, said the
Corporal, to differ from your Honour. . . .
. . . Why else do I talk to thee, Trim ? said
my uncle Toby, mildly. . . .
. . . Then I would begin, an' please your
Honour, making a good thundering attack upon
her, in return, — and telling her civilly after-
wards;— for if she knows anything of your
Honour's being in love, beforehand. . . . L — d
help her ! — she knows no more at present of
it, Trim, said my uncle Toby, — than the child
unborn.
Precious souls ! —
Mrs. Wadman had told it, with all its cir-
cumstances, to Mrs. Bridget, twenty-four hours
before; and was at that very moment sitting
in council with her, touching some slight mis-
givings with regard to the issue of the affairs,
which the Devil, who never lies dead in a ditch,
had put into her head, — before he would
allow half time to get quietly through her Te
Deum.
I am terribly afraid, said Widow Wadman,
in case I should marry him, Bridget, — that
the poor Captain will not enjoy his health, with
the monstrous wound upon his groin.
... It may not, Madam, be so very large,
replied Bridget, as you think ; — and I believe,
besides, added she, — that 'tis dried up.
... I could like to know, — merely for his
sake, said Mrs. Wadman.
. . . We'll know the long and the broad of
it in ten days, answered Mrs. Bridget; for
whilst the Captain is paying his addresses to
you, I'm confident Mr. Trim will be for mak-
ing love to me ; — and I'll let him as much as
he will, added Bridget, to get it all out of him.
The measures were taken at once ; — and
my uncle Toby and the Corporal went on with
theirs.
Now, quoth the Corporal, setting his left
hand a-kimbo, and giving such a flourish with
his right as just promised success — and no
more, — if your Honour will give me leave to
lay down the plan of this attack. . . .
Thou wilt please me by it, Trim, said my
uncle Toby, exceedingly : — and, as I foresee
thou must act in it as my aide-de-camp, here's
a crown, Corporal, to begin with, to steep thy
commission.
. . . Then, an' please your Honour, said the
Corporal (making a bow first for his commis-
sion) — we will begin by getting your Honour's
laced clothes out of the great campaign-trunk,
to be well aired, and have the blue and gold
taken up at the sleeves ; — and I'll put your
white Ramallie-wig fresh into pipes; — and
send for a tailor to have your Honour's thin
scarlet breeches turned. . . .
I had better take the red plush ones, quoth
my uncle Toby. . . . They will be too clumsy,
said the Corporal.
CHAPTER XXIX
. . . Thou wilt get a brush and a little
chalk to my sword. . . .
'Twill be only in your Honour's way, replied
Trim.
CHAPTER XXX
. . . But your Honour's two razors shall be
new set — and I will get my Montero-cap
furbished up, and put on poor Lieutenant Le
Fevre's regimental coat, which your Honour
gave me to wear for his sake ; — • and as soon
as your Honour is clean shaved, — and has got
your clean shirt on, with your blue and gold or
your fine scarlet, — sometimes one and some-
times t'other, — and everything is ready for
the attack, — we'll march up boldly, as if it
was to the face of a bastion; and whilst your
Honour engages Mrs. Wadman in the parlour,
to the right, — I'll attack Mrs. Bridget in the
kitchen to the left ; and having seized the pass,
I'll answer for it, said the Corporal, snapping
his fingers over his head, — that the clay is our
own.
... I wish I may but manage it right, said
my uncle Toby; — but I declare, Corporal,
I had rather march up to the very edge of a
trench.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT
... A woman is quite a different thing,
said the Corporal.
... I suppose so, quoth my uncle Toby.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT (1721-1771)
FROM HUMPHRY CLINKER
To SIR WATKIN PHILLIPS, OF JESUS
COLLEGE, OXON
Edinburgh, August 8.
Dear Phillips,
If I stay much longer at Edinburgh, I shall
be changed into a downright Caledonian. My
uncle observes that I have already acquired
something of the country accent. The people
here are so social and attentive in their civilities
to strangers, that I am insensibly sucked into
the channel of their manners and customs,
although they are in fact much more different
from ours than you can imagine. That dif-
ference, however, which struck me very much
at my first arrival, I now hardly perceive, and
my ear is perfectly reconciled to the Scotch
accent, which I find even agreeable in the mouth
of a pretty woman. It is a sort of Doric dialect,
which gives an idea of amiable simplicity. You
cannot imagine how we have been caressed
and feasted in the good town of Edinburgh, of
which we are become free denizens and guild-
brothers, by the special favour of the magis-
tracy.
I had a whimsical commission from Bath
to a citizen of this metropolis. Quin, under-
standing our intention to visit Edinburgh,
pulled out a guinea, and desired the favour I
would drink it at a tavern, with a particular
friend and bottle companion of his, one Mr.
R. C , a lawyer of this city. I charged
myself with the commission, and taking the
guinea, "You see," said I, "I have pocketed
your bounty." — "Yes," replied Quin, laugh-
ing, "and a headache into the bargain, if you
drink fair." I made use of this introduction to
Mr. C , who received me with open arms,
and gave me the rendezvous, according to the
cartel. He had provided a company of jolly
fellows, among whom I found myself extremely
happy, and did Mr. C— — and Quin all the
justice in my power; but, alas ! I was no more
than a tyro among a troop of veterans, who had
compassion on my youth, and conveyed me
home in the morning, by what means I know
not. Quin was mistaken, however, as to the
headache; the claret was too good to treat me
so roughly.
While Mr. Bramble holds conferences with
the graver literati of the place, and our females
are entertained at visits by the Scotch ladies,
who are the best and kindest creatures on earth,
I pass my time among the bucks of Edinburgh,
who, with a great share of spirit and vivacity,
have a certain shrewdness and self-command
that is not often found among their neighbours
in the heyday of youth and exultation. Not
a hint escapes a Scotchman that can be inte_
preted into offence by any individual of the
company; and national reflections are neve:,
heard. In this particular, I must own, we
are both unjust and ungrateful to the Scotch ;
for, as far as I am able to judge, they have a
real esteem for the natives of South Britain;
and never mention our country but with ex-
pressions of regard. Nevertheless, they are
far from being servile imitators of our modes
and fashionable vices. All their customs and
regulations of public and private economy, of
business and diversion, are in their own style.
This remarkably predominates in their looks,
their dress, and manner, their music, and even
their cookery. Our squire declares, that he
knows not another people on earth so strongly
marked with a national character. Now we
are on the article of cookery, I must own some
of their dishes are savoury, and even delicate;
but I am not yet Scotchman enough to relish
their singed sheep's-head and haggis, which
were provided at our request one day at Mr.
Mitchelson's, where we dined. The first put
me in mind of the history of Congo, in which I
read of negroes' heads sold publicly in the
markets; the last, being a mess of minced
lights, livers, suet, oatmeal, onions, and pepper,
enclosed in a sheep's stomach, had a very
sudden effect on mine, and the delicate Mrs.
Tabby changed colour; when the cause of our
disgust was instantaneously removed at the
nod of our entertainer. The Scotch in general
are attached to this composition, with a sort
of national fondness, as well as to their oatmeal
bread; which is presented at every table, in
thin triangular cakes, baked on a plate of iron,
called a girdle ; and these many of the natives,
even in the higher ranks of life, prefer to
wheaten bread, which they have here in per-
fection. You know we used to vex poor
Murray, of Balliol College, by asking, if there
was really no fruit but turnips in Scotland !
Sure enough I have seen turnips make their
appearance, not as a dessert, but by way of
hors d'asuvres, or whets, as radishes are served
up betwixt more substantial dishes in France
252
TOBIAS SMOLLETT
and Italy; but it must be observed, that the
turnips of this country are as much superior
in sweetness, delicacy, and flavour, to those
of England, as a musk -melon is to the stock
of a common cabbage. They are small and
conical, of a yellowish colour, with a very thin
skin; and over and above their agreeable
taste, are valuable for their antiscorbutic
quality. As to the fruit now in season, such
as cherries, gooseberries, and currants, there is
no want of them at Edinburgh; and in the
gardens of some gentlemen who live in this
neighbourhood, there is now a very favourable
appearance of apricots, peaches, nectarines,
and even grapes; nay, I have seen a very fine
show of pine-apples within a few miles of this
metropolis. Indeed, we have no reason to be
surprised at these particulars, when we con-
sider how little difference there is, in fact,
betwixt this climate and that of London.
All the remarkable places in the city and its
avenues, for ten miles around, we have visited,
much to our satisfaction. In the castle are
some royal apartments, where the sovereign
occasionally resided; and here are carefully
preserved the regalia of the kingdom, consisting
of a crown, said to be of great value, a sceptre,
and a sword of state, adorned with jewels.
Of these symbols of sovereignty the people are
exceedingly jealous. A report being spread,
during the sitting of the union parliament, that
they were removed to London, such a tumult
arose, that the lord commissioner would
have been torn in pieces if he had not pro-
duced them for the satisfaction of the
populace.
The palace of Holyrood-house is an elegant
piece of architecture, but sunk in an obscure,
and, as I take it, unwholesome bottom, where
one would imagine it had been placed on pur-
pose to be concealed. The apartments are
lofty, but unfurnished ; and as for the pictures
of the Scottish kings, from Fergus I to King
William, they are paltry daubings, mostly by
the same hand, painted either from the imagi-
nation, or porters hired to sit for the purpose.
All the diversions of London we enjoy at Edin-
burgh in a small compass. Here is a well-
conducted concert, in which several gentlemen
perform on different instruments. The Scots
are all musicians. Every man you meet plays
on the flute, the violin, or violoncello ; and there
is one nobleman whose compositions are uni-
versally admired. Our company of actors is
very tolerable; and a subscription is now on
foot for building a new theatre: but their
assemblies please me above all other public
exhibitions.
We have been at the hunters' ball, where I
was really astonished to see such a number of
fine women. The English, who have never
crossed the Tweed, imagine, erroneously, that
the Scotch ladies are not remarkable for per-
sonal attractions; but I can declare with a safe
conscience I never saw so many handsome
females together as were assembled on this
occasion. At the Leith races, the best com-
pany comes hither from the remoter provinces;
so that, I suppose, we had all the beauty of the
kingdom concentrated as it were into one focus;
which was indeed so vehement, that my heart
could hardly resist its power. Between friends,
it has sustained some damage from the bright
eyes of the charming Miss R , whom I had
the honour to dance with at the ball. The
countess of Melville attracted all eyes, and
the admiration of all present. She was ac-
companied by the agreeable Miss Grieve, who
made many conquests : nor did my sister Liddy
pass unnoticed in the assembly. She is become
a toast at Edinburgh, by the name of the Fair
Cambrian, and has already been the occasion
of much wine-shed ; but the poor girl met with
an accident at the ball, which has given us
great disturbance.
A young gentleman, the express image of
that rascal Wilson, went up to ask her to dance
a minuet; and his sudden appearance shocked
her so much, that she fainted away. I call
Wilson a rascal, because if he had been really
a gentleman, with honourable intentions, he
would have ere now appeared in his own char-
acter. I must own, my blood boils with indig-
nation when I think of that fellow's pre-
sumption ; and Heaven confound me if I don't
— but I won't be so womanish as to rail —
time will perhaps furnish occasion — thank
God, the cause of Liddy's disorder remains a
secret. The lady-directress of the ball, think-
ing she was overcome by the heat of the place,
had her conveyed to another room, where she
soon recovered so well, as to return and join
in the country dances, in which the Scotch
lasses acquit themselves with such spirit and
agility, as put their partners to the height of
their mettle. I believe our aunt, Mrs. Tabitha,
had entertained hopes of being able to do some
execution among the cavaliers at this assembly.
She had been several, days in consultation with
milliners and mantua-makers, preparing for
the occasion, at which she made her appearance
in a full suit of damask, so thick and heavy,
HUMPHRY CLINKER
253
that the sight of it alone, at this season of the
year, was sufficient to draw drops of sweat
from any man of ordinary imagination. She
danced one minuet with our friend Mr. Mitchel-
son, who favoured her so far, in the spirit of
hospitality and politeness; and she was called
out a second time by the young laird of Baly-
mawhaple, who, coming in by accident, could
not readily find any other partner; but as the
first was a married man, and the second paid
no particular homage to her charms, which were
also overlooked by the rest of the company,
she became dissatisfied and censorious. At
supper, she observed that the Scotch gentlemen
made a very good figure, when they were a little
improved by travelling; and, therefore, it was
pity they did not all take the benefit of going
abroad. She said the women were awkward,
masculine creatures; that, in dancing, they
lifted their legs like so many colts; that they
had no idea of graceful motion; and put on
their clothes in a frightly manner: but if the
truth must be told, Tabby herself was the most
ridiculous figure, and the worst dressed, of the
whole assembly. The neglect of the male sex
rendered her malcontent and peevish ; she now
found fault with everything at Edinburgh, and
teased her brother to leave the place, when
she was suddenly reconciled to it on a religious
consideration. There is a sect of fanatics,
who have separated themselves from the es-
tablished kirk, under the name of Seceders.
They acknowledge no earthly head of the
church, reject lay patronage, and maintain the
Methodist doctrines of the new birth, the new
light, the efficacy of grace, the insufficiency of
works, and the operations of the spirit. Mrs.
Tabitha, attended by Humphry Clinker, was
introduced to one of their conventicles, where
they both received much edification; and she
has had the good fortune to become acquainted
with a pious Christian, called Mr. Moffat, who
is very powerful in prayer, and often assists
her in private exercises of devotion.
I never saw such a concourse of genteel com-
pany at any races in England, as appeared
on the course of Leith. Hard by, in the fields
called the Links, the citizens of Edinburgh
divert themselves at a game called golf, in
which they use a curious kind of bats tipped
with horn, and small elastic balls of leather,
stuffed with feathers, rather less than tennis-
balls, but of a much harder consistence. This
they strike with such force and dexterity from
one hole to another, that they will fly to an
incredible distance. Of this diversion the
Scots are so fond, that when the weather will
permit, you may see a multitude of all ranks,
from the senator of justice to the lowest trades-
man, mingled together, in their shirts, and
following the balls with the utmost eagerness.
Among others, I was shown one particular
set of golfers, the youngest of whom was turned
of fourscore. They were all gentlemen of in-
dependent fortunes, who had amused them-
selves with this pastime for the best part of a
century, without having ever felt the least alarm
from sickness or disgust ; and they never went
to bed, without having each the best part of
a gallon of claret in his belly. Such uninter-
rupted exercise, cooperating with the keen air
from the sea, must, without all doubt, keep
the appetite always on edge, and steel the con-
stitution against all the common attacks of
distemper.
The Leith races gave occasion to another
entertainment of a very singular nature. There
is at Edinburgh a society or corporation of er-
rand-boys called cawdies, who ply in the streets
at night with paper lanterns, and are very
serviceable in carrying messages. These fel-
lows, though shabby in their appearance, and
rudely familiar in their address, are wonder-
fully acute, and so noted for fidelity, that there
is no instance of a cawdy's having betrayed
his trust. Such is their intelligence, that they
know not only every individual of the place, but
also every stranger, by the time he has been
four-and-twenty hours in Edinburgh; and no
transaction, even the most private, can escape
their notice. They are particularly famous for
their dexterity in executing one of the functions
of Mercury; though, for my own part, I never
employed them in this department of business.
Had I occasion for any service of this nature,
my own man, Archy M'Alpine, is as well quali-
fied as e'er a cawdy in Edinburgh ; and I am
much mistaken, if he has not been heretofore
of their fraternity. Be that as it may, they
resolved to give a dinner and a ball at Leith,
to which they formally invited all the young
noblemen and gentlemen that were at the races;
and this invitation was reinforced by an as-
surance, that all the celebrated ladies of pleas-
ure would grace the entertainment with their
company. I received a card on this occasion,
and went thither with half a dozen of my ac-
quaintance. In a large hall, the cloth was laid
on a long range of tables joined together, and
here the company seated themselves, to the
number of about fourscore, lords and lairds
and other gentlemen, courtesans and cawdies,
254
TOBIAS SMOLLETT
mingled together, as the slaves and their
masters were in the time of the Saturnalia in
ancient Rome. The toastmaster, who sat at
the upper end, was one cawdy Fraser, a veteran
pimp, distinguished for his humour and sa-
gacity, well known and much respected in his
profession by all the guests, male and female,
that were here assembled. He had bespoke
the dinner and the wine: he had taken care
that all his brethren should appear in decent
apparel and clean linen ; and he himself wore
a periwig with three tails, in honour of the
festival. I assure you the banquet was both
elegant and plentiful, and seasoned with a
thousand sallies, that promoted a general spirit
of mirth and good humour. After the dessert,
Mr. Fraser proposed the following toasts, which
I don't pretend to explain : "The best in Chris-
tendom " — " Gibb's contract" — "The beg-
gar's benison" — "King and kirk" — "Great
Britain and Ireland." Then, filling a bumper,
and turning to me, — "Mester Malford,"
said he, "may a' unkindness cease betwixt
John Bull and his sister Moggy." The next
person he singled out was a nobleman who had
been long abroad. "Ma lord," cried Fraser,
"here is a bumper to a' those noblemen who
have virtue enough to spend their rents in their
ain countray." He afterwards addressed him-
self to a member of parliament in these words:
"Mester , I'm sure ye'll ha' nae objection
to my drinking, Disgrace and dool to ilka Scot,
that sells his conscience and his vote." He
discharged a third sarcasm at a person very
gaily dressed, who had risen from small be-
ginnings and made a considerable fortune at
play. Filling his glass,' and calling him by
name, — "Lang life," said he, "to the wylie
loon that gangs a-field with the toom poke at
his lunzie, and comes hame with a sackful o'
siller." All these toasts being received with
loud bursts of applause, Mr. Fraser called for
pint glasses, and filled his own to the brim:
then standing up, and all his brethren following
his example, — "Ma lords and gentlemen,"
cried he, "here is a cup of thanks for the great
and undeserved honour you have done your
poor errand-boys this day." So saying, he
and they drank off their glasses in a trice, and
quitting their seats, took their station each
behind one of the other guests, exclaiming —
"Noo we're your honours' cawdies again."
The nobleman who had borne the first brunt
of Mr. Fraser's satire objected to his abdica-
tion. He said, as the company was assembled
by invitation from the cawdies, he expected
they were to be entertained at their expense.
"By no means, my lord," cried Fraser; "I
wad na be guilty of sic presumption for the
wide warld. I never affronted a gentleman
since I was born ; and sure, at this age, I won-
not offer an indignity to sic an honourable con-
vention."— "Well," said his lordship, "as you
have expended some wit, you have a right
to save your money. You have given me good
counsel, and I take it in good part. As you
have voluntarily quitted your seat, I will take
your place, with the leave of the good com-
pany, and think myself happy to be hailed,
'Father of the feast.'" He was forthwith
elected into the chair, and complimented in a
bumper on his new character.
The claret continued to circulate without
interruption, till the glasses seemed to dance
on the table; and this, perhaps, was a hint to
the ladies to call for music. At eight in the
evening the ball began in another apartment:
at midnight we went to supper ; but it was broad
day before I found the way to my lodgings;
and, no doubt, his lordship had a swinging
bill to discharge.
In short, I have lived so riotously for some
weeks, that my uncle begins to be alarmed on
the score of my constitution, and very seriously
observes, that all his own infirmities are owing
to such excesses indulged in his youth. Mrs.
Tabitha says it would be more for the advan-
tage of my soul as well as body, if, instead
of frequenting these scenes of debauchery, I
would accompany Mr. Moffat and her to hear
a sermon of the Reverend Mr. M'Corkendale.
Clinker often exhorts me, with a groan, to take
care of my precious health; and even Archy
M'Alpine, when he happens to be overtaken
(which is oftener the case than I could wish),
reads me a long lecture on temperance and
sobriety: and is so very wise and sententious,
that, if I could provide him with a professor's
chair, I would willingly give up the benefit of
his admonitions and service, together; for I
was tutor-sick at alma mater.
I am not, however, so much engrossed by the
gaieties of Edinburgh, but that I find time to
make parties in the family way. We have not
only seen all the villas and villages within ten
miles of the capital, but we have also crossed the
Frith, which is an arm of the sea, seven miles
broad, that divides Lothian from the shire, or,
as the Scots call it, "the kingdom of Fife."
There is a number of large open-sea boats that
ply on this passage from Leith to Kinghorn,
which is a borough on the other side. In one
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
255
of these our whole family embarked three days
ago, excepting my sister, who, being exceedingly
fearful of the water, was left to the care of Mrs.
Mitchelson. We had an easy and quick pass-
age into Fife, where we visited a number of
poor towns on the sea-side, including St.
Andrews, which is the skeleton of a venerable
city, but we were much better pleased with
some noble and elegant seats and castles, of
which there is a great number in that part of
Scotland. Yesterday we took boat again, on
our return to Leith, with a fair wind and agree-
able weather; but we had not advanced half
way, when the sky was suddenly overcast, and
the wind changing, blew directly in our teeth;
so that we were obliged to turn, or tack the rest
of the way. In a word, the gale increased to a
storm of wind and rain, attended with such a
fog, that we could not see the town of Leith,
to which we were bound, nor even the castle
of Edinburgh, notwithstanding its high situa-
tion. It is not to be doubted but that we were
all alarmed on this occasion ; and, at the same
time, most of the passengers were seized with a
nausea that produced violent retchings. My
aunt desired her brother to order the boatmen
to put back to Kinghorn; and this expedient
he actually proposed; but they assured him
there was no danger. Mrs. Tabitha, finding
them obstinate, began to scold, and insisted on
my uncle's exerting his authority as a justice
of the peace. Sick and peevish as he was, he
could not help laughing at this wise proposal,
telling her that his commission did not extend
so far, and if it did, he should let the people take
their own way; for he thought it would be great
presumption in him to direct them in the ex-
ercise of their own profession. Mrs. Winifred
Jenkins made a general clearance, with the as-
sistance of Mr. Humphry Clinker, who joined
her both in prayer and ejaculation. As he
took it for granted that we should not be long
in this world, he offered some spiritual con-
solation to Mrs. Tabitha, who rejected it wiih
great disgust, bidding him keep his sermons
for those who had leisure to hear such non-
sense. My uncle sat, recollected in himself,
without speaking. My man Archy had re-
course to a brandy-bottle, with which he made
so free, that I imagined he had sworn to die
of drinking anything rather than sea-water;
but the brandy had no more effect on him in
the way of intoxication, than if it had been sea-
water in good earnest. As for myself, I was
too much engrossed by the sickness at my
stomach to think of anything else. Meanwhile
the sea swelled mountains high; the boat
pitched with such violence, as if it had been
going to pieces; the cordage rattled, the wind
roared, the lightning flashed, the thunder bel-
lowed, and the rain descended in a deluge.
Every time the vessel was put about, we shipped
a sea that drenched us all to the skin. When,
by dint of turning, we thought to have cleared
the pier-head, we were driven to leeward, and
then the boatmen themselves began to fear that
the tide would fail before we should fetch up
our lee-way; the next trip, however, brought us
into smooth water, and we were safely landed
on the quay about one o'clock in the afternoon.
"To be sure," cried Tabby, when she found
herself on terra fir ma, "we must all have per-
ished, if we had not been the particular care
of Providence." — "Yes," replied my uncle;
"but I am much of the honest Highlander's
mind; after he had made such a passage as
this, his friend told him he was much indebted
to Providence. 'Certainly,' said Donald;
'but, by my saul, mon, Is'e ne'er trouble Provi-
dence again so long as the brig of Stirling
stands.'" You must know the brig, or bridge,
of Stirling stands above twenty miles up the
river Forth, of which this is the outlet. I don't
find that our squire has suffered in his health
from this adventure: but poor Liddy is in
a peaking way. I'm afraid this unfortunate
girl is uneasy in her mind ; and this apprehen-
sion distracts me, for she is really an amiable
creature.
We shall set out to-morrow or next day for
Stirling and Glasgow; and we propose to
penetrate a little way into the Highlands before
we turn our course to the southward. In the
meantime, commend me to all our friends
round Carfax, and believe me to be ever yours,
J. Melford.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774)
LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE
WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS IN THE
EAST
LETTER XXI
THE CHINESE GOES TO SEE A PLAY
The English are as fond of seeing plays acted
as the Chinese; but there is a vast difference
in the manner of conducting them. We play
our pieces in the open air, the English theirs
under cover; we act by daylight, they by the
256
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
blaze of torches. One of our plays continues
eight or ten days successively ; an English piece
seldom takes up above four hours in the rep-
resentation.
My companion in black, with whom I am
now beginning to contract an intimacy, intro-
duced me a few nights ago to the playhouse,
where we placed ourselves conveniently at the
foot of the stage. As the curtain was not drawn
before my arrival, I had an opportunity of
observing the behaviour of the spectators, and
indulging those reflections which novelty gen-
erally inspires.
The rich in general were placed in the lowest
seats, and the poor rose above them in degrees
proportioned to their poverty. The order of
precedence seemed here inverted; those who
were undermost all the day, now enjoyed a
temporary eminence, and became masters of
the ceremonies. It was they who called for
the music, indulging every noisy freedom, and
testifying all the insolence of beggary in exal-
tation.
They who held the middle region seemed not
so riotous as those above them, nor yet so tame
as those below: to judge by their looks, -many
of them seemed strangers there as well' as my-
self. They were chiefly employed, during this
period of expectation, in eating oranges, read-
ing the story of the play, or making assignations.
Those who sat in the lowest rows, which are
called the pit, seemed to consider themselves
as judges of the merit of the poet and the
performers; they were assembled partly to be
amused, and partly to show their taste ; appear-
ing to labour under that restraint which an
affectation of superior discernment generally
produces. My companion, however, informed
me, that not one in a hundred of them knew
even the first principles of criticism; that they
assumed the right of being censors because
there was none to contradict their pretensions ;
and that every man who now called himself
a connoisseur, became such to all intents and
purposes.
Those who sat in the boxes appeared in the
most unhappy situation of all. The rest of the
audience came merely for their own amusement ;
these, rather to furnish out a part of the enter-
tainment themselves. I could not avoid con-
sidering them as acting parts in dumb show —
not a courtesy or nod, that was not all the result
of art; not a look nor a smile that was not
designed for murder. Gentlemen and ladies
ogled each other through spectacles; for, my
companion observed, that blindness was of
late become fashionable; all affected indif-
ference and ease, while their hearts at the same
time burned for conquest. Upon the whole,
the lights, the music, the ladies in their gayest
dresses, the men with cheerfulness and expec-
tation in their looks, all conspired to make a
most agreeable picture, and to fill a heart that
sympathises at human happiness with inex-
pressible serenity.
The expected time for the play to begin at
last arrived; the curtain was drawn, and the
actors came on. A woman, who personated a
queen, came in curtseying to the audience,
who clapped their hands upon her appearance.
Clapping of hands is, it seems, the manner of
applauding in England; the manner is absurd,
but every country, you know, has its peculiar
absurdities. I was equally surprised, however,
at the submission of the actress, who should have
considered herself as a queen, as at the little
discernment of the audience who gave her such
marks of applause before she attempted to
deserve them. Preliminaries between her and
the audience being thus adjusted, the dialogue
was supported between her and a most hopeful
youth, who acted the part of her confidant.
They both appeared in extreme distress, for it
seems the queen had lost a child some fifteen
years before, and still kept its dear resemblance
next her heart, while her kind companion bore
a part in her sorrows.
Her lamentations grew loud; comfort is
offered, but she detests the very sound: she
bids them preach comfort to the winds. Upon
this her husband comes in, who, seeing the
queen so much afflicted, can himself hardly
refrain from tears, or avoid partaking in the soft
distress. After thus grieving through three
scenes, the curtain dropped for the first act.
"Truly," said I to my companion, "these
kings and queens are very much disturbed at
no very great misfortune: certain I am, were
people of humbler stations to act in this man-
ner, they would be thought divested of com-
mon sense." I had scarcely finished this
observation, when the curtain rose, and the
king came on in a violent passion. His wife
had, it seems, refused his proffered tenderness,
had spurned his royal embrace, and he seemed
resolved not to survive her fierce disdain.
After he had thus fretted, and the queen had
fretted through the second act, the curtain was
let down once more.
"Now," says my companion, "you perceive
the king to be a man of spirit ; he feels at every
pore: one of your phlegmatic sons of clay
LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS 257
would have given the queen her own way, and
let her come to herself by degrees ; but the king
is for immediate tenderness, or instant death:
death and tenderness are leading passions of
every modern buskined hero; this moment
they embrace, and the next stab, mixing dag-
gers and kisses in every period."
I was going to second his remarks, when
my attention was engrossed by a new object;
a man came in balancing a straw upon his nose,
and the audience were clapping their hands in
all the raptures of applause. "To what pur-
pose," cried I, "does this unmeaning figure
make his appearance ? is he a part of the plot ? "
— "Unmeaning do you call him?" replied my
friend in black; "this is one of the most im-
portant characters of the whole play; nothing
pleases the people more than seeing a straw
balanced: there is a good deal of meaning in
the straw: there is something suited to every
apprehension in the sight; and a fellow pos-
sessed of talents like these is sure of making his
fortune."
The third act now began with an actor who
came to inform us that he was the villain of the
play, and intended to show strange things
before all was over. He was joined by another
who seemed as much disposed for mischief as
he: their intrigues continued through this
whole division. "If that be a villain," said I,
"he must be a very stupid one to tell his secrets
without being asked; such soliloquies of late
are never admitted in China."
The noise of clapping interrupted me once
more; a child of six years old was learning
to dance on the stage, which gave the ladies
and mandarines infinite satisfaction. "I am
sorry," said I, "to see the pretty creature so
early learning so very bad a trade; dancing
being, I presume, as contemptible here as in
China." — "Quite the reverse," interrupted
my companion; "dancing is a very reputable
and genteel employment here; men have a
greater chance for encouragement from the
merit of their heels than their heads. One
who jumps up and flourishes his toes three
times before he comes to the ground, may have
three hundred a year; he who flourishes them
four times, gets four hundred; but he who
arrives at five is inestimable, and may demand
what salary he thinks proper. The female
dancers, too, are valued for this sort of jumping
and crossing; and it is a cant word amongst
them, that she deserves most who shows high-
est. But the fourth act is begun; let us be
attentive."
In the fourth act the queen finds her long lost
child, now grown up into a youth of smart
parts and great qualifications; wherefore she
wisely considers that the crown will fit his head
better than that of her husband, whom she
knows to be a driveller. The king discovers
her design, and here comes on the deep distress :
he loves the queen, and he loves the kingdom ;
he resolves, therefore, in order to possess both,
that her son must die. The queen exclaims
at his barbarity, is frantic with rage, and at
length, overcome with sorrow, falls into a fit;
upon which the curtain drops, and the act is
concluded.
"Observe the art of the poet," cries my com-
panion. "When the queen can say no more,
she falls into a fit. While thus her eyes are
shut, while she is supported in the arms of
Abigail, what horrors do we not fancy! We
feel it in every nerve: take my word for it,
that fits are the true aposiopesis of modern
tragedy."
The fifth act began, and a busy piece it was.
Scenes shifting, trumpets sounding, mobs hal-
looing, carpets spreading, guards bustling from
one door to another; gods, demons, daggers,
racks, and ratsbane. But whether the king
was killed, or the queen was drowned, or the
son was poisoned, I have absolutely forgotten.
When the play was over, I could not avoid
observing, that the persons of the drama ap-
peared in as much distress in the first act as
the last. "How is it possible," said I, "to
sympathise with them through five long acts?
Pity is but a short lived passion. I hate to hear
an actor mouthing trifles. Neither startings,
strainings, nor attitudes, affect me, unless
there be cause : after I have been once or twice
deceived by those unmeaning alarms, my heart
sleeps in peace, probably unaffected by the
principal distress. There should be one great
passion aimed at by the actor as well as the
poet; all the rest should be subordinate, and
only contribute to make that the greater; if
the actor, therefore, exclaims upon every occa-
sion, in the tones of despair, he attempts to
move us too soon ; he anticipates the blow, he
ceases to affect, though he gains our applause."
I scarce perceived that the audience were
almost all departed; wherefore, mixing with
the crowd, my companion and I got into the
street, where, essaying a hundred obstacles
from coach-wheels and palanquin poles, like
birds in their flight through the branches of a
forest, after various turnings, we both at length
got home in safety. Adieu.
258
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
LETTER XXVI
THE CHARACTER OF THE MAN IN BLACK; WITH
SOME INSTANCES or HIS INCONSISTENT
CONDUCT
Though fond of many acquaintances, I de-
sire an intimacy only with a few. The man
in black, whom I have often mentioned, is one
whose friendship I could wish to acquire, be-
cause he possesses my esteem. His manners,
it is true, are tinctured with some strange in-
consistencies, and he may be justly termed a
humourist in a nation of humourists. Though
he is generous even to profusion, he affects to
be thought a prodigy of parsimony and pru-
dence ; though his conversation be replete with
the most sordid and selfish maxims, his heart
is dilated with the most unbounded love. I
have known him profess himself a man-hater,
while his cheek was glowing with compassion ;
and, while his looks were softened into pity,
I have heard him use the language of the most
unbounded ill-nature. Some affect humanity
and tenderness, others boast of having such
dispositions from nature; but he is the only
man I ever knew who seemed ashamed, of his
natural benevolence. He takes as much pains
to hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would
to conceal his indifference; but on every un-
guarded moment the mask drops off, and
reveals him to the most superficial observer.
In one of our late excursions into the country,
happening to discourse upon the provision that
was made for the poor in England, he seemed
amazed how any of his countrymen could be
so foolishly weak as to relieve occasional ob-
jects of charity, when the laws had made such
ample provision for their support. "In every
parish -house," says he, "the poor are supplied
with food, clothes, fire, and a bed to lie on ; they
want no more, I desire no more myself; yet
still they seem discontented. I am surprised
at the inactivity of our magistrates, in not tak-
ing up such vagrants, who are only a weight
upon the industrious; I am surprised that the
people are found to relieve them, when they
must be at the same time sensible that it, in
some measure, encourages idleness, extrava-
gance, and imposture. Were I to advise any
man for whom I had the least regard, I would
caution him by all means not to be imposed
upon by their false pretences: let me assure
you, Sir, they are impostors, every one of them,
and rather merit a prison than relief."
He was proceeding in this strain, earnestly to
dissuade me from an imprudence of which I
am seldom guilty, when an old man, who still
had about him the remnants of tattered finery,
implored our compassion. He assured us that
he was no common beggar, but forced into the
shameful profession, to support a dying wife,
and five hungry children. Being prepossessed
against such falsehoods, his story had not the
least influence upon me ; but it was quite other-
wise with the man in black; I could see it
visibly operate upon his countenance, and
effectually interrupt his harangue. I could
easily perceive, that his heart burned to relieve
the five starving children, but he seemed
ashamed to discover his weakness to me.
While he thus hesitated between compassion
and pride, I pretended to look another way,
and he seized this opportunity of giving the
poor petitioner a piece of silver, bidding him
at the same time, in order that I should hear,
go work for his bread, and not tease passen-
gers with such impertinent falsehoods for the
future.
As he had fancied himself quite unperceived,
he continued, as we proceeded, to rail against
beggars with as much animosity as before ; he
threw in some episodes on his own amazing
prudence and economy, with his profound skill
in discovering impostors; he explained the
manner in which he would deal with beggars
were he a magistrate, hinted at enlarging some
of the prisons for their reception, and told two
stories of ladies that were robbed by beggar-
men. He was beginning a third to the same
purpose, when a sailor with a wooden leg once
more crossed our walks, desiring our pity, and
blessing our limbs. I was for going on without
taking any notice, but my friend looking wish-
fully upon the poor petitioner, bid me stop,
and he would show me with how much ease he
could at any time detect an impostor.
He now, therefore, assumed a look of im-
portance, and in an angry tone began to ex-
amine the sailor, demanding in what engage-
ment he was thus disabled and rendered unfit
for service. The sailor replied, in a tone as
angrily as he, that he had been an officer on
board a private ship of war, and that he had
lost his leg abroad, in defence of those who did
nothing at home. At this reply, all my friend's
importance vanished in a moment; he had not
a single question more to ask; he now only
studied what method he should take to relieve
him unobserved. He had, however, no easy
part to act, as he was obliged to preserve the
appearance of ill-nature before me, and yet
relieve himself by relieving the sailor. Cast-
LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS 259
ing, therefore, a furious look upon some
bundles of chips which the fellow carried in a
string at his back, my friend demanded how
he sold his matches; but, not waiting for a
reply, desired, in a surly tone, to have a
shilling's worth. The sailor seemed at first
surprised at his demand, but soon recollected
himself, and presenting his whole bundle,
"Here, master," says he, "take all my cargo,
and a blessing into the bargain."
It is impossible to describe with what an air
of triumph my friend marched off with his new
purchase: he assured me, that he was firmly
of opinion that those fellows must have stolen
their goods, who could thus afford to sell them
for half value. He informed me of several dif-
ferent uses to which those chips might be ap-
plied; 'he expatiated largely upon the savings
that would result from lighting candles with
a match, instead of thrusting them into the
fire. He averred, that he would as soon have
parted with a tooth as his money to those vaga-
bonds, unless for some valuable consideration.
I cannot tell how long this panegyric upon
frugality and matches might have continued,
had not his attention been called off by another
object more distressful than either of the
former. A woman in rags, with one child
in her arms, and another on her back, was
attempting to sing ballads, but with such a
mournful voice, that it was difficult to deter-
mine whether she was singing or crying. A
wretch, who in the deepest distress still aimed
at good-humour, was an object my friend
was by no means capable of withstanding: his
vivacity and his discourse were instantly inter-
rupted; upon this occasion, his very dissimu-
lation had forsaken him. Even in my presence
he immediately applied his hands to his pockets,
in order to relieve her; but guess his confusion
when he found he had already given away all
the money he carried about him to former
objects. The misery painted in the woman's
visage was not half so strongly expressed as
the agony in his. He continued to search for
some time, but to no purpose, till, at length
recollecting himself, with a face of ineffable
good-nature, as he had no money, he put into
her hands his shilling's worth of matches.
LETTER XXVII
THE HISTORY OF THE MAN IN BLACK
As there appeared something reluctantly
good in the character of my companion, I must
own it surprised me what could be his motives
for thus concealing virtues which others take
such pains to display. I was unable to repress
my desire of knowing the history of a man who
thus seemed to act under continual restraint,
and whose benevolence was rather the effect
of appetite than reason.
It was not, however, till after repeated so-
licitations he thought proper to gratify my
curiosity.' "If you are fond," says he, "of
hearing hairbreadth 'scapes, my history must
certainly please; for I have been for twenty
years upon the very verge of starving, without
ever being starved.
"My father, the younger son of a good family,
was possessed of a small living in the church.
His education was above his fortune, and his
generosity greater than his education. Poor
as he was, he had his flatterers still poorer than
himself; for every dinner he gave them, they
returned an equivalent in praise; and this
was all he wanted. The same ambition that
actuates a monarch at the head of an army,
influenced my father at the head of his table.
He told the story of the ivy-tree, and that was
laughed at; he repeated the jest of the two
scholars and one pair of breeches, and the com-
pany laughed at that; but the story of Taffy
in the sedan-chair, was sure to set the table in
a roar. Thus his pleasure increased in pro-
portion to the pleasure he gave; he loved all
the world, and he fancied all the world loved
him.
"As his fortune was but small, he lived up to
the very extent of it; he had no intentions of
leaving his children money, for that was dross;
he was resolved they should have learning; for
learning, he used to observe, was better than
silver or gold. For this purpose, he undertook
to instruct us himself; and took as much pains
to form our morals, as to improve our under-
standing. We were told, that universal be-
nevolence was what first cemented society;
we were taught to consider all the wants of
mankind as our own; to regard the 'human
face divine' with affection and esteem; he
wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and
rendered us incapable of withstanding the
slightest impulse made either by real or fictitious
distress: in a word, we were perfectly instructed
in the art of giving away thousands, before we
were taught the more necessary qualifications
of getting a farthing.
"I cannot avoid imagining, that thus refined
by his lessons out of all my suspicion, and
divested of even all the little cunning which
nature had given me, I resembled, upon my
2<3o
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
first ' entrance into the busy and insidious
world, one of those gladiators who were ex-
posed without armour in the amphitheatre at
Rome. My father, however, who had only
seen the world on one side, seemed to triumph
in my superior discernment; though my whole
stock of wisdom consisted in being able to
talk like himself upon subjects that once were
useful, because they were then topics of the
busy world, but that now were utterly useless,
because connected with the busy world no
longer.
"The first opportunity he had of finding his
expectations disappointed, was in the very
middling figure I made in the university; he
had flattered himself that he should soon see
me rising into the foremost rank in literary
reputation, but was mortified to find me
utterly unnoticed and unknown. His dis-
appointment might have been partly ascribed
to his having overrated my talents, and partly
to my dislike of mathematical reasonings, at a
time when my imagination and memory, yet
unsatisfied, were more eager after new objects,
than desirous of reasoning upon those I knew.
This did not, however, please my tutor, who
observed, indeed, that I was a little dull; but
at the same time allowed, that I seemed to be
very good-natured, and had no harm in me.
"After I had resided at college seven years,
my father died, and left me — his blessing.
Thus shoved from shore without ill-nature to
protect, or cunning to guide, or proper stores
to subsist me in so dangerous a voyage, I was
obliged to embark in the wide world at twenty-
two. But, in order to settle in life, my friends
advised, (for they always advise when they
begin to despise us,) they advised me, I say,
to go into orders.
"To be obliged to wear a long wig, when
I liked a short one, or a black coat, when I
generally dressed in brown, I thought was
such a restraint upon my liberty, that I ab-
solutely rejected the proposal. A priest in
England is not the same mortified creature
with a bonze in China. With us, not he that
fasts best, but eats best, is reckoned the best
liver; yet I rejected a life of luxury, indo-
lence, and ease, from no other consideration
but that boyish one of dress. So that my
friends were now perfectly satisfied I was un-
done; and yet they thought it a pity for one
who had not the least harm in him, and was
so very good-natured.
"Poverty naturally begets dependence, and
I was admitted as flatterer to a great man.
At first, I was surprised that the situation of
a flatterer at a great man's table could be
thought disagreeable: there was no great
trouble in listening attentively when his lord-
ship spoke, and laughing when he looked
round for applause. This even good manners
might have obliged me to perform. I found,
however, too soon, that his lordship was a
greater dunce than myself; and from that
very moment flattery was at an end. I now
rather aimed at setting him right, than at
receiving his absurdities with submission. To
flatter those we do not know is an easy task;
but to flatter our intimate acquaintances, all
whose foibles are strongly in our eye, is drudgery
insupportable. Every time I now opened my
lips in praise, my falsehood went to my con-
science: his lordship soon perceived me to be
very unfit for service; I was therefore dis-
charged; my patron at the same time being
graciously pleased to observe, that he believed
I was tolerably good-natured, and not the
least harm in me.
"Disappointed in ambition, I had recourse
to love. A young lady, who lived with her
aunt, and was possessed of a pretty fortune in
her own disposal, had given me, as I fancied,
some reason to expect success. The symp-
toms by which I was guided were striking.
She had always laughed with me at her awk-
ward acquaintance, and at her aunt among
the number; she always observed, that a
man of sense would make a better husband
than a fool, and I as constantly applied the
observation in my own favour. She continu-
ally talked, in my company, of friendship and
the beauties of the mind, and spoke of Mr.
Shrimp my rival's high-heeled shoes with
detestation. These were circumstances which
I thought strongly in my favour; so, after re-
solving, and re-resolving, I had courage enough
to tell her my mind. Miss heard my proposal
with serenity, seeming at the same time to
study the figures of her fan. Out at last it
came: There was but one small objection to
complete our happiness, which was no more
than — that she was married three months
before to Mr. Shrimp, with high-heeled shoes!
By way of consolation, however, she observed,
that, though I was disappointed in her, my
addresses to her aunt would probably kindle
her into sensibility; as the old lady always
allowed me to be very good-natured, and not
to have the least share of harm in me.
"Yet still I had friends, numerous friends,
and to them I was resolved to apply. O
LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS 261
friendship ! thou fond soother of the human
breast, to thee the wretched seek for succour;
on thee the care-tired son of misery fondly
relies; from thy kind assistance the unfor-
tunate always hopes relief, and may be ever
sure of — disappointment ! My first applica-
tion was to a city scrivener, who had fre-
quently offered to lend me money, when he
knew I did not want it. I informed him, that
now was the time to put his friendship to the
test; that I wanted to borrow a couple of
hundreds for a certain occasion, and was re-
solved to take it up from him. 'And pray,
Sir,' cried my friend, 'do you want all this
money ? ' — ' Indeed, I never wanted it more,'
returned I. 'I am sorry for that,' cries the
scrivener, 'with all my heart; for they who
want money when they come to borrow, will
always want money when they should come to
pay.'
"From him I flew with indignation, to one
of the best friends I had in the world, and
made the same request. 'Indeed, Mr. Dry-
bone,' cries my friend, 'I always thought it
would come to this. You know, Sir, I would
not advise you but for your own good; but
your conduct has hitherto been ridiculous in
the highest degree, and some of your acquaint-
ance always thought you a very silly fellow.
Let me see — you want two hundred pounds.
Do you only want two hundred, Sir, exactly?'
— 'To confess a truth,' returned I, 'I shall
want three hundred; but then I have another
friend, from whom I can borrow the rest.' -
'Why, then,' replied my friend, 'if you would
take my advice (and you know I should not
presume to advise you but for your own good,)
I would recommend it to you to borrow the
whole sum from that other friend, and then
one note will serve for all, you know.' .
"Poverty now began to come fast upon me;
yet instead of growing more provident or
cautious as I grew poor, I became every day
more indolent and simple. A friend was
arrested for fifty pounds; I was unable to
extricate him, except by becoming his bail.
When at liberty, he fled from his creditors,
and left me to take his place. In prison I
expected greater satisfactions than I had en-
joyed at large. I hoped to converse with
men in this new world, simple and believing
like myself; but I found them as cunning
and as cautious as those in the world I had
left behind. They spunged up my money
while it lasted, borrowed my coals and never
paid for them, and cheated me when I played
at cribbage. All this was done because they
believed me to be very good-natured, and
knew that I had no harm in me.
"Upon my first entrance into this mansion,
which is to some the abode of despair, I felt
no sensations different from those I experi-
enced abroad. I was now on one side the
door, and those who were unconfined were on
the other: this was all the difference between
us. At first, indeed, I felt some uneasiness,
in considering how I should be able to pro-
vide this week for the wants of the week en-
suing; but, after some time, if I found myself
sure of eating one day, I never troubled my
head how I was to be supplied another. I
seized every precarious meal with the utmost
good-humour; indulged no rants of spleen at
my situation; never called down heaven and
all the stars to behold me dining upon a half-
penny worth of radishes ; my very companions
were taught to believe that I liked salad better
than mutton. I contented myself with think-
ing, that all my life I should either eat white
bread or brown; considered that all that
happened was best; laughed when I was not
in pain, took the world as it went, and read
Tacitus often, for want of more books and
company.
"How long I might have continued in this
torpid state of simplicity I cannot tell, had I
not been roused by seeing an old acquaintance,
whom I knew to be a prudent blockhead,
preferred to a place in the government. I
now found that I had pursued a wrong track,
and that the true way of being able to relieve
others, was first to aim at independence my-
self. My immediate care, therefore, was to
leave my present habitation, and make an
entire reformation in my conduct and be-
haviour. For a free, open, undesigning de-
portment, I put on that of closeness, prudence,
and economy. One of the most heroic actions
I ever performed, and for which I shall praise
myself as long as I live, was the refusing half-
a-crown to an old acquaintance, at the time
when he wanted it, and I had it to spare: for
this alone I deserve to be decreed an ovation.
"I now therefore pursued a course of un-
interrupted frugality, seldom wanted a dinner,
and was consequently invited to twenty. I
soon began to get the character of a saving
hunks that had money, and insensibly grew
into esteem. Neighbours have asked my advice
in the disposal of their daughters; and I have
always taken care not to give any. I have
contracted a friendship with an alderman,
262
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
only by observing, that if we take a farthing
from a thousand pounds, it will be a thousand
pounds no longer. I have been invited to a
pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate
gravy; and am now actually upon treaty of
marriage with a rich widow, for only having
observed that the bread was rising. If ever
I am asked a question, whether I know it or
not, instead of answering, I only smile and
look wise. If a charity is proposed, I go
about with the hat, but put nothing in myself.
If a wretch solicits my pity, I observe that the
world is filled with impostors, and take a
certain method of not being deceived, by never
relieving. In short, I now find the truest
way of finding esteem, even from the indigent,
is — to give away nothing, and thus have
much in our power to give."
LETTER XXVIII
ON THE GREAT NUMBER OF OLD MAIDS AND
BACHELORS IN LONDON — SOME OF
THE CAUSES
Lately, in company with my friend in
black, whose conversation is now both my
amusement and instruction, I could not avoid
observing the great numbers of old bachelors
and maiden ladies with which this city seems
to be overrun. "Sure, marriage," said I, "is
not sufficiently encouraged, or we should never
behold such crowds of battered beaux and
decayed coquettes, still attempting to drive a
trade they have been so long unfit for, and
swarming upon the gaiety of the age. I be-
hold an old bachelor in the most contemptible
light, as an animal that lives upon the common
stock without contributing his share: he is a
beast of prey, and the laws should make use
of as many stratagems, and as much force, to
drive the reluctant savage into the toils, as
the Indians when they hunt the rhinoceros.
The mob should be permitted to halloo after
him, boys might play tricks on him with im-
punity, every well-bred company should laugh
at him; and if, when turned of sixty, he
offered to make love, his mistress might spit
in his face, or, what would be perhaps a
greater punishment, should fairly grant the
favour.
"As for old maids," continued I, "they
should not be treated with so much severity,
because I suppose none would be so if they
could. No lady in her senses would choose
to make a subordinate figure at christenings
or lyings-in, when she might be the principal
herself; nor curry favour with a sister-in-law,
when she might command a husband; nor
toil in preparing custards, when she might lie
a-bed, and give directions how they ought to
be made; nor stifle all her sensations in
demure formality, when she might, with mat-
rimonial freedom, shake her acquaintance by
the hand, and wink at a double entendre. No
lady could be so very silly as to live single, if
she could help it. I consider an unmarried
lady, declining into the vale of years, as one
of those charming countries bordering on
China, that lies waste for want of proper in-
habitants. We are not to accuse the coun-
try, but the ignorance of its neighbours,
who are insensible of its beauties, though at
liberty to enter and cultivate the soil."
"Indeed, Sir," replied my companion, "you
are very little acquainted with the English
ladies, to think they are old maids against
their will. I dare venture to affirm, that you
can hardly select one of them all, but has had
frequent offers of marriage, which either pride
or avarice has not made her reject. Instead
of thinking it a disgrace, they take every occa-
sion to boast of their former cruelty; a soldier
does not exult more when he counts over the
wounds he has received, than a female veteran
when she relates the wounds she has formerly
given: exhaustless when she begins a narra-
tive of the former death-dealing power of her
eyes, she tells of the knight in gold lace, who
died with a single frown, and never rose again
till — he was married to his maid; of the
squire who, being cruelly denied, in a rage
flew to the window, and lifting up the sash,
threw himself, in an agony — into his arm-
chair; of the parson, who, crossed in love,
resolutely swallowed opium, which banished
the stings of despised love by — making him
sleep. In short, she talks over her former
losses with pleasure, and, like some trades-
men, finds consolation in the many bank-
ruptcies she has suffered.
"For this reason, whenever I see a super-
annuated beauty still unmarried, I tacitly
accuse her either of pride, avarice, coquetry,
or affectation. There's Miss Jenny Tinder-
box: I once remember her to have had some
beauty, and a moderate fortune. Her elder
sister happened to marry a man of quality,
and this seemed as a statute of virginity against
poor Jane. Because there was one lucky hit
in the family, she was resolved not to dis-
grace it by introducing a tradesman; thus,
rejecting her equals, and neglected or de-
LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS 263
spised by her superiors, she now acts in the
capacity of tutoress to her sister's children,
and undergoes the drudgery of three servants
without receiving the wages of one.
"Miss Squeeze was a pawnbroker's daugh-
ter; her father had early taught her that
money was a very good thing, and left her a
moderate fortune at his death. She was so
perfectly sensible of the value of what she had
got, that she was resolved never to part with
a farthing without an equality on the part of
her suitor; she thus refused several offers
made her by people who wanted to better
themselves, as the saying is, and grew old
and ill-natured, without ever considering that
she should have made an abatement in her
pretensions, from her face being pale, and
marked with the small-pox.
"Lady Betty Tempest, on the contrary, had
beauty, with fortune and family. But, fond
of conquest, she passed from triumph to
triumph: she had read plays and romances,
and there had learned, that a plain man of
common sense was no better than a fool.
Such she refused, and sighed only for the gay,
giddy, inconstant, and thoughtless. After she
had thus rejected hundreds who liked her, and
sighed for hundreds who despised her, she
found herself insensibly deserted. At present
she is company only for her aunts and cousins,
and sometimes makes one in a country-dance,
with only one of the chairs for a partner,
casts off round a joint-stool, and sets to a
corner cupboard. In a word, she is treated
with civil contempt from every quarter, and
placed, like a piece of old-fashioned lumber,
merely to fill up a corner.
"But Sophronia, the sagacious Sophronia!
how shall I mention her? She was taught to
love Greek, and hate the men from her very
infancy. She has rejected fine gentlemen be-
cause they were not pedants, and pedants be-
cause they were not fine gentlemen; her ex-
quisite sensibility has taught her to discover
every fault in every lover, and her inflexible
justice has prevented her pardoning them:
thus she rejected several offers, till the wrinkles
of age had overtaken her; and now, without
one good feature in her face, she talks inces-
santly of the beauties of the mind." — Farewell.
LETTER XXIX
A DESCRIPTION OF A CLUB OF AUTHORS
Were we to estimate the learning of the
English by the number of books that are
every day published among them, perhaps no
country, not even China itself, could equal
them in this particular. I have reckoned not
less than twenty-three new books published
in one day, which, upon computation, makes
eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five
in one year. Most of these are not confined
to one single science, but embrace the whole
circle. History, politics, poetry, mathematics,
metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature,
are all comprised in a manual not larger than
that in which our children are taught the
letters. If, then, we suppose the learned of
England to read but an eighth part of the
works which daily come from the press (and
surely none can pretend to learning upon less
easy terms), at this rate every scholar will
read a thousand books in one year. From
such a calculation, you may conjecture what
an amazing fund of literature a man must be
possessed of, who thus reads three new books
every day, not one of which but contains all
the good things that ever were said or written.
And yet I know not how it happens, but the
English are not, in reality, so learned as would
seem from this calculation. We meet but few
who know all arts and sciences to perfection;
whether it is that the generality are incapa-
ble of such extensive knowledge, or that the
authors of those books are not adequate in-
structors. In China, the Emperor himself
takes cognisance of all the doctors in the
kingdom who profess authorship. In Eng-
land, every man may be an author, that can
write; for they have by law a liberty, not
only of saying what they please, but of being
also as dull as they please.
Yesterday, I testified my surprise, to the
man in black, where writers could be found
in sufficient number to throw off the books I
daily saw crowding from the press. I at first
imagined that their learned seminaries might
take this method of instructing the world.
But to obviate this objection, my companion
assured me, that the doctors of colleges never
wrote, and that some of them had actually
forgot their reading; "but if you desire," con-
tinued he, "to see a collection of authors, I
fancy I can introduce you this evening to a
club, which assembles every Saturday at seven,
at the sign of The Broom, near Islington, to
talk over the business of the last, and the
entertainment of the week ensuing." I ac-
cepted his invitation; we walked together, and
entered the house some time before the usual
hour for the company assembling.
264
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
My friend took this opportunity of letting
me into the characters of the principal mem-
bers of the club, not even the host excepted,
who, it seems, was once an author himself,
but preferred by a bookseller to this situation
as a reward for his former services.
"The first person," said he, "of our society,
is Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most
people think him a profound scholar; but, as
he seldom speaks, I cannot be positive in that
particular; he generally spreads himself be-
fore the fire, sucks his pipe, talks little, drinks
much, and is reckoned very good company.
I'm told he writes indexes to perfection: he
makes essays on the origin of evil, philosophical
inquiries upon any subject, and draws up an
answer to any book upon twenty-four hours'
warning. You may distinguish him from the
rest of the company by his long gray wig, and
the blue handkerchief round his neck.
"The next to him in merit and esteem is
Tim Syllabub, a droll creature: he sometimes
shines as a star of the first magnitude among
the choice spirits of the age: he is reckoned
equally excellent at a rebus, a riddle, a bawdy
song, and a hymn for the Tabernacle. You
will know him by his shabby finery, his pow-
dered wig, dirty shirt, and broken silk stockings.
"After him succeeds Mr. Tibs, a very useful
hand: he writes receipts for the bite of a
mad dog, and throws off an Eastern tale to
perfection; he understands the business of an
author as well as any man; for no bookseller
alive can cheat him. You may distinguish
him by the peculiar clumsiness of his figure,
and the coarseness of his coat; however,
though it be coarse (as he frequently tells the
company), he has paid for it.
"Lawyer Squint is the politician of the
society: he makes speeches for Parliament,
writes addresses to his fellow-subjects, and
letters to noble commanders; he gives the
history of every new play, and finds season-
able thoughts upon every occasion." My com-
panion was proceeding in his description,
when the host came running in, with terror
on his countenance, to tell us that the door
was beset with bailiffs. "If that be the case,
then," says my companion, "we had as good
be going; for I am positive we shall not see
one of the company this night." Wherefore,
disappointed, we were both obliged to return
home — he to enjoy the oddities which com-
pose his character alone, and I to write as
usual to my friend the occurrences of the
day. Adieu.
LETTER XXX
THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE CLUB OF AUTHORS
By my last advices from Moscow, I find the
caravan has not yet departed for China: I
still continue to write, expecting that you may
receive a large number of letters at once. In
them you will find rather a minute detail of
English peculiarities, than a general picture
of their manners or disposition. Happy it
were for mankind, if all travellers would thus,
instead of characterising a people in general
terms, lead us into a detail of those minute
circumstances which first influenced their
opinion. The genius of a country should be
investigated with a kind .of experimental in-
quiry: by this means, we should have more
precise and just notions of foreign nations,
and detect travellers themselves when they
happened to form wrong conclusions.
My friend and I repeated our visit to the
club of authors; where, upon our entrance,
we found the members all assembled, and en-
gaged in a loud debate.
The poet, in shabby finery, holding a manu-
script in his hand, was earnestly endeavouring
to persuade the company to hear him read the
first book of an heroic poem, which he had
composed the day before. But against this
all the members very warmly objected. They
knew no reason why any member of the club
should be indulged with a particular hearing,
when many of them had published whole
volumes which had never been looked into.
They insisted that the law should be observed,
where reading in company was expressly
noticed. It was in vain that the plaintiff
pleaded the peculiar merit of his piece; he
spoke to an assembly insensible to all his
remonstrances: the book of laws was opened,
and read by the secretary, where it was ex-
pressly enacted, "That whatsoever poet,
speech-maker, critic, or historian, should pre-
sume to engage the company by reading his
own works, he was to lay down sixpence pre-
vious to opening the manuscript, and should
be charged one shilling an hour while he con-
tinued reading: the said shilling to be equally
distributed among the company, as a recom-
pense for their trouble."
Our poet seemed at first to shrink at the
penalty, hesitating for some time whether he
should deposit the fine, or shut up the poem;
but, looking round, and perceiving two strangers
in the room, his love of fame outweighed his
LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS 265
prudence, and, laying down the sum by law
established, he insisted on his prerogative.
A profound silence ensuing, he began by
explaining his design. "Gentlemen," says
he, "the present piece is not one of your com-
mon epic poems, which come from the press
like paper-kites in summer: there are none of
your Turnuses or Didos in it ; it is an heroical
description of nature. I only beg you'll en-
deavour to make your souls unison with mine,
and hear with the same enthusiasm with which
I have written. The poem begins with the
description of an author's bed-chamber: the
picture was sketched in my own apartment;
for you must know, gentlemen, that I am
myself the hero." Then putting himself into
the attitude of an orator, with all the emphasis
of voice and action, he proceeded:
" Where the Red Lion, flaring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham-
pagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane :
There, in a Ipnely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug.
A window, patched with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly showed the state in which he lay ;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread —
The Royal Game of Goose was there in view
And the Twelve Rules the Royal Martyr drew ;
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William showed his lamp-black
face.
The morn was cold : he views with keen desire
The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire :
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five cracked teacups dressed the chimney board ;
A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night — a stocking all the day ! "
With this last line he seemed so much elated,
that he was unable to proceed. "There,
gentlemen," cries he, "there is a description
for you; Rabelais's bed-chamber is but a
fool to it:
' A cap by night — a stocking all the day ! '
There is sound, and sense, and truth, and
nature in the trifling compass of ten little
syllables."
He was too much employed in self-admira-
tion to observe the company; who, by nods,
winks, shrugs, and stifled laughter, testified
every mark of contempt. He turned severally
to each for their opinion, and found all, how-
ever, ready to applaud. One swore it was
inimitable; another said it was damned fine;
and a third cried out in a rapture, "Carissimo 1 "
At last, addressing himself to the president,
"And pray, Mr. Squint," says he, "let us
have your opinion." — "Mine!" answered
the president (taking the manuscript out of
the author's hand); "may this glass suffocate
me, but I think it equal to anything I have
seen; and I fancy" (continued he, doubling
up the poem and forcing it into the author's
pocket) "that you will get great honour when
it comes out ; so I shall beg leave to put it in.
We will not intrude upon your good-nature, in
desiring to hear more of it at present; ex
ungue Herculem, we are satisfied, perfectly
satisfied." The author made two or three
attempts to pull it out a second time, and the
president made as many to prevent him.
Thus, though with reluctance, he was at last
obliged to sit down, contented with the com-
mendations for which he had paid.
When this tempest of poetry and praise was
blown over, one of the company changed the
subject, by wondering how any man could be
so dull as to write poetry at present, since
prose itself would hardly pay. "Would you
think it, gentlemen," continued he, "I have
actually written, last week, sixteen prayers,
twelve bawdy jests, and three sermons, all at
the rate of sixpence a-piece; and, what is still
more extraordinary, the bookseller has lost by
the bargain. Such sermons would once have
gained me a prebend's stall; but now, alas!
we have neither piety, taste, nor humour
among us ! Positively, if this season does not
turn out better than it has begun, unless the
ministry commit some blunders to furnish us
with a new topic of abuse, I shall resume my
old business of working at the press, instead
of finding it employment."
The whole club seemed to join in condemn-
ing the season, as one of the worst that had
come for some time : a gentleman particularly
observed that the nobility were never known
to subscribe worse than at present. "I know
not how it happens," said he, "though I follow
them up as close as possible, yet I can hardly
get a single subscription in a week. The
houses of the great are as inaccessible as a
frontier garrison at midnight. I never see a
nobleman's door half opened, that some surly
porter or footman does not stand full in the
breach. I was yesterday to wait with a sub-
scription proposal upon my Lord Squash, the
Creolian. I had posted myself at his door
266
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
the whole morning, and, just as he was getting
into his coach, thrust my proposal snug into
his hand, folded up in the form of a letter
from myself. He just glanced at the super-
scription, and not knowing the hand, con-
signed it to his valet-de-chambre ; this respect-
able personage treated it as his master, and
put it into the hands of the porter; the porter
grasped my proposal frowning; and, measur-
ing my figure from top to toe, put it back into
my own hands unopened."
"To the devil I pitch all the nobility!"
cries a little man, in a peculiar accent ; " I am
sure they have of late used me most scurvily.
You must know, gentlemen, some time ago,
upon the arrival of a certain noble duke from
his travels, I sat myself down, and vamped up
a fine flaunting poetical panegyric, which I
had written in such a strain, that I fancied it
would have even wheedled milk from a mouse.
In this I represented the whole kingdom wel-
coming his grace to his native soil, not for-
getting the loss France and Italy would sustain
in their arts by his departure. I expected to
touch for a bank-bill at least; so, folding up
my verses in gilt paper, I gave my lasi half-
crown to a genteel servant to be the bearer.
My letter was safely conveyed to his grace,
and the servant, after four hours' absence,
during which time I led the life of a fiend,
returned with a letter four times as big as mine.
Guess my ecstacy at the prospect of so fine a
return. I eagerly took the packet into my
hands, that trembled to receive it. I kept it
some time unopened before me, brooding over
the expected treasure it contained ; when open-
ing it, as I hope to be saved, gentlemen,
his grace had sent me in payment for my
poem, no bank-bills, but six copies of verses,
each longer than mine, addressed to him upon
the same occasion."
"A nobleman," cries a member, who had
hitherto been silent, "is created as much for
the confusion of us authors, as the catch-pole.
I'll tell you a story, gentlemen, which is as
true as that this pipe is made of clay: — When
I was delivered of my first book, I owed my
tailor for a suit of clothes ; but that is nothing
new, you know, and may be any man's case
as well as mine. Well, owing him for a suit
of clothes, and hearing that my book took very
well, he sent for his money and insisted upon
being paid immediately. Though I was at
that time rich in fame — for my book ran like
wild-fire — yet I was very short in money,
and, being unable to satisfy his demand, pru-
dently resolved to keep my chamber, pre-
ferring a prison of my own choosing at home,
to one of my tailor's choosing abroad. In
vain the bailiffs used all their arts to decoy
me from my citadel; in vain they sent to let
me know that a gentleman wanted to speak
with me at the next tavern ; in vain they came
with an urgent message from my aunt in the
country j in vain I was told that a particular
friend was at the point of death, and desired
to take his last farewell : — I was deaf, insen-
sible, rock, adamant; the bailiffs could make
no impression on my hard heart, for I effectu-
ally kept my liberty by never stirring out of the
room.
"This was very well for a fortnight; when
one morning I received a most splendid mes-
sage from the Earl of Doomsday, importing,
that he had read my book, and was in raptures
with every line of it; he impatiently longed
to see the author, and had some designs which
might turn out greatly to my advantage. I
paused upon the contents of this message, and
found there could be no deceit, for the card
was gilt at the edges, and the bearer, I was
told, had quite the looks of a gentleman.
Witness, ye powers, how my heart triumphed
at my own importance ! I saw a long per-
spective of felicity before me; I applauded
the taste of the times which never saw genius
forsaken: I had prepared a set introductory
speech for the occasion; five glaring compli-
ments for his lordship, and two more modest
for myself. The next morning, therefore, in
order to be punctual to my appointment, I
took coach, and ordered the fellow to drive
to the street and house mentioned in his lord-
ship's address. I had the precaution to pull
up the windows as I went along, to keep off
the busy part of mankind, and, big with ex-
pectation, fancied the coach never went fast
enough. At length, however, the wished for
moment of .its stopping arrived: this for some
time I impatiently expected, and letting down
the window in a transport, in order to take a
previous view of his lordship's magnificent
palace and situation, I found — poison to my
sight ! — I found myself not in an elegant
street, but a paltry lane; not at a nobleman's
door, but the door of a spunging-house : I
found the coachman had all this while been
just driving me to jail; and I saw the bailiff,
with a devil's face, coming out to secure me."
To a philosopher, no circumstance, how-
ever trifling, is too minute; he finds instruc-
tion and entertainment in occurrences, which
EDMUND BURKE
267
are passed over by the rest of mankind, as low,
trite, and indifferent ; it is from the number of
these particulars, which to many appear in-
significant, that he is at last enabled to form
general conclusions; this, therefore, must be
my excuse for sending so far as China, accounts
of manners and follies, which, though minute
in their own nature, serve more truly to char-
acterise this people, than histories of their
public treaties, courts, ministers, negotiations,
and ambassadors. Adieu.
EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797)
FROM SPEECH ON THE NABOB OF
ARGOT'S DEBTS
The great fortunes made in India, in the
beginnings of conquest, naturally excited an
emulation in all the parts and through the whole
succession of the Company's service. But in
the Company it gave rise to other sentiments.
They did not find the new channels of acquisi-
tion flow with equal riches to them. On the
contrary, the high flood-tide of private emolu-
ment was generally in the lowest ebb of their
affairs. They began also to fear that the for-
tune of war might take away what the fortune
of war had given. Wars were accordingly
discouraged by repeated injunctions and
menaces: and that the servants might not be
bribed into them by the native princes, they
were strictly forbidden to take any money
whatsoever from their hands. But vehement
passion is ingenious in resources. The Com-
pany's servants were not only stimulated, but
better instructed by the prohibition. They
soon fell upon a contrivance which answered
their purposes far better than the methods which
were forbidden: though in this also they vio-
lated an ancient, but they thought, an ab-
rogated order. They reversed their proceed-
ings. Instead of receiving presents, they made
loans. Instead of carrying on wars in their
own name, they contrived an authority, at once
irresistible and irresponsible, in whose name
they might ravage at pleasure; and being thus
freed from all restraint, they indulged them-
selves in the most extravagant speculations of
plunder. The cabal of creditors who have been
the object of the late bountiful grant from his
Majesty's ministers, in order to possess them-
selves, under the name of creditors and assign-
ees, of every country in India, as fast as it
should be conquered, inspired into the mind of
the Nabob of Arcot (then a dependent on the
Company of the humblest order) a scheme of
the most wild and desperate ambition that I
believe ever was admitted into the thoughts of
a man so situated. First, they persuaded him
to consider himself as a principal member in
the political system of Europe. In the next
place, they held out to him, and he readily
imbibed, the idea of the general empire of
Hindostan. As a preliminary to this under-
taking, they prevailed on him to propose a
tripartite division of that vast country: one
part to the Company; another to the Mahrat-
tas; and the third to himself. To himself he
reserved all the southern part of the great
peninsula, comprehended under the general
name of the E>e|c<|jan.
On this scheme of their servants, the Com-
pany was to appear in the Carnatic in no other
light than as a contractor for the provision of
armies, and the hire of mercenaries for his use
and under his direction. This disposition was
to be secured by the Nabob's putting himself
under the guaranty of France, and, by the
means of that rival nation, preventing the
English forever from assuming an equality,
much less a superiority, in the Carnatic. In
pursuance of this treasonable project, (treason-
able on the part of the English,) they extin-
guished the Company as a sovereign power in
that part of India; they withdrew the Com-
pany's garrisons out of all the forts and strong-
holds of the Carnatic; they declined to receive
the ambassadors from foreign courts, and re-
mitted them to the Nabob of Arcot; they fell
upon, and totally destroyed, the oldest ally
of the Company, the king of Tanjore, and
plundered the country to the amount of near
five millions sterling; one after another, in
the Nabob's name, but with English force,
they brought into a miserable servitude all the
princes and great independent nobility of a vast
country. In proportion to these treasons and
violences, which ruined the people, the fund
of the Nabob's debt grew and flourished.
Among the victims to this magnificent plan
of universal plunder, worthy of the heroic
avarice of the projectors, you have all heard
(and he has made himself to be well remem-
bered) of an Indian chief called Hyder Alj
Khan. This man possessed the western, as
the Company, under the name of the Nabob
of Arcot, does the eastern division of the
Carnatic. It was among the leading measures
in the design of this cabal (according to their
own emphatic language) to extirpate this Hyder
Ali. They declared the Nabob of Arcot to be
268
EDMUND BURKE
his sovereign, and himself to be a rebel, and
publicly invested their instrument with the
sovereignty of the kingdom of Mysore. But
their victim was not of the passive kind. They
were soon obliged to conclude a treaty of peace
and close alliance with this rebel, at the gates
of Madras. Both before and since that treaty,
every principle of policy pointed out this power
as a natural alliance; and on his part it was
courted by every sort of amicable office. But
the cabinet council of English creditors would
not suffer their Nabob of Arcot to sign the
treaty, nor even to give to a prince at least his
equal the ordinary titles of respect and courtesy.
From that time forward, a continued plot was
carried on within the divan, black and white,
of the Nabob of Arcot, for the destruction
of Hyder Ali. As to the outward members of
the double, or rather treble government of
Madras, which had signed the treaty, they were
always prevented by some overruling influence
(which they do not describe, but which cannot
be misunderstood) from performing what jus-
tice and interest combined so evidently to
enforce.
When at length Hyder Ali found that he had
to do with men who either would sign no con-
vention, or whom no treaty and no signature
could bind, and who were the determined
enemies of human intercourse itself, he decreed
to make the country possessed by these in-
corrigible and predestinated criminals a mem-
orable example to mankind. He resolved, in
the gloomy recesses of a mind capacious of
such things, to leave the whole Carnatic an
everlasting monument of vengeance, and to
put perpetual desolation as a barrier between
him and those against whom the faith which
holds the moral elements of the world together
was no protection. He became at length so
confident of his force, so collected in his might,
that he made no secret whatsoever of his
dreadful resolution. Having terminated his
disputes with every enemy and every rival,
who buried their mutual animosities in their
common detestation against the creditors of
the Nabob of Arcot, he drew from every
quarter whatever a savage ferocity could add
to his new rudiments in the arts of destruction;
and compounding all the materials of fury,
havoc, and desolation into one black cloud,
he hung for a while on the declivities of the
mountains. Whilst the authors of all these
evils were idly and stupidly gazing on this
menacing meteor, which blackened all their
horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down
the whole of its contents upon the plains of the
Carnatic. [Then ensued a scene of woe, the
like of which no eye had seen, no heart con-
ceived, and which no tongue can adequately
tell. All the horrors of war before known or
heard of were mercy to that new havoc. A
storm of universal fire blasted every field, con-
sumed every house, destroyed every temple. J
The miserable inhabitants, flying from their
flaming villages, in part were slaughtered;
others, without regard to sex, to age, to the
respect of rank or sacredness of function,
fathers torn from children, husbands from
wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry,
and amidst the goading spears of drivers, and
the trampling of pursuing horses, were swept
into captivity in an unknown and hostile land.
Those who were able to evade this tempest
fled to the walled cities; but escaping from fire,
sword, and exile, they fell into the jaws of
famine?/ { *J&jiJ&cs .cLt*~&\*j*£i4*^
The alms of the settlement, in this dreadful
exigency, were certainly liberal; and all was
done by charity that private charity could do:
but it was a people in beggary ; it was a nation
which stretched out its hands for food. For
months together, these creatures of sufferance,
whose very excess and luxury in their most
plenteous days had fallen short of the allow-
ance of our austerest fasts, silent, patient,
resigned, without sedition or disturbance,
almost without complaint, perished by an hun-
dred a day in the streets of Madras ; every day
seventy at least laid their bodies in the streets
or on the glacis of Tan j ore, and expired of
famine in the granary of India. I was going
to awake your justice towards this unhappy
part of our fellow-citizens, by bringing before
you some of the circumstances of this plague
of hunger: of all the calamities which beset
and waylay the life of man, this comes the
nearest to our heart, and is that wherein the
proudest of us all feels himself to be nothing
more than he is: but I find myself unable to
manage it with decorum ; these details are of a
species of horror so nauseous and disgusting,
they are so degrading to the sufferers and to the
hearers, they are so humiliating to human
nature itself, that, on better thoughts, I find
it more advisable to throw a pall over this
hideous object, and to leave it to your general
conceptions.
For eighteen months, without intermission,
this destruction raged from the gates of Madras
to the gates of Tanjore ; and so completely
did these masters in their art, Hyder AH and
SPEECH ON THE NABOB OF ARGOT'S DEBTS
269
his more ferocious son, absolve themselves
of their impious vow, that, when the British
armies traversed, as they did, the Carnatic
for hundreds of miles in all directions, through
the whole line of their march they did not see
one man, not one woman, not one child, not
one four-footed beast of any description what-
ever. One dead, uniform silence reigned over
the whole region. With the inconsiderable
exceptions of the narrow vicinage of some few
forts, I wish to be understood as speaking
literally. I mean to produce to you more
than three witnesses, above all exception, who
will support this assertion in its full extent.
That hurricane of war passed through every
part of the central provinces of the Carnatic.
Six or seven districts to the north and to the
south (and these not wholly untouched) es-
caped the general ravage.
The Carnatic is a country not much infe-
rior in extent to England. Figure to yourself,
Mr. Speaker, the land in whose representative
chair you sit; figure to yourself the form and
fashion of your sweet and cheerful country
from Thames to Trent, north and south, and
from the Irish, to the German Sea, east and west,
emptied and embowelled (mav_God avert the
omen of our crimes !) by so accomplished a
desolation. Extend your, imagination a little
further, and then suppose your ministers taking
a survey of this scene of waste and desolation.
What would be your thoughts, if you should be
informed that they were computing how much
had been the amount of the excises, how much
the customs, how much the land and malt tax,
in order that they should charge (take it in the
most favourable light) for public service, upon
the relics of the satiated vengeance of relent-
less enemies, the whole of what England had
yielded in the most exuberant seasons of peace
and abundance? What would you call it?
To call it tyranny sublimed into madness would
be too faint an image; yet this very madness is
the principle upon which the ministers at your
right hand have proceeded in their estimate
of the revenues of the Carnatic, when they were
providing, not supply for the establishments of
its protection, but rewards for the authors of
its ruin.
Every day you are fatigued and disgusted
with this cant, "The Carnatic is a country that
will soon recover, and become instantly as
prosperous as ever." They think they are
talking to innocents, who will believe, that, by
sowing of dragons' teeth, men may come up
ready grown and ready armed. They who will
give themselves the trouble of considering (for
it requires no great reach of thought, no very
profound knowledge) the manner in which man-
kind are increased, and countries cultivated,
will regard all this raving as it ought to be re-
garded. In_order that the people, after a long'Tg^
period of vexation and plunder, may be in a I
condition to maintain government, government | ^»e>
must begin by maintaining them. Here theJ
road to economy lies not through receiptJ
but through expense; and in that country)]
Nature has given no short cut to your object. '
Men must propagate, like other animals, by
the mouth. Never did oppression light the
nuptial torch; never did extortion and usury
spread out the genial bed. Does any of you
think that England, so wasted, would, under
such a nursing attendance, so rapidly and
cheaply recover? But he is meanly acquainted
with either England or India who does not know
that England would a thousand times sooner
resume population, fertility, and what ought to
be the ultimate secretion from both, revenue,
than such a country as the Carnatic.
The Carnatic is not by the bounty of Nature
a fertile soil. The general size of its cattle is
proof enough that it is much otherwise. It is
some days since I moved that a curious and
interesting map, kept in the India House, should
be laid before you. The India House is not yet
in readiness to send it; I have therefore brought
down my own copy, and there it lies for the use
of any gentleman who may think such a matter
worthy of his attention. It is, indeed, a noble
map, and of noble things; but it is decisive
against the golden dreams and sanguine specu-
lations of avarice run mad. In addition to what
you know must be the case in every part of the
world, (the necessity of a previous provision
of habitation, seed, stock, capital,) that map
will show you that the uses of the influences of
Heaven itself are in that country a work of
art. The Carnatic is refreshed by few or no
living brooks or running streams, and it has
rain only at a season; but its product of rice
exacts the use of water subject to perpetual
command. This is the national bank of the
Carnatic, on which it must have a perpetual
credit, or it perishes irretrievably. For that
reason, in the happier times of India, a number,
almost incredible, of reservoirs have been made
in chosen places throughout the whole country :
they are formed, for the greater part, of mounds
of earth and stones, with sluices of solid masonry ;
the whole constructed with admirable skill and
labour, and maintained at a mighty charge. In
270
EDMUND BURKE
the territory contained in that map alone, I
have been at the trouble of reckoning the res-
ervoirs, and they amount to upwards of eleven
hundred, from the extent of two or three acres
to five miles in circuit. From these reservoirs
currents are occasionally drawn over the fields,
and these watercourses again call for a consid-
erable expense to keep them properly scoured
and duly levelled. Taking the district in that
map as a measure, there cannot be in the Car-
natic and Tanjore fewer than ten thousand of
these reservoirs of the larger and middling di-
mensions, to say nothing of those for domestic
services, and the use of religious purification.
These are not the enterprises of your power, nor
in a style of magnificence suited to the taste of
your minister. These are the monuments of
real kings, who were the fathers of their people,
— testators to a posterity which they embraced
as their own. These are the grand sepulchres
built by ambition, — but by the ambition of an
insatiable benevolence, which, not contented
with reigning in the dispensation of happiness
during the contracted term of human life, had
strained, with all the Teachings and graspings
of a vivacious mind, to extend the dominion
of their bounty beyond the limits of Nature,
and to perpetuate themselves through genera-
tions of generations, the guardians, the pro-
tectors, the nourishers of mankind.
Long before the late invasion, the persons
who are objects of the grant of public money
now before you had so diverted the supply
of the pious funds of culture and population,
that everywhere the reservoirs were fallen into
a miserable decay. But after those domestic
enemies had provoked the entry of a cruel
foreign foe into the country, he did not leave
it, until his revenge had completed the de-
struction begun by their avarice. Few, very
few indeed, of these magazines of water that are
not either totally destroyed, or cut through with
such gaps as to require a serious attention and
much cost to reestablish them, as the means of
present subsistence to the people and of future
revenue to the state.
What, Sir, would a virtuous and enlightened
ministry do, on the view of the ruins of such
works before them ? — on the view of such
a chasm of desolation as that which yawned in
the midst of those countries, to the north and
south, which still bore some vestiges of culti-
vation? They would have reduced all their
most necessary establishments ; they would have
suspended the justest payments; they would
have employed every shilling derived from the
producing to reanimate the pagers of the
unproductive parts. While they were perform-
ing this fundamental duty, whilst they were
celebrating these mysteries of justice and
humanity, they would have told the corps of
fictitious creditors, whose crimes were their
claims, that they must keep an awful distance,
— that they must silence their inauspicious
tongues,— that they must hold off their profane,
unhallowed paws from this holy work; they
would have proclaimed, with a voice that
should make itself heard, that on every coun-
try the first creditor is the plough, — that this
original, indefeasible claim supersedes every
other demand.
This is what a wise and virtuous ministry
would have done and said. This, therefore,
is what our minister could never think of,
saying or doing. A ministry of another kindi
would have first improved the country, and have \
thus laid a solid foundation for future opulence I
and future force. But on this grand point of /
the restoration of the country there is not one
syllable to be found in the correspondence of
our ministers, from the first to the last; they
felt nothing for a land desolated by fire, sword,
and famine: their sympathies took another
direction; they were touched with pity for
bribery, so long tormented with a fruitless
itching of its palms; their bowels yearned
for usury, that had long missed the harvest of
its returning months; they felt for peculation,
which had been for so many years raking in the
dust of an empty treasury; they were melted
into compassion for rapine and oppression,
licking their dry, parched, unbloody jaws.
These were the objects of their solicitude.
These were the necessities for which they
were studious to provide. *****
FROM REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLU-
TION IN FRANCE
This, my dear Sir, was not the triumph of
France. I must believe, that, as a nation, it
overwhelmed you with shame and horror.
I must believe that the National Assembly
find themselves in a state of the greatest humilia-
tion in not being able to punish the authors of
this triumph or the actors in it, and that they
are in a situation in which any inquiry they may
make upon the subject must be destitute even
of the appearance of liberty or impartiality.
The apology of that assembly .is found in their
situation; but when we approve what they
REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE
271
must bear, it is in us the degenerate choice of
a vitiated mind.
With a compelled appearance of deliberation,
they vote under the dominion of a stern neces-
sity. They sit in the heart> as it were, of a
foreign republic: they have their residence in
a city whose constitution has emanated neither
from the charter of their king nor from their
legislative power. There they are surrounded
by an army not raised either by the authority
of their crown or by their command, and which,
if they should order to dissolve itself, would
instantly dissolve them. There they sit, after
a gang of assassins had driven away some
hundreds of the members; whilst those who
held the same moderate principles, with more
patience or better hope, continued every day
exposed to outrageous insults and murderous
threats. There a majority, sometimes real,
sometimes pretended, captive itself, compels
a captive king to issue as royal edicts, at third
hand, the polluted nonsense of their most
licentious and giddy coffee-houses. It is no-
torious that all their measures are decided
before they are debated. It is beyond doubt,
that, under the terror of the bayonet, and the
lamp-post, and the torch to their houses, they
are obliged to adopt all the crude and desper-
ate measures suggested by clubs composed of
a monstrous medley of all conditions, tongues,
and nations. Agiong these are found persons
in comparison of wnorn Catiline would be
thought scrupulous, and Cethegus a" man of
sobriety and moderation. Nor is it in these
clubs alone that the public measures are de-
formed into monsters. They undergo a pre-
vious distortion in academies, intended as so
many seminaries for these clubs, which are set
up in all the places of public resort. In these
meetings of all sorts, every counsel, in pro-
portion as it is daring and violent and perfidious,
is taken for the mark of superior genius.
Humanity and compassion are ridiculed as
the fruits of superstition and ignorance. Ten-
derness to individuals is considered as treason
to the public. Liberty is always to be esti-
mated perfect as property is rendered insecure.
Amidst assassination, massacre, and confisca-
tion, perpetrated or meditated, they are form-
ing plans for the good order of future society.
Embracing in their arms the carcasses of base
criminals, and promoting their relations on the
title of their offences, they drive hundreds of
virtuous persons to the same end, by forcing
them to subsist by beggary or by crime.
The Assembly, their organ, acts before them
the farce of deliberation with as little decency
as liberty. They act like the comedians of
a fair, before a riotous audience; they act
amidst the tumultuous cries of a mixed mob
of ferocious men, and of women lost to shame,
who, according to their insolent fancies, direct,
control, applaud, explode them, and sometimes
mix and take their seats amongst them, —
domineering over them with a strange mixture
of servile petulance and proud, presumptuous
authority. As they have inverted order in all
things, the gallery is in the place of the house.
This Assembly, which overthrows kings and
kingdoms, has not even the physiognomy
and aspect of a grave legislative body, — - nee
color imperii, nee frons erat ulla senatus.
They have a power given to them, like that of
the Evil Principle, to subvert and destroy, —
but none to construct, except such machines as
may be fitted for further subversion and further
destruction.
Who is it that admires, and from the heart is
attached to national representative assemblies,
but must turn with horror and disgust from
such a profane burlesque and abominable
perversion of that sacred institute? Lovers
of monarchy, lovers of republics, must alike
abhor it. The members of your Assembly
must themselves groan under the tyranny of
which they have all the shame, none of the
direction, and little of the profit. I am sure
many of the members who compose even the
majority of that body must feel as I do, not-
withstanding the applauses of the Revolution
Society. Miserable king ! miserable Assembly !
How must that Assembly be silently scan-
dalised with those of their members who could
call a day which seemed to blot the sun out of
heaven "un beau jour!" How must they be
inwardly indignant at hearing others who
thought fit to declare to them, "that the vessel
of the state would fly forward in her course
towards regeneration with more speed than
ever," from the stiff gale of treason and mur-
der which preceded our preacher's triumph !
What must they have felt, whilst, with outward
patience and inward indignation, they heard of
the slaughter of innocent gentlemen in their
houses, that "the blood spilled was not the most
pure!" What must they have felt, when they
were besieged by complaints of disorders which
shook their country to its foundations, at being
compelled coolly to tell the complainants. that
they were under the protection of the law, and
that they would address the king (the captive
king) to cause the laws to be enforced for their
272
EDMUND BURKE
protection, when the enslaved ministers of that
captive king had formally notified to them that
there were neither law nor authority nor power
left to protect! What must they have felt at
being obliged, as a felicitation on the present new
year, to request their captive king to forget the
stormy period of the last, on account of the
great good which he was likely to produce to his
people, — to the complete attainment of which
good they adjourned the practical demon-
strations of their loyalty, assuring him of their
obedience when he should no longer possess
any authority to command !
This address was made with much good-
nature and affection, to be sure. But among
the revolutions in France must be reckoned
a considerable revolution in their ideas of
politeness. In England we are said to learn
manners at second-hand from your side of the
water, and that we dress our behaviour in the
frippery of France. If so, we are still in
the old cut, and have not so far conformed to
the new Parisian mode of good breeding as to
think it quite in the most refined strain of
delicate compliment (whether in condolence or
congratulation) to say, to the most humiliated
creature that crawls upon the earth, that great
public benefits are derived from the murder
of his servants, the attempted assassination of
himself and of his wife, and the mortification,
disgrace, and degradation that he has personally
suffered. It is a topic of consolation which our
ordinary of Newgate would be too humane to
use to a criminal at the foot of the gallows.
I should have thought that the hangman of
Paris, now that he is liberalised by the vote of
the National Assembly, and is allowed his rank
and arms in the Heralds' College of the rights
of men, would be too generous, too gallant a
man, too full of the sense of his new dignity,
to employ that cutting consolation to any of the
persons whom the leze-nation might bring under
the administration of his executive powers.
A man is fallen indeed, when he is thus
flattered. The anodyne draught of oblivion,
thus drugged, is well calculated to preserve a
galling wakefulness, and to feed the living
ulcer of a corroding memory. Thus to ad-
minister the opiate potion of amnesty, powdered
with all the ingredients of scorn and contempt,
is to hold to his lips, instead of "the balm of hurt
minds," the cup of human misery full to the
brim, and to force him to drink it to the dregs.
Yielding to reasons at least as forcible as those
which were so delicately urged in the compli-
ment on the new year, the king of France will
probably endeavour to forget these events and
that compliment. But History, who keeps a
durable record of all our acts, and exercises
her awful censure over the proceedings of all
sorts of sovereigns, will not forget either those
events, or the era of this liberal refinement
in the intercourse of mankind. History will
record, that, on the morning of the sixth of
October, 1789, the king and queen of France,
after a day of confusion, alarm, dismay, and
slaughter, lay down, under the pledged security
of public faith, to indulge nature in a few hours
of respite, and troubled, melancholy repose.
From this sleep the queen was first startled by
the voice of the sentinel at her door, who cried
out to her to save herself by flight, — that this
was the last proof of fidelity he could give, —
that they were upon him, and he was dead.
Instantly he was cut down. A band of cruel
ruffians and assassins, reeking with his blood,
rushed into the chamber of the queen, and
pierced with a hundred strokes of bayonets
and poniards the bed, from whence this per-
secuted woman had but just time to fly almost
naked, and, through ways unknown to .the
murderers, had escaped to seek refuge at the
feet of a king and husband not secure of his
own life for a moment.
This king, to say no more of him, and this
queen, and their infant children, (who once
would have been the pride and hope of a great
and generous people,) were then forced to aban-
don the sanctuary of the most splendid palace in
the world, which they left swimming in blood,
polluted by massacre, and strewed with scat-
tered limbs and mutilated carcasses. Thence
they were conducted into the capital of their
kingdom. Two had been selected from the un-
provoked, unresisted, promiscuous slaughter
which was made of the gentlemen of birth and
family who composed the king's body-guard.
These two gentlemen, with all the parade of an
execution of justice, were cruelly and publicly
dragged to the block, and beheaded in the great
court of the palace. Their heads were stuck
upon spears, and led the procession ; whilst the
royal captives who followed in the train were
slowly moved along, amidst the horrid yells,
and shrilling screams, and frantic dances,
and infamous contumelies, and all the unutter-
able abominations of the furies of hell, in the
abused shape of the vilest of women. After
they had been made to taste, drop by drop,
more than the bitterness of death, in the slow
torture of a journey of twelve miles, protracted
to six hours, they were, under a guard com-
REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE
273
posed of those very soldiers who had thus con-
ducted them through this famous triumph,
lodged in one of the old palaces of Paris, now
converted into a Bastile for kings.
Is this a triumph to be consecrated at altars,
to be commemorated with grateful thanks-
giving, to be offered to the Divine Humanity
with fervent prayer and enthusiastic ejacula-
tion ? — These Theban and Thracian orgies,
acted in France, and applauded only in the
Old Jewry, I assure you, kindle prophetic
enthusiasm in the minds but of very few people
in this kingdom : although a saint and apostle,
who may have revelations of his own, and who
has so completely vanquished all the mean
superstitions of the heart, may incline to
think it pious and decorous to compare it with
the entrance into the world of the Prince of
Peace, proclaimed in an holy temple by a
venerable sage, and not long before not worse
announced by the voice of angels to the quiet
innocence of shepherds.
At first I was at a loss to account for this fit
of unguarded transport. I knew, indeed, that
the sufferings of monarchs make a delicious
repast to some sort of palates. There were
reflections which might serve to keep this
appetite within some bounds of temperance.
But when I took one circumstance into my
consideration, I was obliged to confess that much
allowance ought to , be made for the society,
and that the temptation was too strong for
common discretion: I mean, the circumstance
of the lo Paean of the triumph, the animating
cry which called for ' ' all the bishops to be hanged
on the lamp-posts," might well have brought
forth a burst of enthusiasm on the foreseen
consequences of this happy day. I allow to so
much enthusiasm some little deviation from
prudence. I allow this prophet to break forth
into hymns of joy and thanksgiving on an event
which appears like the precursor of the Millen-
nium, and the projected Fifth Monarchy, in
the destruction of all Church establishments.
There was, however, (as in all human affairs
there is,) in the midst of this joy, something to
exercise the patience of these worthy gentle-
men, and to try the long-suffering of their
faith. The actual murder of the king and
queen, and their child, was wanting to the
other auspicious circumstances of this "beau-
tiful day." The actual murder of the bishops,
though called for by so many holy ejaculations,
was also wanting. A group of regicide and
sacrilegious slaughter was, indeed, boldly
sketched, but it was only sketched. It unhap-
pily was left unfinished, in this great history-
piece of the massacre of innocents. What
hardy pencil of a great master, from the school
of the rights of men, will finish it, is to be seen
hereafter. The age has not yet the complete
benefit of that diffusion of knowledge that has
undermined superstition and error; and the
king of France wants another object or two to
consign to oblivion, in consideration of all the
good which is to arise from his own sufferings,
and the patriotic crimes of an enlightened age.
Although this work of our new light and
knowledge did not go to the length that in all
probability it was intended it should be car-
ried, yet I must think that such treatment of
any human creatures must be shocking to any
but those who are made for accomplishing
revolutions. But 1 cannot stop here. Influ-
enced by the inborn feelings of my nature, and
not being illuminated by a single ray of this
new-sprung modern light, I confess to you, Sir,
that the exalted rank of the persons suffering,
and particularly the sex, the beauty, and the
amiable qualities of the descendant of so many
kings and emperors, with the -tender age of
royal infants, insensible only through infancy
and innocence of the cruel outrages to which
their parents were exposed, instead of being
a subject of exultation, adds not a little to my
sensibility on that most melancholy occasion.
I hear that the august person who was the
principal object of our preacher's triumph,
though he supported himself, felt much on that
shameful occasion. As a man, it became him
to feel for his wife and his children, and the
faithful guards of his person that were mas-
sacred in cold blood about him; as a prince,
it became him to feel for the strange and fright-
ful transformation of his civilised subjects,
and to be more grieved for them than solicitous
for himself. It derogates little from his forti-
tude, while it adds- infinitely to the honour of
his humanity. I am very sorry to say it, very
sorry indeed, that such personages are in a
situation in which it is not unbecoming in us
to praise the virtues of the great.
I hear, and I rejoice to hear, that the great
lady, the other object of the triumph, has borne
that day, (one is interested that beings made for
suffering should suffer well,) and that she bears
all the succeeding days, that she bears the im-
prisonment of her husband, and her own cap-
tivity, and the exile of her friends, and the in-
sulting adulation of addresses, and the whole
weight of her accumulated wrongs, with a serene
patience, in a manner suited to her rank and
274
V
EDMUND BURKE
race, and becoming the offspring of a sovereign
distinguished for her piety and her courage;
that, like her, she has lofty sentiments; that
she feels with the dignity of a Roman matron ;
that in the last extremity she will save herself
from the last disgrace; and that, if she must
ic will fall by no ignoble hand.
It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I
saw the queeruof JFrajjce, then the Dauphin-
ess, at Versailles; and surely never lighted
on this orb, which she hardly seemed to
touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her
just above the horizon, decorating and cheering
the elevated sphere she just began to move in,
— glittering like the morning-star, full of life
and splendour and joy. Oh ! what a revolution !
and what an heart must I have, to contemplate
without emotion that elevation and that fall !
Little did I dream, when she added titles of
veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant,
respectful love, that she should ever be obliged
to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace
concealed in that bosom ! little did I dream
that I should have lived to see such disasters
fallen upon hep in a nation of gallant men, in a
nation of men of honour, and of cavaliers ! I
thought ten thousand swords must have leaped
from their scabbards to avenge even a look
that threatened her with insult. But the age
of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, econo-
mists, and calculators has succeeded; and the
glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never,
never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty
to rank and sex, that proud submission, that
dignified obedience, that subordination of the
heart, which kept alive, even in servitude
itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom! The
unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of
nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic
enterprise, is gone ! It is gone, that sensibility
of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt
a stain like a wound, which inspired courage
whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled
whatever it touched, and under which vice
itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness !
sed system of opinion and sentiment
5rigin in the ancient chivalry; and the
principle, though varied in its appearance by
the varying state of human affairs, subsisted
and influenced through a long succession of
generations, even to the time we live in. If it
should ever be totally extinguished, the loss,
I fear, will be great. It is this which has given
its character to modern Europe. It is this
which has distinguished it under all its forms
of government, and distinguished it to its ad-
vantage, from the states of Asia, and possibly
from those states which flourished in the most
brilliant periods of the antique world. It was
this, which, without confounding ranks, had
produced a noble equality, and handed it
down through all the gradations of social life.
It was this opinion which mitigated kings into
companions, and raised private men to be
fellows with kings. Without force or opposi-
tion, it subdued the fierceness of pride and
power; it obliged sovereigns to submit to the
soft collar of social esteem, compelled stern
', authority to submit to elegance, and gave a
\ domination, vanquisher of laws, to be subdued
( by manners.
But now all is to be changed. All the pleas-
ing illusions which made power gentle and
obedience liberal, which harmonised the dif-
ferent shades of life, and which by a bland
assimilation incorporated into politics the
sentiments which beautify and soften private
society, are to be dissolved by this new con-
quering empire of light and reason. All the
decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn off.
All the superadded ideas, furnished from the
wardrobe of a moral imagination, which the
heart owns and the understanding ratifies, as
necessary to cover the defects of our naked,
shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity in
our own estimation, are to be exploded as a
ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion.
On this scheme of things, a king is but a
man, a queen is but a woman, a woman is but
an animal, — • and an animal not of the highest
order. All homage paid to the sex in general
as such, and without distinct views, is to
be regarded as romance and folly. Regicide,
and parricide, and sacrilege, are but fictions of
superstition, corrupting jurisprudence by de-
stroying its simplicity. The murder of a king,
or a queen, or a bishop, or a father, are only
common homicide, — and if the people are by
any chance or in any way gainers by it, a sort
of homicide much the most pardonable and
into which we ought not to make too severe a
scrutiny.
On the scheme of this barbarous philosophy,
which is the offspring of cold hearts and muddy
understandings, and which is as void of solid
wisdom as it is destitute of all taste and ele-
gance, laws are to be supported only by their
own terrors, and by the concern which each
individual may find in them from his own
private speculations, or can spare to them from
his own private interests. In the groves
of their academy, at the end of every visto,
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN
275
you see nothing but the gallows. Nothing is
left which engages the affections on the part
of the commonwealth. On the principles
of this mechanic philosophy, our institutions
can never be embodied, if I may use the ex-
pression, in persons, — so as to create in us
love, veneration, admiration, or attachment.
But that sort of reason which banishes the
affections is incapable of filling their place.
These public affections, combined with man-
ners, are required sometimes as supplements,
sometimes as correctives, always as aids to
law. The precept given by a wise man, as
well as a great critic, for the construction of
poems, is equally true as to states: — "Non
satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto."
There ought to be a system of manners in
every nation which a well-formed mind would
be disposed to relish. T-Q_make._.iiS ..love our
country, our country ought to be lovely.
But power, of some kind or other, will sur-
vive the shock in which manners and opinions
perish ; and it will find other and worse means
for its support. The usurpation, which, in
order to subvert ancient institutions, has de-
stroyed ancient principles, will hold power by
arts similar to those by which it has acquired
it. When the old feudal and chivalrous spirit
of fealty, which, by freeing kings from fear,
freed both kings and subjects from the pre-
cautions of tyranny, shall be extinct in the
minds of men, plots and assassinations will be
anticipated by preventive murder and pre-
ventive confiscation, and that long roll of grim
and bloody maxims which form the political
code of all power not standing on its own hon-
our and the honour of those who are to obey
it. Kings will be tyrants from policy,, when
subjects are rebels from principle.
When ancient opinions and rules of life are
taken away, the loss cannot possibly be esti-
mated. From that moment we have no com-
pass to govern us, nor can we know distinctly
to what port we steer. Europe, undoubtedly,
taken in a mass, was in a flourishing condition
the day on which your Revolution was com-
pleted. How much of that prosperous state
was owing to the spirit of our old manners and
opinions is not easy to say; but as such causes
cannot be indifferent in their operation, we must
presume, that, on the whole, their operation
was beneficial.
\Y •• are but too apt to consider things in
the state in which we find them, without
sufficiently adverting to the causes by which
they have been produced, and possibly may be
upheld. Nothing is more certain than that
our manners, our civilisation, and all the good
things which are connected with manners and
with civilisation, have, in this European world
of ours, depended for ages upon two principles,
and were, indeed, the result of both combined :
I mean the spirit of a gentleman, and the spirit
of religion. The nobility and the clergy, the
one by profession, the other by patronage,
kept learning in existence, even in the midst
of arms and confusions, and whilst govern-
ments were rather in their causes than formed.
Learning paid back what it received to nobility
and to priesthood, and paid it with usury,
by enlarging their ideas, and by furnishing
their minds. Happy, if they had all continued
to know their indissoluble union, and their
proper place ! Happy, if learning, not de-
bauched by ambition, had been satisfied to
continue the instructor, and not aspired to be
the master ! Along with its natural protectors
and guardians, learning will be cast into the
mire and trodden down under the hoofs of a
swinish multitude. *****
JAMES MACPHERSON(P) (1736-1 796)
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN
CATH-LODA
DUAN III
Whence is the stream of years? Whither
do they roll along? Where have they hid, in
mist, their many coloured sides?
I look unto the times of old, but they seem
dim to Ossian's eyes, like reflected moonbeams
on a distant lake. Here rise the red beams
of war ! There, silent, dwells a feeble race !
They mark no years with their deeds, as slow
they pass along. Dweller between the
shields ! thou that awakest the failing soul !
descend from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy
voices three! Come with that which kindles
the past: rear the forms of old, on their own
dark-brown years !
U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race
on thy side. Fingal is bending in night over
Duth-maruno's tomb. Near him are the steps
of his heroes, hunters of the boar. By Tur-
thor's stream the host of Lochlin is deep in
shades. The wrathful kings stood on two
hills: they looked forward from their bossy
shields. They looked forward to the stars
of night, red wandering in the west. Cruth-
276
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN
loda bends from high, like a formless meteor
in clouds. He sends abroad the winds, and
marks them with his signs. Starno foresaw
that Morven's king was not to yield in war.
He twice struck the tree in wrath. He
rushed before his son. He hummed a surly
song, and heard his hair in wind. Turned from
one another, they stood, like two oaks, which
different winds had bent; each hangs over his
own loud rill, and shakes his boughs in the
course of blasts.
"Annir," said Starno of lakes, "was a fire
that consumed of old. He poured death from
his eyes along the striving fields. His joy was
in the fall of men. Blood to him was a sum-
mer stream, that brings joy to the withered
vales, from its own mossy rock. He came
forth to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall
Corman-trunar, he from Urlor of streams,
dweller of battle's wing."
The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal
with his dark-bosomed ships. He saw the
daughter of Annir, white-armed Foina-bragal.
He saw her! Nor careless rolled her eyes on
the rider of stormy waves. She fled to his ship
in darkness, like a moonbeam through a nightly
veil. Annir pursued along the deep ; he called
the winds of heaven. Nor alone was the king !
Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno's
young eagle, I turned my eyes on my father.
We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his
people came tall Corman-trunar. We fought;
but the foe prevailed. In his wrath my
father stood. He lopped the young trees with
his sword. His eyes rolled red in his rage.
I marked the so'ul of the king, and I retired
in night. From the field I took a broken hel-
met; a shield that was pierced with steel;
pointless was the spear in my hand. I went to
find the foe.
On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar beside his
burning oak; and near him beneath a tree,
sat deep-bosomed Foina-bragal. I threw my
broken shield before her. I spoke the words of
peace. "Beside his rolling sea lies Annir of
many lakes. The king was pierced in battle;
and Starno is to raise his tomb. Me, a son of
Loda, he sends to white-handed Foina, to bid
her send a lock from her hair, to rest with her
father in earth. And thou, king of roaring
Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir receive
the shell from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda."
Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock
from her hair; a lock, which wandered in the
blast, along her heaving breast. Corman-
trunar gave the shell, and bade me rejoice before
him. I rested in the shade of night, and hid
my face in my helmet deep. Sleep descended
on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. I
pierced the side of Corman-trunar. Nor did
Foina-bragal escape. She rolled her white
bosom in blood.
Why, then, daughter of heroes, didst thou
wake my rage?
Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the
departure of mist. Annir struck his bossy
shield. He called his dark-haired son. I
came, streaked with wandering blood: thrice
rose the shout of the king, like the bursting
forth of a squall of wind from a cloud by night.
We rejoiced three days above the dead, and
called the hawks of heaven. They came from
all their winds to feast on Annir's foes. Swaran,
Fingal is alone in his hill of night. Let thy
spear pierce the king in secret; like Annir,
my soul shall rejoice.
"Son of Annir," said Swaran, "I shall not
slay in shades: I move forth in light: the
hawks rush from all their winds. They are
wont to trace my course: it is not harmless
through war."
Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice
raised his gleaming spear. But, starting, he
spared his son, and rushed into the night.
By Turthor's stream, a cave is dark, the dwell-
ing of Corban-cargla. There he laid the
helmet of kings, and called the maid of Lulan;
but she was distant far in Loda's resounding
hall.
Swelling in his rage, he strode to where
Fingal lay alone. The king was laid on his
shield, on his own secret hill.
Stern hunter of shaggy boars! no feeble
maid is laid before thee. No boy on his ferny
bed, by Turthor's murmuring stream. Here
is spread the couch of the mighty, from which
they rise to deeds of death ! Hunter of shaggy
boars, awaken not the terrible !
Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose
in arms. "Who art thou, son of night!"
Silent he threw the spear. They mixed their
gloomy strife. The shield of Starno fell, cleft
in twain. He is bound to an oak. The early
beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the
king. He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He
thought of other days, when white-bosomed
Agandecca moved like the music of songs. He
loosed the thong from his hands. " Son of
Annir," he said, " retire. Retire to Gormal of
shells ; a beam that was set returns. I remember
thy white-bosomed daughter; dreadful king,
away! Go to thy troubled dwelling, cloudy
JAMES BO SWELL
277
foe of the lovely. Let the stranger shun thee,
thou gloomy in the hall ! "
A tale of the times of old !
JAMES BOSWELL (1740-1795)
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.
CHAPTER XIII (1763)
As Dr. Oliver Goldsmith will frequently
appear in this narrative, I shall endeavour to
make my readers in some degree acquainted
with his singular character. He was a native
of Ireland, and a contemporary with Mr.
Burke, at Trinity College, Dublin, but did not
then give much promise of future celebrity.
He, however, observed to Mr. Malone, that
"though he made no great figure in mathe-
matics, which was a study in much repute
there, he could turn an Ode of Horace into
English better than any of them." He after-
wards studied physic at Edinburgh, and upon
the Continent: and, I have been informed,
was enabled to pursue his travels on foot,
partly by demanding, at Universities, to enter
the lists as a disputant, by which, according to
the custom of many of them, he was entitled
to the premium of a crown, when, luckily for
him, his challenge was not accepted; so that,
as I once observed to Dr. Johnson, he dis-
puted his passage through Europe. He then
came to England, and was employed succes-
sively in the capacities of an usher to an
academy, a corrector of the press, a reviewer,
and a writer for a newspaper. He had sagacity
enough to cultivate assiduously the acquaint-
ance of Johnson, and his faculties were
gradually enlarged by the contemplation of
such a model. To me and many others it
appeared that he studiously copied the man-
ner of Johnson, though, indeed, upon a
smaller scale.
At this time I think he had published nothing
with his name, though it was pretty generally
known that one Dr. Goldsmith was the author
of "An Inquiry into the present State of Polite
Learning in Europe," and of "The Citizen
of the World," a series of letters supposed to be
written from London by a Chinese. No man
had the art of displaying with more advantage,
as a writer, whatever literary acquisitions he
made. "Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit." l His
mind resembled a fertile but thin soil. There
1 There was nothing he touched that he did not
adorn.
was a quick, but not a strong, vegetation, of
whatever chanced to be thrown upon it. No
deep root could be struck. The oak of the
forest did not grow there ; but the elegant shrub-
bery and the fragrant parterre appeared in gay
succession. It has been generally circulated
and believed that he was a mere fool in con-
versation; but, in truth, this has been greatly
exaggerated. He had, no doubt, a more than
common share of that hurry of ideas which we
often find in his countrymen, and which some-
times produces a laughable confusion in ex-
pressing them. He was very much what the
French call un etourdi, and from vanity and
an eager desire of being conspicuous wherever
he was, he frequently talked carelessly without
knowledge of the subject, or even without
thought. His person was short, his counte-
nance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of
a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentle-
man. Those who were in any way distin-
guished, excited envy in him to so ridiculous an
excess, that the instances of it are hardly credible.
When accompanying two beautiful young ladies,
with their mother, on a tour in France, he was
seriously angry that more attention was paid
to them than to him; and once at the exhibi-
tion of the Fantoccini in London, when those
who sat next him observed with what dexterity
a puppet was made to toss a pike, he could not
bear that it should have such praise, and ex-
claimed, with some warmth, "Pshaw! I can
do it better myself."
He, I am afraid, had no settled system of any
sort, so that his conduct must not be strictly
scrutinised; but his affections were social and
generous, and when he had money he gave it
away very liberally. His desire of imaginary
consequence predominated over his attention
to truth. When he began to rise into notice,
he said he had a brother who was Dean of
Durham, a fiction so easily detected, that it is
wonderful how he should have been so incon-
siderate as to hazard it. He boasted to me at
this time of the power of his pen in commanding
money, which I believe was true in a certain
degree, though in the instance he gave he was
by no means correct. He told me that he had
sold a novel for four hundred pounds. This
was his "Vicar of Wakefield." But Johnson
informed me that he had made the bargain for
Goldsmith, and the price was sixty pounds.
"And, Sir," said he, "a sufficient price too,
when it was sold ; for then the fame of Gold-
smith had not been elevated, as it afterwards
was, by his 'Traveller'; and the bookseller
278
JAMES BOS WELL
had such faint hopes of profit by his bargain,
that he kept the manuscript by him a long
time, and did not publish it till after the
' Traveller ' had appeared. Then, to be sure,
it was accidentally worth more money."
Mrs. Piozzi and Sir John Hawkins have
strangely mis-stated the history of Goldsmith's
situation and Johnson's friendly interference,
when this novel was sold. I shall give it
authentically from Johnson's own exact nar-
ration :
"I received one morning a message from poor
Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and,
as it was not in his power to come to me, beg-
ging that I would come to him as soon as pos-
sible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to
come to him directly. I accordingly went as
soon as I was dressed, and found that his land-
lady had arrested him for his rent, at which
he was in a violent passion. I perceived that
he had already changed my guinea, and had
got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before
him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired
he would be calm, and began to talk to him of
the means by which he might be extricated.
He then told me that he had a novel ready for
the press, which he produced to me. I looked
into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady
I should soon return; and, having gone to a
bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought
Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his
rent, not without rating his landlady in a high
tone for having used him so ill."
My next meeting with Johnson was on Fri-
day, the ist of July, when he and I and Dr.
Goldsmith supped at the Mitre. I was before
this time pretty well acquainted with Gold-
smith, who was one of the brightest ornaments
of the Johnsonian school. Goldsmith's re-
spectful attachment to Johnson was then at its
height; for his own literary reputation had not
yet distinguished him so much as to excite a
vain desire of competition with his great Master.
He had increased my admiration of the good-
ness of Johnson's heart, by incidental remarks
in the course of conversation, such as, when I
mentioned Mr. Levett, whom he entertained
under his roof, "He is poor and honest, which
is recommendation enough to Johnson;" and
when I wondered that he was very kind to a
man of whom I had heard a very bad character,
"He is now become miserable, and that insures
the protection of Johnson."
Goldsmith attempting this evening to main-
tain, I suppose from an affectation of paradox,
" that knowledge was not desirable on its own
account, for it often was a source of unhappi-
ness:" Johnson: "Why, Sir, that knowledge
may, in some cases, produce unhappiness, I
allow. But, upon the whole, knowledge, per
se, is certainly an object which every man
would wish to attain, although, perhaps, he
may not take the trouble necessary for attain-
ing it."
Dr. John Campbell, the celebrated political
and biographical writer, being mentioned,
Johnson said, "Campbell is a man of much
knowledge, and has a good share of imagi-
nation. His 'Hermippus Redivivus' is very
entertaining, as an account of the Hermetic
philosophy, and as furnishing a curious history
of the extravagancies of the human mind.
If it were merely imaginary, it would be nothing
at all. Campbell is not always rigidly careful
of truth in his conversation ; but I do not be-
lieve there is anything of this carelessness in
his books. Campbell is a good man, a pious
man. I am afraid he has not been in the in-
side of a church for many years; but he never
passes a church without pulling off his hat.
This shows that he has good principles. I
used to go pretty often to Campbell's on a
Sunday evening, till I began to consider that
the shoals of Scotchmen who flocked about
him might probably say, when anything of
mine was well done, 'Ay, ay, he has learned
this of Cawmell ! ' "
He talked very contemptuously of Churchill's
poetry, observing, that "it had a temporary
currency, only from its audacity of abuse, and
being filled with living names, and that it would
sink into oblivion." I ventured to hint that
he was not quite a fair judge, as Churchill
had attacked him violently. Johnson: "Nay,
Sir, I am a very fair judge. He did not attack
me violently till he found I did not like his
poetry; and his attack on me shall not prevent
me from continuing to say what I think of him,
from an apprehension that it may be ascribed
to resentment. No, Sir, I called the fellow a
blockhead at first, and I will call him a block-
head still. However, I will acknowledge that
I have a better opinion of him now than I
once had; for he has shown more fertility
than I expected. To be sure, he is a tree that
cannot produce good fruit: he only bears
crabs. But, Sir, a tree that produces a great
many crabs, is better than a tree which pro-
duces only a few."
In this depreciation of Churchill's poetry,
I could not agree with him. It is very true
that the greatest part of it is upon the topics
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON
279
of the day, on which account, as it brought him
great fame and profit at the time, it must
proportionably slide out of the public atten-
tion, as other occasional objects succeed. But
Churchill had extraordinary vigour both of
thought and expression. His portraits of the
players will ever be valuable to the true lovers
of the drama; and his strong caricatures of
several eminent men of his age, will not be
forgotten by the curious. Let me add, that
there are in his works many passages which are
of a general nature; and his "Prophecy of
Famine" is a poem of no ordinary merit. It
is, indeed, falsely injurious to Scotland; but
therefore, may be allowed a greater share of
invention.
Bonnell Thornton had just published a bur-
lesque "Ode on St. Cecilia's day," adapted
to the ancient British music, viz., the salt-box,
the Jew's-harp, the marrow-bones and cleaver,
the hum-strum, or hurdy-gurdy, etc. John-
son praised its humour, and seemed much
diverted with it. He repeated the following
passage :
" In strains more exalted the salt-box shall join,
And clattering and battering and clapping combine ;
With a rap and a tap, while the hollow side sounds,
Up and down leaps the flap, and with rattling re-
bounds."
I mentioned the periodical paper called
"The Connoisseur." He said it wanted mat-
ter. — No doubt it had not the deep think-
ing of Johnson's writings. But surely it has
just views of the surface of life, and a very
sprightly manner. — His opinion of "The
World," was not much higher than of "The
Connoisseur."
Let me here apologise for the imperfect
manner in which I am obliged to exhibit
Johnson's conversation at this period. In the
early part of my acquaintance with him, I
was so wrapt in admiration of his extraordinary
colloquial talents, and so little accustomed
to his peculiar mode of expression, that I
found it extremely difficult to recollect and
record his conversation with its genuine
vigour and vivacity. In progress of time, when
my mind was, as it were, strongly impregnated
with the Johnsonian cether, I could with much
more facility and exactness, carry in my mem-
ory and commit to paper the exuberant variety
of his wisdom and wit.
At this time Miss Williams, as she was then
called, though she did not reside with him in
the Temple under his roof, but had lodgings
in Bolt-court, Fleet -street, had so much of his
attention, that he every night drank tea with
her before he went home, however late it
might be, and she always sat up for him.
This it may be fairly conjectured, was not
alone a proof of his regard for her, but of his
own unwillingness to go into solitude, before
that unseasonable hour at which he had habitu-
ated himself to expect the oblivion of repose.
Dr. Goldsmith, being a privileged man, went
with him this night, strutting -away, and call-
ing to me with an air of superiority, like that
of an esoteric over an exoteric disciple of a
sage of antiquity, "I go to Miss Williams."
I confess, I then envied him this mighty privi-
lege, of which he seemed so proud"; but it was
not long before I obtained the same mark of
distinction.
On Tuesday, the 5th of July, I again visited
Johnson. He told me he had looked into the
poems of a pretty voluminous writer, Mr.
(now Dr.) John Ogilvie, one of the Presby-
terian ministers of Scotland, which had lately
come out, but could find no thinking in them.
Boswell: "Is there not imagination in them,
Sir?" Johnson: "Why, Sir, there is in them
what was imagination, but it is no more
imagination in him, than sound is sound in
the echo. And his diction too is not his own.
We have long ago seen white-robed innocence
and flower -bespangled meads."
Talking of London, he observed, "Sir, if
you wish to have a just notion of the magni-
tude of this city, you must not be satisfied
with seeing its great streets and squares, but
must survey the innumerable little lanes and
courts. It is not in the showy evolutions of
buildings, but in the multiplicity of human
habitations which are crowded together, that
the wonderful immensity of London consists."
— I have often amused myself with thinking
how different a place London is to different
people. They, whose narrow minds are con-
tracted to the consideration of some one par-
ticular pursuit, view it only through that
medium. A politician thinks of it merely as
the seat of government in its different depart-
ments; a grazier, as a vast market for cattle;
a mercantile man, as a place where a pro-
digious deal of business is done upon 'Change;
a dramatic enthusiast, as the grand scene of
theatrical entertainments; a man of pleasure,
as an assemblage of taverns, and the great
emporium for ladies of easy virtue. But the
intellectual man is struck with it, as compre-
hending the whole of human life in all its
2 SO
JAMES BOSWELL
variety, the contemplation of which is inex-
haustible.
On Wednesday, July 6, he was engaged to
sup with me at my lodgings in Downing-street,
Westminster. But on the preceding night my
landlord having behaved very rudely to me
and some company who were with me, I had
resolved not to remain another night in his
house. I was exceedingly uneasy at the awk-
ward appearance I supposed I should make to
Johnson and the other gentlemen whom I had
invited, not being able to receive them at
home, and being obliged to order supper at
the Mitre. I went to Johnson in the morn-
ing, and talked of it as of a serious distress.
He laughed, and said, "Consider, Sir, how
insignificant this will appear a twelvemonth
hence." Were this consideration to be applied
to most of the little vexatious incidents of life,
by which our quiet is too often disturbed, it
would prevent many painful sensations. I
have tried it frequently with good effect.
"There is nothing," continued he, "in this
mighty misfortune; nay, we shall be better at
the Mitre." I told him that I had been at
Sir John Fielding's office, complaining of my
landlord, and had been informed that though
I had taken my lodgings for a year, I might,
upon proof of his bad behaviour, quit them
when I pleased, without being under an obliga-
tion to pay rent for any longer time than while
I possessed them. The fertility of Johnson's
mind could show itself even upon so small a
matter as this. "Why, Sir," said he, "I sup-
pose this must be the law, since you have been
told so in Bow-street. But if your landlord
could hold you to your bargain, and the
lodgings should be yours for a year, you may
certainly use them as you think fit. So, Sir,
you may quarter two life-guardsmen upon
him; or you may send the greatest scoundrel
you can find into your apartments; or you
may say that you want to make some experi-
ments in natural philosophy, and may burn a
large quantity of asafoetida in his house."
I had as my guests this evening at the
Mitre Tavern, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Goldsmith,
Mr. Thomas Davies, Mr. Eccles, an • Irish
gentleman, for whose agreeable company I
was obliged to Mr. Davies, and the Rev. Mr.
John Ogilvie, who was desirous of being in
company with my illustrious friend, while I,
in my turn, was proud to have the honour of
showing one of my countrymen upon what
easy terms Johnson permitted me to live with
him.
Goldsmith, as usual, endeavoured with too
much eagerness to shine and disputed very
warmly with Johnson against the well-known
maxim of the British constitution, "the king
can do no wrong;" affirming, that "what was
morally false could not be politically true;
and as the king might, in the exercise of his
regal power, command and cause the doing of
what was wrong, it certainly might be said,
in sense and in reason, that he could do wrong."
Johnson: "Sir, you are to consider that in
our constitution, according to its true princi-
ples, the king is the head, he is supreme; he
is above everything, and there is no power
by which he can be tried. Therefore, it is,
Sir, that we hold the king can do no wrong;
that whatever may happen to be wrong in
government may not be above our reach by
being ascribed to majesty. Redress is always
to be had against oppression by punishing
the immediate agents. The king, though he
should command, cannot force a judge to
condemn a man unjustly; therefore it is the
judge whom we prosecute and punish. Po-
litical institutions are formed upon the con-
sideration of what will most frequently tend
to the good of the whole, although now and
then exceptions may occur. Thus it is better
in general that a nation should have a supreme
legislative power, although it may at times be
abused. And then, Sir, there is this considera-
tion, that if the abuse be enormous nature will
rise up, and claiming her original rights, over-
turn a corrupt political system." I mark this
animated sentence with peculiar pleasure, as
a noble instance of that truly dignified spirit
of freedom which ever glowed in his heart,
though he was charged with slavish tenets by
superficial observers, because he was at all
times indignant against that false patriotism,
that pretended love of freedom, that unruly
restlessness which is inconsistent with the
stable authority of any good government.
This generous sentiment, which he uttered
with great fervour, struck me exceedingly, and
stirred my blood to that pitch of fancied re-
sistance, the possibility of which I am glad to
keep in mind, but to which I trust I never
shall be forced.
"Great abilities," said he, "are not requisite
for an historian; for in historical composition
all the greatest powers of the human mind are
quiescent. He has facts ready to his hand,
so there is no exercise of invention. Imagina-
tion is not required in any high degree; only
about as much as is used in the lower kinds
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON
281
of poetry. Some penetration, accuracy, and
colouring, will fit a man for the task, if he
can give the application which is necessary."
'"Bayle's Dictionary' is a very useful work
for those to consult who love the biographical
part of literature, which is what I love most."
Talking of the eminent writers in Queen
Anne's reign, he observed, "I think Dr.
Arbuthnot the first man among them. He
was the most universal genius, being an excel-
lent physician, a man of deep learning, and a
man of much humour. Mr. Addison was, to
be sure, a great man; his learning was not
profound, but his morality, his humour, and
his elegance of writing set him very high."
Mr. Ogilvie was unlucky enough to choose
for the topic of his conversation the praises of
his native country. He began with saying,
that there was very rich land around Edin-
burgh. Goldsmith, who had studied physic
there, contradicted this, very untruly, with a
sneering laugh. Disconcerted a little by this,
Mr. Ogilvie then took a new ground, where,
I suppose, he thought himself perfectly safe;
for he observed, that Scotland had a great
many noble wild prospects. Johnson: "I
believe, Sir, you have a great many. Norway,
too, has noble wild prospects; and Lapland
is remarkable for prodigious noble wild pros-
pects. But, Sir, let me tell you, the noblest
prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the
high-road that leads him to England!" This
unexpected and pointed sally produced a roar
of applause. After all, however, those who
admire the rude grandeur of nature cannot
deny it to Caledonia.
On Saturday, July 9, I found Johnson sur-
rounded with a numerous levee, but have not
preserved any part of his conversation. On
the i4th we had another evening by ourselves
at the Mitre. It happened to be a very rainy
night ; I made some commonplace observations
on the relaxation of nerves and depression of
spirits which such weather occasioned; add-
ing, however, that it was good for the vege-
table creation. Johnson, who, as we have
already seen, denied that the temperature of
the air had any influence on the human frame,
answered, with a smile of ridicule, "Why, yes,
Sir, it is good for vegetables, and for the
animals who eat those vegetables, and for the
animals who eat those animals." This obser-
vation of his, aptly enough introduced a good
supper and I soon forgot, in Johnson's com-
pany, the influence of a moist atmosphere.
Feeling myself now quite at ease as his com-
panion, though I had all possible reverence
for him, I expressed a regret that I could not
be so easy with my father, though he was not
much older than Johnson, and certainly, how-
ever respectable, had not more learning and
greater abilities to depress me. I asked him
the reason of this. Johnson: "Why, Sir, I
am a man of the world. I live in the world,
and I take, in some degree, the colour of the
world as it moves along. Your father is a
judge in a remote part of the island, and all
his notions are taken from the old world.
Besides, Sir, there must always be a struggle
between a father and son, while one aims at
power and the other at independence." I
said, I was afraid my father would force me
to be a lawyer. Johnson: "Sir, you need
not be afraid of his forcing you to be a laborious
practising lawyer; that is not in his power.
For, as the proverb says, 'One man may lead
a horse to the water, but twenty cannot make
him drink.' He may be displeased that you
are not what he wishes you to be; but that
displeasure will not go far. If he insists only
on your having as much law as is necessary
for a man of property, and then endeavours
to get you into parliament, he is quite in the
right."
He enlarged very convincingly upon the
excellence of rhyme over blank verse in Eng-
lish poetry. I mentioned to him that Dr.
Adam Smith, in his lectures upon composition,
when I studied under him in the College of
Glasgow, had maintained the same opinion
strenuously, and I repeated some of his argu-
ments. Johnson: "Sir, I was once in com-
pany with Smith, and we did not take to each
other; but had I known that he loved rhyme
as much as you tell me he does, I should have
hugged him."
Talking of those who denied the truth of
Christianity, he said, "It is always easy to be
on the negative side. If a man were now to
deny that there is salt upon the table, you
could not reduce him to an absurdity. Come,
let us try this a little further. I deny that
Canada is taken, and I can support my denial
by pretty good arguments. The French are a
much more numerous people than we; and it
is not likely that they would allow us to take
it. 'But the ministry have assured us, in all
the formality of the Gazette, that it is taken.'
— Very true. But the ministry have put us
to an enormous expense by the war in America,
and it is their interest to persuade us that we
have got something for our money. — 'But
282
JAMES BOSWELL
the fact is confirmed by thousands of men
who were at the taking of it.' — Ay, but these
men have still more interest in deceiving us.
They don't want that you should think the
French have beat them, but that they have
beat the French. Now suppose you should
go over and find that it really is taken, that
would only satisfy yourself; for when you
come home we will not believe you. We will
say, you have been bribed. — Yet, Sir, not-
withstanding all these plausible objections, we
have no doubt that Canada is really ours.
Such is the weight of common testimony.
How much stronger are the evidences of the
Christian religion?"
"Idleness is a disease which must be com-
bated; but I would not advise a rigid ad-
herence to a particular plan of study. I my-
self have never persisted in any plan for two
days together. A man ought to read just as
inclination leads him; for what he reads as a
task will do him little good. A young man
should read five hours in a day, and so may
acquire a great deal of knowledge."
To a man of vigorous intellect and ardent
curiosity like his own, reading without a regu-
lar plan may be beneficial; though even such
a man must submit to it, if he would attain a
full understanding of any of the sciences.
To such a degree of unrestrained frankness
had he now accustomed me that in the course
of this evening I talked of the numerous
reflections which had been thrown out against
him, on account of his having accepted a pen-
sion from his present Majesty. "Why, Sir,"
said he, with a hearty laugh, "it is a mighty
foolish noise that they make. I have accepted
of a pension as a reward which has been
thought due to my literary merit; and now
that I have this pension, I am the same man
in every respect that I have ever been; I re-
tain the same principles. It is true, that I
cannot now curse (smiling) the house of Han-
over; nor would it be decent for me to drink
King James's health in the wine that King
George gives me money to pay for. But, Sir,
I think that the pleasure of cursing the house
of Hanover, and drinking King James's
health, are amply overbalanced by three hun-
dred pounds a year."
There was here, most certainly, an affecta-
tion of more Jacobitism than he really had;
and indeed an intention of admitting, for the
moment, in a much greater extent than it
really existed, the charge of disaffection im-
puted to him by the world, merely for the pur-
pose of showing how dexterously he could
repel an attack, even though he were placed
in the most disadvantageous position; for I
have heard him declare, that if holding up his
right hand would have secured victory at
Culloden to Prince Charles's army, he was
not sure he would have held it up; so little
confidence had he in the right claimed by the
house of Stuart, and so fearful was he of
the consequences of another revolution on the
throne of Great Britain; and Mr. Topham
Beauclerk assured me, he had heard him say
this before he had his pension. At another
time he said to Mr. Langton, "Nothing has
ever offered, that has made it worth my while
to consider the question fully." He, however,
also said to the same gentleman, talking of
King James the Second, "It was become im-
possible for him to reign any longer in this
country." He no doubt had an early attach-
ment to the house of Stuart; but his zeal had
cooled as his reason strengthened. Indeed I
heard him once say, "that after the death of a
violent Whig, with whom he used to contend
with great eagerness, he felt his Toryism much
abated." I suppose he meant Mr. Walmesley.
Yet there is no doubt that at earlier periods
he was wont often to exercise both his pleas-
antry and ingenuity in talking Jacobitism.
My much respected friend, Dr. Douglas, now
Bishop of Salisbury, has favoured me with
the following admirable instance from his
lordship's own recollection : — One day when
dining at old Mr. Langton's, where Miss
Roberts, his niece, was one of the company,
Johnson, with his usual complacent attention
to the fair sex, took her by the hand and said,
"My dear, I hope you are a Jacobite." Old
Mr. Langton, who, though a high and steady
Tory, was attached to the present royal family,
seemed offended, and asked Johnson, with
great warmth, what he could mean by put-
ting such a question to his niece? "Why, Sir,"
said Johnson, "I meant no offence to your
niece, I meant her a great compliment. A
Jacobite, Sir, believes in the divine right of
kings. He that believes in the divine right of
kings believes in a Divinity. A Jacobite be-
lieves in the divine right of bishops. He that
believes in the divine right of bishops, believes
in the divine authority of the Christian religion.
Therefore, Sir, a Jacobite is neither an Atheist
nor a Deist. That cannot be said of a Whig;
for Whiggism is a negation of all principle."
He advised me, when abroad, to be as
much as I could with the professors in the
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON
283
Universities, and with the clergy; for from
their conversation I might expect the best
accounts of everything in whatever country I
should be, with the additional advantage of
keeping my learning alive.
It will be observed, that when giving me
advice as to my travels, Dr. Johnson did not
dwell upon cities, and palaces, and pictures,
and shows, and Arcadian scenes. He was of
Lord Essex's opinion, who advises his kins-
man, Roger Earl of Rutland, "rather to go a
hundred miles to speak with one wise man,
than five miles to see a fair town."
I described to him an impudent fellow from
Scotland, who affected to be a savage, and
railed at all established systems. Johnson:
"There is nothing surprising in this, Sir. He
wants to make himself conspicuous. He would
tumble in a hog-sty, as long as you looked at
him and called to him to come out. But let
him alone, never mind him, and he'll soon
give it over."
I added that the same person maintained
that there was no distinction between virtue
and vice. Johnson: "Why, Sir, if the fellow
does not think as he speaks, he is lying; and
I see not what honour he can propose to him-
self from having the character of a liar. But
if he does really think that there is no distinc-
tion between virtue and vice, why, Sir, when
he leaves our houses let us count our spoons."
Sir David Dalrymple, now one of the judges
of Scotland by the title of Lord Hailes, had
contributed much to increase my high opinion
of Johnson, on account of his writings, long
before I attained to a personal acquaintance
with him; I, in return, had informed Johnson
of Sir David's eminent character for learn-
ing and religion; and Johnson was so much
pleased, that at one of our evening meetings
he gave him for his toast. I at this time kept
up a very frequent correspondence with Sir
David; and I read to Dr. Johnson to-night
the following passage from the letter which I
had last received from him:
" It gives me pleasure to think that you have ob-
tained the friendship of Mr. Samuel Johnson. He
is one of the best moral writers which England has
produced. At the same time, I envy you the free
and undisguised converse with such a man. May I
beg you to present my best respects to him, and to
assure him of the veneration which I entertain for
the author of the ' Rambler ' and of ' Rasselas ' ?
Let me recommend this last work to you; with the
'Rambler' you certainly are acquainted. In 'Ras-
selas ' you will see a tender-hearted operator, who
probes the wound only to heal it. Swift, on the con-
trary, mangles human nature. He cuts and slashes
as if he took pleasure in the operation, like the
tyrant who said, Itaferi ut se sentiat emori." 1
Johnson seemed to be much gratified by
this just and well-turned compliment.
He recommended to me to keep a journal
of my life, full and unreserved. He said it
would be a very good exercise, and would
yield me great satisfaction when the particu-
lars were faded from my remembrance. I
was uncommonly fortunate in having had a
previous coincidence of opinion with him upon
this subject, for I had kept such a journal for
some time; and it was no small pleasure to
me to have this to tell him, and to receive
his approbation. He counselled me to keep
it private, and said I might surely have a
friend who would burn it in case of my death.
From this habit I have been enabled to give
the world so many anecdotes, which would
otherwise have been lost to posterity. I men-
tioned that I was afraid I put into my journal
too many little incidents. Johnson: "There
is nothing, Sir, too little for so little a creature
as man. It is by studying little things that
we attain the great art of having as little misery
and as much happiness as possible."
Next morning Mr. Dempster happened to
call on me, and was so much struck even with
the imperfect account which I gave him of
Dr. Johnson's conversation, that to his honour
be it recorded, when I complained of drink-
ing port and sitting up late with him, affected
my nerves for some time after, he said, "One
had better be palsied at eighteen than not
keep company with such a man."
On Tuesday, July 18, I found tall Sir
Thomas Robinson sitting with Johnson. Sir
Thomas said, that the King of Prussia valued
himself upon three things; upon being a hero,
a musician, and an author. Johnson: "Pretty
well, Sir, for one man. As to his being an
author, I have not looked at his poetry; but
his prose is poor stuff. He writes just as you
may suppose Voltaire's footboy to do, who
has been his amanuensis. He has such parts
as the valet might have, and about as much
of the colouring of the style as might be got
by transcribing his works." When I was at
Ferney, I repeated this to Voltaire, in order
to reconcile him somewhat to Johnson, whom
he, in affecting the English mode of expres-
1 Strike in such a way that he may feel the pangs of
death.
284
JAMES BOSWELL
sion, had previously characterised as "a super-
stitious dog " ; but after hearing such a criticism
on Frederick the Great, with whom he was
then on bad terms, he exclaimed, "An honest
fellow!"
But I think the criticism much too severe;
for the "Memoirs of the House of Branden-
burgh" are written as well as many works of
that kind. His poetry, for the style of which
he himself makes a frank apology, "jargonnant
un Francois barbare," though fraught with
pernicious ravings of infidelity, has in many
places, great animation, and in some a pathetic
tenderness.
Upon this contemptuous animadversion on
the King of Prussia, I observed to Johnson,
"It would seem then, Sir, that much less parts
are necessary to make a king, than to make
an author: for the King of Prussia is con-
fessedly the greatest king now in Europe, yet
you think he makes a very poor figure as an
author."
Mr. Levett this day showed me Dr. John-
son's library, which was contained in two
garrets over his chambers, where Lintot, son
of the celebrated bookseller of that name, had
formerly his warehouse. I found a number
of good books, but very dusty and in great
confusion. The floor was strewed with manu-
script leaves, in Johnson's own handwriting,
which I beheld with a degree of veneration,
supposing they perhaps might contain por-
tions of the "Rambler," or of "Rasselas." I
observed an apparatus for chemical experi-
ments, of which Johnson was all his life very
fond. The place seemed to be very favour-
able for retirement and meditation. Johnson
told me, that he went up thither without men-
tioning it to his servant when he wanted to
study, secure from interruption; for he would
not allow his servant to say he was not at
home when he really was. "A servant's strict
regard for truth," said he, "must be weakened
by such a practice. A philosopher may know
that it is merely a form of denial; but few
servants are such nice distinguishes. If I ac-
custom a servant to tell a lie for me, have I
not reason to apprehend that he will tell many
lies for himself?" I am, however, satisfied
that every servant, of any degree of intelli-
gence, understands saying his master is not at
home, not at all as the affirmation of a fact,
but as customary words, intimating that his
master wishes not to be seen; so that there
can be no bad effect from it.
Mr. Temple, now vicar of St. Gluvias,
Cornwall, who had been my intimate friend
for many years, had at this time chambers in
Farrar's buildings, at the bottom of inner
Temple-lane, which he kindly lent me upon
my quitting my lodgings, he being to return
to Trinity Hall, Cambridge. I found them
particularly convenient for me, as they were
so near Dr. Johnson's.
On Wednesday, July 20, Dr. Johnson, Mr.
Dempster, and my uncle, Dr. Boswell, who
happened to be now in London, supped with
me at these chambers. Johnson: "Pity is not
natural to man. Children are always cruel.
Savages are always cruel. Pity is acquired
and improved by the cultivation of reason.
We may have uneasy sensations from seeing
a creature in distress, without pity: for we
have not pity unless we wish to relieve them.
When I am on my way to dine with a friend,
and finding it late, have bid the coachman
make haste, if I happen to attend when he
whips his horses, I may feel unpleasantly that
the animals are put to pain, but I do not wish
him to desist. No, Sir, I wish him to drive
on."
Mr. Alexander Donaldson, bookseller of
Edinburgh, had for some time opened a shop
in London, and sold his cheap editions of the
most popular English books, in defiance of
the supposed common -law right of Literary
Property. Johnson, though he concurred in
the opinion which was afterwards sanctioned
by a judgment of the House of Lords, that
there was no such right, was at this time
very angry that the booksellers of London, for
whom he uniformly professed much regard,
should suffer from an invasion of what they
had ever considered to be secure; and he
was loud and violent against Mr. Donaldson.
"He is a fellow who takes advantage of the
law to injure his brethren; for, notwithstand-
ing that the statute secures only fourteen years
of exclusive right, it has always been under-
stood by the trade, that he who buys the copy-
right of a book from the author obtains a
perpetual property ; and upon that belief, num-
berless bargains are made to transfer that
property after the expiration of the statutory
term. Now, Donaldson, I say, takes ad-
vantage here, of people who have really an
equitable title from usage; and if we consider
how few of the books, of which they buy the
property, succeed so well as to bring profit,
we should be of opinion that the term of
fourteen years is too short; it should be sixty
years." Dempster: "Donaldson, Sir, is anxious
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON
285
for the encouragement of literature. He re-
duces the price of books, so that poor students
may buy them." Johnson (laughing) : "Well,
Sir, allowing that to be his motive, he is no
better than Robin Hood, who robbed the rich
in order to give to the poor."
It is remarkable, that when the great ques-
tion concerning Literary Property came to be
ultimately tried before the supreme tribunal
of this country, in consequence of the very
spirited exertions of Mr. Donaldson, Dr.
Johnson was zealous against a perpetuity;
but he thought that the term of the exclu-
sive right of authors should be considerably
enlarged. He was then for granting a hun-
dred years.
The conversation now turned upon Mr.
David Hume's style. Johnson: "Why, Sir,
his style is not English; the structure of his
sentences is French. Now the French struc-
ture and the English structure may, in the
nature of things, be equally good. But if you
allow that the English language is established,
he is wrong. My name might originally have
been Nicholson, as well as Johnson; but were
you to call me Nicholson now, you would call
me very absurdly."
Rousseau's treatise on the inequality of
mankind was at this time a fashionable topic.
It gave rise to an observation by Mr. Demp-
ster, that the advantages of fortune and rank
were nothing to a wise man, who ought to
value only merit. Johnson: "If man were a
savage, living in the woods by himself, this
might be true; but in civilised society we all
depend upon each other and our happiness is
very much owing to the good opinion of man-
kind. Now, Sir, in civilised society, external
advantages make us more respected. A man
with a good coat upon his back meets with a
better reception than he who has a bad one.
Sir, you may analyse this and say what is there
in it? But that will avail you nothing, for it
is part of a general system. Pound St. Paul's
church into atoms, and consider any single
atom; it is, to be sure, good for nothing; but
put all these atoms together and you have
St. Paul's church. So it is with human
felicity, which is made up of many ingredients,
each of which may be shown to be very in-
significant. In civilised society personal merit
will not serve you so much as money will.
Sir, you may make the experiment. Go into
the street and give one man a lecture on
morality and another a shilling, and see which
will respect you most. If you wish only to sup-
port nature, Sir William Petty fixes your allow-
ance at three pounds a year; but as times are
much altered, let us call it six pounds. This
sum will fill your belly, shelter you from the
weather, and even get you a strong lasting
coat, supposing it to be made of good bull's
hide. Now, Sir, all beyond this is artificial,
and is desired in order to obtain a greater
degree of respect from our fellow-creatures.
And, Sir, if six hundred pounds a year procure
a man more consequence, and, of course, more
happiness than six pounds a year, the same
proportion will hold as to six thousand, and
so on, as far as opulence can be carried. Per-
haps he who has a large fortune may not be
so happy as he who has a small one; but that
must proceed from other causes than from his
having the large fortune: for, caeteris paribus,
he who is rich in a civilised society must be
happier than he who is poor; as riches, if
properly used, (and it is a man's own fault if
they are not,) must be productive of the
highest advantages. Money, to be sure, of
itself is of no use: for its only use is to part
with it. Rousseau, and all those who deal in
paradoxes, are led away by a childish desire
of novelty. When I was a boy I used always
to choose the wrong side of a debate, because
most ingenious things, that is to say, most new
things, could be said upon it. Sir, there is
nothing for which you may not muster up
more plausible arguments than those which
are urged against wealth and other external
advantages. Why, now, there is stealing:
why should it be thought a crime? When
we consider by what unjust methods property
has been often acquired, and that what was
unjustly got it must be unjust to keep, where
is the harm in one man's taking the property
of another from him? Besides, Sir, when we
consider the bad use that many people make
of their property, and how much better use
the thief may make of it, it may be defended
as a very allowable practice. Yet, Sir, the ex-
perience of mankind has discovered stealing
to be so very bad a thing that they make no
scruple to hang a man for it. When I was
running about this town a very poor fellow, I
was a great arguer for the advantages of
poverty; but I was, at the same time, very
sorry to be poor. Sir, all the arguments
which are brought to represent poverty as no
evil, show it to be evidently a great evil. You
never find people labouring to convince you
that you may live very happily upon a plenti-
ful fortune. — So you hear people talking how
286
JAMES BOSWELL
miserable a king must be, and yet they all
wish to be in his place."
It was suggested that kings must be un-
happy, because they are deprived of the
greatest of all satisfactions, easy and unre-
served society. Johnson: "This is an ill-
founded notion. Being a king does not ex-
clude a man from such society. Great kings
have always been social. The King of Prussia,
the only great king at present, is very social.
Charles the Second, the last king of England
who was a man of parts, was social; and our
Henrys and Edwards were all social."
Mr. Dempster having endeavoured to main-
tain that intrinsic merit ought to make the only
distinction among mankind. Johnson: "Why,
Sir, mankind have found that this cannot be.
How shall we determine the proportion of
intrinsic merit? Were that to be the only
distinction amongst mankind, we should soon
quarrel about the degrees of it. Were all
distinctions abolished, the strongest would not
long acquiesce, but would endeavour to obtain
a superiority by their bodily strength. But,
Sir, as subordination is very necessary for
society, and contentions for superiority very
dangerous, mankind, that is to say, all civilised
nations, have settled it upon a plain invariable
principle. A man is born to hereditary rank;
or his being appointed to certain offices gives
him a certain rank. Subordination tends
greatly to human happiness. Were we all
upon an equality, we should have no other
enjoyment than mere animal pleasure."
I said, I considered distinction or rank to
be of so much importance in civilised society,
that if I were asked on the same day to dine
with the first duke in England, and with the
first man in Britain for genius, I should hesi-
tate which to prefer. Johnson: "To be sure,
Sir, if you were to dine only once, and it were
never to be known where you dined, you
would choose rather to dine with the first
man for genius ; but to gain most respect, you
should dine with the first duke in England.
For nine people in ten that you meet with,
would have a higher opinion of you for having
dined with a duke; and the great genius him-
self would receive you better, because you had
been with the great duke."
He took care to guard himself against any
possible suspicion that his settled principles
of reverence for rank and respect for wealth
were at all owing to mean or interested motives ;
for he asserted his own independence as a
literary man. " No man," said he, " who ever
lived by literature, has lived more indepen-
dently than I have done." He said he had
taken longer time than he needed to have
done in composing his Dictionary. He re-
ceived our compliments upon that great work
with complacency, and told us that the Academy
della Crusca could scarcely believe that it was
done by one man.
Next morning I found him alone, and have
preserved the following fragments of his con-
versation. Of a gentleman who was men-
tioned, he said, "I have not met with any
man for a long time who has given me such
general displeasure. He is totally unfixed in
his principles, and wants to puzzle other
people." I said his principles had been
poisoned by a noted infidel writer, but that
he was, nevertheless, a benevolent, good man.
Johnson: "We can have no dependence upon
that instinctive, that constitutional goodness,
which is not founded upon principle. I grant
you that such a man may be a very amiable
member of society. I can conceive him placed
in such a situation that he is not much tempted
to deviate from what is right; and as every
man prefers virtue, when there is not some
strong incitement to transgress its precepts, I
can conceive him doing nothing wrong. But
if such a man stood in need of money, I should
not like to trust him; and I should certainly
not trust him with young ladies, for there,
there is always temptation. Hume, and other
sceptical innovators, are vain men, and will
gratify themselves at any expense. Truth will
not afford sufficient food to their vanity: so
they have betaken themselves to error. Truth,
Sir, is a cow which will yield such people no
more milk, and so they are gone to milk the
bull. If I could have allowed myself to
gratify my vanity at the expense of truth,
what fame might I have acquired! Every-
thing which Hume has advanced against
Christianity had passed through my mind long
before he wrote. Always remember this, that
after a system is well settled upon positive
evidence, a few partial objections ought not
to shake it. The human mind is so limited,
that it cannot take in all the parts of a sub-
ject, so that there may be objections raised
against anything. There are objections against
a plenum, and objections against a vacuum;
yet one of them must certainly be true."
I mentioned Hume's argument against the
belief of miracles, that it is more probable that
the witnesses to the truth of them are mistaken,
or speak falsely, than that the miracles should
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON
287
be true. Johnson: "Why, Sir, the great dif-
ficulty of proving miracles should make us
very cautious in believing them. But let us
consider; although God has made Nature to
operate by certain fixed laws, yet it is not un-
reasonable to think that he may suspend those
laws, in order to establish a system highly
advantageous to mankind. Now the Chris-
tian religion is a most beneficial system, as
it gives us light and certainty where we were
before in darkness and doubt. The miracles
which prove it are attested by men who had
no interest in deceiving us; but who, on the
contrary, were told that they should suffer per-
secution, and did actually lay down their lives
in confirmation of the truth of the facts which
they asserted. Indeed, for some centuries the
heathens did not pretend to deny the miracles ;
but said they were performed by the aid of evil
spirits. This is a circumstance of great weight.
Then, Sir, when we take the proofs derived
from prophecies which have been so exactly
fulfilled, we have most satisfactory evidence.
Supposing a miracle possible, as to which, in
my opinion, there can be no doubt, we have as
strong evidence for the miracles in support of
Christianity as the nature of the thing admits."
At night, Mr. Johnson and I supped in a
private room at the Turk's Head coffee-house,
in the Strand. "I encourage this house," said
he, "for the mistress of it is a good civil woman,
and has not much business."
"Sir, I love the acquaintance of young people ;
because, in the first place, I don't like to think
myself growing old. In the next place, young
acquaintances must last longest, if they do last ;
and then, Sir, young men have more virtue
than old men; they have more generous senti-
ments in every respect. I love the young dogs
of this age; they have more wit and humour
and knowledge of life than we had; but then
the dogs are not so good scholars. Sir, in my
early years I read very hard. It is a sad re-
flection, but a true one, that I knew almost as
much at eighteen as I do now. My judgment,
to be sure, was not so good, but I had all the
facts. I remember very well when I was at
Oxford, an old gentleman said to me, 'Young
man, ply your book diligently now, and acquire
a stock of knowledge; for when years come
upon you, you will find that poring upon books
will be but an irksome task.' "
This account of his reading, given by him-
self in plain words, sufficiently confirms what I
have already advanced upon the disputed ques-
tion as to his application. It reconciles any
seeming inconsistency in his way of talking
upon it at different times; and shows that
idleness and reading hard were with him rela-
tive terms, the import of which, as used by him,
must be gathered from a comparison with what
scholars of different degrees of ardour and as-
siduity have been known to do. And let it be
remembered that he was now talking sponta-
neously, and expressing his genuine sentiments;
whereas at other times he might be induced from
his spirit of contradiction, or more properly from
his love of argumentative contest, to speak lightly
of his own application to study. It is pleasing
to consider that the old gentleman's gloomy
prophecy as to the irksomeness of books to men
of an advanced age, which is too often fulfilled,
was so far from being verified in Johnson, that
his ardour for literature never failed, and his
last writings had more ease and vivacity than
any of his earlier productions.
He mentioned to me now, for the first time,
that he had been distressed by melancholy,
and for that reason had been obliged to fly
from study and meditation, to the dissipat-
ing variety of life. Against melancholy he
recommended constant occupation of mind,
a great deal of exercise, moderation in eating
and drinking, and especially to shun drinking
at night. He said melancholy people were apt
to fly to intemperance for relief, but that it sunk
them much deeper in misery. He observed,
that labouring men who work hard, and live
sparingly, are seldom or never troubled with
low spirits.
He again insisted on the duty of maintaining
subordination of rank. "Sir, I would no more
deprive a nobleman of his respect than of his
money. I consider myself as acting a part in
the great system of society, and I do to others
as I would have them do to me. I would
behave to a nobleman as I should expect he
would behave to me, were I a nobleman, and
he Sam. Johnson. Sir, there is one Mrs.
Macaulay, in this town, a great republican.
One day when I was at her house, I put on
a very grave countenance, and said to her,
'Madam, I am now become a convert to your
way of thinking. I am convinced that all man-
kind are upon an equal footing; and to give
you an unquestionable proof, Madam, that I
am in earnest, here is a very sensible, civil, well-
behaved fellow-citizen, your footman ; I desire
that he may be allowed to sit down and dine
with us.' I thus, Sir, showed her the absurdity
of the levelling doctrine. She has never liked
me since. Sir, your levellers wish to level down
288
JAMES BOSWELL
as far as themselves; but they cannot bear
levelling up to themselves. They would all
have some people under them; why not then
have some people above them?"
I mentioned a certain author who disgusted
me by his forwardness, and by showing no
deference to noblemen into whose company
he was admitted. Johnson: " Suppose a shoe-
maker should claim an equality with him, as he
does with a lord : how he would stare. 'Why,
Sir, do you stare?' says the shoemaker, 'I do
great service to society. 'Tis true I am paid
for doing it; but so are you, Sir; and I am
sorry to say it, better paid than I am, for doing
something not so necessary. For mankind
could do better without your books than with-
out my shoes.' Thus, Sir, there would be
perpetual struggle for precedence, were there
no fixed invariable rules for the distinction of
rank, which creates no jealousy, as it is allowed
to be accidental."
He said Dr. Joseph Warton was a very agree-
able man, and his "Essay on the Genius and
Writings of Pope" a very pleasing book. I
wondered that he delayed so long to give us
the continuation of it. Johnson: "Why,
Sir, I suppose he finds himself a little disap-
pointed in not having been able to persuade the
world to be of his opinion as to Pope."
We have now been favoured with the con-
cluding volume, in which, to use a parliamen-
tary expression, he has explained, so as not to
appear quite so adverse to the opinion of the
world, concerning Pope, as was at first thought ;
and we must all agree that his work is a most
valuable accession to English literature.
A writer of deserved eminence being men-
tioned, Johnson said, "Why, Sir, he is a man
of good parts, but being originally poor, he has
got a love of mean company and low jocularity;
a very bad thing, Sir. To laugh is good, and
to talk is good. But you ought no more to
think it enough if you laugh, than you are to
think it enough if you talk. You may laugh
in as many ways as you talk ; and surely every
way of talking that is practised cannot be
esteemed."
I spoke of Sir James Macdonald as a young
man of most distinguished merit, who united
the highest reputation at Eton and Oxford,
with the patriarchal spirit of a great Highland
chieftain. I mentioned that Sir James had said
to me, that he had never seen Mr. Johnson,
but he had a great respect for him, though
at the same time it was mixed with some
degree of terror. Johnson: "Sir, if he were
to be acquainted with me, it might lessen
both."
The mention of this gentleman led us to
talk of the Western Islands of Scotland, to
visit which he expressed a wish that then ap-
peared to me a very romantic fancy, which I
little thought would be afterwards realised.
He told me that his father had put Martin's
account of those islands into his hands when he
was very young, and that he was highly pleased
with it; that he was particularly struck with
the St. Kilda man's notion that the high church
of Glasgow had been hollowed out of a rock;
a circumstance to which old Mr. Johnson had
directed his attention. He said he would go
to the Hebrides with me when I returned from
my travels, unless some very good companion
should offer when I was absent, which he did
not think probable; adding, "There are few
people whom I take so much to as you." And
when I talked of my leaving England, he said
with a very affectionate air, "My dear Boswell,
I should be very unhappy at parting, did I
think we were not to meet again." I cannot
too often remind my readers, that although
such instances of his kindness are doubtless
very flattering to me, yet I hope my recording
them will be ascribed to a better motive than to
vanity; for they afford unquestionable evidence
of his tenderness and complacency, which some,
while they are forced to acknowledge his great
powers, have been so strenuous to deny.
He maintained that a boy at school was
the happiest of human beings. I supported a
different opinion, from which I have never yet
varied, that a man is happier; and I enlarged
upon the anxiety and sufferings which are
endured at school. Johnson: "Ah, Sir, a
boy's being flogged is not so severe as a man's
having the hiss of the world against him. Men
have a solicitude about fame; and the greater
share they have of it, the more afraid they are
of losing it." I silently asked myself, "Is it
possible that the great Samuel Johnson really
entertains any such apprehension, and is not
confident that his exalted fame is established
upon a foundation never to be shaken ? "
He this evening drank a bumper to Sir David
Dalrymple, "as a man of worth, a scholar,
and a wit." "I have," said he, "never heard of
him, except from you; but let him know my
opinion of him : for as he does not show him-
self much in the world, he should have the
praise of the few who hear of him."
On Tuesday, July 26, I found Mr. Johnson
alone. It was a very wet day, and I again
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON
289
complained of the disagreeable effects of such
weather. Johnson: "Sir, this is all imagina-
tion, which physicians encourage; for man
lives in air as a fish lives in water; so that if tfie
atmosphere press heavy from above, there is
an equal resistance from below. To be sure,
bad weather is hard upon people who are
obliged to be abroad; and men cannot labour
so well in the open air in bad weather as in
good; but, Sir, a smith, or a tailor, whose
work is within doors, will surely do as much in
rainy weather as in fair. Some very delicate
frames, indeed, may be affected by wet weather ;
but not common constitutions."
We talked of the education of children ; and
I asked him what he thought was best to teach
them first. Johnson: "Sir, it is no matter
what you teach them first, any more than what
leg you shall put into your breeches first. Sir,
you may stand disputing which is best to put in
first, but in the meantime your breech is bare.
Sir, while you are considering which of two
things you should teach your child first, an-
other boy has learned them both."
On Thursday, July 28, we again supped in
private at the Turk's Head coffee-house. John-
son: "Swift has a higher reputation than he
deserves. His excellence is strong sense; for
his humour, though very well, is not remark-
ably good. I doubt whether the 'Tale of a
Tub' be his; for he never owned it, and it is
much above his usual manner."
"Thomson, I think, had as much of the poet
about him as most writers. Everything ap-
peared to him through the medium of his
favourite pursuit. He could not have viewed
those two candles burning but with a poetical
eye."
"Has not a great deal of wit, Sir?"
Johnson: "I do not think so, Sir. He is, in-
deed, continually attempting wit, but he fails.
And I have no more pleasure in hearing a
man attempting wit and failing, than in see-
ing a man trying to leap over a ditch and
tumbling into it."
He laughed heartily when I mentioned to
him a saying of his concerning Mr. Thomas
Sheridan, which Foote took a wicked pleasure
to circulate. "Why, Sir, Sherry is dull, nat-
urally dull ; but it must have taken him a great
deal of pains to become what we now see him.
Such an excess of stupidity, Sir, is not in Na-
ture."—"So," said he, "I allowed him all
his own merit."
He now added, "Sheridan cannot bear me.
I bring his declamation to a point. I ask him
a plain question, 'What do you mean to teach?'
Besides, Sir, what influence can Mr. Sheridan
have upon the language of this great country,
by his narrow exertions? Sir, it is burning a
farthing candle at Dover, to show light at
Calais."
Talking of a young man who was uneasy
from thinking that he was very deficient in
learning and knowledge, he said, "A man has
no reason to complain who holds a middle
place, and has many below him ; and perhaps •
he has not six of his years above him ; — per-
haps not one. Though he may not know
anything perfectly, the general mass of know-
ledge that he has acquired is considerable.
Time will do for him all that is wanting."
The conversation then took a philosophical
turn. Johnson: "Human experience, which
is constantly contradicting theory, is the great
test of truth. A system built upon the dis-
coveries of a great many minds, is always of
more strength, than what is produced by the
mere workings of any one mind, which, of itself,
can do little. There is not so poor a book in
the world that would not be a prodigious effort
were it wrought out entirely by a single mind,
without the aid of prior investigators. The
French writers are superficial, because they are
not scholars, and so proceed upon the mere
power of their own minds; and we see how
very little power they have."
"As to the Christian religion, Sir, besides
the strong evidence which we have for it, there
is a balance in its favour from the number of
great men who have been convinced of its
truth, after a serious consideration of the
question. Grotius was an acute man, a lawyer,
a man accustomed to examine evidence, and
he was convinced. Grotius was not a recluse,
but a man of the world, who certainly had no
bias to the side of religion. Sir Isaac Newton
set out an infidel, and came to be a very firm
believer."
He this evening again recommended to me
to perambulate Spain. I said it would amuse
him to get a letter from me dated at Salamanca.
Johnson : "I love the University of Salamanca ;
for when the Spaniards were in doubt as to
the lawfulness of their conquering America,
the University of Salamanca gave it as their
opinion that it was not lawful." He spoke
this with great emotion, and with that generous
warmth which dictated the lines in his "Lon-
don," against Spanish encroachment.
I expressed my opinion of my friend Derrick
as but a poor writer. Johnson: "To be sure,
290
JAMES BOSWELL
Sir, he is; but you are to consider that his
being a literary man has got for him all that
he has. It has made him king of Bath. Sir,
he has nothing to say for himself but that he is
a writer. Had he not been a writer, he must
have been sweeping the crossings in the streets,
and asking halfpence from everybody that
passed."
In justice, however, to the memory of Mr.
Derrick, who was my first tutor in the ways
of London, and showed me the town in all
its variety of departments, both literary and
sportive, the particulars of which Dr. Johnson
advised me to put in writing, it is proper to
mention what Johnson, at a subsequent period,
said of him both as a writer and an editor:
"Sir, I have often said, that if Derrick's letters
had been written by one of a more established
name, they would have been thought very
pretty letters." And "I sent Derrick to Dry-
den's relations to gather materials for his life;
and I believe he got all that I myself should
have got."
Poor Derrick ! I remember him with kind-
ness. Yet I cannot withhold from my readers
a pleasant humorous sally which could not
have hurt him had he been alive, and now is
perfectly harmless. In his collection of poems
there is one upon entering the harbour of
Dublin, his native city, after a long absence.
It begins thus:
" Eblana ! much loved city, hail !
Where first I saw the light of day."
And after a solemn reflection on his being
"numbered with forgotten dead," there is the
following stanza:
" Unless my lines protract my fame,
And those, who chance to read them, cry,
I knew him ! Derrick was his name,
In yonder tomb his ashes lie — "
which was thus happily parodied by Mr. John
Home, to whom we owe the beautiful and
pathetic tragedy of "Douglas":
" Unless my deeds protract my fame,
And he who passes sadly sings,
I knew him ! Derrick was his name,
On yonder tree his carcase swings 1"
I doubt much whether the amiable and in-
genious author of these burlesque lines will
recollect them; for they were produced ex-
tempore one evening while he and I were
walking together in the dining-room at Eglin-
toune Castle, in 1760, and I have never men-
tioned them to him since.
Johnson said once to me, "Sir, I honour
Derrick for his presence of mind. One night,
when Floyd, another poor author, was wander-
ing about the streets in the night, he found
Derrick fast asleep upon a bulk; upon being
suddenly waked, Derrick started up, ' My dear
Floyd, I am sorry to see you in this destitute
state; will you come home with me to my
lodgings?'"
I again begged his advice as to my method
of study at Utrecht. "Come," said he, "let us
make a day of it. Let us go down to Green-
wich and dine, and talk of it there." The
following Saturday was fixed for this excursion.
On Saturday, July 30, Dr. Johnson and I
took a sculler at the Temple-stairs, and set out
for Greenwich. I asked him if he really
thought a knowledge of the Greek and Latin
languages an essential requisite to a good edu-
cation. Johnson: "Most certainly, Sir; for
those who know them have a very great ad-
vantage over those who do not. Nay, Sir, it
is wonderful what a difference learning makes
upon people even in the common intercourse
of life, which does not appear to be much con-
nected with it." "And yet," said I, "people
go through the world very well and carry on
the business of life to good advantage without
learning." Johnson: "Why, Sir, that may be
true in cases where learning cannot possibly
be of any use; for instance, this boy rows us
as well without learning, as if he could sing the
song of Orpheus to the Argonauts, who were
the first sailors." He then called to the boy,
"What would you give, my lad, to know about
the Argonauts?" "Sir," said the boy, "I
would give what I have." Johnson was much
pleased with his answer, and we gave him a
double fare. Dr. Johnson then turning to me,
"Sir," said he, "a desire of knowledge is the
natural feeling of mankind ; and every human
being whose mind is not debauched, will be
willing to give all that he has to get knowledge."
We landed at the Old Swan, and walked to
Billingsgate, where we took oars and moved
smoothly along .the silver Thames. It was a
very fine day. We were entertained with the
immense number and variety of ships that were
lying at anchor, and with the beautiful country
on each side of the river.
I talked of preaching, and of the great
success which those called methodists have.
Johnson: "Sir, it is owing to their expressing
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON
291
themselves in a plain and familiar manner,
which is the only way to do good to the com-
mon people, and which clergymen of genius
and learning ought to do from a principle of
duty, when it is suited to their congregations;
a practice, for which they will be praised by
men of sense. To insist against drunkenness
as a crime, because it debases reason, the
noblest faculty of man, would be of no service
to the common people, but to tell them that
they may die in a fit of drunkenness and show
them how dreadful that would be, cannot fail
to make a deep impression. Sir, when your
Scotch clergy give up their homely manner,
religion will soon decay in that country." Let
this observation, as Johnson meant it, be ever
remembered.
I was much pleased to find myself with John-
son at Greenwich, which he celebrates in his
"London" as a favourite scene. I had the
poem in my pocket, and read the lines aloud
with enthusiasm:
"On Thames's banks in silent thought we stood,
Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood;
Pleased with the seat which gave Eliza birth,
We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth."
He remarked that the structure of Green-
wich hospital was too magnificent for a place
of charity, and that its parts were too much de-
tached, to make one great whole.
Buchanan, he said, was a very fine poet;
and observed, that he was the first who com-
plimented a lady, by ascribing to her the dif-
ferent perfections of the heathen goddesses;
but that Johnstone improved upon this, by
making his lady, at the same time, free from
their defects.
He dwelt upon Buchanan's elegant verses
to Mary Queen of Scots, Nympha Caledoniae,
etc., and spoke with enthusiasm of the beauty
of Latin verse. "All the modern languages,"
said he, "cannot furnish so melodious a line as
Tormosam resonare doces Amarillida silvas.'"
Afterwards he entered upon the business of
the day, which was to give me his advice as
to a course of study. And here I am to men-
tion with much regret, that my record of what
he said is miserably scanty. I recollect with
admiration an animating blaze of eloquence,
which roused every intellectual power in me to
the highest pitch, but must have dazzled me so
much that my memory could not preserve the
substance of his discourse; for the note which
I find of it is no more than this: — "He ran
over the grand scale of human knowledge;
advised me to select some particular branch to
excel in, but to acquire a little of every kind."
The defect of my minutes will be fully supplied
by a long letter upon the subject, which he
favoured me with after I had been some time
at Utrecht, and which my readers will have the
pleasure to peruse in its proper place.
We walked, in the evening, in Greenwich
Park. He asked me, I suppose, by way of
trying my disposition, "Is not this very fine?"
— Having no exquisite relish of the beauties
of nature, and being more delighted with "the
busy hum of men," I answered, "Yes, Sir, but
not equal to Fleet -street." Johnson: "You
are right, Sir."
I am aware that many of my readers may
censure my want of taste. Let me, however,
shelter myself under the authority of a very
fashionable baronet in the brilliant world, who,
on his attention being called to the fragrance of
a May evening in the country, observed, "This
may be very well; but for my part, I prefer
the smell of a flambeau at the playhouse."
We stayed so long at Greenwich, that our sail
up the river, in our return to London, was by
no means so pleasant as in the morning; for
the night air was so cold that it made me shiver.
I was the more sensible of it from having sat
up all the night before recollecting and writing
in my journal what I thought worthy of pres-
ervation; an exertion which during the first
part of my acquaintance with Johnson, I fre-
quently made. I remember having sat up
four nights in one week, without being much
incommoded in the day-time.
Johnson, whose robust frame was not in the
least affected by the cold, scolded me, as if my
shivering had been a paltry effeminacy, say-
ing, "Why do you shiver?" Sir William
Scott, of the Commons, told me that when he
complained of a headache in the post-chaise,
as they were travelling together to Scotland,
Johnson treated him in the same manner:
"At your age, Sir, I had no headache." It is
not easy to make allowance for sensations in
others, which we ourselves have not at the time.
We must all have experienced how very dif-
ferently we are affected by the complaints of
our neighbours, when we are well, and when
we are ill. In full health, we can scarcely
believe that they suffer much; so faint is the
image of pain upon our imagination: when
softened by sickness, we readily sympathise
with the sufferings of others.
We concluded the day at the Turk's Head
coffee-house very socially. He was pleased to
292
JUNIUS
listen to a particular account which I gave him
of my family, and of its hereditary estate, as to
the extent and population of which he asked
questions, and made calculations; recom-
mending, at the same time, a liberal kindness
to the tenantry, as people over whom the pro-
prietor was placed by Providence. He took
delight in hearing my description of the ro-
mantic seat of my ancestors. " I must be there,
Sir," said he, "and we will live in the old castle ;
and if there is not a room in it remaining, we
will build one." I was highly flattered, but
could scarcely indulge a hope that Auchinleck
would indeed be honoured by his presence,
and celebrated by a description, as it afterwards
was, in his "Journey to the Western Islands."
After we had again talked of my setting out
for Holland, he said, "I must see thee out of
England; I will accompany you to Harwich."
I could not find words to express what I felt
upon this unexpected and very great mark of
his affectionate regard.
Next day, Sunday, July 3, I told him I had
been that morning at a meeting of the people
called Quakers, where I had heard a woman
preach. Johnson: "Sir, a woman's .preach-
ing is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It
is not done well ; but you are surprised to find
it done at all."
On Tuesday, August 2, (the day of my de-
parture from London having been fixed for
the 5th,) Dr. Johnson did me the honour to
pass a part of the morning with me at my
chambers. He said, "that he always felt an
inclination to do nothing." I observed, that
it was strange to think that the most indolent
man in Britain had written the most laborious
work, "The English Dictionary."
I mentioned an imprudent publication by
a certain friend of his, at an early period of
life, and asked him if he thought it would hurt
him. Johnson: "No, Sir; not much. It may
perhaps be mentioned at an election."
I had now made good my title to be a privi-
leged man, and was carried by him in the eve-
ning to drink tea with Miss Williams, whom,
though under the misfortune of having lost her
sight, I found to be agreeable in conversation,
for she had a variety of literature, and expressed
herself well; but her peculiar value was the
intimacy in which she had long lived with John-
son, by which she was well acquainted with his
habits, and knew how to lead him on to talk.
After tea he carried me to what he called his
walk, which was a long narrow paved court
in the neighbourhood, overshadowed by some
trees. There we sauntered a considerable
time, and I complained to him that my love
of London and of his company was such, that
I shrunk almost from the thought of going
away even to travel, which is generally so much
desired by young men. He roused me by
manly and spirited conversation. He advised
me, when settled in any place abroad, to study
with an eagerness after knowledge, and to
apply to Greek an hour every day; and when
I was moving about, to read diligently the great
book of mankind.
On Wednesday, August 3, we had our last
social evening at the Turk's Head coffee-house,
before my setting out for foreign parts. I had
the misfortune, before we parted to irritate
him unintentionally. I mentioned to him how
common it was in the world to tell absurd
stories of him, and to ascribe to him very strange
sayings. Johnson: "What do they make me
say, Sir?" Boswell: "Why, Sir, as an in-
stance very strange indeed," laughing heartily
as I spoke, " David Hume told me, you said that
you would stand before a battery of cannon to
restore the Convocation to its full powers."
Little did I apprehend that he had actually
said this: but I was soon convinced of my
error; for, with a determined look he thundered
out, "And would I not, Sir? Shall the Pres-
byterian Kirk of Scotland have its General
Assembly, and the Church of England be
denied its Convocation?" He was walking
up and down the room while I told him the
anecdote; but, when he uttered this explosion
of high-church zeal he had come close to my
chair, and his eyes flashed with indignation.
I bowed to the storm, and diverted the force of
it, by leading him to expatiate on the influence
which religion derived from maintaining the
church with great external respectability.
I must not omit to mention that he this year
wrote "The Life of Ascham," and the Dedica-
tion to the Earl of Shaftesbury, prefixed to the
edition of that writer's English works, pub-
lished by Mr. Bennet.
? SIR PHILIP FRANCIS
LETTER XII
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON
May 30, 1769.
My Lord,
If the measures in which you have been most
successful had been supported by any tolerable
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON
293
appearance of argument, I should have thought
my time not ill employed in continuing to ex-
amine your conduct as a minister, and stating
it fairly to the public. But when I see ques-
tions, of the highest national importance, carried
as they have been, and the first principles of
& the constitution openly violated without argu-
r' Vinent or decency, I confess I give up the cause
f\ ftf' in despair. The meanest of your predecessors
had abilities sufficient to give a colour to their
measures. If they invade.d the rights of the
people, they did not dare to offer a direct
insult to their understanding; and, in former
times, the most venal parliaments made it a
condition, in their bargain with the minister,
that he should furnish them with some plausible
pretences for selling their country and them-
selves. You have had the merit of introducing
a more compendious system of government
and logic. You neither address yourself to
the passions nor to the understanding, but
simply to the touch. You apply yourself im-
ir mediately to the feelings of your friends who,
jP^v contrary to the forms of parliament, never enter
heartily into a debate until they have divided.
Relinquishing, therefore, all idle views of
amendment to your Grace, or of benefit to the
public, let me be permitted to consider your
character and conduct merely as a subject of
curious speculation. There is something in
both, which distinguishes you not only from all
other ministers, but all other men. It is not
that you do
should nevff ip p'ght hy rrnctpl-P It is not
that your indolence and your activity have been
equally misapplied, but that the first uniform
principle, or, if I may so call it, the genius of
your life, should have carried you through every
possible change and contradiction of conduct
without the momentary imputation or colour
of a virtue, and that_the_wjldest spirit of incon-
sistency sho_uld never once have betrayed you
. into a wise or honourable action. This, I own,
gives an air of singularity to your fortune, as
well as to your disposition. Let us look back
together to a scene in which a mind like yours
will find nothing to repent of. Let us try, my
Lord, how well you have supported the various
relations in which you stood, to your sovereign,
your country, your friends, and yourself. Give
• us, if it be possible, some excuse to posterity,
| and to ourselves, for submitting to your admin-
i istration. If not the abilities of a great minister,
if not the integrity of a patriot, or the fidelity
of a friend, show us, at least, the firmness of a
man. For the sake of your mistress, the lover
shall be spared. I will not lead her into public
as you have done, nor will I insult the memory
of departed beauty. Her sex, which alone
made her amiable in your eyes, makes her
respectable in mine.
The character of the reputed ancestors of
some men has made it possible for their de-
scendants to be vicious in the extreme without
being degenerate. Those of your Grace, for
instance, left no distressing examples of virtue
even to their legi^niatej>osterity, and you may
look back with pleasure to an illustrious pedi-
gree in which heraldry has not left a single good
quality upon record to insult or upbraid you.
You have better proofs of your descent, my
Lord, than the register of a marriage, or any
troublesome inheritance of reputation. There
are some hereditary strokes of character by
which a family may be as clearly distinguished
as by the blackest features of the human face. .
Charles the First lived and died a hypocrite.
Charles the Second was a hypocrite of another
sort, and should have died upon the same
scaffold. At the distance of a century we see
their different characters happily revived and
blended in your Grace. Sullen and severe
without religion, profligate without gaiety,
you live like Charles II. without being an
amiable companion, and, for aught I know,
may die as his father did without the reputation
of a martyr.
You had already taken your degrees with
credit in those schools in which the English
nobility are formed to virtue when you were
introduced to Lord Chatham's protection.
From Newmarket, White's, and the Opposition,
he gave you to the world with an air of popu-
larity which young men usually set out with
and seldom preserve — jgrave and _pjajusible
enough to be thought fit for business, too young
for treachery, and, in short, a patriot of no
unpromising expectations. Lord Chatham was
the earliest object of your political wonder and
attachment. Yet you deserted him upon the
first hopes that offered of an equal share of
power with Lord Rockingham. When the
Duke of Cumberland's first negotiation failed,
and when the favourite was pushed to the last
extremity, you saved him, by joining with
an administration in which Lord Chatham
had refused to engage. Still, however, he was
your friend, and you are yet to explain to the
world, why you consented to act without him,
or why, after uniting with Lord Rockingham,
you deserted and betrayed him. You com-
plained that no measures were taken to satisfy
294
JUNIUS
your patron, and that your friend, Mr. JWilkes,
who had suffered so much for the party, had
been abandoned to his fate. They have since
contributed not a little to your present pleni-
tude of power; yet I think Lord Chatham
has less reason than ever to be satisfied; and
as for Mr. Wilkes, it is, perhaps, the greatest
misfortune of his life, that you should have so
many compensations to make in the closet for
your former friendship with him. Your gra-
cious master understands your character, and
makes you a persecutor, because you have been
a friend.
Lord Chatham formed his last administra-
tion upon principles which you certainly con-
curred in, or you could never have been placed
at the head of the treasury. By deserting those
principles, and by acting in direct contradiction
to them, in which he found you were secretly
supported in the closet, you soon forced him
to leave you to yourself, and to withdraw his
name from an administration which had been
formed on the credit of it. You had then a
prospect of friendships better suited to your
genius and more likely to fix your disposition.
Marriage is the point on which every rake is
stationary at last ; and truly, my Lord, you may
well be weary of the circuit you have taken,
for you have now fairly travelled through every
sign in the political zodiac, from the Scorpion,
i in which you stung Lord Chatham, to the hopes
i of a Virgin in the house of Bloomsbury. One
would think that you had had sufficient ex-
perience of the frailty of nuptial engagements,
or, at least, that such a friendship as the Duke
of Bedford's might have been secured to you
by the auspicious marriage of your late Duchess
with his nephew. But ties of this tender nature
cannot be drawn too close; and it may, pos-
sibly, be a part of the Duke of Bedford's am-
bition, after making her an honest woman, to
work a miracle of the same sort upon your
Grace. This worthy nobleman has long dealt
in virtue. There has been a large consump-
tion of it in his own family; and, in the way
of traffic, I dare say he has bought and sold
more than half the representative integrity
of the nation.
In a political view this union is not imprudent.
The favour of princes is a perishable cuin-
moditv. You have now a strength sufficient
to command the closet; and, if it be necessary
to betray one friendship more, you may set
even Lord Bute at defiance. Mr. Stuart
Mackenzie may possibly remember what use
the Duke of Bedford usually makes of his
power ; and our gracious sovereign, I doubt not,
rejoices at this first appearance of union among
his servants. Hisjatejnajesty, under the happy
influence of a^family connection between his
ministers, was relieved from the cares of gov-
ernment. A more active prince may perhaps
observe with suspicion by what degrees an artful
servant grows upon his master, from the first
unlimited professions of duty and attachment
to the painful representation of the necessity
of the royal service, and soon, in regular pro-
gression, to the humble insolence of dictating
in all the obsequious forms of peremptory sub-
mission. The interval is carefully employed
in forming connections, creating interests, col-
lecting a party, and laying the foundation
of double marriages; until the deluded prince
who thought he had found a creature prosti-
tuted to his service, and insignificant enough to
be always dependent upon his pleasure, finds
him at last too strong to be commanded and
too formidable to be removed.
Your Grace's gujjlic conduct as a minister
is but the counterpart of your private history;
— the same inconsistency, the same contra-
dictions. In America we trace you from the
first opposition to the Stamp Act on principles
of convenience, to Mr. Pitt's surrender of the
right; then forward to Lord Rockingham's
surrender of the fact ; then back again to Lord
Rockingham's declaration of the right; then
forward to taxation with Mr. Townshend ; and,
in the last instance, from the gentle Conway's
undetermined discretion to blood and com-
pulsion with the Duke of Bedford. Yet, if
we may believe the simplicity of Lord North's
eloquence, at the opening of next session you
are once more to be the patron of America.
Is this the wisdom of a great minister? or is
it the ominous vibration of a pendulum ? Had
you no opinion of your own, my Lord? or was
it the gratification of betraying every party
with which you have been united, and of
deserting every political principle in which-^
you had concurred?
Your enemies may turn their eyes without
regret from this admirable system of provincial
government. They will find gratification
enough in the survey of your domestic
foreign policy.
If, instead of disowning Lord Shelburne,
the British court had interposed with dignity
and firmness, you know, my Lord, that Corsica
would never have been invaded. The French
saw the weakness of a distracted ministry, and
were justified in treating you with contempt.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON
295
They would probably have yielded in the first
instance, rather than hazard a rupture with this
country; but, being once engaged, they can-
not retreat without dishonour. (^rnmoiLSgnse
foresees consequences which haveescapeayour
Grace's penetration. Either we suffer the
French to make an acquisition, the importance
of which you have probably no conception of,
or we oppose them by an underhand manage-
ment, which only disgraces us in the eyes of
Europe, without answering any purpose of
policy or prudence. From secret, indirect
assistance, a transition to some more open
decisive measures becomes unavoidable; till
at last we find ourselves principals in the war,
and are obliged to hazard everything for an
object which might have originally been ob-
tained without expense or danger. I am not
versed in the politics of the north; but this,
I believe, is certain, that half the money you
have distributed to carry the expulsion of Mr.
Wilkes, or even your secretary's share in the
last subscription, would have kept the Turks
at your devotion. Was it economy, my Lord ?
or did the coy resistance you have constantly
met with in the British senate, make you de-
spair of corrupting the Divan ? Your friends,
indeed, have the first claim upon your bounty,
but if five hundred pounds a year can be spared
in pension to Sir John Moore, it would not have
disgraced you to have allowed something to
the secret service of the public.
You will say perhaps that the situation of
affairs at home demanded and engrossed the
whole of your attention. Here, I confess, you
have been active. An amiable, accomplished
prince ascends the throne under the happiest
of all auspices — the acclamations and united
affections of his subjects. The first measures
of his reign, and even the odium of a favourite,
were not able to shake their attachment. Your
services, my Lord, have been more successful.
Since you were permitted to take the lead we
have seen the natural effects of a system of
government at once both odious and contempt-
ible. We have seen the laws sometimes scan-
dalously relaxed, sometimes violently stretched
beyond their tone. We have seen the sacred
person of the sovereign insulted; and, in pro-
found peace, and with an undisputed title, the
fidelity of his subjects brought by his own
servants into public question. Without abili-
ties, resolution, or interest, you have done more
than Lord Bute could accomplish with all
Scotland at his heels.
Your Grace, little anxious perhaps either for
present or future reputation, will not desire to
be handed down in these colours to posterity.
You have reason to flatter yourself that the
memory of your administration will survive
even the forms of a constitution which our
ancestors vainly hoped would be immortal;
and a_sjor your personal character L will not,
for the, honour nf human nature, suppose that
you,. can _wish lo have it remembered. The
condition of the present times is desperate
indeed; but there is a debt due to those who
come after us, and it is the historian's office
to punish though he cannot correct. Jjio not
give, you to posterity as a pattern to imitate,
but as an example to deter; and, as your con-
duct comprehends everything that a wise or hon-
est minister should avoid, I mean to make you a
negative instruction to your successors forever.
Junius.
LETTER XV
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON
JulyS, 1769.
My Lord,
If nature had given you an understanding
qualified to keep pace with the wishes and
principles of your heart, she would have made
you, perhaps, the most formidable minister
that ever was employed under a limited mon-
arch to accomplish the ruin of a free people.
When neither the feelings of shame, the re-
proaches of conscience, nor the dread of punish-
ment, form any bar to the designs of a minister,
the people would have too much reason to
lament their condition, if they did not find
some resource in the weakness of his under-
standing. We owe it to the bounty of Provi-
dence, that the completest depravity of the heart
is sometimes strangely united with a confusion
of the mind which counteracts the most fa-
vourite principles, and makes the same man
treacherous without art, and a hypocrite with-
out deceiving. The measures, for instance, in
which your Grace's activity has been chiefly
exerted, as they were adopted without skill,
should have been conducted with more than
common dexterity. But truly, my Lord, the
execution has been as gross as the design. By
one decisive step you have defeated all the arts
of writing. You have fairly confounded the
intrigues of opposition, and silenced the
clamours of faction. A dark, ambiguous sys-
tem might require and furnish the materials
of ingenious illustration; and, in doubtful
296
JUNIUS
measures, the virulent exaggeration of party
must be employed to rouse and engage the
passions of the people. You have now brought
the merits of your administration to an issue
on which every Englishman of the narrowest
capacity may determine for himself. It is not
an alarm to the passions, but a calm appeal to
the judgment of the people upon their own most
essential interests. A more experienced min-
ister would not have hazarded a direct invasion
of the first principles of the constitution before
he had made some progress in subduing the
spirit of the people. With such a cause as
yours, my Lord, it is not sufficient that you have
the court at your devotion unless you can find
means to corrupt or intimidate the jury. The
collective body of the people form that jury,
and from their decision there is but one appeal.
Whether you have talents to support you at
a crisis of such difficulty and danger should long
since have been considered. Judging truly of
your disposition, you have, perhaps, mistaken
the extent of your capacity. Good faith and
folly have so long been received for synony-
mous terms, that the reverse of the proposition
has grown into credit, and every villain fancies
himself a man of abilities. It is the appre-
hension of your friends, my Lord, that you have
drawn some hasty conclusion of this sort, and
that a partial reliance upon your moral char-
acter has betrayed you beyond the depth of
your understanding. You have now carried
things too far to retreat. You have plainly
declared to the people what they are to expect
from the continuance of your administration.
It is time for your Grace to consider what you
also may expect in return from their spirit and
their resentment.
Since the accession of our most gracious
sovereign to the throne we have seen a system
of government which may well be called a reign
of experiments. Parties of all denominations
have been employed and dismissed. The ad-
vice of the ablest men in this country has
been repeatedly called for and rejected; and
when the royal displeasure has been signified
to a minister, the marks of it have usually been
proportioned to his abilities and integrity. The
spirit of the favourite had some apparent in-
fluence upon every administration: and every
set of ministers preserved an appearance of
duration, as long as they submitted to that
influence. But there were certain services to
be performed for the favourite's security, or to
gratify his resentments, which your predecessors
in office had the wisdom or the virtue not to
undertake. The moment this refractory spirit
was discovered their disgrace was determined.
Lord Chatham, Mr. Grenville, and Lon^i
Rockingham have successively had the hon-\\
our to be dismissed for preferring their duty ^
as servants of the public to those compliances 1
which were expected from their station. A t
submissive administration was at last gradu-
ally collected from the deserters of all parties,
interests, and connections; and nothing re-
mained but to find a leader for these gallant
well-disciplined troops. Stand forth, my Lord,
for thou art the man. Lord Bute found no
resource of dependence or security in the proud,
imposing superiority of Lord Chatham's
abilities, the shrewd, inflexible judgment of
Mr. Grenville, nor in the mild but determined
integrity of Lord Rockingham. His views
and situation required a creature void of all
these properties; and he was forced to go
through every division, resolution, composition,
and refinement of political chemistry, before
he happily arrived at the caput mortuum of
vitriol in your Grace. Flat and insipid in your
retired state, but, brought into action, you
become vitriol again. Sich^areJie extremes
of alternate indolence or fury whichJiaye gov-
erned your whole administration. Your cir-
cumstances with regard to the people soon
becoming desperate, like other honest servants
you determined to involve the best of masters
in the same difficulties with yourself. We owe
it to your Grace's well-directed labours, that
your sovereign has been persuaded to doubt of
the affections of his subjects, and the people
to suspect the virtues of their sovereign, at
a time when both were unquestionable. You
have degraded the royal dignity into a base,
dishonourable competition with Mr. Wilkes,
nor had you abilities to carry even this last con-
temptible triumph over a private man, without
the grossest violation of the fundamental laws
of the constitution and rights of the people.
But these are rights, my Lord, which you can no
more annihilate than you can the soil to which
they are annexed. The question no longer
turns upon points of national honour and se-
curity abroad, or on the degrees of expedience
and propriety of measures at home. It was
not inconsistent that you should abandon the
cause of liberty in another country, which you
had persecuted in your own ; and in the com-
mon arts of domestic corruption, we miss no
part of Sir Robert Walpole's system except his
abilities. In this humble imitative line you
might long have proceeded, safe and contempt-
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON
297
ible. You might, probably, never have risen to
the dignity of being hated, and even have been
despised with moderation. But it seems you
meant to be distinguished, and, to a mind like
yours, there was no other road to fame but by
the destruction of a noble fabric, which you
thought had been too long the admiration of
mankind. The use you have made of the
military force introduced an alarming change
in the mode of executing the laws. The arbi-
trary appointment of Mr. Luttrell invades the
foundation of the laws themselves, as it mani-
festly transfers the right of legislation from
those whom the people have chosen to those
whom they have rejected. With a succession
of such appointments we may soon see a House
of Commons collected, in the choice of which
the other towns and counties of England will
have as little share as the devoted county of
Middlesex.
Yet, I trust, your Grace will find that the
people of this country are neither to be intimi-
dated by violent measures, nor deceived by
refinements. When they see Mr. Luttrell
seated in the House of Commons by mere dint
of power, and in direct opposition to the choice
of a whole county, they will not listen to those
subtleties by which every arbitrary exertion of
authority is explained into the law and privi-
lege of parliament. It requires no persuasion
of argument, but simply the evidence of the
senses, to convince them that to transfer the
right of election from the collective to the rep-
resentative body of the people contradicts all
those ideas of a House of Commons which
they have received from their forefathers, and
which they have already, though vainly per-
haps, delivered to their children. The prin-
ciples on which this violent measure has been
defended, have added scorn to injury, and
forced us to feel that we are not only oppressed
but insulted.
With what force, my Lord, with what pro-
tection, are you prepared to meet the united
detestation of the people of England? The
city of London has given a generous example
to the kingdom in what manner a king of this
country ought to be addressed; and I fancy,
my Lord, it is not yet in your courage to stand
between your sovereign and the addresses of
his subjects. The injuries you have done this
country are such as demand not only redress
but vengeance. In vain shall you look for
protection to that venal vote which you have
already paid for — another must be purchased ;
and to save a minister, the House of Commons
must declare themselves not only independent
of their constituents, but the determined ene-
mies of the constitution. Consider, my Lord,
whether this be an extremity to which their
fears will permit them to advance, or, if their
protection should fail you, how far you are
authorised to rely upon the sincerity of those
smiles which a pious court lavishes without
reluctance upon a libertine by profession. It is
not, indeed, the least of the thousand contra-
dictions which attend you, that a man, marked
to the world by the grossest violation of all
ceremony and decorum, should be the first ser-
vant of a court in which prayers are morality
and kneeling is religion. Trust not too far
to appearances by which your predecessors
have been deceived, though they have not
been injured. Even the best of princes may at
last discover that this is a contention in which
everything may be lost but nothing can be
gained; and, as you became minister by, a,c-
ridfjnt-. wiere adopted without choice, trusted
without confidence, and continued without
favour, be assured that, whenever an occasion
presses, you will be discarded without even the
forms of regret. You will then have reason to
be thankful if you are permitted to retire to
that seat of learning which, in contemplation
of the system of your life, the comparative
purity of your manners with those of their high
steward, and a. thousand other recommending
circumstances, has chosen you to encourage
the growing virtue of their youth, and to pre-
side over their education. Whenever the spirit
of distributing prebends and bishopricks shall
have departed from you, you will find that
learned seminary perfectly recovered from the
delirium of an installation, and, what in truth
it ought to be, once more a peaceful scene
of slumber and thoughtless meditation. The
venerable tutors of the university will no longer
distress your modesty by proposing you for a
pattern to their pupils. The learned dulness
of declamation will be silent; and even the
venal muse, though happiest in fiction, will
forget your virtues. Yet, for the benefit of
I he succeeding age, I could wish that your
retreat might be deferred until your morals
shall happily be ripened to that maturity of
corruption at which the worst examples cease
to be contagious.
Junius
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. I
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(1770-1850)
PREFACE TO THE "LYRICAL BALLADS"
It is supposed, that by the act of writing in
verse an Author makes a formal engagement
that he will gratify certain known habits of
association; that he not only thus apprises
the Reader that certain classes of ideas and
expressions will be found in his book, but that
others will be carefully excluded. This ex-
ponent or symbol held forth by metrical lan-
guage must in different eras of literature have
excited very different expectations : for example,
in the age of Catullus, Terence, and Lucretius,
and that of Statius or Claudian; and in our
own country, in the age of Shakspeare and
Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne
and Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not
take upon me to determine the exact import
of the promise which by the act of writing
in verse an Author, in the present day, makes
to his Reader; but I am certain it will appear
to many persons that I have not fulfilled the
terms of an engagement thus voluntarily con-
tracted. They who have been accustomed to
the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many
modern writers, if they persist in reading this
book to its conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently
have to struggle with feelings of strangeness
and awkwardness: they will look round for
poetry, and will be induced to inquire by what
species of courtesy these attempts can be per-
mitted to assume that title. I hope therefore
the Reader will not censure me, if I attempt
to state what I have proposed to myself to per-
form; and also (as far as the limits of this
notice will permit) to explain some of the chief
reasons which have determined me in the choice
of my purpose : that at least he may be spared
any unpleasant feeling of disappointment, and
that I myself may be protected from the most
dishonourable accusation which can be brought
Against an Author, namely, that of an indolence
which prevents him from endeavouring to as-
certain what is his duty, or, when his duty is
ascertained, prevents him from performing it.
The principal object, then, which I proposed
to myself in these Poems was to choose incidents
and situations from common life, ajnd to relate
or describe them, throughout, as far as was
possible, in a selection of language really used
by men, and, at the same time, to throw over
them a certain colouring of imagination, where-
by ordinary things should be presented to the
mind in an unusual way; and, further, and •
above all, to make these incidents and situa- •
tions interesting by tracing in them, truly 0
though not ostentatiously, the primary laws li
of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the
manner in which we associate ideas in a state
of excitement. Low and rustic life was gen-
erally chosen, because, in that condition, the
essential passions of the heart find a better
soil in which they can attain their maturity,
are less under restraint, and speak a plainer ,
and more emphatic language; because in that
condition of life our elementary~~feelings co-
exist in a state of greater simplicity, and, con-
sequently, may be more accurately contem- .
plated, and more forcibly communicated; *~
because the manners of rural life germinate
from those elementary feelings; and from the
necessary character of rural occupations, are
more easily comprehended, and are more
durable; and, lastly, because in that condition
the passions of men are incorporated with
the beautiful and permanent forms of nature.
The language, too, of these men is adopted
(purified indeed from what appears to be its
real defects, from all lasting and rational causes
of dislike or disgust) because such men hourly
communicate with the best objects from which
the best part of language is originally derived;
and because, from their rank in society and the
sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse,
being less under the influence of social vanity,
they convey their feelings and notions in sim-
ple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly,
such a language, arising out of repeated expe-
rience and regular feelings, is a more perma-
nent, and a far more philosophical language,
than that which is frequently substituted for
it by Poets, who think that they are conferring
honour upon themselves and their art, in pro-
298
PREFACE TO THE "LYRICAL BALLADS"
299
portion as they separate themselves from the
sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary
and capricious habits of expression, in order
to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle
appetites, of their own creation.
I cannot, however, be insensible of the pres-
ent outcry against the triviality and meanness,
both of thought and language, which some of
my contemporaries have occasionally intro-
duced into their metrical compositions; and I
acknowledge that this defect, where it exists,
is more dishonourable to the Writer's own char-
acter than false refinement or arbitrary inno-
vation, though I should contend at the same
time, that it is far less pernicious in the sum
of its consequences. From such verses the
Poems in these volumes will be found dis-
tinguished at least by one mark of difference,
that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not
that I mean to say, I always began to write
with a distinct purpose formally conceived;
but my habits of meditation have so formed my
feelings, as that my descriptions of such objects
as strongly excite those feelings, \yill be found
to carry along with them a purpose. If in this
opinion I am mistaken, I can have little right
to the name of a Poet. For all good poetry is
the_sppntaneous overflow of powerful feelings:
and though this be true, Poems to which any
value can be attached were never produced on
any variety of subjects but by a man, who,
being possessed of more than usual organic
sensibility, had also thought long and deeply.
For our continued influxes of feeling are modi-
fied and directed by our thoughts, which are
indeed the representatives of all our past
feelings: and, as by contemplating the relation
of these general representatives to each other,
we discover what is really important to men,
so, by the repetition and continuance of this
act, our feelings will be connected with impor-
tant subjects, till at length, if we be originally
possessed of much sensibility, such habits of
mind will be produced, that, by observing
blindly and mechanically the impulses of those
habits, we shall describe objects, and utter
sentiments, of such a nature, and in such
connection with each other, that the under-
standing of the being to whom we address
ourselves, if he be in a healthful state of asso-
ciation, must necessarily be in some degree
enlightened, and his affections ameliorated.
I have said that each of these poems has
a purpose. I have also informed my Reader
what this purpose will be found principally
to be: namely, to illustrate the manner in
which our feelings and ideas are associated in a X
state of excitement. But, speaking in language
somewhat more appropriate, it is to follow the
fluxes and refluxes of the mind when agitated /
by the great and simple affections of our nature. [\
This object I have endeavoured in these short
essays to attain by various means; by tracing
the maternal passion through many of its more
subtile windings, as in the poems of the Idiot
Boy and the Mad Mother; by accompanying
the last struggles of a human being, at the ap-
proach of death, cleaving in solitude to life and
society, as in the Poem of the Forsaken Indian;
by showing, as in the Stanzas entitled We are
Seven, the perplexity and obscurity which in
childhood attend our notion of death, or rather
our utter inability to 'admit that notion; or by
displaying the strength of fraternal, or, to speak
more philosophically, of moral attachment when
early associated with the great and beautiful ob-
jects of nature, as in The Brothers; or, as in the
Incident of Simon Lee, by placing my Reader
in the way of receiving from ordinary moral
sensations another and more salutary impres-
sion than we are accustomed to receive from
them. It has also been part of my general
purpose to attempt to sketch characters under
the influence of less impassioned feelings, as in
The Two April Mornings, The Fountain, The
Old Man Travelling, The Two Thieves, etc.,
characters of which the elements are simple,
belonging "rather to nature than to manners,
such as exist now, and will probably always
exist, and which from their constitution may
be distinctly and profitably contemplated. I
will not abuse the indulgence of my Reader
by dwelling longer upon this subject; but it is
proper that I should mention one other cir-
cumstance which distinguishes these Poems
from the popular Poetry of the day; it is this,
that the feeling therein developed gives impor-
tance to the action and situation, and not the
action and situation to the feeling. My mean-
ing will be rendered perfectly intelligible by
referring my Reader to the Poems entitled Poor
Susan and the Childless Father, particularly to
the last Stanza of the latter Poem.
I will not suffer a sense of false modesty to
prevent me from asserting, that I point my
Reader's attention to this mark of distinction,
far less for the sake of these particular Poems
than from the general importance of the subject.
The subject is indeed important ! For the hu-
man mind is capable of being excited without
the application of gross and violent stimulants;
and he must have a very faint perception of its
300
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
beauty and dignity who does not know this, and
who does not further know, that one being is ele-
vated above another, in proportion as he pos-
sesses this capability. It has therefore appeared
to me, that to endeavour to produce or enlarge
this capability is one of the best services in
which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged;
but this service, excellent at all times, is espe-
cially so at the present day. For a multitude
of causes, unknown to former times, are now
acting with a combined force to blunt the dis-
criminating powers of the mind, and unfitting
it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a
state of almost savage torpor. The most ef-
fective of these causes are the great national
events which are daily taking place, and the
increasing accumulation of men in cities, where
the uniformity of their occupations produces a
craving for extraordinary incident, which the
rapid communication of intelligence hourly
gratifies. To this tendency of life and man-
ners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of
the country have conformed themselves. The
invaluable works of our elder writers, I had
almost said the works of Shakspeare and
Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic novels,
sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and del-
uges of idle and extravagant stories in verse. —
When I think upon this degrading thirst after
outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed
to have spoken of the feeble effort with which
I have endeavoured to counteract it; and, re-
flecting upon the magnitude of the general
evil, I should be oppressed with no dishonour-
able melancholy, had I not a deep impression
of certain inherent and indestructible qualities
of the human mind, and likewise of certain
powers in the great and permanent objects
that act upon it, which are equally inherent
and indestructible; and did I not further add
to this impression a belief, that the time is ap-
proaching when the evil will be systematically
opposed, by men of greater powers, and with
far more distinguished success.
Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and
aim of these Poems, I shall request the Reader's
permission to apprise him of a few circum-
stances relating to their style, in order, among
other reasons, that I may not be censured for
not having performed what I never attempted.
The Reader will find that person ifications, of
abstract ideas rarely occur in these volumes;
and, I hope, are utterly rejected, as an ordinary
device to elevate the style, and raise it above
prose. I have proposed to myself to imitate,
and, as far as is possible, to adopt the very
language of men ; and assuredly such personi-
fications do not make any natural or regular
part of that language. They are, indeed, a
figure of speech occasionally prompted by pas-
sion, and I have made use of them as such;
but I have endeavoured utterly to reject them
as a mechanical device of style, or as a family
language which Writers in metre seem to lay
claim to by prescription. I have wished to
keep my Reader in the company of flesh and
blood, persuaded that by so doing I shall in-
terest him. I am, however, well aware that
others who pursue a different track may inter-
est him likewise; I do not interfere with their
claim, I only wish to prefer a different claim
of my own. There will also be found in these
pieces little of what is usually called poetic
diction; I have taken as much pains to avoid
it as otnenTordiriariry take to produce it; this
I have done for the reason already alleged, to ^
bring my language near to the language of men, X
and further, because the pleasure which I have
proposed to myself to impart, is of a kind very
different from that which is supposed by many
persons to be the proper object of poetry. I do
not know how, without being culpably particu-
lar, I can give my Reader a more exact notion
of the style in which I wished these poems to be
written, than, by informing him that I have at
all times endeavoured to look steadily at my
subject, consequently, I hope that there is in
tfiese Poems little falsehood of description,
and that my ideas are expressed in language
fitted to their respective importance. Some-
thing I must have gained by this practice, as
it is friendly to one property of all good poetry,
namely, good__§gn§e; but it has necessarily
cut me off from a large portion of phrases and
figures of speech which from father to son have
long been regarded as the common inheritance
of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to
restrict myself still further, having abstained
from the use of many expressions, in themselves
proper and beautiful, but which have been
foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such feel-
ings of disgust are connected with them as it is
scarcely possible by any art of association to
overpower.
If in a poem there should be found a series
of lines, or even a single line, in which the
language, though naturally arranged, and ac-
cording to the strict laws of metre, does not
differ from that of prose, there is a numerous
class of critics who, when they stumble upon
these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine
that they have made a notable discovery, and
PREFACE TO THE "LYRICAL BALLADS"
301
exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his
own profession. Now these men would estab-
lish a canon of criticism which the Reader
will conclude he must utterly reject, if he wishes
to be pleased with these pieces. And it would
be a most easy task to prove to him, that not
only the language of a large portion of every
good poem, even of the most elevated character,
must necessarily, except with reference to the
metre, in no respect differ from that of good
prose, butjikewise that some of the most inter-
esting parts of the best poems will be found to
be strictly the language of prose, when prose
is well written. The truth of this assertion
might be demonstrated by innumerable pas-
sages from almost all the poetical writings,
even of Milton himself. I have not space
for much quotation ; but, to illustrate the sub-
ject in a general manner, I will here adduce a
short composition of Gray, who was at the head
of those who, by their reasonings, have at-
tempted to widen the space of separation be-
twixt Prose and Metrical composition, and
was more than any other man curiously elab-
orate in the structure of his own poetic diction.
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas ! for other notes repine;
A different object do these eyes require ;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire:
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more because I weep in vain. '
It will easily be perceived, that the only part
of this Sonnet which is of any value is the lines
printed in Italics; it is equally obvious, that,
except in the rhyme, and in the use of the single
word "fruitless" for fruitlessly, which is so far
a defect, the language of these lines does in no
respect differ from that of prose.
By the foregoing quotation I have shown that
the language of Prose may yet be well adapted
to Poetry; and I have previously asserted,
that a large portion of the language of every
good poem can in no respect differ from that
of good Prose. I will go further. I do not
doubt that it may be safely affirmed, that there
neither is, nor can be, any essential difference
between the language of prose and metrical
composition. We are fond of tracing the re-
semblance between Poetry and Painting, and,
accordingly, we call them Sisters: but where
shall we find bonds of connection sufficiently
strict to typify the affinity betwixt metrical and
prose composition? They both speak by
and to the same organs; the bodies in which
both of them are clothed may be said to be of
the same substance, their affections are kindred,
and almost identical, not necessarily differing
even in degree; Poetry1 sheds no tears "such
as Angels weep" but natural and human tears;
she can boast of no celestial Ichor that dis-
tinguishes her vital juices from those of prose;
the same human blood circulates through the
veins of them both.
If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical
arrangement of themselves constitute a distinc-
tion which overturns what I have been saying
on the strict affinity of metrical language with
that of prose, and paves the way for other
artificial distinctions which the mind volun-
tarily admits, I answer that the language of
such Poetry as I am recommending is, as far
as is possible, a selection of the language really
spoken by men; that this selection, wherever
it is made with true taste and feeling, will of
itself form a distinction far greater than would
at first be imagined, and will entirely separate
the composition from the vulgarity and mean-
ness of ordinary life; and, if metre be super-
added thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude
will be produced altogether sufficient for the
gratification of a rational mind. What other
distinction would we have? Whence is it to
come ? And where is it to exist ? Not, surely,
where the Poet speaks through the mouths of
his characters: it cannot be necessary here,
either for elevation of style, or any of its sup-
posed ornaments: for, if the Poet's subject be
judiciously chosen, it will naturally, and upon
fit occasion, lead him to passions the language
of which, if selected truly and judiciously, must
necessarily be dignified and variegated, and
alive with metaphors and figures. I forbear
to speak of an incongruity which would shock
1 I here use the word "Poetry" (though against
my own judgment) as opposed to the word "Prose,"
and synonymous with metrical composition. But
much confusion has been introduced into criticism
by this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, instead
of the more philosophical one of Poetry and Matter
of Fact, or Science. The only strict antithesis to
Prose is Metre : nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis ;
because lines and passages of metre so naturally
occur in writing prose, that it would be scarcely
possible to avoid them, even were it desirable.
302
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
the intelligent Reader, should the Poet inter-
weave any foreign splendour of his own with
that which the passion naturally suggests:
it is sufficient to say that such addition is un-
necessary. And, surely, it is more probable
that those passages, which with propriety
abound with metaphors and figures, will have
their due effect, if, upon other occasions where
the passions are of a milder character, the style
also be subdued and temperate.
But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by
the Poems I now present to the Reader must
depend entirely on just notions upon this sub-
ject, and, as it is in itself of the highest impor-
tance to our taste and moral feelings, I cannot
content myself with these detached remarks.
And if, in what I am about to say, it shall appear
to some that my labour is unnecessary, and
that I am like a man fighting a battle without
enemies, I would remind such persons, that,
whatever may be the language outwardly
holden by men, a practical faith in the opin-
ions which I am wishing to establish is almost
unknown. If my conclusions are admitted,
and carried as far as they must be carried if
admitted at all, our judgments concerning the
works of the greatest Poets both ancient and
modern will be far different from what they are
at present, both when we praise, and when we
censure : and our moral feelings influencing and
influenced by these judgments will, I believe,
be corrected and purified.
Taking up the subject, then, upon general
grounds, I ask what is meant by the word
" Poet " ? What is a Poet ? To whom does he
address himself? And what language is to be
expected from him ? He is a man speaking to
men: a man, it is true, endued with more
lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tender-
ness, who has a greater knowledge of human
nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than
are supposed to be common among mankind;
a man pleased with his own passions and
volitions, and who rejoices more than other
men in the spirit of life that is in him; de-
lighting to contemplate similar volitions and
passions as manifested in the goings-on of the
Universe, and habitually impelled to create them
where he does not find them. To these quali-
ties he has added, a_ disposition to be affected
more than other men by absent things as if
they were present; an ability of conjuring up
in himself passions, which are indeed far from
being the same as those produced by real events,
yet (especially in those parts of the general
sympathy which are pleasing and delightful)
do more nearly resemble the passions produced
by real events, than anything which, from the
motions of their own minds merely, other men
are accustomed to feel in themselves; whence,
and from practice, he has acquired a greater
readiness and power in expressing what he
thinks and feels, and especially those thoughts
and feelings which, by his own choice, or
from the structure of his own mind, arise in
him without immediate external excitement.
But, whatever portion of this faculty we may
suppose even the greatest Poet to possess, there
cannot be a doubt but that the language which
it will suggest to him, must, in liveliness and
truth, fall far short of that which is uttered by
men in real life, under the actual pressure of
those passions, certain shadows of which the
Poet thus produces, or feels to be produced, in
himself.
However exalted a notion we would wish to
cherish of the character of a Poet, it is obvious,
that, while he describes and imitates passions,
his situation is altogether slavish and mechan-
ical, compared with the freedom and power
of real and substantial action and suffering.
So that it will be the wish of the Poet to bring
his feelings near to those of the persons whose
feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of
time, perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire
delusion, and even confound and identify his
own feelings with theirs; modifying only the
language which is thus suggested to him by a
consideration that he describes for a particular
purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then,
he will apply the principle on which I have so
much insisted, namely, that of selection; on
this he will depend for removing what would
otherwise be painful or disgusting in the pas-
sion; he will feel that there is no necessity to
trick out or to elevate nature: and, the more
industriously he applies this principle, the
deeper will be his faith that no words, which
his fancy or imagination can suggest, will be
to be compared with those which are the
emanations of reality and truth.
But it may be said by those who do not object
to the general spirit of these remarks, that, as it
is impossible for the poet to produce upon all
occasions language as exquisitely fitted for the
passion as that which the real passion itself
suggests, it is proper that he should consider
himself as in the situation of a translator, who
deems himself justified when he substitutes
excellencies of another kind for those which are
unattainable by him; and endeavours orca-
sionally to surpass his original, in order to make
PREFACE TO THE "LYRICAL BALLADS"
303
some amends for the general inferiority to which
he feels that he must submit. But this would
be to encourage idleness and unmanly despair.
Further, it is the language of men who speak
of what they do not understand; who talk
of Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle
pleasure ; who will converse with us as gravely
about a taste for Poetry, as they express it, as
if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste for
Rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. Aris-
totle, I have been told, hath said, that Poetry
is the most philosophic of all writing : it is so :
its object is truth, not individual and local,
but general, and operative; not standing upon
external testimony, but carried alive into the
heart by passion; truth which is its own tes-
timony, which gives strength and divinity to
the tribunal to which it appeals, and receives
them from the same tribunal. Pffitiy^is. {he
imaae^ of man and catiire. The obstacles
**y "" , V-MV '-fr*- ' w v* ~ , .- -, . . f !
which stand in the way 01 the fidelity ot the
Biographer and Historian and of their conse-
quent utility, are incalculably greater than those
which are to be encountered by the Poet who
has an adequate notion of the dignity of his
art. The _Ppet writes under one restriction
only, namely, that of the necessity of giving
immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed
of that information which may be expected
from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a
mariner, an astronomer, or a natural philoso-
pher, but as a Man. Except this one re-
striction, there is no object standing between
the Poet and the image of things; between
this, and the Biographer and Historian there
are a thousand.
Nor let this necessity of producing immediate
pleasure be considered as a degradation of the
Poet's art. It is far otherwise. It is an ac-
knowledgment of the beauty of the universe,
an acknowledgment the more sincere, because
it is not formal, but indirect; it is a task light
and easy to him who looks at the world in the
spirit of love: further, it is an homage paid to
the native and naked dignity of man, to the
grand elementary principle of pleasure, by
which he knows, and feels, and lives, a.nd moves.
We have no sympathy but what is propagated
by pleasure: I would not be misunderstood;
but wherever we sympathise with pain, it will
be found that the sympathy is produced and
carried on by subtle combinations with pleasure.
We h_ave_nojkno\vledge, that is, no general
principles drawn from the contemplation of
particular facts, but what has been built up
by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone.
The Man of Science, the Chemist and Math-
ematician, whatever difficulties and disgusts
they may have had to struggle with, know and
feel this. However painful may be the objects
with which the Anatomist's knowledge is con-
nected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure;
and where he has no pleasure he has no know-
ledge. What then does the Poet? He con-
siders man and the objects that surround him
as acting and reacting upon each other, so as
to produce an infinite complexity of pain and
pleasure; he considers man in his own nature
and in his ordinary life as contemplating this
with a certain quantity of immediate knowledge,
with certain convictions, intuitions, and deduc-
tions, which by habit become of the nature of
intuitions; he considers him as looking upon
this complex scene of ideas and sensations, and
finding everywhere objects that immediately ex-
cite in him sympathies which, from the neces-
sities of his nature, are accompanied by an
^overbalance of enjoyment.
To this knowledge which all men carry about
with them, and to these sympathies in which,
without anyt other discipline than that of our
daily life, we are fitted to take delight, the Poet
principally directs his attention. He considers
man and nature as essentially adapted to each
other, and the mind of man as naturally the
mirror of the fairest and most interesting quali- *
ties of nature. And thus the Poet, prompted
by this feeling of pleasure which accompanies
him through the whole course of his studies,
converses with general nature with affections
akfn to those, which, through labour and length
of time, the Man of Science has raised up in
himself, by conversing with those particular
parts of nature which are the objects of his
studies. The knowledge both of the Poet and
the Man of Science is pleasure ; but the know-
ledge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary part
of our existence, our natural and inalienable
inheritance; the other is a personal and in-
dividual acquisition, slow to come to us, and
by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting
us with our fellow-beings. The Man of Science
seeks truth as a remote and unknown bene-
factor ; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude :
the Poet, singing a song in which all human
beings join with him, rejoices in the presence
of truth as our visible friend and hourly com-
panion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit
of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expres-
sion which is in the countenance of all Science.
Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as
Shakspeare hath said of man, "that he looks
3°4
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
before and after.." He is the rock of defence
of human nature; an upholder and preserver,
carrying everywhere with him relationship and
love. In spite of difference of soil and climate,
of language and manners, of laws and customs,
in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and
things violently destroyed, the Poet binds to-
gether by passion and knowledge the vast
empire of human society, as it is spread over
the whole earth, and over all time. The objects
of the Poet's thoughts are everywhere; though
the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his
favourite guides, yet he will follow whereso-
ever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in
which to move his wings. Poetry is the first
and last of all knowledge — it is as immortal
as the heart of man. If the labours of Men of
Science should ever create any material
revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition,
and in the impressions which we habitually
receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at
present, but he will be ready to follow the steps
of the Man of Science, not only in those general
indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carry-
ing sensation into the midst of .the objects
of the Science itself. The remotest discoveries
of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist,
will be as proper objects of the Poet's art as
any upon which it can be employed, if the time
should ever come when these things shall be
familiar to us, and the relations under which
they are contemplated by the followers of
these respective Sciences shall be manifestly
and palpably material to us as enjoying and
suffering beings. If the time should ever come
when what is now called Science, thus familiar-
ised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were,
a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend
his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and
will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear
and genuine inmate of the household of man. —
It is not, then, to be supposed that any one, who
holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I
have attempted to convey, will break in upon
the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transi-
tory and accidental ornaments, and endeavour
to excite admiration of himself by arts, the
necessity of which must manifestly depend upon
the assumed meanness of his subject.
What I have thus far said applies to Poetry
in general; but especially to those parts of
composition where the Poet speaks through
the mouths of his characters; and upon this
point it appears to have such weight, that I
will conclude, there are few persons of good
sense, who would not allow that the dramatic
parts of composition are defective, in proportion
as they deviate from the real language of nature,
and are coloured by a diction of the Poet's
own, either peculiar to him as an individual
Poet or belonging simply to Poets in general
to a body of men who, from the circumstance
of their compositions being in metre, it is ex-
pected will employ a particular language.
It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of com-
position that we look for this distinction of
language; but still it may be proper and neces-
sary where the Poet speaks to us in his own
person and character. To this I answer by
referring my Reader to the description which
I have before given of a Poet. Among the
qualities which I have enumerated as principally
conducing to form a Poet, is implied nothing
differing in kind from other men, but only in
degree. The sum of what I have there said is,
that the Poet is chiefly distinguished from other
men by a greater promptness to think and feel
without immediate external excitement, and a
greater power in expressing such thoughts and
feelings as are produced in him in that manner.
But these passions and thoughts and feelings
are the general passions and thoughts and
feelings of men. And with what are they
connected? Undoubtedly with our moral
sentiments and animal sensations, and with the
causes which excite these ; with the operations
of the elements, and the appearances of the
visible universe ; with storm and sunshine, with
the revolutions of the seasons, with cold and
heat, with loss of friends and kindred, with
injuries and resentments, gratitude and hope,
with fear and sorrow. These, and the like,
are the sensations and objects which the Poet
describes, as they are the sensations of other
men, and the objects which interest them. The
Poet thinks and feels in the spirit of the passions
of men. How, then, can his language differ in
any material degree from that of all other men
who feel vividly and see clearly? It might be
proved that it is impossible. But supposing
that this were not the case, the Poet might then
be allowed to use a peculiar language when
expressing his feelings for his own gratification,
or that of men like himself. But Poets do not
write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless
therefore we arc advocates for that admiration
which depends upon ignorance, and that pleas-
ure which arises from hearing what we do not
understand, the Poet must descend from this
supposed height, and, in order to excite rational
sympathy, he must express himself as other
men express themselves. To this it may be
PREFACE TO THE "LYRICAL BALLADS"
305
added, that while he is only selecting from the
real language of men, or, which amounts to
the same thing, composing accurately in the
spirit of such selection, he is treading upon safe
ground, and we know what we are to expect
from him. Our feelings are the same with
respect to metre; for, as it may be proper to
remind the Reader, the distinction of metre
is regular and uniform, and not, like that
which is produced by what is usually called
poetic diction, arbitrary, and subject to infinite
caprices upon which no calculation whatever
can be made. In the one case, the Reader is
utterly at the mercy of the Poet respecting what
imagery or diction he may choose to connect
with the passion, whereas, in the other, the
metre obeys certain laws, to which the Poet
and Reader both willingly submit because they
are certain, and because no interference is
made by them with the passion but such as the
concurring testimony of ages has shown to
heighten and improve the pleasure which co-
exists with it.
It will now be proper to answer an obvious
question, namely, Why, professing these opin-
ions, have I written in verse? To this, in
addition to such answer as is included in what
I have already said, I reply, ir^ the first place.
Because, however I may have restricted my-
self, there is still left open to me what con-
fessedly constitutes the most valuable object
of all writing, whether in prose or verse, the
great and universal passions of men, the most
general and interesting of their occupations,
and the entire world of nature, from which I
am at liberty to supply myself with endless
combinations of forms and imagery. Now,
supposing for a moment that whatever is
interesting in these objects may be as vividly
described in prose, why am I to be condemned,
if to such description I have endeavoured to
superadd the charm, which, by the consent of
all nations, is acknowledged to exist in metrical
language? To this, by such as are uncon-
vinced by what I have already said, it may be
answered that a yery small part of the pleasure
given by Poetry depends upon the metre, and
that it is injudicious to write in metre, unless
it be accompanied with the other artificial
distinctions of style with which metre is usu-
ally accompanied, and that, by such deviation,
more will be lost from the shock which will
thereby be given to the Reader's associations
than will be counterbalanced by any pleasure
which he can derive from the general power of
numbers. In answer to those who still contend
for the necessity of accompanying metre with
certain appropriate colours of style in order
to the accomplishment of its appropriate end,
and who also, in my opinion, greatly underrate
the power of metre in itself, it might, perhaps,
as far as relates to these Poems, have been almost
sufficient to observe, that Poems are extant,
written upon more humble subjects, and in a
more naked and simple style than I have aimed
at, which poems have continued to give pleas-
ure from generation to generation. Now, if
nakedness and simplicity be a defect, the fact
here mentioned affords a strong presumption
that poems somewhat less naked and simple
are capable of affording pleasure at the present
day ; and, what I wished chiefly to attempt, at
present, was to justify myself for having written
under the impression of this belief.
But I might point out various causes why,
when the style is manly, and the subject of
some importance, words metrically arranged
will long continue to impart such a pleasure to
mankind as he who is sensible of the extent of
that pleasure will be desirous to impart. The
end of Poetry is to produce excitement in
coexistence with an overbalance of pleasure.
Now, by the supposition, excitement is an
unusual and irregular state of the mind; ideas
and feelings do not, in that state, succeed each
other in accustomed order. But, if the words
by which this excitement is produced are in
themselves powerful, or the images and feelings
have an undue proportion of pain connected
with them, there is some danger that the ex-
citement may be carried beyond its proper
bounds. Now the co-presence of something
regular, something to which the mind has been
accustomed in various moods and in a less
excited state, cannot but have great efficacy
in tempering and restraining the passion by an
intertexture of ordinary feeling, and of feel-
ing not strictly and necessarily connected with
the passion. This is unquestionably true, and
hence, though the opinion will at first appear
paradoxical, from the tendency of metre to
divest language, in a certain degree, of its
reality, and thus to throw a sort of half con-
sciousness of unsubstantial existence over the
whole composition, there can be little doubt,
but that more pathetic situations and senti-
ments, that is, those which have a greater pro-
portion of pain connected with them, may be
endured in metrical composition, especially in
rhyme, than in prose. The metre of the old
ballads is very artless; yet they contain many
passages which would illustrate this opinion,
306
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
and, I hope, if the Poems referred to be atten-
tively perused, similar instances will be found in
them. This opinion may be further illustrated
by appealing to the Reader's own experience of
the reluctance with which he comes to the re-
perusal of the distressful parts of Clarissa Har-
lowe, or the Gamester. While Shakspeare's
writings, in the most pathetic scenes, never
act upon us, as pathetic, beyond the bounds
of pleasure — an effect which, in a much
greater degree than might at first be imagined,
is to be ascribed to small, but continual and
regular impulses of pleasurable surprise from
the metrical arrangement. — On the other
hand, (what it must be allowed will much more
frequently happen,) if the Poet's words should
be incommensurate with the passion, and
inadequate to raise the Reader to a height of
desirable excitement, then, (unless the Poet's
choice of his metre has been grossly injudicious,)
in the feelings of pleasure which the Reader
has been accustomed to connect with metre in
general, and in the feeling, whether cheerful
or melancholy, which he has been accustomed
to connect with that particular movement of
metre, there will be found something which will
greatly contribute to impart passion to the
words, and to effect the complex end which the
Poet proposes to himself.
If I had undertaken a systematic defence of
the theory upon which these poems are written,
it would have been my duty to develop the
various causes upon which the pleasure re-
ceived from metrical language depends. Among
the chief of these causes is to be reckoned a
principle which must be well known to those
who have made any of the Arts the object
of accurate reflection; I mean the pleasure
which the mind derives from the perception
of similitude in dissimilitude. This principle
is the great spring of the activity of our minds,
and their chief feeder. From this principle
the direction of the sexual appetite, and all the
passions connected with it, take their origin:
it is the life of our ordinary conversation ; and
upon the accuracy with which similitude in
dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in similitude
are perceived, depend our taste and our moral
feelings. It would not have been a useless
employment to have applied this principle to the
consideration of metre, and to have shown that
metre is hence enabled to afford much pleasure,
and to have pointed out in what manner that
pleasure is produced. But my limits will not
permit me to enter upon this subject, and I
must content myself with a general summary.
I have said that poetry is the spontaneous
overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its
origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity;
the emotion is contemplated, till, by a species of
reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears,
and an emotion, kindred to that which was be-
fore the subject of contemplation, is gradually
produced, and does itself actually exist in the
mind. In this mood successful composition
generally begins, and in a mood similar to this
it is carried on; but the emotion of whatever
kind, and in whatever degree, from various
causes, is qualified by various pleasures, so
that in describing any passions whatsoever,
which are voluntarily described, the mind will,
upon the whole, be in a state of enjoyment.
Now, if Nature be thus cautious in preserving
in a state of enjoyment a being thus employed,
the Poet ought to profit by the lesson thus held
forth to him, and ought especially~to take
care, that, whatever passions he communicates
to his Reader, those passions, if his Reader's
mind be sound and vigorous, should always
be accompanied with an overbalance of pleasure.
How the music of harmonious metrical lan-
guage, the sense of difficulty overcome, and
the blind association of pleasure which has been
previously received from the works of rhyme
or metre of the same or similar construction,
and indistinct perception perpetually renewed
of language closely resembling that of real
life, and yet, in the circumstance of metre,
differing from it so widely — all these im-
perceptibly make up a complex feeling of
delight, which is of the most important use
in tempering the painful feeling which will
always be found intermingled with powerful
descriptions of the deeper passions. This
effect is always produced in pathetic and im-
passioned poetry; while, in lighter composi-
tions, the ease and gracefulness with which
the Poet manages his numbers are themselves
confessedly a principal source of the gratifi-
cation of the Reader. I might, perhaps, in-
clude all which it is necessary to say upon this
subject, by affirming what few persons will
deny, that, of two descriptions either of passions,
manners, or characters, each of them equally
well executed, the one in prose and the other in
verse, the verse will be read a hundred times
where the prose is read once. We see that
Pope, by the power of verse alone, has con-
trived to render the plainest common sense
interesting, and even frequently to invest it
with the appearance of passion. In con-
sequence of these convictions I related in metre
PREFACE TO THE "LYRICAL BALLADS"
307
the Tale of Goody Blake and Harry Gill, which
is one of the rudest of this collection. I
wished to draw attention to the truth, that the
power of the human imagination is sufficient
to produce such changes even in our physical
nature as might almost appear miraculous.
The truth is an important one; the fact (for
it is a. fact) is a valuable illustration of it: and
I have the satisfaction of knowing that it
has been communicated to many hundreds of
people who would never have heard of it, had
it not been narrated as a Ballad, and in a more
impressive metre than is usual in Ballads.
Having thus explained a few of the reasons
why I have written in verse, and why I have
chosen subjects from common life, and en-
deavoured to bring my language near to the
real language of men, if I have been too minute
in pleading my own cause, I have at the same
time been treating a subject of general interest;
and it is for this reason that I request the
Reader's permission to add a few words with
reference solely to these particular poems, and
to some defects which will probably be found
in them. I am sensible that my associations
must have sometimes been particular instead
of general, and that, consequently, giving to
things a false importance, sometimes from
diseased impulses, I may have written upon
unworthy subjects ; but I am less apprehensive
on this account, than that my language may
frequently have suffered from those arbitrary
connections of feelings and ideas with particular
words and phrases, from which no man can
altogether protect himself. Hence I have no
doubt, that, in some instances, feelings, even
of the ludicrous, may be given to my Readers
by expressions which appeared to me tender and
pathetic. Such faulty expressions', were I con-
vinced they were faulty at present, and that
they must necessarily continue to be so, I
would willingly take all reasonable pains to
correct. But it is dangerous to make these
alterations on the simple authority of a few
individuals, or even of certain classes of men;
for where the understanding of an Author is
not convinced, or his feelings altered, this
cannot be done without great injury to himself:
for his own feelings are his stay and support;
and, if lie sets them aside in one instance, he
may be induced to repeat this act till his mind
loses all confidence in itself, and becomes
utterly debilitated. To this it may be added,
that the Reader ought never to forget that he
is himself exposed to the same errors as the
Poet, and, perhaps, in a much greater degree:
for there can be no presumption in saying, that
it is not probable he will be so well acquainted
with the various stages of meaning through
which words have passed, or with the fickle-
ness or stability of the relations of particular
ideas to each other; and, above all, since he is
so much less interested in the subject, he may
decide lightly and carelessly.
Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope
he will permit me to caution him against a
mode of false criticism which has been applied
to Poetry, in which the language closely re-
sembles that of life and nature. Such verses
have been triumphed over in parodies of
which Dr. Johnson's stanza is a fair specimen.
I put my hat upon my head
And walked into the Strand,
And there I met another man
Whose hat was in his hand.
Immediately under these lines I will place
one of the most justly-admired stanzas of the
"Babes in the Wood."
These pretty babes with hand in hand
Went wandering up and down;
But never more they saw the Man
Approaching from the Town.
In both these stanzas the words, and the
order of the words, in no respect differ from
the most unimpassioned conversation. There
are words in both, for example, "the Strand,"
and "the Town," connected with none but
the most familiar ideas; yet the one stanza
we admit as admirable, and the other as a
fair example of the superlatively contemptible.
Whence arises this difference? Not from the
metre, not from the language, not from the
order of the words; but the matter expressed
in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contemptible. The
proper method of treating trivial and simple
verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza would
be a fair parallelism, is not to say, This is a
bad kind of poetry, or, This is not poetry;
but, This wants sense ; it is neither interesting
in itself, nor can lead to anything interesting;
the images neither originate in that sane state
of feeling which arises out of thought, nor
can excite thought or feeling in the Reader.
This is the only sensible manner of dealing
with such verses. Why trouble yourself about
the species till you have previously decided
upon the genus? Why take pains to prove
that an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-
evident that he is not a man?
3o8
SIR WALTER SCOTT
I have one request to make of my Reader,
which is, that in judging these Poems he
would decide by his own feelings genuinely,
and not by reflection upon what will probably
be the judgment of others. How common is
it to hear a person say, "I myself do not object
to this style of composition, or this or that
expression, but, to such and such classes of
people, it will appear mean or ludicrous!"
This mode of criticism, so destructive of all
sound unadulterated judgment, is almost uni-
versal: I have therefore to request, that the
Reader would abide independently by his
own feelings, and that, if he finds himself
affected, he would not suffer such conjectures
to interfere with his pleasure.
If an Author, by any single composition,
has impressed us with respect for his talents,
it is useful to consider this as affording a pre-
sumption, that on other occasions where we
have been displeased, he, nevertheless, may
not have written ill or absurdly; and, further,
to give him so much credit for this one com-
position as may induce us to review what has
displeased us, with more care than we should
otherwise have bestowed upon it. This is not
only an act of justice, but, in our decisions
upon poetry especially, may conduce, in a
high degree, to the improvement of our own
taste: for an accurate taste in poetry, and in
all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has
observed, is an acquired talent, which can
only be produced by thought and a long-
continued intercourse with the best jnodels of
comix>sition. This is mentioned, not with so
ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most
inexperienced Reader from judging for him-
self (I have already said that I wish him to
judge for himself), but merely to temper the
rashness of decision, and to suggest, that, if
Poetry be a subject on which much time has
not been bestowed, the judgment may be
erroneous; and that, in many cases, it neces-
sarily will be so.
I know that nothing would have so effectu-
ally contributed to further the end which I
have in view, as to have shown of what kind
the pleasure is, and how that pleasure is
produced, which is confessedly produced by
metrical composition essentially different from
that which I have here endeavoured to recom-
mend: for the Reader will say that he has
been pleased by such composition; and what
can I do more for him? The power of any
art is limited; and he will suspect, that, if I
propose to furnish him with new friends, it is
only upon condition of his abandoning his old
friends. Besides, as I have said, the Reader
is himself conscious of the pleasure which he
has received from such composition, compo-
sition to which he has peculiarly attached the
endearing name of Poetry; and all men feel
an habitual gratitude, and something of an
honourable bigotry for the objects which have
long continued to please them; we not only
wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that
particular way in which we have been accus-
tomed to be pleased. There is a host of
arguments in these feelings; and I should be
the less able to combat them successfully, as
I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to
enjoy the Poetry which I am recommending, it
would be necessary to give up much of what
is ordinarily enjoyed. But, would my limits
have permitted me to point out how this pleas-
sure is produced, I might have removed many
obstacles, and assisted my Reader in perceiving
that the powers of language are not so limited
as he may suppose ; and that it is possible for
poetry to give other enjoyments, of a purer,
more lasting, and more exquisite nature.
This part of my subject I have not altogether
neglected ; but it has been less my present aim
to prove, that the interest excited by some other
kinds of poetry is less vivid, and less worthy
of the nobler powers of the mind, than to offer
reasons for presuming, that, if the object which
I have proposed to myself were adequately at-
tained, a species of poetry would be produced,
which is genuine poetry; in its nature well
adapted to interest mankind permanently,
and likewise important in the multiplicity and
quality of its moral relations.
From what has been said, and from a perusal
of the Poems, the Reader will be able clearly
to perceive the object which I have proposed
to myself; he will determine how far I have
attained this object ; and, what is a much more
important question, whether it be worth attain-
ing; and upon the decision of these two ques-
tions will rest my claim to the approbation of
the Public.
SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832)
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE
FROM RED GAUNTLET
Ye maun have heard of Sir Robert Red-
gauntlet of that Ilk, who lived in these parts
before the dear years. The country will lang
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE
309
mind him; and our fathers used to draw
breath thick if ever they heard him named.
He was out wi' the Hielandmen in Montrose's
time; and again he was in the hills wi' Glen-
cairn in the saxteen hundred and fifty-twa;
and sae when King Charles the Second came
in, wha was in sic favour as the Laird of Red-
gauntlet? He was knighted at Lonon court,
wi' the King's ain sword; and being a redhot
prelatist, he came down here, rampauging
like a lion, with commissions of lieutenancy,
(and of lunacy, for what I ken,) to put down
a' the Whigs and Covenanters in the country.
Wild wark they made of it; for the Whigs
were as dour as the Cavaliers were fierce,
and it was which should first tire the other.
Redgauntlet was aye for the strong hand;
and his name is kend as wide in the country
as Claverhouse's or Tarn Dalyell's. Glen, nor
dargle, nor mountain, nor cave, could hide
the puir hill-folk when Redgauntlet was out
with bugle and bloodhound after them, as if
they had been sae mony deer. And troth
when they fand them, they didna mak muckle
mair ceremony than a Hielandman wi' a roe-
buck— It was just, "Will ye tak the test?"
— if not, "Make ready — present — fire ! "
and there lay the recusant.
Far and wide was Sir Robert hated and
feared. Men thought he had a direct compact
with Satan — that he was proof against steel
— and that bullets happed aff his buff-coat
like hailstanes from a hearth — that he had a
mear that would turn a hare on the side of
Carrifra-gawns — and muckle to the same
purpose, of whilk mair anon. The best bless-
ing they wared on him was, "Deil scowp wi'
Redgauntlet!" He wasna a bad master to
his ain folk, though, and was weel aneugh
liked by his tenants; and as for the lackies
and troopers that raid out wi' him to the per-
secutions, as the Whigs caa'd those killing
times, they wad hae drunken themsells blind
to his health at ony time.
Now you are to ken that my gudesire lived
on Redgauntlet's grund — they ca' the place
Primrose-Knowe. We had lived on the grund,
and under the Redgauntlets, since the riding-
days, and lang before. It was a pleasant bit;
and I think the air is callerer and fresher
there than ony where else in the country. It's
a' deserted now; and I sat on the broken
door-cheek three days since, and was glad I
couldna see the plight the place was in; but
that's a' wide o' the mark. There dwelt my
gudesire, Steenie Steenson, a rambling, rattling
chiel' he had been in his young days, and
could play weel on the pipes; he was famous
at "Hoopers and Girders" — a' Cumberland
couldna touch him at "Jockie Lattin" — and
he had the finest finger for the backlilt be-
tween Berwick and Carlisle. The like o'
Steenie wasna the sort that they made Whigs o'.
And so he became a Tory, as they ca' it, which
we now ca' Jacobites, just out of a kind of
needcessity, that he might belang to some side
or other. He had nae ill-will to the Whig
bodies, and liked little to see the blude rin,
though, being obliged to follow Sir Robert in
hunting and hosting, watching and warding,
he saw muckle mischief, and maybe did some,
that he couldna avoid.
Now Steenie was a kind of favourite with
his master, and kend a' the folks about the
castle, and was often sent for to play the pipes
when they were at their merriment. Auld
Dougal MacCallum, the butler, that had fol-
lowed Sir Robert through gude and ill, thick
and thin, pool and stream, was specially fond
of the pipes, and aye gae my gudesire his gude
word wi' the Laird; for Dougal could turn
his master round his finger.
Weel, round came the Revolution, and it
had like to have broken the hearts baith of
Dougal and his master. But the change was
not a'thegether sae great as they feared, and
other folk thought for. The Whigs made an
unco crawing what they wad do with their
auld enemies, and in special wi' Sir Robert
Redgauntlet. But there were ower mony
great folks dipped in the same doings, to mak
a spick and span new warld. So Parliament
passed it a' ower easy; and Sir Robert, bating
that he was held to hunting foxes instead of
Covenanters, remained just the man he was.
His revel was as loud, and his hall as weel
lighted, as ever it had been, though maybe he
lacked the fines of the nonconformists, that
used to come to stock his larder and cellar;
for it is certain he began to be keener about
the rents than his tenants used to find him
before, and they behoved to be prompt to the
rent -day, or else the Laird wasna pleased.
And he was sic an awsome body, that naebody
cared to anger him; for the oaths he swore,
and the rage that he used to get into, and the
looks that he put on, made men sometimes
think him a devil incarnate.
Weel, my gudesire was nae manager — no
that he was a very great misguider — but he
hadna the saving gift, and he got twa terms'
rent in arrear. He got the first brash at
310
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Whitsunday put ower wi' fair word and piping;
but when Martinmas came, there was a sum-
mons from the grund-officer to come wi' the
rent on a day preceese, or else Steenie behoved
to flit. Sair wark he had to get the siller;
but he was weel-freended, and at last he got
the haill scraped thegether — a thousand merks
— the maist of it was from a neighbour they
caa'd Laurie Lapraik — a sly tod. Laurie
had walth o' gear — could hunt wi' the hound
and rin wi' the hare — and be Whig or Tory,
saunt or sinner, as the wind stood. He was a
professor in this Revolution warld, but he
liked an orra sough of this warld, and a tune
on the pipes weel aneugh at a bytime; and
abune a', he thought he had gude security for
the siller he lent my gudesire ower the stock-
ing at Primrose-Knowe.
Away trots my gudesire to Redgauntlet
Castle wi' a heavy purse and a light heart,
glad to be out of the Laird's danger. Weel,
the first thing he learned at the Castle was,
that Sir Robert had fretted himsell into a fit
of the gout, because he did not appear before
twelve o'clock. It wasna a'thegether for sake
of the money, Dougal thought; but because
he didna like to part wi' my gudesire aff the
grund. Dougal was glad to see Steenie, and
brought him into the great oak parlour, and
there sat the Laird his leesome lane, excepting
that he had beside him a great, ill-favoured
jackanape, that was a special pet of his; a
cankered beast it was, and mony an ill-natured
trick it played — ill to please it was, and
easily angered — ran about the haill castle,
chattering and yowling, and pinching, and bit-
ing folk, specially before ill-weather, or dis-
turbances in the State. Sir Robert caa'd it
Major Weir, after the warlock that was burnt ;
and few folk liked either the name or the
conditions of the creature — they thought
there was something in it by ordinar — and
my gudesire was not just easy in mind when
the door shut on him, and he saw himself in
the room wi' naebody but the Laird, Dougal
MacCallum, and the Major, a thing that hadna
chanced to him before.
Sir Robert sat, or, I should say, lay, in a
great armed chair, wi' his grand velvet gown,
and his feet on a cradle; for he had baith
gout and gravel, and his face looked as gash
and ghastly as Satan's. Major Weir sat
opposite to him, in a red laced coat, and the
Laird's wig on his head ; and aye as Sir Robert
girned wi' pain, the jackanape girned too, like
a sheep's-head between a pair of tangs — an
ill-faur'd, fearsome couple they were. The
Laird's buff-coat was hung on a pin behind
him, and his broadsword and his pistols within
reach; for he keepit up the auld fashion of
having the weapons ready, and a horse saddled
day and night, just as he used to do when he
was able to loup on horseback, and away after
ony of the hill-folk he could get speerings of.
Some said it was for fear of the Whigs taking
vengeance, but I judge it was just his auld
custom — he wasna gien to fear ony thing.
The rental-book, wi' its black cover and brass
clasps, was lying beside him; and a book of
sculduddry sangs was put betwixt the leaves,
to keep it open at the place where it bore
evidence against the Goodman of Primrose-
Knowe, as behind the hand with his mails
and duties. Sir Robert gave my gudesire a
look, as if he would have withered his heart
in his bosom. Ye maun ken he had a way of
bending his brows, that men saw the visible
mark of a horse-shoe in his forehead, deep
dinted, as if it had been stamped there.
"Are ye come light-handed, ye son of a
toom whistle?" said Sir Robert. "Zounds!
if you are" —
My gudesire, with as gude a countenance as
he could put on, made a leg, and placed the
bag of money on the table wi' a dash, like a
man that does something clever. The Laird
drew it to him hastily — "Is it all here, Steenie,
man?"
"Your honour will find it right," said my
gudesire.
"Here, Dougal," said the Laird, "gie
Steenie a tass of brandy down stairs, till I
count the siller and write the receipt."
But they werena weel out of the room, when
Sir Robert gied a yelloch that garr'd the Castle
rock. Back ran Dougal — in flew the livery-
men — yell on yell gied the Laird, ilk ane
mair awfu' than the ither. My gudesire knew
not whether to stand or flee, but he ventured
back into the parlour, where a' was gaun
hirdy-girdie — naebody to say "come in," or
"gae out." Terribly the Laird roared for
cauld water to his feet, and wine to cool his
throat; and Hell, hell, hell, and its flames,
was aye the word in his mouth. They brought
him water, and when they plunged his swoln
feet into the tub, he cried out it was burning;
and folk say that it did bubble and sparkle
like a seething caldron. He flung the cup at
Dougal's head, and said he had given him
blood instead of burgundy; and, sure aneugh,
the lass washed clotted blood aff the carpet
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE
the neist day. The jackanape they caa'd
Major Weir, it jibbered and cried as if it. was
mocking its master; my gudesire's head was
like to turn — he forgot baith siller and re-
ceipt, and down stairs he banged; but as he
ran, the shrieks came faint and fainter; there
was a deep-drawn shivering groan, and word
gaed through the Castle, that the Laird was
dead.
Weel, away came my gudesire, wi' his finger
in his mouth", and his best hope was, that
Dougal had seen the money-bag, and heard the
Laird speak of writing the receipt. The young
Laird, now Sir John, came from Edinburgh,
to see things put to rights. Sir John and his
father never gree'd weel. Sir John had
been bred an advocate, and afterwards sat
in the last Scots Parliament and voted for the
Union, having gotten, it was thought, a rug of
the compensations — if his father could have
come out of his grave, he would have brained
him for it on his awn hearthstane. Some
thought it was easier counting with the auld
rough Knight than the fair-spoken young ane
— but mair of that anon.
Dougal MacCallum, poor body, neither grat
nor grained, but gaed about the house looking
like a corpse, but directing, as was his duty,
a' the order of the grand funeral. Now,
Dougal looked aye waur and waur when night
was coming, and was aye the last to gang to
his bed, whilk was in a little round, just oppo-
site the chamber of dais, whilk his master
occupied while he was living, and where he
now lay in state, as they caa'd it, weel-a-day !
The night before the funeral, Dougal could
keep his awn counsel nae langer; he came
doun with his proud spirit, and fairly asked
auld Hutcheon to sit in his room with him
for an hour. When they were in the round,
Dougal took ae tass of brandy to himsell, and
gave another to Hutcheon, and wished him all
health and lang life, and said that, for himsell,
he wasna lang for this world; for that, every
night since Sir Robert's death, his silver call
had sounded from the state chamber, just as
it used to do at nights in his lifetime, to call
Dougal to help to turn him in his bed. Dougal
said, that being alone with the dead on that
floor of the tower, (for naebody cared to wake
Sir Robert Redgauntlet like another corpse,)
he had never daured to answer the call, but
that now his conscience checked him for neg-
lecting his duty; for "though death breaks
service," said MacCallum, " it shall never
break my service to Sir Robert; and I will
answer his next whistle, so be you will stand
by me, Hutcheon."
Hutcheon had nae will to the wark, but he
had stood by Dougal in battle and broil, and
he wad not fail him at this pinch; so down
the carles sat ower a stoup of brandy, and
Hutcheon, who was something of a clerk,
would have read a chapter of the Bible; but
Dougal would hear naething but a blaud of
Davie Lindsay, whilk was the waur prepara-
tion.
When midnight came, and the house was
quiet as the grave, sure enough the silver
whistle sounded as sharp and shrill as if Sir
Robert was blowing it, and up got the twa
auld servingmen, and tottered into the room
where the dead man lay. Hutcheon saw
aneugh' at the first glance; for there were
torches in the room, which showed him the
foul fiend, in his ain shape, sitting on the
Laird's coffin! Ower he cowped as if he had
been dead. He could not tell how lang he
lay in a trance at the door, but when he gathered
himself, he cried on his neighbour, and getting
nae answer, raised the house, when Dougal
was found lying dead within twa steps of the
bed where his master's coffin was placed.
As for the whistle, it was gane anes and aye;
but mony a time was it heard at the top of
the house on the bartizan, and amang the auld
chimneys and turrets where the howlets have
their nests. Sir John hushed the matter up,
and the funeral passed over without mair
bogle-wark.
But when a' was ower, and the Laird was
beginning to settle his affairs, every tenant
was called up for his arrears, and my gudesire
for the full sum that stood against him in
the rental-book. Weel, away he trots to the
Castle, to tell his story, and there he is intro-
duced to Sir John, sitting in his father's chair,
in deep mourning, with weepers and hanging
cravat, and a small walking rapier by his side,
instead of the auld broadsword that had a
hundred-weight of steel about it, what with
blade, chape, and basket-hilt. I have heard
their communing so often tauld ower, that
I almost think I was there mysell, though I
couldna be born at the time. (In fact, Alan,
my companion mimicked, with a good deal of
humour, the flattering, conciliating tone of the
tenant's address, and the hypocritical melan-
choly of the Laird's reply. His grandfather,
he said, had, while he spoke, his eye fixed on
the rental-book, as if it were a mastiff -dog that
he was afraid would spring up and bite him.)
312
SIR WALTER SCOTT
"I wuss ye joy, sir, of the head seat, and
the white loaf, and the braid lairdship. Your
father was a kind man to friends and followers ;
muckle grace to you, Sir John, to fill his
shoon — his boots, I suld say, for he seldom
wore shoon, unless it were muils when he had
the gout."
"Ay, Steenie," quoth the Laird, sighing
deeply, and putting his napkin to his een,
"his was a sudden call, and he will be missed
in the country; no time to set his house in
order — weel prepared Godward, no doubt,
which is the root of the matter — but left us
behind a tangled hesp to wind, Steenie. —
Hem ! hem ! We maun go to business, Stee-
nie; much to do, and little time to do it in."
Here he opened the fatal volume. I have
heard of a thing they call Doomsday -book —
I am clear it has been a rental of back -ganging
tenants.
"Stephen," said Sir John, still in the same
soft, sleekit tone of voice — "Stephen Steven-
son, or Steenson, ye are down here for a
year's rent behind the hand — due at last
term."
Stephen. — "Please your honour, Sir John,
I paid it to your father."
Sir John. — "Ye took a receipt, then,
doubtless, Stephen; and can produce it?"
Stephen. — "Indeed, I hadna time, an it
like your honour; for nae sooner had I set
doun the siller, and just as his honour, Sir
Robert, that's gaen, drew it till him to count
it, and write out the receipt, he was ta'en wi'
the pains that removed him."
"That was unlucky," said Sir John, after a
pause. "But ye maybe paid it in the pres-
ence of somebody. I want but a tails qualis
evidence, Stephen. I would go ower strictly
to work with no poor man."
Stephen. — "Troth, Sir John, there was nae-
body in the room but Dougal MacCallum the
butler. But, as your honour kens, he has e'en
followed his auld master."
"Very unlucky again, Stephen," said Sir
John, without altering his voice a single note.
"The man to whom ye paid the money is
dead — and the man who witnessed the pay-
ment is dead too — and the siller, which should
have been to the fore, is neither seen nor heard
tell of in the repositories. How am I to be-
lieve a' this?"
Stephen. — "I dinna ken, your honour;
but there is a bit memorandum note of the
very coins; for, God help me! I had to
borrow out of twenty purses; and I am sure
that ilka man there set down will take his grit
oath, for what purpose I borrowed the money."
Sir John. — "I have little doubt ye bor-
rowed the money, Steenie. It is the payment to
my father that I want to have some proof of."
Stephen. — "The siller maun be about the
house, Sir John. And since your honour never
got it, and his honour that was canna have
taen it wi' him, maybe some of the family
may have seen it."
Sir John. — - "We will examine the servants,
Stephen; that is but reasonable."
But lackey and lass, and page and groom,
all denied stoutly that they had ever seen such
a bag of money as my gudesire described.
What was waur, he had unluckily not men-
tioned to any living soul of them his purpose
of paying his rent. Ae quean had noticed
something under his arm, but she took it for
the pipes.
Sir John Redgauntlet ordered the servants
out of the room, and then said to my gudesire,
"Now, Steenie, ye see ye have fair play; and,
as I have little doubt ye ken better where to
find the siller than ony other body, I beg, in
fair terms, and for your own sake, that you
will end this fasherie; for, Stephen, ye maun
pay or flit."
"The Lord forgie your opinion," said
Stephen, driven almost to his wit's end — "I
am an honest man."
"So am I, Stephen," said his honour; "and
so are all the folks in the house, I hope. But
if there be a knave amongst us, it must be
he that tells the story he cannot prove. He
paused, and then added, mair sternly, "If I
understand your trick, sir, you want to take
advantage of some malicious reports concern-
ing things in this family, and particularly
respecting my father's sudden death, thereby
to cheat me out of the money, and perhaps
take away my character, by insinuating that I
have received the rent I am demanding. —
Where do you suppose this money to be ? —
I insist upon knowing."
My gudesire saw every thing look so muckle
against him, that he grew nearly desperate —
however, he shifted from one foot to another,
looked to every corner of the room, and made
no answer.
"Speak out, sirrah," said the Laird, assum-
ing a look of his father's, a very particular ane,
which he had when he was angry — it seemed
as if the wrinkles of his frown made that self-
same fearful shape of a horse's shoe in the
middle of his brow; — "Speak out, sir! I
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE
will know your thoughts ; — do you suppose
that I have this money?"
"Far be it frae me to say so," said Stephen.
"Do you charge any of my people with
having taken it?"
"I wad be laith to charge them that may
be innocent," said my gudesire; "and if there
be any one that is guilty, I have nae proof."
"Somewhere the money must be, if there is
a word of truth in your story," said Sir John;
"I ask where you think it is — and demand a
correct answer?"
"In hell, if you will have my thoughts of
it," said my gudesire, driven to extremity, —
"in hell ! with your father, his jackanape, and
his silver whistle."
Down the stairs he ran, (for the parlour was
nae place for him after such a word,) and he
heard the Laird swearing blood and wounds,
behind him, as fast as ever did Sir Robert,
and roaring for the bailie and the baron-
officer.
Away rode my gudesire to his chief creditor,
(him they caa'd Laurie Lapraik,) to try if he
could make ony thing out of him; but when
he tauld his story, he got but the warst word
in his wame — thief, beggar, and dyvour,
were the saftest terms; and to the boot of
these hard terms, Laurie brought up the auld
story of his dipping his hand in the blood of
God's saunts, just as if a tenant could have
helped riding with the Laird, and that a laird
like Sir Robert Redgauntlet. My gudesire
was, by this time far beyond the bounds of
patience, and, while he and Laurie were at
deil speed the liars, he was wanchancie aneugh
to abuse Lapraik's doctrine as weel as the
man, and said things that garr'd folks' flesh
grue that heard them; — he wasna just him-
sell, and he had lived wi' a wild set in his day.
At last they parted, and my gudesire was to
ride hame through the wood of Pitmurkie,
that is a' .fou of black firs, as they say. — I
ken the wood, but the firs may be black or
white for what I can tell. — At the entry of
the wood there is a wild common, and on the
edge of the common, a little lonely change-
house, that was keepit then by an ostler wife,
they suld hae caa'd her Tibbie Faw, and there
puir Steenie cried for a mutchkin of brandy,
for he had had no refreshment the haill day.
Tibbie was earnest wi' him to take a bite of
meat, but he couldna think o't, nor would he
take his foot out of the stirrup, and took off
the brandy wholely at twa draughts, and
named a toast at each : — the first was, the
memory of Sir Robert Redgauntlet, and might
he never lie quiet in his grave till he had
righted his poor bond-tenant; and the second
was, a health to Man's Enemy, if he would
but get him back the pock of siller, or tell
him what came o't, for he saw the haill world
was like to regard him as a thief and a cheat,
and he took that waur than even the ruin of
his house and hauld.
On he rode, little caring where. It was a
dark night turned, and the trees made it yet
darker, and he let the beast take its ain road
through the wood; when all of a sudden,
from tired and wearied that it was before,
the nag began to spring, and flee, and stend,
that my gudesire could hardly keep the saddle.
— Upon the whilk, a horseman, suddenly
riding up beside him, said, "That's a mettle
beast of yours, freend; will you sell him?"
— So saying, he touched the horse's neck with
his riding -wand, and it fell into its auld heigh-ho
of a stumbling trot. "But his spunk's soon
out of him, I think," continued the stranger,
"and that is like mony a man's courage, that
thinks he wad do great things till he come to
the proof."
My gudesire scarce listened to this, but
spurred his horse, with "Gude e'en to you,
freend."
But it's like the stranger was ane that doesna
lightly yield his point; for, ride as Steenie
liked, he was aye beside him at the self-same
pace. At last my gudesire, Steenie Steenson,
grew half angry; and, to say the truth, half
feared.
"What is it that ye want with me, freend?"
he said, "If ye be a robber, I have nae money;
if ye be a leal man, wanting company, I have
nae heart to mirth or speaking; and if ye
want to ken the road, I scarce ken it mysell."
"If you will tell me your grief," said the
stranger, "I am one, that, though I have been
sair miscaa'd in the world, am the only hand
for helping my freends."
So my gudesire, to ease his ain heart, mair
than from any hope of help, told him the
story from beginning to end.
"It's a hard pinch," said the stranger;
"but I think I can help you."
"If you could lend the money, sir, and take
a lang day — I ken nae other help on earth,"
said my gudesire.
"But there may be some under the earth,"
said the stranger. "Come, I'll be frank wi'
you; I could lend you the money on bond,
but you would maybe scruple my terms.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Now, I can tell you, that your auld Laird is
disturbed in his grave by your curses, and the
wailing of your family, and if ye daur ven-
ture to go to see him, he will give you the
receipt."
My gudesire's hair stood on end at this
proposal, but he thought his companion might
be some humoursome chield that was trying to
frighten him, and might end with lending him
the money. Besides, he was bauld wi' brandy,
and desparate wi' distress; and he said he had
courage to go to the gate of hell, and a step
farther, for that receipt. — The stranger laughed.
Weel, they, rode on through the thickest of
the wood, when, all of a sudden, the horse
stopped at the door of a great house; and,
but that he knew the place was ten miles off,
my father would have thought he was at Red-
gauntlet Castle. They rode into the outer
court-yard, through the muckle faulding yetts,
and aneath the auld portcullis; and the whole
front of the house was lighted, and there were
pipes and fiddles, and as much dancing and
deray within as used to be at Sir Robert's
house at Pace and Yule, and such high seasons.
They lap off, and my gudesire, as seemed to
him, fastened his horse to the very ring he
had tied him to that morning, when he gaed
to wait on the young Sir John.
"God!" said my gudesire, "if Sir Robert's
death be but a dream ! "
He knocked at the ha' door just as he was
wont, and his auld acquaintance, Dougal
MacCallum, — just after his wont, too, —
came to open the door, and said, "Piper
Steenie, are ye there, lad? Sir Robert has
been crying for you."
My gudesire was like a man in a dream —
he looked for the stranger, but he was gane
for the time. At last he just tried to say,
"Ha! Dougal Driveower, are ye living? I
thought ye had been dead."
"Never fash yoursell wi' me," said Dougal,
"but look to yoursell; and see ye tak naething
frae ony body here, neither meat, drink, or
siller, except just the receipt that is your ain."
So saying, he led the way out through halls
and trances that were weel kend to my gude-
sire, and into the auld oak parlour; and there
was as much singing of profane sangs, and
birling of red wine, and speaking blasphemy
and sculduddry, as had ever been in Red-
gauntlet Castle when it was at the blithest.
But, Lord take us in keeping, what a set
of ghastly revellers they were that sat around
that table ! — My gudesire kend mony that
had long before gane to their place, for often
had he piped to the most part in the hall of
Redgauntlet. There was the fierce Middle-
ton, and the dissolute Rothes, and the crafty
Lauderdale; and Dalyell, with his bauld head
and a beard to his girdle; and Earlshall, with
Cameron's blude on his hand; and wild Bon-
shaw, that tied blessed Mr. Cargill's limbs till
the blude sprung; and Dunbarton Douglas,
the twice-turned traitor baith to country and
king. There was the Bluidy Advocate Mac-
Kenyie, who, for his worldly wit and wisdom,
had been to the rest as a god. And there was
Claverhouse, as beautiful as when he lived,
with his long, dark, curled locks, streaming
down over his laced buff-coat, and his left
hand always on his right spule-blade, to hide
the wound that the silver bullet had made.
He sat apart from them all, and looked at
them with a melancholy, haughty countenance ;
while the rest hallooed, and sung, and laughed,
that the room rang. But their smiles were
fearfully contorted from time to time; and
their laughter passed into such wild sounds,
as made my gudesire's very nails grow blue,
and chilled the marrow in his banes.
They that waited at the table were just the
wicked serving-men and troopers, that had
done their work and cruel bidding on earth.
There was the Lang Lad of the Nethertown,
that helped to take Argyle; and the Bishop's
summoner, that they called the Deil's Rattle-
bag ; and the wicked guardsmen in their laced
coats; and the savage Highland Amorites,
that shed blood like water; and many a proud
serving -man, haughty of heart and bloody of
hand, cringing to the rich, and making them
wickeder than they would be; grinding the
poor to powder, when the rich had broken
them to fragments. And mony, mony mair
were coming and ganging, a' as busy in their
vocation as if they had been alive.
Sir Robert Redgauntlet, in the midst of a'
this fearful riot, cried, wi' a voice like thunder,
on Steenie Piper to come to the board-head
where he was sitting; his legs stretched out
before him, and swathed up with flannel, with
his holster pistols aside him, while the great
broadsword rested against his chair, just as
my gudesire had seen him the last time upon
earth — the very cushion for the jackanape
was close to him, but the creature itsell was
not there — it wasna its hour, it's likely; for
he heard them say, as he came forward, "Is
not the Major come yet?" And another
answered, "The jackanape will be here be-
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE
times the morn.' And when my gudesire
came forward, Sir Robert, or his ghaist, or
the deevil in his likeness, .said, "Weel, piper,
hae ye settled wi' my son for the year's rent?"
With much ado my father gat breath to say,
that Sir John would not settle without his
honour's receipt.
"Ye shall hae that for a tune of the pipes,
Steenie," said the appearance of Sir Robert —
"Play us up, 'Weel hoddled, Luckie.' "
Now this was a tune my gudesire learned
frae a warlock, that heard it when they were
worshipping Satan at their meetings; and my
gudesire had sometimes played it at the ranting
suppers in Redgauntlet Castle, but never very
willingly; and now he grew cauld at the very
name of it, and said, for excuse, he hadna his
pipes wi' him.
"MacCallum, ye limb of Beelzebub," said
the fearfu' Sir Robert, "bring Steenie the pipes
that I am keeping for him!"
MacCallum brought a pairof pipes might have
served the piper of Donald of the Isles. But
he gave my gudesire a nudge as he offered them ;
and looking secretly and closely, Steenie saw
that the chanter was of steel, and heated to a
white heat ; so he had fair warning not to trust
his fingers with it. So he excused himself
again, and said, he was faint and frightened,
and had not wind aneugh to fill the bag.
"Then ye maun eat and drink, Steenie,"
said the figure; "for we do little else here;
and it's ill speaking between a fou man and a
fasting."
Now these were the very words that the
bloody Earl of Douglas said to keep the King's
messenger in hand, while he cut the head off
MacLellan of Bombie, at the Threave Castle,
and that put Steenie mair and mair on his
guard. So he spoke up like a man, and said he
came neither to eat, or drink, or make min-
strelsy ; but simply for his ain — to ken what
was come o' the money he had paid, and to get
a discharge for it ; and he was so stout-hearted
by this time, that he charged Sir Robert for
conscience-sake — (he had no power to say the
holy name) — and as he hoped for peace and
rest, to spread no snares for him, but just to
give him his ain.
The appearance gnashed its teeth and
laughed, but it took from a large pocket-book
the receipt, and handed it to Steenie. "There
is your receipt, ye pitiful cur; and for the
money, my dog-whelp of a son may go look for
it in the Cat's Cradle."
My gudesire uttered mony thanks, and was
about to retire, when Sir Robert roared aloud,
"Stop, though, thou sack-doudling son of a
whore! I am not done with thee. Here we
do nothing for nothing; and you must return
on this very day twelvemonth, to pay your
master the homage that you owe me for my
protection."
My father's tongue was loosed of a suddenty,
and he said aloud, "I refer mysell to God's
pleasure, and not to yours."
He had no sooner uttered the word than all
was dark around him ; and he sunk on the earth
with such a sudden shock, that he lost both
breath and sense.
How lang Steenie lay there, he could not tell ;
but when he came to himsell, he was lying in
the auld kirkyard of Redgauntlet parochine,
just at the door of the family aisle, and the
scutcheon of the auld knight, Sir Robert, hang-
ing over his head. There was a deep morning
fog on grass and gravestane around him, and his
horse was feeding quietly beside the minister's
twa cows. Steenie would have thought the
whole was a dream, but he had the receipt in
his hand, fairly written and signed by the auld
Laird; only the last letters of his name were a
little disorderly, written like one seized with
sudden pain.
Sorely troubled in his mind, he left that
dreary place, rode through the mist to Red-
gauntlet Castle, and with much ado he got
speech of the Laird.
"Well, you dyvour bankrupt," was the first
word, "have you brought me my rent?"
"No," answered my gudesire, "I have not;
but I have brought your honour Sir Robert's
receipt for it."
"How, sirrah? — Sir Robert's receipt! —
You told me he had not given you one."
"Will your honour please to see if that bit
line is right?"
Sir John looked at every line, and at every
letter, with much attention; and at last, at the
date, which my gudesire had not observed,
— "From my appointed place" he read, "this
twenty -fifth of November." — "What ! — That
is yesterday ! — Villain, thou must have gone to
hell for this!"
"I got it from your honour's father — whether
he be in heaven or hell, I know not," said
Steenie.
"I will delate you for a warlock to the Privy
Council!" said Sir John. "I will send you to
your master, the devil, with the help of a tar-
barrel and a torch!"
"I intend to delate mysell to the Presby-
316
SIR WALTER SCOTT
tery," said Steenie, "and tell them all I have
seen last night, whilk are things fitter for them
to judge of than a borrel man like me."
Sir John paused, composed himsell and
desired to hear the full history; and my
gudesire told it him from point to point, as I
have told it you — word for word, neither more
nor less.
Sir John was silent again for a long time,
and at last he said, very composedly, "Steenie,
this story of yours concerns the honour of many
a noble family besides mine; and if it be a
leasing-making, to keep yourself out of my
danger, the least you can expect is to have a
redhot iron driven through your tongue, and
that will be as bad as scauding your fingers
wi' a redhot chanter. But yet it may be true,
Steenie; and if the money cast up, I shall not
know what to think of it. — But where shall
we find the Cat's Cradle? There are cats
enough about the old house, but I think they
kitten without the ceremony of bed or cradle."
"We were best ask Hutcheon," said my
gudesire; "he kens a' the odd corners about
as weel as — another serving-man that is now
gane, and that I wad not like to name.'5
Aweel, Hutcheon, when he was asked, told
them, that a ruinous turret, lang disused, next
to the clock-house, only accessible by a ladder,
for the opening was on the outside, and far
above the battlements, was called of old the
Cat's Cradle.
"There will I go immediately," said Sir John ;
and he took (with what purpose, Heaven kens)
one of his father's pistols from the hall-table,
where they had lain since the night he died,
and hastened to the battlements.
It was a dangerous place to climb, for the
ladder was auld and frail, and wanted ane or
twa rounds. However, up got Sir John, and
entered at the turret-door, where his body
stopped the only little light that was in the bit
turret. Something flees at him wi' a vengeance,
maist dang him back ower — bang gaed the
knight's pistol, and Hutcheon, that held the
ladder, and my gudesire that stood beside him,
hears a loud skelloch. A minute after, Sir John
flings the body of the jackanape down to them,
and cries that the siller is fund, and that they
should come up and help him. And there was
the bag of siller sure aneugh, and mony orra
things besides, that had been missing for mony
a day. And Sir John, when he had riped the
turret weel, led my gudesire into the dining-
parlour, and took him by the hand, and spoke
kindly to him, and said he was sorry he should
have doubted his word, and that he would
hereafter be a good master to him, to make
amends.
"And now, Steenie," said Sir John, "although
this vision of yours tends, on the whole, to
my father's credit, as an honest man, that he
should, even after his death, desire to see
justice done to a poor man like you, yet you are
sensible that ill-dispositioned men might make
bad constructions upon it, concerning his soul's
health. So, I think, we had better lay the haill
dirdum on that ill-deedie creature, Major
Weir, and say naething about your dream
in the wood of Pitmurkie. You had taken
ower muckle brandy to be very certain about
ony thing; and, Steenie, this receipt," (his
hand shook while he held it out,) — "it's
but a queer kind of document, and we will do
best, I think, to put it quietly in the fire."
"Od, but for as queer as it is, 'it's a' the
voucher I have for my rent," said my gudesire,
who was afraid, it may be, of losing the benefit
of Sir Robert's discharge.
"I will bear the contents to your credit in
the rental-book, and give you a discharge under
my own hand," said Sir John, "and that on the
spot. And, Steenie, if you can hold your tongue
about this matter, you shall sit, from this term
downward, at an easier rent."
"Mony thanks to your honour," said Steenie,
who saw easily in what corner the wind was;
"doubtless I will be conformable to all your hon-
our's commands; only I would willingly speak
wi' some powerful minister on the subject,
for I do not like the sort of soumons of appoint-
ment whilk your honour's father" —
"Do not call the phantom my father!" said
Sir John, interrupting him.
"Weel, then, the thing that was so like him,"
said my gudesire; "he spoke of my coming
back to him this time twelvemonth, and it's
a weight on my conscience."
"Aweel, then," said Sir John, "if you be so
much distressed in mind, you may speak to
our minister of the parish ; he is a douce man,
regards the honour of our family, and the mair
that he may look for some patronage from me."
Wi' that, my father readily agreed that the
receipt should be burnt, and the Laird threw
it into the chimney with his ain hand. Burn
it would not for them, though; but away it
flew up the lumb, wi' a lang train of sparks
at its tail, and a hissing noise like a squib.
My gudesire gaed down to the Manse, and
the minister, when he had heard the story, said,
it was his real opinion, that though my gudesire
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
had gaen very far in tampering with dangerous
matters, yet, as he had refused the devil's
arles, (for such was the offer of meat and drink,)
and had refused to do homage by piping at his
bidding, he hoped, that if he held a circumspect
walk hereafter, Satan could take little ad-
vantage by what was come and gane. And,
indeed, my gudesire, of his ain accord, lang
foreswore baith the pipes and the brandy —
it was not even till the year was out, and the
fatal day past, that he would so much as take
the fiddle, or drink usquebaugh or tippenny.
Sir John made up his story about the jack-
anape as he liked himseil; and some believe
till this day there was no more in the matter
than the filching nature of the brute. Indeed,
ye'll no hinder some to threap, that it was nane
o' the auld Enemy that Dougal and my gude-
sire saw in the Laird's room, but only that
wanchancy creature, the Major, capering on
the coffin; and that, as to the blawing on the
Laird's whistle that was heard after he was
dead, the filthy brute could do that as weel as the
Laird himseil, if no better. But Heaven kens
the truth, whilk first came out by the minister's
wife, after Sir John and her ain gudeman were
baith in the moulds. And then my gudesire,
wha was failed in his limbs, but not in his
judgment or memory — at least nothing to speak
of — was obliged to tell the real narrative to his
freends, for the credit of his good name. He
might else have been charged for a warlock.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
(1772-1834)
BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA
CHAP. XIV
During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth
and I were neighbours, our conversations turned
frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry,
the power of exciting the sympathy of the
reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of
nature, and the power of giving the interest of
novelty by the modifying colours of imagination.
The sudden charm, which accidents of light and
shade, which moonlight or sunset, diffused over
a known and familiar landscape, appeared to
represent the practicability of combining both.
These are the poetry of nature. The thought
suggested itself (to which of us I do not
recollect) that a series of poems might be com-
posed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents
and agents were to be, in part at least, super-
natural; and the excellence aimed at was to
consist in the interesting of the affections by
the dramatic truth of such emotions, as would
naturally accompany such situations, suppos-
ing them real. And real in this sense they
have been to every human being who, from
whatever source of delusion, has at any time
believed himself under supernatural agency.
For the second class, subjects were to be chosen
from ordinary life ; the characters and incidents
were to be such as will be found in every village
and its vicinity where there is a meditative
and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice
them when they present themselves.
In this idea originated the plan of the "Lyri-
cal Ballads"; in which it was agreed that my
endeavours should be directed to persons and
characters supernatural, or at least romantic;
yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a
human interest and a semblance of truth suffi-
cient to procure for these shadows of imagina-
tion that willing suspension of disbelief for the
moment, which constitutes poetic faith. Mr.
Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose
to himself as his object, to give the charm of
novelty to things of every day, and to excite
a feeling analogous to the supernatural, by
awakening the mind's attention from the leth-
argy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness
and the wonders of the world before us; an
inexhaustible treasure, but for which, in con-
sequence of the film of familiarity and selfish
solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not, ears that
hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor under-
stand.
With this view I wrote the "Ancient Mariner,"
and was preparing,' among other poems, the
"Dark Ladie," and the "Christabel," in which
I should have more nearly realised my ideal
than I had done in my first attempt. But Mr.
Wordsworth's industry had proved so much
more successful, and the number of his poems
so much greater, that my compositions, instead
of forming a balance, appeared rather an
interpolation of heterogeneous matter. Mr.
Wordsworth added two or three poems written
in his own character, in the impassioned, lofty,
and sustained diction which is characteristic
of his genius. In this form the "Lyrical
Ballads" were published; and were presented
by him, as an experiment, whether subjects,
which from their nature rejected the usual
ornaments and extra-colloquial style of poems
in general, might not be so managed in the
language of ordinary life as to produce the
pleasurable interest which it is the peculiar
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
business of poetry to impart. To the second
edition he added a preface of considerable
length; in which, notwithstanding some pas-
sages of apparently a contrary import, he was
understood to contend for the extension of
this style to poetry of all kinds, and to reject
as vicious and indefensible all phrases and
forms of style that were not included in what he
(unfortunately, I think, adopting an equivocal
expression) called the language of real life.
From this preface, prefixed to poems in which
it was impossible to deny the presence of orig-
inal genius, however mistaken its direction
might be deemed, arose the whole long-con-
tinued controversy. For from the conjunction
of perceived power with supposed heresy I ex-
plain the inveteracy, and in some instances,
I grieve to say, the acrimonious passions, with
which the controversy has been conducted by
the assailants.
Had Mr. Wordsworth's poems been the silly,
the childish things which they were for a long
time described as being; had they been really
distinguished from the compositions of other
poets merely by meanness of language and
inanity of thought; had they indeed contained
nothing more than what is found in the parodies
and pretended imitations of them; they must
have sunk at once, a dead weight, into the
slough of oblivion, and have dragged the
preface along with them. But year after year
increased the number of Mr. Wordsworth's
admirers. They were found, too, not in the
lower classes of the reading public, but chiefly
among young men of strong sensibility and
meditative minds; and their admiration (in-
flamed perhaps in some degree by opposition)
was distinguished by its intensity, I might
almost say, by its religious fervour. These
facts, and the intellectual energy of the author,
which was more or less consciously felt, where
it was outwardly and even boisterously denied,
meeting with sentiments of aversion to his
opinions, and of alarm at their consequences,
produced an eddy of criticism, which would of
itself have borne up the poems by the violence
with which it whirled them round and round.
With many parts of this preface, in the sense
attributed to them, and which the words un-
doubtedly seem to authorise, I never con-
curred; but, on the contrary, objected to them
as erroneous in principle, and as contradictory
(in appearance at least) both to other parts of
the same preface and to the author's own
practice in the greater number of the poems
themselves. Mr. Wordsworth, in his recent
collection, has, I find, degraded this prefatory
disquisition to the end of his second volume,
to be read or not at the reader's choice. But
he has not, as far as I can discover, announced
any change in his poetic creed. At all events,
considering it as the source of 'a controversy,
in which I have been honoured more than I
deserve by the frequent conjunction of my name
with his, I think it expedient to declare, once for
all, in what points I coincide with his opinions,
and in what points I altogether differ. But
in order to render myself intelligible, I must
previously, in as few words as possible, explain
my ideas, first, of a poem; and secondly, of
poetry itself, in kind and in essence.
The office of philosophical disquisition con-
sists in just distinction; while it is the privilege
of the philosopher to preserve himself con-
stantly aware that distinction is not division.
In order to obtain adequate notions of any
truth, we must intellectually separate its dis-
tinguishable parts; and this is the technical
process of philosophy. But having so done,
we must then restore them in our conceptions
to the unity in which they actually coexist
and this is the result of philosophy. A poe:
contains the same elements as a prose com-
position; the difference, therefore, must con
sist in a different combination of them,
consequence of a different object propose
According to the difference of the object will "
the difference of the combination. It is JXDS-
sible that the object may be merely to facilitate
the recollection of any given facts or observa-
tions by artificial arrangement; and the com
position will be a poem, merely because it is
distinguished from prose by metre, or by rhyme,
or by both conjointly. In this, the lowest sense,
a man might attribute the name of a poem to the
well-known enumeration of the days in the
several months:
"Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November, " etc.
and others of the same class and purpose.
And as a particular pleasure is found in an-
ticipating the recurrence of sound and quanti-
ties, all compositions that have this charm su-
peradded, whatever be their contents, may be
entitled poems.
So much for the superficial form. A differ-
ence of object and contents supplies an addi-
tional ground of distinction. The immediate"
purpose may be the communicariojTTTTfcvtruths:'
either of truth absolute and demoUetraJSjer^g in
'Oy
BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA
3*9
nee; or of facts experienced and
in history. Pleasure, and that
t and most permanent Jtmd, njaj
be attainment of die end; but it
e immrttajte end. In other works
canon of |HM»mi' maj be die
irpose; and though truth, vittttm
ly-r-fnal^ ought to be die ultimate
rfll distinguish the character of the
e dass to whkh the work belongs.
s that state of society, in which die
irpose would be baffled by die
die proper ultimate end; in which
diction or iuugtij could exempt
evenof an Anacreoo, or the Alexis
HBimnii iliini of pleasure maybe
e object of a work not metrically
id that object mar have been in a.
poems? The answe
anendy please, which
die reason why k is s
f metre be superadde
T'.I r.
\--~--
I HOI
>j;_:h _± "- _?:::'• :..-.: -.rT-t: -i- i~. . :ii:ir. :~
attention to each part, which an exact cor-
:----•• ' —--..: :' i tr.: i* 1 - _- : ^:T
calculated to erofe The ""»! definition *fr"\
so deduced, may be dms worded. A poem is
that &pr<'ic.s of composition, which is opposed
to works of srifiMT, by proposing for its im-
mediate object pleasure, not truth; and from
aO other species (having this object in common
with it) k is discriminated by proposing to
itself such denght from die whole, as is com-
patible with a <ti^nrt gratification from each
: rr *• '•:'.'. ~ ~-~~.
Controversy is not seldom rifitnl in conse-
quence of die disputants attaching each a dif-
ferent mining to the same word; and in few
instances has that been more striking than in
disputes concerning the ptcscul subject. If a
man chooses to call every composition a poem,
which is rhyme, or measure, or both, I most
leave his opinion unoontroverted. The dis-
tinction is at least competent to et*?r*firt iy»
die writer's intention. If it were subjoined,
that the whole is likewise entertaining or
affecting as a tale, or as a series of interesting
rr: "-:- ::. r.-. I : _---. . '.- .: :r. - i? ~-~. ~.:.-~ :.'.
ingredient of a poem, and an additional meriL
But if die definition sought tor be ***?* of a
poem, I answer, it must be one die
of which mutually support and explain
each other; all in their proportion harmo-
iBMiig with, and supporting the purpose and
k" ' ~. .~.~. --.~. ". rs .'."..--'. ~. .-. '~rr'- ' ^-~ -.'.'. . :.~
phikisophk critics of all ages coincide with the
c -. " . " . ' _: '.:.-: : *i . >-.- - : i .*":•-." :.::.
i ___ "j - -.a^Tru- Jf^f , d-Tii C. , • I*,, _
RafMl CO «i SffTlfff OI SEUKDIc ••••Ff OT
each of which absorbing die whole attention of
: ~ -_ "-:_..."" ;:>•;.:. :.- ."-.::'r /- r. :-.-.•.:.
and makes it a separate whole, instead of a
and on die other hand, to an
pnaariop, from which die reader
rapidly die general result unattracted
bv i"^ ^'^^fiipff^i^^iy nariSto A ne reaoer snould
' •-: '_;.".•:-'. " - ' - . '. " T -.''.. ~ '.:..-:'..'• '•'.:-.
mechanical p*"p"iy of curiosity, or by a rest-
less desire to arrh-e at the final solution; but by
die pleasurable activity of mind excited by the
aflrarrino? fif ffy yvnrnrj Jtyjf Like the mo-
tion of a serpent, which die Egyptians made
die emblem of intellectual power; or Eke die
path of sound through die air, at every step he
pauses and half recedes, and from die retro-
gresshre movement collects die force which again
carries him onward, Praedp&amdms at After
spiritus* says Petronius Arbiter most happuy.
The epithet, Kber, here balances die pieceding
verb: and h is not easy to conceive more mean-
ing condensed in fewer words.
But if dus should be admitted as a satisfac-
tory character of a poem, we have still to seek
for a definition of poetry. The writings of
Plato, and Bishop Taylor, and die Tktori*
v j ' * j " £. ~_ TT 7 1 . '. T'- -- . - ~. . - '. ' - . '- ' . '. ~ T • 1 5
that poetry of die highest kind may exist with-
out metre, and even without die contra-dis-
tinguishing objects of a poem. The first
chapter of Isaiah (indeed a very huge p»u^i»»faoo
of die whole book) is poetry in the most em-
phatic sense; yet it would be not less irrational
than strange to assert, that pleasure, and not
truth, was the immediate object of die prophet.
In short, whatever specific import we attach
to the word poetry, there wffl be found invoked
in it, as a ntr***t*j consequence, that a poem
of any length neither can be, nor ought to be,
all poetry. Yet if a harmonious whole is to
be produced, die remaining parts must be pre-
served in keeping with die poetry; and this
can be no otherwise effected than by such a
nH artificial ai
as wffl partake of one, though not a peculiar,
property of poetry. And dus again can be no
320
FRANCIS JEFFREY
other than the property of exciting a more
continuous and equal attention than the lan-
guage of prose aims at, whether colloquial or
written.
My own conclusions on the nature of poetry,
in the strictest use of the word, have been in
part anticipated in the preceding disquisition
on the fancy and imagination. What is poetry ?
is so nearly the same question with, what is a
poet? that the answer to the one is involved
in the solution of the other. For it is a dis-
tinction resulting from the poetic genius itself,
which sustains and modifies the images, thoughts,
and emotions of the poet's own mind. The
poet, described in ideal perfection, brings the
whole soul of man into activity, with the sub-
ordination of its faculties to each other, accord-
ing to their relative worth and dignity. He
diffuses a tone and spirit of unity, that blends,
and (as it were) fuses, each into each, by that
synthetic and magical power, to which we have
exclusively appropriated the name of imagina-
tion. This power, first put in action by the
will and understanding, and retained under their
irremissive, though gentle and unnoticed, con-
trol (laxis effertur habenis *) reveals itself in the
balance or reconciliation of opposite or discor-
dant qualities : of sameness, with difference;
of the general, with the concrete; the idea,
with the image; the individual, with the repre-
sentative; the sense of novelty and fresh-
ness, with old and familiar objects ; a more than
usual state of emotion, with more than
usual order; judgment ever awake and steady
self-possession, with enthusiasm and feeling pro-
found or vehement; and while it blends and
harmonises the natural and the artificial,
still subordinates art to nature; the manner to
the matter; and our admiration of the poet to
our sympathy with the poetry. "Doubtless,"
as Sir John Davies observes of the soul (and
his words may with slight alteration be applied,
and even more appropriately, to the poetic
imagination), —
" Doubtless this could not be, but that she turns
Bodies to spirit by sublimation strange,
As fire converts to fire, the things it burns,
As we our food into our nature change.
From their gross matter she abstracts their forms,
And draws a kind of quintessence from things;
Which to her proper nature she transforms
To bear them light on her celestial wings.
1 He is borne with loosened reins.
Thus does she, when from individual states
She doth abstract the universal kinds;
Which then re-clothed in divers names and fates
Steal access through our senses to our minds."
Finally, good sense is the body of poetic
genius, fancy its drapery, motion its life, and
imagination the soul that is everywhere, and in
each; and forms all into one graceful and
intelligent whole.
FRANCIS JEFFREY (1773-1850)
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE
This, we think, has the merit of being the
very worst poem we ever saw imprinted in a
quarto volume; and though it was scarcely
to be expected, we confess, that Mr. Words-
worth, with all his ambition, should so soon
have attained to that distinction, the wonder
may perhaps be diminished when we state,
that it seems to us to consist of a happy union
of all the faults,, without any of the oeauties,
which belong to his school of poetry. It is
just such a work, in short, as some wicked
enemy of that school might be supposed to have
devised, on purpose to make it ridiculous; and
when we first took it up, we could not help
suspecting that some ill-natured critic had
actually taken this harsh method of instructing
Mr. Wordsworth, by example, in the nature of
those errors, against which our precepts had
been so often directed in vain. We had not
gone far, however, till we felt intimately that
nothing in the nature of a joke could be so in-
supportably dull ; — and that this must be the
work of one who earnestly believed it to be a
pattern of pathetic simplicity, and gave it out
as such to the admiration of all intelligent
readers. In this point of view, the work may
be regarded as curious at least, if not in some
degree interesting ; and, at all events, it must be
instructive to be made aware of the excesses
into which superior understandings may be
betrayed, by long self-indulgence, and the
strange extravagances into which they may
run, when under the influence of that intoxica-
tion which is produced by unrestrained admira-
tion of themselves. This poetical intoxication,
indeed, to pursue the figure a little farther,
seems capable of assuming as many forms as
the vulgar one which arises from wine; and it
appears to require as delicate a management
to make a man a good poet by the help of the
one, as to make him a good companion by
means of the other. In both cases a little
ROBERT SOUTHEY
321
mistake as to the dose or the quality of the
inspiring fluid may make him absolutely out-
rageous, or lull him over into the most pro-
found stupidity, instead of brightening up the
hidden stores of his genius: and truly we are
concerned to say, that Mr. Wordsworth seems
hitherto to have been unlucky in the choice
of his liquor — or of his bottle-holder. In
some of his odes and ethic exhortations, he
was exposed to the public in a state of inco-
herent rapture and glorious delirium, to which
we think we have seen a parallel among the
humbler lovers of jollity. In the Lyrical Bal-
lads, he was exhibited, on the whole, in a vein
of very pretty deliration; but in the poem
before us, he appears in a state of low and
maudlin imbecility, which would not have
misbecome Master Silence himself, in the close
of a social day. Whether this unhappy result
is to be ascribed to any adulteration of his
Castalian cups, or to the unlucky choice of his
company over them, we cannot presume to say.
It may be that he has dashed his Hippocrene
with too large an infusion of lake water, or
assisted its operation too exclusively by the
study of the ancient historical ballads of "the
north countrie." That there are palpable
imitations of the style and manner of those
venerable compositions in the work before
us, is indeed undeniable; but it unfortunately
happens, that while the hobbling versification,
the mean diction, and flat stupidity of these
models are very exactly copied, and even
improved upon, in this imitation, their rude
energy, manly simplicity, and occasional felicity
of expression, have totally disappeared; and,
instead of them, a large allowance of the au-
thor's own metaphysical sensibility, and mys-
tical wordiness, is forced into an unnatural
combination with the borrowed beauties which
have just been mentioned.
ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843)
THE LIFE OF NELSON
FROM CHAPTER V
THE BATTLE OF THE NILE
On the 25th of July he sailed from Syracuse
for the Morea. Anxious beyond measure, and
irritated that the enemy should so long have
eluded him, the tediousness of the nights made
him impatient ; and the officer of the watch was
repeatedly called on to let him know the hour,
and convince him, who measured time by his
own eagerness, that it was not yet daybreak.
The squadron made the Gulf of Coron on the
28th. Troubridge entered the port, and re-
turned with intelligence that the French had
been seen about four weeks before steering to
the S.E. from Candia. Nelson then deter-
mined immediately to return to Alexandria,
and the British fleet accordingly, with every
sail set, stood once more for the coast of Egypt.
On the ist of August, about ten in the morning,
they came in sight of Alexandria; the port
had been vacant and solitary when they saw it
last; it was now crowded with ships, and they
perceived with exultation that the tri-colour
flag was flying upon the walls. At four in the
afternoon, Captain Hood, in the Zealous,
made the signal for the enemy's fleet. For
many preceding days Nelson had hardly taken
either sleep or food: he now ordered his dinner
to be served, while preparations were making
for battle; and when his officers rose from the
table, and went to their separate stations, he said
to them: "Before this time to-morrow, I shall
have gained a peerage or Westminster Abbey."
The French, steering direct for Candia,
had made an angular passage for Alexandria;
whereas Nelson, in pursuit of them, made
straight for that place, and thus materially
shortened the distance. The comparative
smallness of his force made it necessary to sail
in close order, and it covered a less space than
it would have done if the frigates had been with
him: the weather also was constantly hazy
These circumstances prevented the English
from discovering the enemy on the way to
Egypt, though it appeared, upon examining
the journals of the French officers taken in the
action, that the two fleets must actually have
crossed on the night of the 22d of June. Dui ing
the return to Syracuse, the chances of falling
in with them were fewer.
Why Buonaparte, having effected his land-
ing, should not have suffered the fleet to return,
has never yet been explained. This much is
certain, that it was detained by his command;
though, with his accustomed falsehood, he
accused Admiral Brueys, after that officer's
death, of having lingered on the coast, con-
trary to orders. The French fleet arrived at
Alexandria on the ist of July; and Brueys,
not being able to enter the port, which time and
neglect had ruined, moored his ships in Aboukir
Bay, in a strong and compact line of battle;
the headmost vessel, according to his own
account, being as close as possible to a shoal
on the N.W., and the rest of the fleet forming
322
ROBERT SOUTHEY
a kind of curve along the line of deep water,
so as not to be turned by any means in the S.W.
By Buonaparte's desire, he had offered a
reward of 10,000 livres to any pilot of the
country who would carry the squadron in ; but
none could be found who would venture to
take charge of a single vessel drawing more
than twenty feet. He had, therefore, made
the best of his situation, and chosen the strong-
est position which he could possibly take in an
open road. The commissary of the fleet said,
they were moored in such a manner as to bid
defiance to a force more than double their own.
This presumption could not then be thought
unreasonable. Admiral Barrington, when
moored in a similar manner off St. Lucia, in
the year 1778, beat off the Comte d'Estaing
in three several attacks, though his force was
inferior by almost one-third to that which as-
sailed it. Here, the advantage of numbers,
both in ships, guns, and men, was in favour
of the French. They had thirteen ships of
the line and four frigates, carrying 1,196 guns,
and 11,230 men. The English had the same
number of ships of the line, and one fifty-gun
ship, carrying 1,012 guns, and 8,068 men. The
English ships were all seventy -four; the
French had three eighty-gun ships, and one
three-decker of 120.
During the whole pursuit, it had been
Nelson's practice, whenever circumstances
would permit, to have his captains on board the
Vanguard, and explain to them his own ideas of
the different and best modes of attack, and such
plans as he proposed to execute, on falling in
with the enemy, whatever their situation might
be. There is no possible position, it is said,
which he did not take into calculation. His
officers were thus fully acquainted with his
principles of tactics: and such was his confi-
dence in their abilities, that the only thing
determined upon, in case they should find the
French at anchor, was for the ships to form
as most convenient for their mutual support,
and to anchor by the stern. "First gain the
victory," he said, "and then make the best use
of it you can." The moment he perceived the
position of the French, that intuitive genius
with which Nelson was endowed displayed
itself; and it instantly struck him, that where
there was room for an enemy's ship to swing,
there was room for one of ours to anchor.
The plan which he intended to pursue, there-
fore, was to keep entirely on the outer side of
the French line, and station his ships, as far as
he was able, one on the outer bow, and another
on the outer quarter, of each of the enemy's.
This plan of doubling on the enemy's ships
was projected by Lord Hood, when he designed
to attack .the French fleet at their anchor-
age in Gourjean Road. Lord Hood found
it impossible to make the attempt; but the
thought was not lost upon Nelson, who acknow-
ledged himself, on this occasion, indebted for
it to his old and excellent commander. Cap-
tain Berry, when he comprehended the scope
of the design, exclaimed with transport, "If
we succeed, what will the world say!" —
"There is no if in the case," replied the Ad-
miral: "that we shall succeed, is certain: who
may live to tell the story, is a very different
question."
As the squadron advanced, they were assailed
by a shower of shot and shells from the batteries
on the island, and the enemy opened a steady
fire from the starboard side of their whole line,
within half gun-shot distance, full into the bows
of our van ships. It was received in silence:
the men on board every ship were employed
aloft in furling sails, and below in tending the
braces, and making ready for anchoring. A
miserable sight for the French; who, with all
their skill, and all their courage, and all their
advantages of numbers and situation, were upon
that element on which, when the hour of trial
comes, a Frenchman has no hope. Admiral
Brueys was a brave and able man ; yet the in-
delible character of his country broke out in
one of his letters, wherein he delivered it as his
private opinion, that the English had missed
him, because, not being superior in force, they
did not think it prudent to try their strength
with him. — The moment was now come in
which he was to be undeceived.
A French brig was instructed to decoy the
English, by manoeuvring so as to tempt them
toward a shoal lying off the island of Bekier;
but Nelson either knew the danger, or sus-
pected some deceit; and the lure was unsuc-
cessful. Captain Foley led the way in the
Goliath, outsailing the Zealous, which for some
minutes disputed this post of honour with him.
He had long conceived that if the enemy were
moored in line of battle in with the land, the
best plan of attack would be to lead between
them and the shore, because the French guns
on that side were not likely to be manned, nor
even ready for action. Intending, therefore,
to fix himself on the inner bow of the Guerrier,
he kept as near the edge of the bank as the
depth of water would admit; but his anchor
hung, and having opened his fire, he drifted
THE LIFE OF NELSON
323
to the second ship, the Conquerant, before it
was clear; then anchored by the stern, inside
of her, and in ten minutes shot away her mast.
Hood, in the Zealous, perceiving this, took the
station which the Goliath intended to have
occupied, and totally disabled the Guerrier
in twelve minutes. The third ship which
doubled the enemy's van was the Orion, Sir J.
Saumarez; she passed to windward of the
Zealous, and opened her larboard guns as long
as they bore on the Guerrier; then passing
inside the Goliath, sunk a frigate which annoyed
her, hauled round toward the French line, and
anchoring inside, between the fifth and sixth
ships from the Guerrier, took her station on the
larboard bow of the Franklin, and the quarter
of the Peuple Sowuerain, receiving and returning
the fire of both. The sun was now nearly
down. The Audacious, Captain Gould, pour-
ing a heavy fire into the Guerrier and the Con-
querant, fixed herself on the larboard bow of
the latter; and when that ship struck, passed
on to the Peuple Souverain. The Theseus,
Captain Miller, followed, brought down the
Guerrier's remaining main and mizzen masts,
then anchored inside of the Spartiatc, the third
in the French line.
While these advanced ships doubled the
French line, the Vanguard was the first that
anchored on the outer side of the enemy, within
half pistol shot of their third ship, the Sparliate.
Nelson had six colours flying in different parts
of his rigging, lest they should be shot away; —
that they should be struck, no British Admiral
considers as a possibility. He veered half a
cable, and instantly opened a tremendous fire;
under cover of which the other four ships of
his division, the Minotaur, Bellerophon, De-
fence, and Majestic, sailed on ahead of the
Admiral. In a few minutes, every man sta-
tioned at the first six guns in the fore part of
the Vanguard's deck was killed or wounded —
these guns were three times cleared. Captain
Louis, in the Minotaur, anchored next ahead,
and took off the fire of the Aquilon, the fourth
in the enemy's line. The Betterophon, Captain
Darby, passed ahead and dropped her stern
anchor on the starboard bow of the Orient,
seventh in the line, Brueys' own ship, of one
hundred and twenty guns, whose difference of
force was in proportion of more than seven to
three, and whose weight of ball, from the lower
deck alone, exceeded that from the whole
broadside of the Bellerophon. Captain Peyton,
in the Defence, took his station ahead of the
Minotaur, and engaged the Franklin, the sixth
in the line; by which judicious movement
the British line remained unbroken. The
Majestic, Captain Westcott, got entangled with
the main rigging of one of the French ships
astern of the Orient, and suffered dreadfully
from that three-decker's fire: but she swung
clear, and closely engaging the Heureux, the
ninth ship on the starboard bow, received also
the fire of the Tonnant, which was the eighth
in the line. The other four ships of the British
squadron, having been detached previous to the
discovery of the French, were at a considerable
distance when the action began. It commenced
at half after six; about seven, night closed,
and there was no other light than that of the
fire of the contending fleets.
Troubridge, in the Culloden, then foremost
of the remaining ships, was two leagues astern.
He came on sounding, as the others had done :
as he advanced, the increasing darkness in-
creased the difficulty of the navigation; and
suddenly, after having found eleven fathoms
water, before the lead could be hove again,
he was fast aground: nor could all his own
exertions, joined to those of the Leander and
the Mutine brig, which came to his assistance,
get him off in time to bear a part in the action.
His ship, however, served as a beacon to the
Alexander and Swiftsure, which would else,
from the course which they were holding, have
gone considerably farther on the reef, and must
inevitably have been lost. These ships entered
the bay, and took their stations, in the darkness,
in a manner long spoken of with admiration
by all who remembered it. Captain Hallowell,
in the Swiftsure, as he was bearing down, fell
in with what seemed to be a strange sail:
Nelson had directed his ships to hoist four
lights horizontally at the mizzen -peak, as soon
as it became dark ; and this vessel had no such
distinction. Hallowell, however, with great
judgment, ordered his men not to fire: if she
was an enemy, he said, she was in too disabled
a state to escape; but, from her sails being
loose, and the way in which her head was, it
was probable she might be an English ship.
It was the Bellerophon, overpowered by the
huge Orient: her lights had gone overboard,
nearly 200 of her crew were killed or
wounded, all her masts and cables had been
shot away; and she was drifting out of the line,
toward the lee side of the bay. Her station,
at this important time, was occupied by the
Swiftsure, which opened a steady fire on the
quarter of the Franklin, and the bows of the
French Admiral. At the same instant, Cap-
324
ROBERT SOUTHEY
tain Ball, with the Alexander, passed under his
stern, and anchored within side on his larboard
quarter, raking him, and keeping up a severe
fire of musketry upon his decks. The last
ship which arrived to complete the destruc-
tion of the enemy was the Leander. Captain
Thompson, finding that nothing could be done
that night to get off the Culloden, advanced
with the intention of anchoring athwart-hawse
of the Orient. The Franklin was so near her
ahead, that there was not room for him to pass
clear of the two ; he, therefore, took his station
athwart-hawse of the latter, in such a position
as to rake both.
The two first ships of the French line had
been dismasted within a quarter of an hour
after the commencement of the action ; and the
others had in that time suffered so severely,
that victory was already certain. The third,
fourth, and fifth were taken possession of at
half-past eight.
Meantime Nelson received a severe wound
on the head from a piece of landridge shot.
Captain Berry caught him in his arms as he
was falling. The great effusion of blood
occasioned an apprehension that the "wound
was mortal: Nelson himself thought so: a
large flap of the skin of the forehead, cut from
the bone, had fallen over one eye: and the
other being blind, he was in total darkness.
When he was carried down, the surgeon, —
in the midst of a scene scarcely to be conceived
by those who have never seen a cockpit in time
of action, and the heroism which is displayed
amid its horrors, — with a natural and pardon-
able eagerness, quitted the poor fellow then
under his hands, that he might instantly attend
the Admiral. "No !" said Nelson, "I will take
my turn with my brave fellows." Nor would
he suffer his own wound to be examined till
every man who had been previously wounded
was properly attended to. Fully believing that
the wound was mortal, and that he was about
to die, as he had ever desired, in battle, and in
victory, he called the chaplain, and desired
him to deliver what he supposed to be his dy-
ing remembrance to Lady Nelson: he then sent
for Captain Louis on board from the Minotaur,
that he might thank him personally for the great
assistance which he had rendered to the Van-
guard; and, ever mindful of those who deserved
to be his friends, appointed Captain Hardy
from the brig to the command of his own ship,
Captain Berry having to go home with the news
of the victory. When the surgeon came in due
time to examine his wound (for it was in vain
to entreat him to let it be examined sooner),
the most anxious silence prevailed; and the
joy of the wounded men, and of the whole
crew, when they heard that the hurt was merely
superficial, gave Nelson deeper pleasure, than
the unexpected assurance that his life was in
no danger. The surgeon requested, and as far
as he could, ordered him to remain quiet: but
Nelson could not rest. He called for his secre-
tary, Mr. Campbell, to write the despatches.
Campbell had himself been wounded; and
was so affected at the blind and suffering
state of the Admiral, that he was unable to
write. The chaplain was then sent for; but,
before he came, Nelson, with his characteristic
eagerness, took the pen, and contrived to trace
a few words, marking his devout sense of the
success which had already been obtained. He
was now left alone; when suddenly a cry was
heard on the deck, that the Orient was on fire.
In the confusion, he found his way up, unas-
sisted and unnoticed, and, to the astonishment
of every one, appeared on the quarter-deck,
where he immediately gave orders that boats
should be sent to the relief of the enemy.
It was soon after nine that the fire on board
the Orient broke out. Brueys was dead: he
had received three wounds, yet would not leave
his post: a fourth cut him almost in two.
He desired not to be carried below, but to
be left to die upon deck. The flames soon
mastered his ship. Her sides had just been
painted; and the oil-jars and paint-buckets
were lying on the poop. By the prodigious
light of this conflagration, the situation of the
two fleets could now be perceived, the colours
of both being clearly distinguishable. About
ten o'clock the ship blew up, with a shock
which was felt to the very bottom of every
vessel.
Many of her officers and men jumped over-
board, some clinging to the spars and pieces
of wreck, with which the sea was strewn,
others swimming to escape from the destruction
which they momentarily dreaded. Some were
picked up by our boats; and some, even in the
heat and fury of the action, were dragged into
the lower ports of the nearest British vessel
by the British sailors. The greater part of her
crew, however, stood the danger till the last,
and continued to fire from the lower deck.
This tremendous explosion was followed by
a silence not less awful: the firing immediately
ceased on both sides; and the first sound which
broke the silence was the dash of her shattered
masts and yards, falling into the water from
THE LIFE OF NELSON
325
the vast height to which they had been exploded.
It is upon record, that a battle between two
armies was once broken off by an earthquake:
such an event would be felt like a miracle ; but
no incident in war, produced by human means,
has ever equalled the sublimity of this co-in-
stantaneous pause, and all its circumstances.
About seventy of the Orient's crew were
saved by the English boats. Among the many
hundreds who perished were the Commodore,
Casa-Bianca, and his son, a brave boy, only ten
years old. They were seen floating on a shat-
tered mast when the ship blew up. She had
money on board (the plunder of Malta) to the
amount of 6oo,ooo/. sterling. The masses of
burning wreck, which were scattered by the
explosion, excited for some moments appre-
hensions in the English which they had never
felt from any other danger. Two large pieces
fell into the main and fore tops of the Swift-
sure, without injuring any person. A port-fire
also fell into the main-royal of the Alexander:
the fire which it occasioned was speedily ex-
tinguished. Captain Ball had provided, as far
as human foresight could provide, against any
such danger. All the shrouds and sails of his
ship, not absolutely necessary for its immediate
management, were thoroughly wetted, and so
rolled up, that they were as hard and as little
inflammable as so many solid cylinders.
The firing recommenced with the ships to
leeward of the centre, and continued till about
three. At daybreak, the Guillaume Tell, and
the Genereux, the two rear ships of the enemy,
were the only French ships of the line which
had their colours flying; they cut their cables
in the forenoon, not having been engaged, and
stood out to sea, and two frigates with them.
The Zealous pursued; but as there was no
other ship in a condition to support Captain
Hood, he was recalled. It was generally
believed by the officers, that if Nelson had not
been wounded, not one of these ships could
have escaped: the four certainly could not, if
the Culloden had got into action; and if the
frigates belonging to the squadron had been
present, not one of the enemy's fleet would have
left Aboukir Bay. These four vessels, however,
were all that escaped; and the victory was the
most complete and glorious in the annals of
naval history. "Victory," said Nelson, "is
not a name strong enough for such a scene";
he called it a conquest. Of thirteen sail of the
line, nine were taken, and two burnt: of the
four frigates, one was sunk, another, the Arte-
mise, was burnt in a villainous manner by her
captain, M. Estandlet, who, having fired a
broadside at the Theseus, struck his colours,
then set fire to the ship, and escaped with most
of his crew to shore. The British loss, in killed
and wounded, amounted to 895. Westcott
was the only captain who fell: 3,105 of the
French, including the wounded, were sent on
shore by cartel, and 5,225 perished.
As soon as the conquest was completed,
Nelson sent orders through the fleet, to return
thanksgiving in every ship for the victory with
which Almighty God had blessed his Majesty's
arms. The French at Rosetta, who with mis-
erable fear beheld the engagement, were at a
loss to understand the stillness of the fleet
during the performance of this solemn duty;
but it seemed to affect many of the prisoners,
officers as well as men : and graceless and god-
less as the officers were, some of them re-
marked, that it was no wonder such order was
preserved in the British navy, when the minds
of our men could be impressed with such senti-
ments after so great a victory, and at a moment
of such confusion. — The French at Rosetta,
seeing their four ships sail out of the bay
unmolested, endeavoured to persuade them-
selves that they were in possession of the place
of battle. But it was in vain thus to attempt,
against their own secret and certain conviction,
to deceive themselves: and even if they could
have succeeded in this, the bonfires which the
Arabs kindled along the whole coast, and over
the country, for the three following nights,
would soon have undeceived them. Thousands
of Arabs and Egyptians lined the shore, and
covered the housetops during the action, re-
joicing in the destruction which had overtaken
their invaders. Long after the battle, innu-
merable bodies were seen floating about the bay,
in spite of all the exertions which were made to
sink them, as well from fear of pestilence, as
from the loathing and horror which the sight
occasioned. Great numbers were cast up upon
the Island of Bekier (Nelson's Island, it has
since been called), and our sailors raised mounds
of sand over them. Even after an interval of
nearly three years Dr. Clarke saw them, and
assisted in interring heaps of human bodies,
which, having been thrown up by the sea,
where there were no jackals to devour them,
presented a sight loathsome to humanity. The
shore, for an extent of four leagues, was cov-
ered with wreck; and the Arabs found employ-
ment for many days in burning on the beach
the fragments which were cast up, for the sake
of the iron. Part of the Orient's main-mast
326
ROBERT SOUTHEY
was picked up by the Swiftsure. Captain
Hallowell ordered his carpenter to make a
coffin of it ; the iron as well as wood was taken
from the wreck of the same ship; it was fin-
ished as well and handsomely as the workman's
skill and materials would permit; and Hal-
lowell then sent it to the Admiral with the fol-
lowing letter, — "Sir, I have taken the liberty
of presenting you a coffin made from the main-
mast of L'Orient, that when you have finished
your military career in this world, you may
be buried in one of your trophies. But that
that period may be far distant, is the earnest
wish of your sincere friend, Benjamin Hal-
lowell." An offering so strange, and yet so
suited to the occasion, was received by Nelson
in the spirit with which it was sent. As he
felt it good for him, now that he was at the
summit of his wishes, to have death before his
eyes, he ordered the coffin to be placed upright
in his cabin. Such a piece of furniture, how-
ever, was more suitable to his own feelings than
to those of his guests and attendants; and an
old favourite servant entreated him so earnestly
to let it be removed, that at length he consented
to have the coffin carried below: but h'e gave
strict orders that it should be safely stowed,
and reserved for the purpose for which its brave
and worthy donor had designed it.
The victory was complete ; but Nelson could
not pursue it as he would have done, for want
of means. Had he been provided with small
craft, nothing could have prevented the de-
struction of the store-ships and transports in the
port of Alexandria : — four bomb-vessels would
at that time have burnt the whole in a few hours.
"Were I to die this moment," said he in his
despatches to the Admiralty, "want of frigates
would be found stamped on my heart! No
words of mine can express what I have suffered,
and am suffering, for want of them." He had
also to bear up against great bodily suffering;
the blow had so shaken his head, that from its
constant and violent aching, and the perpetual
sickness which accompanied the pain, he could
scarcely persuade himself that the skull was not
fractured. Had it not been for Troubridge,
Ball, Hood, and Hallowell, he declared that he
should have sunk under the fatigue of refitting
the squadron. "All," he said, "had done well;
but these officers were his supporters." But,
amidst his sufferings and exertions, Nelson could
yet think of all the consequences of his victory;
and that no advantage from it might be lost, he
despatched an officer overland to India, with
letters to the Governor of Bombay, informing
him of the arrival of the French in Egypt, the
total destruction of their fleet, and the conse-
quent preservation of India from any attempt
against it on the par^of this formidable arma-
ment. " He knew that Bombay,'' he said, "was
their first object, if they could get there ; but he
trusted that Almighty God would overthrow in
Egypt these pests of the human race. Buona-
parte had never yet had to contend with an
English officer, and he would endeavour to
make him respect us." This despatch he sent
upon his own responsibility, with letters of
credit upon the East India Company, ad-
dressed to the British consuls, vice-consuls,
and merchants on his route; Nelson saying,
"that if he had done wrong, he hoped the bills
would be paid, and he would repay the Com-
pany: for, as an Englishman, he should be
proud that it had been in his power to put our
settlements on their guard." The information
which by this means reached India was of great
importance. Orders had just been received
for defensive preparations, upon a scale pro-
portionate to the apprehended danger; and
the extraordinary expenses which would other-
wise have been incurred were thus prevented.
Nelson was now at the summit of glory:
congratulations, rewards, and honours were
showered upon him by all the states, and
princes, and powers to whom his victory gave
a respite. The first communication of this
nature which he received was from the Turkish
Sultan : who, as soon as the invasion of Egypt
was known, had called upon "all true believers
to take arms against those swinish infidels the
French, that they might deliver these blessed
habitations from their accursed hands"; and
who had ordered his "Pashas to turn night into
day in their efforts to take vengeance." The
present of "his Imperial Majesty, the power-
ful, formidable, and most magnificent Grand
Seignior," was a pelisse of sables, with broad
sleeves, valued at five thousand dollars; and a
diamond aigrette, valued at eighteen thousand
— the most honourable badge among the
Turks; and in this instance more especially
honourable, because it was taken from one of
the royal turbans. " If it were worth a million,"
said Nelson to his wife, "my pleasure would
be to see it in your possession." The Sultan
also sent, in a spirit worthy of imitation, a purse
of two thousand sequins, to be distributed
among the wounded. The mother of the
Sultan sent him a box, set with diamonds,
valued at one thousand pounds. The Czar
Paul, in whom the better part of his strangely
THE LIFE OF NELSON
327
compounded nature at this time predominated,
presented him with his portrait, set in dia-
monds, in a gold box, accompanied with a letter
of congratulation, written by his own hand.
The King of Sardinia also wrote to him, and
sent a gold box, set with diamonds. Honours
in profusion were awaiting him at Naples. In
his own country the king granted these honour-
able augmentations to his armorial ensign: a
chief undulated, argent; thereon waves of the
sea ; from which a palm-tree issuant, between
a disabled ship on the dexter, and a ruinous
battery on the sinister, all -proper; and for his
crest, on a naval crown, or, the chelengk, or
plume, presented to him by the Turk, with the
motto, Palmam qui meruit ferat. And to his
supporters, being a sailor on the dexter, and a
lion on the sinister, were given these honourable
augmentations: a palm-branch, in the sailor's
hand, and another in the paw of the lion, both
proper ; with a tri-coloured flag and staff in the
lion's mouth. He was created Baron Nelson
of the Nile and of Burnham Thorpe, with a
pension of 2,oool. for his own life, and those
of his two immediate successors. When the
grant was moved in the House of Commons,
General Walpole expressed an opinion, that a
higher degree of rank ought to be conferred.
Mr. Pitt made answer, that he thought it
needless to enter into that question. "Admiral
Nelson's fame," he said, "would be co-equal
with the British name: and it would be re-
membered that he had obtained the greatest
naval victory on record, when no man would
think of asking whether he had been created a
baron, a viscount, or an earl !" It was strange
that, in the very act of conferring a title, the
minister should have excused himself for not
having conferred a higher one, by representing
all titles, on such an occasion, as nugatory and
superfluous. True, indeed, whatever title
had been bestowed, whether viscount, earl,
marquis, duke, or prince, if our laws had so
permitted, he who received it would have been
Nelson still. That name he had ennobled
beyond all addition of nobility: it was the name
by which England loved him, France feared
him, Italy, Egypt, and Turkey celebrated him;
and by which he will continue to be known
while the present kingdoms and languages of
the world endure, and as long as their history
after them shall be held in remembrance. It
depended upon the degree of rank what should
be the fashion of his coronet, in what page of
the red book his name was to be inserted, and
what precedency should be allowed his lady
in the drawing-room and at the ball. That
Nelson's honours were affected thus far, and
no farther, might be conceded to Mr. Pitt and
his colleagues in administration : but the degree
of rank which they thought proper to allot was
the measure of their gratitude, though not of
his services. This Nelson felt; and this he
expressed, with indignation, among his friends.
Whatever may have been the motives of the
ministry, and whatever the formalities with
which they excnsed their conduct to themselves,
the importance and magnitude of the victory
were universally acknowledged. A grant of
io,ooo/. was voted to Nelson by the East India
Company; the Turkish Company presented
him with a piece of plate ; the City of London
presented a sword to him, and to each of his
captains; gold medals were distributed to the
Captains; and the First Lieutenants of all the
ships were promoted, as had been done after
Lord Howe's victory. Nelson was exceedingly
anxious that the Captain and First Lieutenant
of the Culloden should not be passed over
because of their misfortune. To Troubridge
himself he said, "Let us rejoice that the ship
which got on shore was commanded by an
officer whose character is so thoroughly estab-
lished." To the Admiralty he stated, that
Captain Troubridge's conduct was as fully
entitled to praise as that of any one officer in
the squadron, and as highly deserving of re-
ward. "It was Troubridge," said he, "who
equipped the squadron so soon at Syracuse:
it was Troubridge who exerted himself for me
after the action : it was Troubridge who saved
the Culloden, when none that I know in the
service would have attempted it." The gold
medal, therefore, by the king's express desire,
was given to Captain Troubridge, "for his ser-
vices both before and since, and for the great
and wonderful exertion which he made at the
time of the action, in saving and getting off
his ship." The private letter from the Ad-
miralty to Nelson informed him, that the First
Lieutenants of all the ships engaged were to •
be promoted. Nelson instantly wrote to the
Commander-in-Chief. "I sincerely hope,"
said he, "this is not intended to exclude the
First Lieutenant of the Culloden. For Heaven's
sake — for my sake — if it be so, get it altered.
Our dear friend Troubridge has endured
enough. His sufferings were, in every respect,
more than any of us." To the Admiralty he
wrote in terms equally warm. "I hope, and
believe, the word engaged is not intended to
exclude the Culloden. The merit of that ship,
328
JANE AUSTEN
and her gallant captain are too well known to
benefit by anything I could say. Her misfor-
tune was great in getting aground, while her
more fortunate companions were in the full
tide of happiness. No; I am confident that
my good Lord Spencer will never add misery
to misfortune. Captain Troubridge on shore
is superior to captains afloat: in the midst of
his great misfortunes he made those signals
which prevented certainly the Alexander and
Swiftsure from running on the shoals. I beg
your pardon for writing on a subject which, I
verily believe, has never entered your lordship's
head ; but my heart, as it ought to be, is warm
to my gallant friends." Thus feelingly alive
was Nelson to the claims, and interests, and
feelings of others. The Admiralty replied,
that the exception was necessary, as the ship
had not been in action: but they desired the
Commander-in-Chief to promote the Lieu-
tenant upon the first vacancy which should
occur
JANE AUSTEN (1775-1817)
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
CHAPTER I
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that
a single man in possession of a good fortune
must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views
of such a man may be on his first entering a
neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the
minds of the surrounding families, that he is
considered as the rightful property of some
one or other of their daughters.
"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to
him one day, "Have you heard that Nether-
field Park is let at last?"
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long
has just been here, and she told me all about
it."
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
"Do not you want to know who has taken
it?" cried his wife impatiently.
" You want to tell me, and I have no objec-
tion to hearing it."
This was invitation enough.
"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long
says that Netherfield is taken by a young man
of large fortune from the north of England;
that he came down on Monday in a chaise and
four to see the place, and was so much delighted
with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris im-
mediately; that he is to take possession before
Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to
be in the house by the end of next week."
"What is his name?"
"Bingley."
"Is he married or single?"
"Oh ! single, my dear, to be sure ! A single
man of large fortune ; four or five thousand a
year. What a fine thing for our girls ! "
"How so? how can it affect them?"
"My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife,
"how can you be so tiresome ! you must know
that I am thinking of his marrying one of
them."
"Is that his design in settling here?"
"Design! nonsense, how can you talk so!
But it is very likely that he may fall in love
with one of them, and therefore you must
visit him as soon as he comes."
"I see no occasion for that. You and the
girls may go, or you may send them by them-
selves, which perhaps will be still better, for as
you are as handsome as any of them, Mr.
Bingley might like you the best of the party."
"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have
had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend
to be anything extraordinary now. When a
woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought
to give over thinking of her own beauty."
"In such cases, a woman has not often much
beauty to think of."
"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see
Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neigh-
bourhood."
"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."
"But consider your daughters. Only think
what an establishment it would be for one of
them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are de-
termined to go, merely on that account, for
in general, you know, they visit no new-comers.
Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible
for us to visit him if you do not."
"You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare
say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you;
and I will send a few lines by you to assure him
of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever
he chooses of the girls: though I must throw
in a good word for my little Lizzy."
"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy
is not a bit better than the others; and I am
sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor
half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are
always giving her the preference."
"They have none of them much to recom-
mend them," replied he; "they are all silly
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
329
and ignorant, like other girls; but Lizzie has
something more of quickness than her sisters."
"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own
children in such a way! You take delight in
vexing me. You have no compassion on my
poor nerves."
"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high
respect for your nerves. They are my old
friends. I have heard you mention them with
consideration these twenty years at least."
"Ah ! you do not know what I suffer."
"But I hope you will get over it, and live to
see many young men of four thousand a year
come into the neighbourhood."
"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should
come, since you will not visit them."
"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there
are twenty, I will visit them all."
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick
parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice,
that the experience of three-and-twenty years
had been insufficient to make his wife under-
stand his character. Her mind was less dif-
ficult to develope. She was a woman of mean
understanding, little information, and uncer-
tain temper. When she was discontented, she
fancied herself nervous. The business of her
life was to get her daughters married ; its solace
was visiting and news.
CHAPTER II
Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those
who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always
intended to visit him, though to the last always
assuring his wife that he should not go; and
till the evening after the visit was paid she had
no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in
the following manner: — Observing his second
daughter employed in trimming a hat, he sud-
denly addressed her with,
"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy."
"We are not in a way to know what Mr.
Bingley likes," said her mother resentfully,
"since we are not to visit."
"But you forget, mamma," said Elizabeth,
"that we shall meet him at the assemblies,
and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce
him."
"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such
thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is
a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no
opinion of her."
"No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I
am glad to find that you do not depend on her
serving you."
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply,
but, unable to contain herself, began scolding
one of her daughters.
"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's
sake ! Have a little compassion on my nerves.
You tear them to pieces."
"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,"
said her father; "she times them ill."
"I do not cough for my own amusement,"
replied Kitty fretfully. "When is your next
ball to be, Lizzy?"
"To-morrow fortnight."
"Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs.
Long does not come back till the day before;
so it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
for she will not know him herself."
"Then, my dear, you may have the advan-
tage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley
to her."
"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when
I am not acquainted with him myself; how can
you be so teasing?"
"I honour your circumspection. A fort-
night's, acquaintance is certainly very little.
One cannot know what a man really is by the
end of a fortnight. But if we do not venture
somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long
and her nieces must stand their chance ; and,
therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness,
if you decline the office, I will take it on myself."
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Ben-
net said only, "Nonsense, nonsense!"
"What can be the meaning of that emphatic
exclamation?" cried he. "Do you consider
the forms of introduction, and the stress that
is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite
agree with you there. What say you, Mary?
for you are a young lady of deep reflection, I
know, and read great books and make extracts."
Mary wished to say something very sensible,
but knew not how.
"While Mary is adjusting her ideas," he con-
tinued, "let us return to Mr. Bingley."
"I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife.
"I am sorry to hear that; but why did not
you tell me so before? If I had known as
much this morning I certainly would not have
called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I
have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape
the acquaintance now."
The astonishment of the ladies was just what
he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps sur-
passing the rest; though, when the first tumult
of joy was over, she began to declare that it
was what she had expected all the while.
"How good it was in you, my dear Mr.
33°
JANE AUSTEN
Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you
at last. I was sure you loved your girls too
well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well,
how pleased I am ! and it is such a good joke,
too, that you should have gone this morning and
never said a word about it till now."
"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you
choose," said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke,
he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of
his wife.
"What an excellent father you have, girls!"
said she, when the door was shut. "I do not
know how you will ever make him amends for
his kindness; or me either, for that matter.
At our time of life it is not so pleasant, I can
tell you, to be making new acquaintance every
day; but for your sakes, we would do anything.
Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest,
I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at
the next ball."
"Oh !" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid;
for though I am the youngest, I'm the tallest."
The rest of the evening was spent in con-
jecturing how soon he would return Mr.
Bennet's visit, and determining when they
should ask him to dinner.
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the
assistance of her five daughters, could ask on
the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
husband any satisfactory description of Mr.
Bingley. They attacked him in various ways
— with barefaced questions, ingenious sup-
positions, and distant surmises; but he eluded
the skill of them all, and they were at last
obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence
of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her report
was highly favourable. Sir William had been
delighted with him. He was quite young,
wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable,
and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at
the next assembly with a large party. Noth-
ing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in
love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley's
heart were entertained.
"If I can but see one of my daughters
happily settled at Netherfield," said Mrs.
Bennet to her husband, "and all the others
equally well married, I shall have nothing to
wish for."
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr.
Bennet's visit, and sat about ten minutes with
him in his library. He had entertained hopes
of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies,
of whose beauty he had heard much; but he
saw only the father. The ladies were some-
what more fortunate, for they had the ad-
vantage of ascertaining from an upper window
that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black
horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards
despatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet
planned the courses that were to do credit
to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived
which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged
to be in town the following day, and, conse-
quently, unable to accept the honour of their
invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite dis-
concerted. She could not imagine what busi-
ness he could have in town so soon after his
arrival in Hertfordshire ; and she began to fear
that he might be always flying about from one
place to another, and never settled at Nether-
field as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted
her fears a little by starting the idea of his being
gone to London only to get a large party for
the ball; and a report soon followed, that Mr.
Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven
gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls
grieved over such a number of ladies, but were
comforted the day before the ball by hearing,
that instead of twelve he had brought only six
from London, — his five sisters and a cousin.
And when the party entered the assembly room
it consisted only of five all together, — Mr.
Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the
eldest, and another young man.
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentle-
manlike; he had a pleasant countenance,
and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters
were fine women, with an air of decided fash-
ion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr.
Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by
his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble
mien, and the report which was in general
circulation within five minutes after his en-
trance, of his having ten thousand a year.
The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine
figure of a man, the ladies declared he was
much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was
looked at with great admiration for about half
the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
which turned the tide of his popularity; for
he was discovered to be proud, to be above his
company, and above being pleased ; and not all
his large estate in Derbyshire could then save
him from having a most forbidding, disagree-
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
331
able countenance, and being unworthy to be
compared with his friend.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself ac-
quainted with all the principal people in the
room; he was lively and unreserved, danced
every dance, was angry that the ball closed
so early, and talked of giving one himself at
Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must
speak for themselves. What a contrast between
him and his friend ! Mr. Darcy danced only
once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss
Bingley, declined being introduced to any other
lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walk-
ing about the room, speaking occasionally
to one of his own party. His character was
decided. He was the proudest, most disagree-
able man in the world, and everybody hoped
that he would never come there again.
Amongst the most violent against him was
Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general be-
haviour was sharpened into particular resent-
ment by his having slighted one of her daugh-
ters.
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the
scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two
dances; and during part of that time, Mr.
Darcy had been standing near enough for her
to overhear a conversation between him and
Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a
few minutes, to press his friend to join it.
"Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you
dance. I hate to see you standing about by
yourself in this stupid manner. You had much
better dance."
"I certainly shall not. You know how I
detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted
with my partner. At such an assembly as this
it would be insupportable. Your sisters are
engaged, and there is not another woman in
the room whom it would not be a punishment
to me to stand up with."
"I would not be so fastidious as you are,"
cried Bingley, "for a kingdom! Upon my
honour, I never met with so many pleasant
girls in my life as I have this evening; and there
are several of them you see uncommonly
pretty."
" You are dancing with the only handsome
girl in the room," said Mr. Darcy, looking at
the eldest Miss Sennet.
"Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I
ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters
sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty,
and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask
my partner to introduce you."
"Which do you mean?" and turning round
he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catch-
ing her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly
said, "She is tolerable, but not handsome
enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour
at present to give consequence to young ladies
who are slighted by other men. You had better
return to your partner and enjoy her smiles,
for you are wasting your time with me."
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr.
Darcy walked off ; and Elizabeth remained with
no very cordial feelings towards him. She told
the story, however, with great spirit among her
friends ; for she had a lively, playful disposition,
which delighted in anything ridiculous.
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly
to the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen
her eldest daughter much admired by the
Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced
with her twice, and she had been distinguished
by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified
by this as her mother could be, though in a
quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure.
Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss
Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the
neighbourhood ; and Catherine and Lydia had
been fortunate enough to be never without
partners, which was all that they had yet learned
to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore,
in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where
they lived, and of which they were the principal
inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up.
With a book he was regardless of time; and
on the present occasion he had a good deal
of curiosity as to the event of an evening which
had raised such splendid expectations. He
had rather hoped that all his wife's views on
the stranger would be disappointed; but he
soon found that he had a very different story
to hear.
" Oh ! my dear Mr. Bennet," as she entered
the room, "we have had a most delightful
evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had
been there. Jane was so admired, nothing
could be like it. Everybody said how well she
looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite
beautiful, and danced with her twice ! Only
think of that, my dear; he actually danced
with her twice ! and she was the only
creature in the room that he asked a second
time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas.
I was so vexed to see him stand up with her!
but, however, he did not admire her at all;
indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed
quite struck with Jane as she was going down
the dance. So he inquired who she was, and
got introduced, and asked her for the two next.
332
JANE AUSTEN
Then the two third he danced with Miss King
and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the
two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth
with Lizzie and the Boulanger."
"If he had had any compassion for me"
cried her husband impatiently, "he would not
have danced half so much! For God's sake,
say no more of his partners. O that he had
sprained his ankle in the first dance!"
"Oh! my dear," continued Mrs. Bennet,
"I am quite delighted with him. He is so
excessively handsome! and his sisters are
charming women. I never in my life saw
anything more elegant than their dresses. I
dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown — "
Here she was interrupted again. Mr.
Bennet protested against any description of
finery. She was therefore obliged to seek
another branch of the subject, and related with
much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration,
the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
"But I can assure you," she added, "that
Lizzie does not lose much by not suiting his
fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid
man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and
so conceited that there was no enduring him !
He walked here, and he walked there, 'fancying
himself so very great ! Not handsome enough
to dance with ! I wish you had been there,
my dear, to have given him one of your set-
downs. I quite detest the man."
CHAPTER IV
When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the
former, who had been cautious in her praise
of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister
how very much she admired him.
"He is just what a young man ought to be,"
said she, "sensible, good-humoured, lively;
and I never saw such happy manners ! — so
much ease, with such perfect good-breeding ! "
"He is also handsome," replied Elizabeth;
"which a young man ought likewise to be,
if he possibly can. His character is thereby
complete."
"I was very much flattered by his asking me
to dance a second time. I did not expect such
a compliment."
"Did not you? 7 did for you. But that
is one great difference between us. Compli-
ments always take you by surprise, and me
never. What could be more natural than his
asking you again? He could not help seeing
that you were about five times as pretty as every
other woman in the room. No thanks to his
gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is very
agreeable, and I give you leave to like him.
You have liked many a stupider person."
"Dear Lizzy!"
"Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you
know, to like people in general. You never
see a fault in anybody. All the world are
good and agreeable in your eyes. I never
heard you speak ill of a human being in my
life."
"I would wish not to be hasty in censuring
any one; but I always speak what I think."
"I know you do; and it is that which makes
the wonder. With your good sense, to be so
honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of
others! Affectation of candour is common
enough — one meets it everywhere. But to
be candid without ostentation or design — to
take the good of everybody's character and
make it still better, and say nothing of the bad
— belongs to you alone. And so you like this
man's sisters, too, do you? Their manners
are not equal to his."
"Certainly not — at first. But they are
very pleasing women when you converse with
them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother,
and keep his house; and I am much mistaken
if we shall not find a very charming neighbour
in her."
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not con-
vinced; their behaviour at the assembly had
not been calculated to please in general; and
with more quickness of observation and less
pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a
judgment, too, unassailed by any attention to
herself, she was very little disposed to approve
them. They were in fact very fine ladies;
not deficient in good humour when they were
pleased, nor in the power of being agreeable
when they chose it, but proud and conceited.
They were rather handsome, had been edu-
cated in one of the first private seminaries in
town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds,
were in the habit of spending more than they
ought, and of associating with people of rank,
and were therefore in every respect entitled to
think well of themselves, and meanly of others.
They were of a respectable family in the north
of England; a circumstance more deeply im-
pressed on their memories than that their
brother's fortune and their own had been
acquired by trade.
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount
of nearly an hundred thousand pounds from
his father, who had intended to purchase an
estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
333
intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice
of his county; but as he was now provided with
a good house and the liberty of a manor, it
was doubtful to many of those who best knew
the easiness of his temper, whether he might
not spend the remainder of his days at Nether-
field, and leave the next generation to purchase.
His sisters were very anxious for his having
an estate of his own ; but, though he was now
established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was
by no means unwilling to preside at his table
— nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a
man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed
to consider his house as her home when it
suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of age
two years, when he was tempted by an acci-
dental recommendation to look at Netherfield
House. He did look at it, and into it for half-
an-hour — was pleased with the situation and
the principal rooms, satisfied with what the
owner said in its praise, and took it imme-
diately.
Between him and Darcy there was a very
steady friendship, in spite of great opposition
of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy
by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his
temper, though no disposition could offer a
greater contrast to his own, and though with
his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On
the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley had the
firmest reliance, and of his judgment the high-
est opinion. In understanding, Darcy was the
superior. Bingley was by no means deficient,
but Darcy was clever. He was at the same
time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his
manners, though well-bred, were not inviting.
In that respect his friend had greatly the ad-
vantage. Bingley was sure of being liked
wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
giving offence.
The manner in which they spoke of the
Meryton assembly was sufficiently character-
istic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter
people or prettier girls in his life; everybody
had been most kind and attentive to him;
there had been no formality, no stiffness;
he had soon felt acquainted with all the room ;
and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive
an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the
contrary, had s6en a collection of people in
whom there was little beauty and no fashion,
for none of whom he had felt the smallest in-
terest, and from none received either attention
or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to
be pretty, but she smiled too much.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so
— but still they admired her and liked her,
and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one
whom they should not object to know more of.
Miss Bennet was therefore established as a
sweet girl, and their brother felt authorised by
such commendation to think of her as he chose.
CHAPTER V
Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a
family with whom the Bennets were particu-
larly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been
formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had
made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the
honour of knighthood by an address to the king
during his mayoralty. The distinction had
perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given
him a disgust to his business, and to his resi-
dence in a small market town; and, quitting
them both, he had removed with his family
to a house about a mile from Meryton, denomi-
nated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
could think with pleasure of his own importance,
and, unshackled by business, occupy himself
solely in being civil to all the world. For,
though elated by his rank, it did not render
him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all
attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive,
friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St.
James's had made him courteous.
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman,
not too clever to be a valuable neighbour
to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children.
The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young
woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth's
intimate friend.
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets
should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely
necessary; and the morning after the assembly
brought the former to Longbourn to hear and
to communicate.
" You began the evening well, Charlotte,"
said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to
Miss Lucas. " You were Mr. Bingley's first
choice."
"Yes; but he seemed to like his second
better."
"Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because
he danced with her twice. To be sure that did
seem as if he admired her — indeed I rather
believe he did — I heard something about it
— but I hardly know what — something about
Mr. Robinson."
"Perhaps you mean what I overheard be-
tween him and Mr. Robinson ; did not I men-
334
JANE AUSTEN
tion it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him
how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and
whether he did not think there were a great
many pretty women in the room, and which
he thought the prettiest? and his answering
immediately to the last question — ' Oh ! the
eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there
cannot be two opinions on that point.'"
"Upon my word! — Well, that was very
decided indeed — that does seem as if — but,
however, it may all come to nothing, you
know."
"My overhearings were more to the pur-
pose than yours, Eliza," said Charlotte. "Mr.
Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his
friend, is he? — Poor Eliza ! — to be only just
tolerable."
"I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's
head to be vexed by his ill-treatment, for he is
such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite
a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long
told me last night that he sat close to her for
half-an-hour without once opening his lips."
"Are you quite sure, ma'am? — is not there
a little mistake?" said Jane. "I certainly saw
Mr. Darcy speaking to her."
"Aye — because she asked him at last how
he liked Netherfield, and he could not help
answering her; but she said he seemed very
angry at being spoke to."
"Miss Bingley told me," said Jane, "that
he never speaks much, unless among his inti-
mate acquaintance. With them he is remark-
ably agreeable."
"I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If
he had been so very agreeable, he would have
talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it
was; everybody says that he is eat up with
pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow
that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and
had come to the ball in a hack chaise."
"I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,"
said Miss Lucas, "but I wish he had danced
with Eliza."
"Another time, Lizzy," said her mother,
"I would not dance with him, if I were you."
"I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you
never to dance with him."
"His pride," said Miss Lucas, "does not
offend me so much as pride often does, because
there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder
that so very fine a young man, with family,
fortune, everything in his favour, should think
highly of himself. If I may so express it, he
has a right to be proud."
"That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and
I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not
mortified mine."
"Pride," observed Mary, who piqued her-
self upon the solidity of her reflections, " is
a very common failing, I believe. By all that
I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very
common indeed; that human nature is par-
ticularly prone to it, and that there are very
few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-
complacency on the score of some quality or
the other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride
are different things, though the words are often
used synonymously. A person may be proud
without being vain. Pride relates more to our
opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would
have others think of us."
"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy," cried a
young Lucas, who came with his sisters, "I
should not care how proud I was. I would
keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle
of wine every day."
"Then you would drink a great deal more
than you ought," said Mrs. Bennet; "and if I
were to see you at it, I should take away your
bottle directly."
The boy protested that she should not; she
continued to declare that she would, and the
argument ended only with the visit.
CHAPTER VI
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on
those of Netherfield. The visit was returned
in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners
grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley; and though the mother was found to
be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth
speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted
with them was expressed towards the two
eldest. By Jane, this attention was received
with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth still
saw superciliousness in their treatment of every-
body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could
not like them; though their kindness to Jane,
such as it was, had a value as arising in all
probability from the influence of their brother's
admiration. It was generally evident when-
ever they met that he did admire her; and to
her it was equally evident that Jane was yield-
ing to the preference which she had begun to
entertain for him from the first, and was in a
way to be very much in love ; but she considered
with pleasure that it was not likely to be dis-
covered by the world in general, since Jane
united, with great strength of feeling, a com-
posure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
335
of manner which would guard her from the
suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned
this to her friend Miss Lucas.
"It may perhaps be pleasant," replied Char-
lotte, "to be able to impose on the public in
such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvan-
tage to be so very guarded. If a woman con-
ceals her affection with the same skill from the
object of it, she may lose the opportunity of
fixing him; and it will then be but poor con-
solation to believe the world equally in the dark.
There is so much of gratitude or vanity in
almost every attachment, that it is not safe to
leave any to itself. We can all begin freely —
a slight preference is natural enough : but there
are very few of us who have heart enough to
be really in love without encouragement. In
nine cases out of ten a woman had better show
more affection than she feels. Bingley likes
your sister, undoubtedly; but he may never
do more than like her, if she does not help
him on."
"But she does help him on, as much as her
nature will allow. If / can perceive her regard
for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not
to discover it too."
"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know
Jane's disposition as you do."
"But if a woman is partial to a man, and
does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find
it out."
"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her.
But, though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably
often, it is never for many hours together; and
as they always see each other in large mixed
parties, it is impossible that every moment
should be employed in conversing together.
Jane should therefore make the most 'of every
half-hour in which she can command his
attention. When she is secure of him, there
will be leisure for falling in love as much as
she chooses."
"Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth,
"where nothing is in question but the desire of
being well married; and if I were determined
to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare
say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane's
feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet,
she cannot even be certain of the degree of
her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She
has known him only a fortnight. She danced
four dances with him at Meryton; she saw
him one morning at his own house, and has
since dined in company with him four times.
This is not quite enough to make her under-
stand his character."
"Not as you represent it. Had she merely
dined with him, she might only have discovered
whether he had a good appetite ; but you must
remember that four evenings have been also
spent together — and four evenings may do a
great deal."
"Yes; these four evenings have enabled
them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un
better than.Commerce ; but with respect to any
other leading characteristic, I do not imagine
that much has been unfolded."
"Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane suc-
cess with all my heart ; and if she were married
to him to-morrow, I should think she had as
good a chance of happiness as if she were to
be studying his character for a twelve-month.
Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of
chance. If the dispositions of the parties are
ever so well known to each other or ever so
similar beforehand, it does not advance their
felicity in the least. They always continue to
grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their
share of vexation ; and it is better to know as
little as possible of the defects of the person with
whom you are to pass your life."
"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is
not sound. You know it is not sound, and that
you would never act in this way yourself."
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's atten-
tions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from sus-
pecting that she was herself becoming an object
of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr.
Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be
pretty; he had looked at her without admira-
tion at the ball; and when they next met, he
looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner
had he made it clear to himself and his friends
that she had hardly a good feature in her face,
than he began to find it was rendered uncom-
monly intelligent by the beautiful expression of
her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded
some others equally mortifying. Though he
had detected with a critical eye more than one
failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was
forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her
manners were not those of the fashionable
world, he was caught by their easy playfulness.
Of this she was perfectly unaware ; — to her
he was only the man who made himself agree-
able nowhere, and who had not thought her
handsome enough to dance with.
He began to wish to know more of her, and
as a step towards conversing with her him-
self, attended to her conversation with others.
His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir
336
JANE AUSTEN
William Lucas's, where a large party were
assembled.
"What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to
Charlotte, "by listening to my conversation
with Colonel Forster?"
"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only
can answer."
"But if he does it any more I shall certainly
let him know that I see what he is about.
He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not
begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon
grow afraid of him."
On his approaching them soon afterwards,
though without seeming to have any intention
of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to
mention such a subject to him; which im-
mediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she
turned to him and said : —
"Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I
expressed myself uncommonly well just now,
when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give
us a ball at Meryton?"
"With great energy; — but it is a subject
which always makes a lady energetic."
"You are severe on us."
"It will be her turn soon to be teased,"
said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the
instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."
"You are a very strange creature by way
of a friend ! — • always wanting me to play and
sing before anybody and everybody! If my
vanity had taken a musical turn, you would
have been invaluable; but as it is, I would
really rather not sit down before those who
must be in the habit of hearing the very best
performers." On Miss Lucas's persevering,
however, she added, "Very well; if it must be
so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr.
Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which
everybody here is of course familiar with —
' Keep your breath to cool your porridge,' —
and I shall keep mine to swell my song."
Her performance was pleasing, though by
no means capital. After a song or two, and
before she could reply to the entreaties of
several that she would sing again, she was
eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
sister Mary, who having, in consequence of
being the only plain one in the family, worked
hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was
always impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and
though vanity had given her application, it had
given her likewise a pedantic air and con-
ceited manner, which would have injured a
higher degree of excellence than she had
reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had
been listened to with much more pleasure,
though not playing half so well; and Mary,
at the end of a long concerto, was glad to
purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and
Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters,
who, with some of the Lucases, and two or
three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one
end of the room.
Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indig-
nation at such a mode of passing the evening,
to the exclusion of all conversation, and was
too much engrossed by his thoughts to per-
ceive that Sir William Lucas was his neigh-
bour, till Sir William thus began,
"What a charming amusement for young
people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing
like dancing after all. I consider it as one of
the first refinements of polished societies."
"Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage
also of being in vogue amongst the less pol-
ished societies of the world. Every savage can
dance."
Sir William only smiled. "Your friend per-
forms delightfully," he continued after a pause,
on seeing Bingley join the group; — "and I
doubt not that you are an adept in the science
yourself, Mr. Darcy."
"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe,
sir."
"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsider-
able pleasure from the sight. Do you often
dance at St. James's?"
"Never, sir."
"Do you not think it would be a proper
compliment to the place?" .
"It is a compliment which I never pay to
any place if I can avoid it."
"You have a house in town, I conclude?"
Mr. Darcy bowed.
"I had once some thoughts of fixing in
town myself — for I am fond of superior
society; but I did not feel quite certain that
the air of London would agree with Lady
Lucas."
He paused in hopes of an answer; but his
companion was not disposed to make any;
and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards
them, he was struck with the notion of doing
a very gallant thing, and called out to her —
"My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you
dancing? — Mr. Darcy, you must allow me
to present this young lady to you as a very
desirable partner. You . cannot refuse to
dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is
before you." And, taking her hand, he would
CHARLES LAMB
337
have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though ex-
tremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive
it, when she instantly drew back, and said
with some discomposure to Sir William —
"Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention
of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that
I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested
to be allowed the honour of her hand, but
in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did
Sir William at all shake her purpose by his
attempt at persuasion.
"You excel so much in the dance, Miss
Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness
of seeing you; and though this gentleman dis-
likes the amusement in general, he can have
no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one
half-hour."
"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Eliza-
beth, smiling.
"He is indeed; but considering the induce-
ment, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder
at his complaisance — for who would object
to such a partner?"
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away.
Her resistance had not injured her with the
gentleman, and he was thinking of her with
some complacency, when thus accosted by
Miss Bingley —
"I can guess the subject of your reverie."
"I should imagine not."
"You are considering how insupportable it
would be to pass many evenings in this man-
ner — in such society ; and indeed I am quite
of your opinion. I was never more annoyed !
The insipidity, and yet the noise — the noth-
ingness, and yet the self-importance of all
these people ! What would I give to hear
your strictures on them!"
"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure
you. My mind was more agreeably engaged.
I have been meditating on the very great
pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face
of a pretty woman can bestow."
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes
on his face, and desired he would tell her
what lady had the credit of inspiring such
reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great
intrepidity: —
''Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss
Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long
has she been such a favourite ? — and pray,
when am I to wish you joy?"
"That is exactly the question which I ex-
pected you to ask. A lady's imagination is
very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love,
from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew
you would be wishing me joy."
"Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall
consider the matter as absolutely settled. You
will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed;
and, of course, she will be always at Pemberly
with you."
He listened to her with perfect indifference
while she chose to entertain herself in this
manner; and as his composure convinced her
that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834)
THE TWO RACES OF MEN
The human species, according to the best
theory I can form of it, is composed of two
distinct races, the men who borrow, and the
men who lend. To these two original diver-
sities may be reduced all those impertinent
classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes,
white men, black men, red men. All the
dwellers upon earth, "Parthians, and Medes,
and Elamites," flock hither, and do naturally
fall in with one or other of these primary
distinctions. The infinite superiority of the
former, which I choose to designate as the
great race, is discernible in their figure, port,
and a certain instinctive sovereignty. The
latter are born degraded. "He shall serve
his brethren." There is something in the air
of one of this caste, lean and suspicious; con-
trasting with the open, trusting, generous man-
ners of the other.
Observe who have been the greatest bor-
rowers of all ages — Alcibiades — Falstaff —
Sir Richard Steele — our late incomparable
Brinsley — • what a family likeness in all four !
What a careless, even deportment hath your
borrower! what rosy gills! what a beautiful
reliance on Providence doth he manifest, —
taking no more thought than lilies ! What
contempt for money, — accounting it (yours
and mine especially) no better than dross!
What a liberal confounding of those pedantic
distinctions of meum and tuuml or rather,
what a noble simplification of language (be-
yond Tooke), resolving these supposed oppo-
sites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjec-
tive ! — What near approaches doth he make
to the primitive community, — to the extent of
one-half of the principle at least !
He is the true taxer "who calleth all the
world up to be taxed"; and the distance is
CHARLES LAMB
as vast between him and one of usj as sub-
sisted betwixt the Augustan Majesty and the
poorest obolary Jew that paid it tribute-
pittance at Jerusalem ! — His exactions, too,
have such a cheerful, voluntary air! So far
removed from your sour parochial or state-
gatherers, — those ink-horn varlets, who carry
their want of welcome in their faces! He
cometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you
with no receipt; confining himself to no set
season. Every day is his Candlemas, or his
Feast of Holy Michael. He applieth the lene
tormentum of a pleasant look to your purse, —
which to that gentle warmth expands her
silken leaves, .as naturally as the cloak of the
traveller, for which sun and wind contended !
He is the true Propontic which never ebbeth!
The sea which taketh handsomely at each
man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he
delighteth to honour, struggles with destiny;
he is in the net. Lend therefore cheerfully, O
man ordained to lend — that thou lose not in
the end, with thy worldly penny, the reversion
promised. Combine not preposterously in
thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and
of Dives ! — but, when thou seest the proper
authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were
half-way. Come, a handsome sacrifice ! See
how light he makes of it ! Strain not courtesies
with a noble enemy.
Reflections like the foregoing were forced
upon my mind by the death of my old friend,
Ralph Bigod, Esq., who departed this life on
Wednesday evening; dying, as he had lived,
without much trouble. He boasted himself a
descendant from mighty ancestors of that
name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in
this realm. In his actions and sentiments he
belied not the stock to which he pretended.
Early in life he found himself invested with
ample revenues; which, with that noble dis-
interestedness which I have noticed as inherent
in men of the great race, he took almost im-
mediate measures entirely to dissipate and
bring to nothing: for there is something re-
volting in the idea of a king holding a private
purse; and the thoughts of Bigod were all
regal. Thus furnished, by the very act of dis-
furnishment; getting rid of the cumbersome
luggage of riches, more apt (as one sings)
To slacken virtue, and abate her edge,
Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise,
he sets forth, like some Alexander, upon his
great enterprise, "borrowing and to borrow!"
In his periegesis, or triumphant progress
throughout this island, it has been calculated
that he laid a tithe part of the inhabitants
under contribution. I reject this estimate as
greatly exaggerated: but having had the
honour of accompanying my friend, divers
times, in his perambulations about this vast
city, I own I was greatly struck at first with
the prodigious number of faces we met, who
claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with
us. He was one day so obliging as to explain
the phenomenon. It seems, these were his
tributaries; feeders of his exchequer; gentle-
men, his good friends (as he was pleased to
express himself), to whom he had occasionally
been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes
did no way disconcert him. He rather took a
pride in numbering them; and, with Comus,
seemed pleased to be "stocked with so fair a
herd."
With such sources, it was a wonder how he
contrived to keep his treasury always empty.
He did it by force of an aphorism, which he
had often in his mouth, that "money kept
longer than three days stinks." So he made
use of it while it was fresh. A good part he
drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot),
some he gave away, the rest he threw away,
literally tossing and hurling it violently from
him — as boys do burs, or as if it had been
infectious, — into ponds, or ditches, or deep
holes, — inscrutable cavities of the earth : —
or he would bury it (where he would never
seek it again) by a river's side under .some
bank, which (he would facetiously observe)
paid no interest — but out away from him it
must go peremptorily, as Hagar's offspring
into the wilderness, while it was .sweet. He
never missed it. The streams were perennial
which fed his fisc. When new supplies be-
came necessary, the first person that had the
felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger,
was sure to contribute to the deficiency. For
Bigod had an Undeniable way with him. He
had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick jovial
eye, a bald forehead, just touched with grey
(cana fides). He anticipated no excuse, and
found none. And, waiving for a while my
theory as to the great race, I would put it to
the most untheorising reader, who may at
times have disposable coin in his pocket,
whether it is not more repugnant to the kind-
liness of his nature to refuse such a one as I
am describing, than to say no to a poor peti-
tionary rogue (your bastard borrower), who,
by his mumping visnomy, tells you that he
THE TWO RACES OF MEN
339
expects nothing better; and, therefore, whose
preconceived notions and expectations you do
in reality so much less shock in the refusal.
When I think of this man; his fiery glow
of heart; his swell of feeling; how magnifi-
cent, how ideal he was; how great at the mid-
night hour; and when I compare with him
the companions with whom I have associated
since, I grudge the saving of a few idle ducats,
and think that I am fallen into the society of
lenders, and little men.
To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather
cased in leather covers than closed in iron
coffers, there is a class of alienators more
formidable than that which I have touched
upon ; I mean your borrowers of books — those
mutilators of collections, spoilers of the sym-
metry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes.
There is Comberbatch, matchless in his depre-
dations !
That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you,
like a great eye-tooth knocked out — (you are
now with me in my little back study in Blooms-
bury, Reader !) — with the huge Switzer-like
tomes on each side (like the Guildhall giants,
in their reformed posture, guardant of noth-
ing) once held the tallest of my folios, Opera
Bonaventurae, choice and massy divinity, to
which its two supporters (school divinity also,
but of a lesser calibre, — Bellarmine, and
Holy Thomas) showed but as dwarfs, — itself
an Ascapart ! — that Comberbatch abstracted
upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is
more easy, I confess, for me to suffer by than
to refute, namely, that "the title to property
in a book" (my Bonaventure, for instance)
"is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of
understanding and appreciating the same."
Should he go on acting upon this theory,
which of our shelves is safe?
The slight vacuum in the left-hand case —
two shelves from the ceiling — scarcely dis-
tinguishable but by the quick eye of a loser
— was whilom the commodious resting-place
of Browne on Urn Burial. C. will hardly
allege that he knows more about that treatise
than I do, who introduced it to him, and was
indeed the first (of the moderns) to discover
its beauties — but so have I known a foolish
lover to praise his mistress in the presence of
a rival more qualified to carry her off than
himself. — Just below, Dodsley's dramas want
their fourth volume, where Vittoria Corom-
bona is ! The remainder nine are as dis-
tasteful as Priam's refuse sons, when the
fates borrowed Hector. Here stood the Anat-
omy of Melancholy, in sober state. — There
loitered the Complete Angler; quiet as in life,
by some stream side. — In yonder nook, John
Buncle, a widower-volume, with "eyes closed,"
mourns his ravished mate.
One justice I must do my friend, that if he
sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away a treas-
ure, at another time, sea-like, he throws up as
rich an equivalent to match it. I have a small
under-collection of this nature (my friend's
gatherings in his various calls), picked up, he
has forgotten at what odd places, and de-
posited with as little memory at mine. I
take in these orphans, the twice-deserted.
These proselytes of the gate are welcome as
the true Hebrews. There they stand in con-
junction; natives, and naturalised. The latter
seem as little disposed to inquire- out their
true lineage as I am. — I charge no ware-
house-room for these deodands, nor shall ever
put myself to the ungentlemanly trouble of
advertising a sale of them to pay expenses.
To lose a volume to C. carries some sense
and meaning in it. You are sure that he
will make one hearty meal on your viands, if
he can give no account of the platter after it.
But what moved thee, wayward, spiteful K.,
to be so importunate to carry off with thee, in
spite of tears and adjurations to thee to for-
bear, the Letters of that princely woman, the
thrice noble Margaret Newcastle ? — knowing
at the time, and knowing that I knew also,
thou most assuredly wouldst never turn over
one leaf of the illustrious folio : — what but
the mere spirit of contradiction, and childish
love of getting the better of thy friend ? —
Then, worst cut of all! to transport it with
thee to the Gallican land —
Unworthy land to harbour such a sweetness,
A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt,
Pure thoughts, kind -thoughts, high thoughts, her
sex's wonder !
• — hadst thou not thy play-books, and books
of jests and fancies, about thee, to keep thee
merry, even as thou keepest all companies
with thy quips and mirthful tales? Child of
the Greenroom, it was unkindly, unkindly done
of thee. Thy wife, too, that part-French,
better-part-English wo man 1 — that she could
fix upon no other treatise to bear away, in
kindly token of remembering us, than the
works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook — of
which no Frenchman, nor woman of France,
Italy, or England, was ever by nature con-
340
CHARLES LAMB
stituted to comprehend a tittle ! Was there not
Zimmermann on Solitude?
Reader, if haply thou artjolessed with a
moderate collection, be shy of showing it; or
if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, lend
thy books; but let it be to such a one as
S. T. C. — he will return them (generally
anticipating the time appointed) with usury;
enriched with annotations, tripling their value.
I have had experience. Many are these
precious Mss. of his — (in matter oftentimes,
and almost in quantity not unfrequently, vying
with the originals) in no very clerkly hand —
legible in my Daniel; in old Burton; in Sir
Thomas Browne; and those abstruser cogi-
tations of the Greville, now, alas! wandering
in Pagan lands. — I counsel thee, shut not thy
heart, nor thy library, against S. T. C.
MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST
"A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour
of the game." This was the celebrated wish
of old Sarah Battle (now with God), who,
next to her devotions, loved a good game of
whist. She was none of your lukewarm
gamesters, your half-and-half players, who
have no objection to take a hand, if you want
one to make up a rubber; who affirm that
they have no pleasure in winning; that they
like to win one game and lose another; that
they can while away an hour very agreeably
at a card-table, but are indifferent whether
they play or no ; and will desire an adversary
who has slipped a wrong card, to take it up
and play another. These insufferable triflers
are the curse of a table. One of these flies
will spoil a whole pot. Of such it may be
said that they do not play at cards, but only
play at playing at them.
Sarah Battle was none t>f that breed. She
detested them, as I do, from her heart and
soul; and would not, save upon a striking
emergency, willingly seat herself at the same
table with them. She loved a thorough-paced
partner, a determined enemy. She took, and
gave, no concessions. She hated favours.
She never made a revoke, nor ever passed it
over in her adversary without exacting the
utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight:
cut and thrust. She held not her good sword
(her cards) "like a dancer." She sat bolt
upright; and neither showed you her cards,
nor desired to see yours. All people have
their blind side — their superstitions ; and I
have heard her declare, under the rose, that
Hearts was her favourite suit.
I never in my life — and I knew Sarah
Battle many of the best years of it — saw her
take out her snuff-box when it was her turn
to play; or snuff a candle in the middle of a
game; or ring for a servant, till it was fairly
over. She never introduced, or connived at,
miscellaneous conversation during its process.
As she emphatically observed, cards were
cards; and if I ever saw unmingled distaste
in her fine last-century countenance, it was at
the airs of a young gentleman of a literary
turn, who had been with difficulty persuaded
to take a hand; and who, in his excess of
candour, declared, that he thought there was
no harm in unbending the mind now and
then, after' serious studies, in recreations of
that kind ! She could not bear to have her
noble occupation, to which she wound up her
faculties, considered in that light. It was her
business, her duty, the thing she came into
the world to do, — and she did it. She un-
bent her mind afterwards — over a book.
Pope was her favourite author: his Rape
of the Lock her favourite work. She once
did me the favour to play over with me (with
the cards) his celebrated game of Ombre in
that poem; and to explain to me how far it
agreed with, and in what points it would be
found to differ from, tradrille. Her illustra-
tions were apposite and poignant; and I had
the pleasure of sending the substance of them
to Mr. Bowles; but I suppose they came too
late to be inserted among his ingenious notes
upon that author.
Quadrille, she has often told me, was her
first love; but whist had engaged her maturer
esteem. The former, she said, was showy and
specious, and likely to allure young persons.
The uncertainty and quick shifting of partners
— a thing which the constancy of whist ab-
hors; the dazzling supremacy and regal in-
vestiture of Spadille — absurd, as she justly
observed, in the pure aristocracy of whist,
where his crown and garter give him no proper
power above his brother-nobility of the Aces;
— the giddy vanity, so taking to the inexperi-
enced, of playing alone; above all, the over-
powering attractions of a Sans Prendre Vole, —
to the triumph of which there is certainly noth-
ing parallel or approaching, in the contin-
gencies of whist; — all these, she would say,
make quadrille a game of captivation to the
young and enthusiastic. But whist was the sol-
ider game: that was her word. It was a long
MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST
34i
meal; not like quadrille, a feast of snatches.
One of two rubbers might co-extend in dura-
tion with an evening. They gave time to form
rooted friendships, to cultivate steady enmities.
She despised the chance-started, capricious,
and ever-fluctuating alliances of the other.
The skirmishes of quadrille, she would say,
reminded her of the petty ephemeral embroil-
ments of the little Italian states, depicted by
Machiavel: perpetually changing postures and
connections ; bitter foes to-day, sugared darlings
to-morrow; kissing and scratching in a breath;
— but the wars of whist were comparable to
the long, steady, deep-rooted, rational antipa-
thies of the great French and English nations.
A grave simplicity was what she chiefly
admired in her favourite game. There was
nothing silly in it, like the nob . in cribbage —
nothing superfluous. No flushes — that most
irrational of all pleas that a reasonable being
can set up: — that any one should claim four
by virtue of holding cards of the same mark
and colour, without reference to the playing
of the game, or the individual worth or pre-
tensions of the cards themselves! She held
this to be a solecism; as pitiful an ambition
at cards as alliteration is in authorship. She
despised superficiality, and looked deeper than
the colours of things. — Suits were soldiers,
she would say, and must have a uniformity of
array to distinguish them: but what should
we say to a foolish squire, who should claim
a merit from dressing up his tenantry in red
jackets, that never were to be marshalled —
never to take the field ? — She even wished that
whist were more simple than it is; and, in my
mind, would have stripped it of some ap-
pendages, which, in the state of human frailty,
may be venially, and even commendably,
allowed of. She saw no reason for the decid-
ing of the trump by the turn of the card.
Why not one suit always trumps? — Why
two colours, when the mark of the suit would
have sufficiently distinguished them without it ?
"But the eye, my dear madam, is agree-
ably refreshed with the variety. Man is not
a creature of pure reason — he must have his
senses delightfully appealed to. We see it in
Roman Catholic countries, where the music
and the paintings draw in many to worship,
whom your quaker spirit of unsensualising
would have kept out. — You, yourself, have a
pretty collection of paintings — but confess to
me, whether, walking in your gallery at Sand-
ham, among those clear Vandykes, or among
the Paul Potters in the ante-room, you ever
felt your bosom glow with an elegant delight,
at all comparable to that you have it in your
power to experience most evenings over a
well-arranged assortment of the court-cards?
— the pretty antic habits, like heralds in a
procession — the gay triumph-assuring scarlets
— the contrasting deadly-killing sables — the
'hoary majesty of spades' — Pam in all his
glory ! -
"All these might be dispensed with; and
with their naked names upon the drab paste-
board, the game might go on very well, pic-
tureless; but the beauty of cards would be
extinguished forever. Stripped of all that is
imaginative in them, they must degenerate
into mere gambling. Imagine a dull deal
board, or drum head, to spread them on, in-
stead of that nice verdant carpet (next to
nature's), fittest arena for those courtly com-
batants to play their gallant jousts and tourneys
in ! — Exchange those delicately-turned ivory
markers — (work of Chinese artist, uncon-
scious of their symbol, — or as profanely
slighting their true application as the arrant-
est Ephesian journeyman that turned out those
little shrines for the goddess) — exchange them
for little bits of leather (our ancestors' money),
or chalk and a slate !" —
The old lady, with a smile, confessed the
soundness of my logic; and to her approbation
of my arguments on her favourite topic that
evening I have always fancied myself indebted
for the legacy of a curious cribbage-board,
made of the finest Sienna marble, which her
maternal uncle (old Walter Plumer, whom I
have elsewhere celebrated) brought with him
from Florence : — this, and a trifle of five
hundred pounds, came to me at her death.
The former bequest (which I do not least
value) I have kept with religious care; though
she herself, to confess a truth, was never
greatly taken with cribbage. It was an essen-
tially vulgar game, I have heard her say, —
disputing with her uncle, who was very par-
tial to it. She could never heartily bring her
mouth to pronounce "Go," or "That's a go."
She called it an ungrammatical game. The
pegging teased her. I once knew her to for-
feit a rubber (a five-dollar stake) because she
would not take advantage of the turn-up
knave, which would have given it her, but
which she must have claimed by the disgrace-
ful tenure of declaring "two for his heels."
There is something extremely genteel in this
sort of self-denial. Sarah Battle was a gentle-
woman born.
342
CHARLES LAMB
Piquet she held the best game at the cards
for two persons, though she would ridicule the
pedantry of the terms — such as pique — re-
pique — the capot — they savoured (she
thought) of affectation. But games for two,
or even three, she never greatly cared for.
She loved the quadrate, or square. She would
argue thus: — Cards are warfare: the ends
are gain, with glory. But cards are war, in
disguise of a sport: when single adversaries
encounter, the ends proposed are too palpable.
By themselves, it is too close a fight; with
spectators, it is not much bettered. No
looker-on can be interested, except for a bet,
and then it is a mere affair of money; he
cares not for your luck sympathetically, or for
your play. — Three are still worse; a mere
naked war of every man against every man,
as in cribbage, without league or alliance; or
a rotation of petty and contradictory interests,
a succession of heartless leagues, and not
much more hearty infractions of them, as in
tradrille. — But in square games (she meant
•whist), all that is possible to be attained in
card-playing is accomplished. There are the
incentives of profit with honour, common to
every species — though the latter can be but
very imperfectly enjoyed in those other games,
where the spectator is only feebly a partici-
pator. But the parties in whist are specta-
tors and principals too. They are a theatre to
themselves, and a looker-on is not wanted.
He is rather worse than nothing, and an im-
pertinence. Whist abhors neutrality, or in-
terests beyond its sphere. You glory in some
surprising stroke of skill or fortune, not because
a cold — or even an interested — bystander
witnesses it, but because your partner sym-
pathises in the contingency. You win for two.
You triumph for two. Two are exalted.
Two again are mortified; which divides their
disgrace, as the conjunction doubles (by tak-
ing off the invidiousness) your glories. Two
losing to two are better reconciled, than one
to one in that close butchery. The hostile feel-
ing is weakened by multiplying the channels.
War becomes a civil game. By such reason-
ings as these the old lady was accustomed to
defend her favourite pastime.
No inducement could ever prevail upon her
to play at any game, where chance entered
into the composition, for nothing. Chance,
she would argue — and here again, admire
the subtlety of her conclusion ; — chance is
nothing, but where something else depends
upon it. It is obvious, that cannot be glory.
What rational cause of exultation could it
give to a man to turn up size ace a hundred
times together by himself? or before specta-
tors, where no stake was depending ? — Make
a lottery of a hundred thousand tickets with
but one fortunate number — and what pos-
sible principle of our nature, except stupid
wonderment, could it gratify to gain that
number as many times successively without a
prize? Therefore she disliked the mixture of
chance in backgammon, where it was not
played for money. She called it foolish, and
those people idiots, who were taken with a
lucky hit under such circumstances. Games
of pure skill were as little to her fancy. Played
for a stake, they were a mere system of over-
reaching. Played for glory, they were a mere
setting of one man's wit, — his memory, or
combination-faculty rather — against another's ;
like a mock-engagement at a review, bloodless
and profitless. She could not conceive a game
wanting the spritely infusion of chance, the
handsome excuses of good fortune. Two
people playing at chess in a corner of a room,
whilst whist was stirring in the centre, would
inspire her with insufferable horror and ennui.
Those well-cut similitudes of Castles and
Knights, the imagery of the board, she would
argue (and I think in this case justly), were
entirely misplaced and senseless. Those hard-
head contests can in no instance ally with
the fancy. They reject form and colour. A
pencil and dry slate (she used to say) were
the proper arena for such combatants.
To those puny objectors against cards, as
nurturing the bad passions, she would retort,
that man is a gaming animal. He must be
always trying to get the better in something
or other: — that this passion can scarcely be
more safely expended than upon a game at
cards: that cards are a temporary illusion;
in truth, a mere drama; 'for we do but play
at being mightily concerned, where a few idle
shillings are at stake, yet, during the illusion,
we are as mightily concerned as those whose
stake is crowns and kingdoms. They are a
sort of dream -fighting; much ado; great
battling, and little bloodshed; mighty means
for disproportioned ends: quite as diverting,
and a great deal more innoxious, than many
of those more serious games of life, which men
play without esteeming them to be such.
With great deference to the old lady's judg-
ment in these matters, I think I have experi-
enced some moments in my life when playing
at cards for nothing has even been agreeable.
A CHAPTER ON EARS
343
When I am in sickness, or not in the best
spirits, I sometimes call for the cards, and
play a game at piquet for love with my cousin
Bridget — Bridget Elia.
I grant there is something sneaking in it ; but
with a tooth -ache, or a sprained ankle, — when
you are subdued and humble, — you are glad
to put up with an inferior spring of action.
There is such a thing in nature, I am con-
vinced, as sick whist.
I grant it is not the highest style of man — I
deprecate the manes of Sarah Battle — she
lives not, alas! to whom I should apologise.
At such times, those terms which my old
friend objected to, come in as something ad-
missible — I love to get a tierce or a quatorze,
though they mean nothing. I am subdued to
an inferior interest. Those shadows of win-
ning amuse me.
That last game I had with my sweet cousin
(I capotted her) — (dare I tell thee, how
foolish I am ?) — I wished it might have lasted
forever, though we gained nothing, and lost
nothing, though it was a mere shade of play:
I would be content to go on in that idle folly
for ever. The pipkin should be ever boiling,
that was to prepare the gentle lenitive to my
foot, which Bridget was doomed to apply after
the game was over: and, as I do not much
relish appliances, there it should ever bubble.
Bridget and I should be ever playing.
A CHAPTER ON EARS
I have no ear. —
Mistake me not, Reader — nor imagine that
I am by nature destitute of those exterior
twin appendages, hanging ornaments, and
(architecturally speaking) handsome volutes to
the human capital. Better my mother had
never borne me. — I am, I think, rather deli-
cately than copiously provided with those
conduits; and I feel no disposition to envy
the mule for his plenty, or the mole for her
exactness, in those ingenious labyrinthine in-
lets — those indispensable side-intelligencers.
Neither have I incurred, or done anything
to incur, with Defoe, that hideous disfigure-
ment, which constrained him to draw upon
assurance — to feel "quite unabashed," and at
ease upon that article. I was never, I thank
my stars, in the pillory; nor, if I read them
aright, is it within the compass of my destiny,
that I ever should be.
When therefore I say that I have no ear,
you will understand me to mean — for music.
To say that this heart never melted at the
concord of sweet sounds, would be a foul self-
libel. "Water parted from the sea" never
fails to move it strangely. So does "In in-
fancy." But they were used to be sung at
her harpsichord (the old-fashioned instrument
in vogue in those days) by a gentlewoman —
the gentlest, sure, that ever merited the ap-
pellation — the sweetest — why should I hesi-
tate to name Mrs. S , once the blooming
Fanny Weatheral of the Temple — who had
power to thrill the soul of Elia, small imp as
he was, even in his long coats; and to make
him glow, tremble, and blush with a passion,
that not faintly indicated the dayspring of that
absorbing sentiment which was afterwards
destined to overwhelm and subdue his nature
quite for Alice W n.
I even think that sentimentally I am dis-
posed to harmony. But organically I am in-
capable of a tune. I have been practising
"God save the King" all my life; whistling
and humming of it over to myself in solitary
corners; and am not yet arrived, they tell
me, within many quavers of it. Yet hath the
loyalty of Elia never been impeached.
I am not without suspicion, that I have
an undeveloped faculty of music within me.
For, thrumming, in my wild way, on my friend
A.'s piano, the other morning, while he was
engaged in an adjoining parlour, — on his re-
turn he was pleased to say, "he thought it
could not be the maid!" On his first surprise
at hearing the keys touched in somewhat an
airy and masterful way, not dreaming of me,
his suspicions had lighted on Jenny. But a
grace, snatched from a superior refinement,
soon convinced him that some being — tech-
nically perhaps deficient, but higher informed
from a principle common to all the fine arts
— had swayed the keys to a mood which
Jenny, with all her (less cultivated) enthusiasm,
could never have elicited from them. I men-
tion this as a proof of my friend's penetration,
and not with any view of disparaging Jenny.
Scientifically I could never be made to
understand (yet have I taken some pains)
what a note in music is; or how one note
should differ from another. Much less in
voices can I distinguish a soprano from a tenor.
Only sometimes the thorough-bass I contrive
to guess at, from its being supereminently
harsh and disagreeable. I tremble, however,
for my misapplication of the simplest terms
of that which I disclaim. While I profess my
ignorance, I scarce know what to say I am
344
CHARLES LAMB
ignorant of. I hate, perhaps, by misnomers.
Sostenuto and adagio stand in the like relation
of obscurity to me; and Sol, Fa, Mi, Re, is
as conjuring as Baralipton.
It is hard to stand alone in an age like this,
— (constituted to the quick and critical per-
ception of all harmonious combinations, I
verily believe, beyond all preceding ages, since
Jubal stumbled upon the gamut,) to remain,
as it were, singly unimpressible to the magic
influences of an art, which is said to have
such an especial stroke at soothing, elevating,
and refining the passions. — Yet, rather than
break the candid current of my confessions, I
must avow to you that I have received a great
deal more pain than pleasure from this so
cried-up faculty.
I am constitutionally susceptible of noises.
A carpenter's hammer, in a warm summer
noon, will fret me into more than midsum-
mer madness. But those unconnected, unset
sounds are nothing to the measured malice
of music. The ear is passive to those single
strokes; willingly enduring stripes, while it
hath no task to con. To music it cannot be
passive. It will strive — mine at least will —
spite of its inaptitude, to thrid the maze; like
an unskilled eye painfully poring upon hiero-
glyphics. I have sat through an Italian Opera,
till, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish,
I have rushed out into the noisiest places of
the crowded streets, to solace myself with
sounds, which I was not obliged to follow,
and get rid of the distracting torment of end-
less, fruitless, barren attention ! I take refuge
in the unpretending assemblage of honest
common-life sounds; — and the purgatory of
the Enraged Musician becomes my paradise.
I have sat at an Oratorio (that profanation
of the purposes of the cheerful playhouse)
watching the faces of the auditory in the pit
(what a contrast to Hogarth's Laughing Au-
dience !) immovable, or affecting some faint
emotion — till (as some have said, that our
occupations in the next world will be but a
shadow of what delighted us in this) I have
imagined myself in some cold Theatre in Hades,
where some of the forms of the earthly one
should be kept us, with none of the enjoyment;
or like that
— Party in a parlour
All silent, and all damned.
Above all, those insufferable concertos, and
pieces of music, as they are called, do plague
and embitter my apprehension. — Words are
something; but to be exposed to an endless
battery of mere sounds; to be long a-dying;
to lie stretched upon a rack of roses; to keep
up languor by unintermitted effort; to pile
honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to
an interminable tedious sweetness; to fill up
sound with feeling, and strain ideas to keep
pace with it; to gaze on empty frames, and
be forced to make the pictures for yourself;
to read a book, all stops, and be obliged to
supply the verbal matter; to invent extempore
tragedies to answer to the vague gestures of an
inexplicable rambling mime — these are faint
shadows of what I have undergone from a
series of the ablest-executed pieces of this
empty instrumental music.
I deny not, that in the opening of a concert,
I have experienced something vastly lulling
and agreeable : — afterwards followeth the
languor and the oppression. Like that dis-
appointing book in Patmos; or, like the
comings on of melancholy, described by Bur-
ton, doth music make her first insinuating
approaches: — "Most pleasant it is to such as
are melancholy given, to walk alone in some
solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by
some brook side, and to meditate upon some
delightsome and pleasant subject, which shall
affect him most, amabilis insania, and mentis
gratissimus error. A most incomparable de-
light to build castles in the air, to go smil-
ing to themselves, acting an infinite variety
of parts, which they suppose, and strongly
imagine, they act, or that they see done. —
So delightsome these toys at first, they could
spend whole days and nights without sleep,
even whole years in such contemplations, and
fantastical meditations, which are like so
many dreams, and will hardly be drawn from
them — winding and unwinding themselves as
so many clocks, and still pleasing their hu-
mours, until at the last the scene turns upon
a sudden, and they being now habitated to
such meditations and solitary places, can en-
dure no company, can think of nothing but
harsh and distasteful subjects. Fear, sorrow,
suspicion, subruslicus pudor, discontent, cares,
and weariness of life, surprise them on a
sudden, and they can think of nothing else:
continually suspecting, no sooner are their
eyes open, but this infernal plague of melan-
choly seizeth on them, and terrifies their souls,
representing some dismal object to their minds;
which now, by no means, no labour, no persua-
sions, they can avoid, they cannot be rid of,
they cannot resist."
JESOP AND RHODOPE
345
Something like this "scene turning" I have
experienced at the evening parties, at the
house of my good Catholic friend Nov- ;
who, by the aid of a capital organ, himself
the most finished of players, converts his
drawing-room into a chapel, his week days
into Sundays, and these latter ' into minor
heavens.
When my friend commences upon one of
those solemn anthems, which peradventure
struck upon my heedless ear, rambling in the
side aisles of the dim Abbey, some five-and-
thirty years since, waking a new sense, and
putting a soul of old religion into my young
apprehension — (whether it be that, in which
the Psalmist, weary of the persecutions of bad
men, wisheth to himself dove's wings — or
that other which, with a like measure of so-
briety and pathos, inquireth by what means
the young man shall best cleanse his mind) — •
a holy calm pervade th me. — I am for the
time
— rapt above earth,
And possess joys not promised at my birth.
But when this master of the spell, not con-
tent to have laid a soul prostrate, goes on, in
his power, to inflict more bliss than lies in her
capacity to receive — impatient to overcome
her "earthly" with his "heavenly," — still
pouring in, for protracted hours, fresh waves
and fresh from the sea of sound, or from that
inexhausted German ocean, above which, in
triumphant progress, dolphin-seated, ride those
Arions Haydn and Mozart, with their attend-
ant Tritons, Bach, Beethoven, and a countless
tribe, whom to attempt to reckon up would
but plunge me again in the deeps, — I stagger
under the weight of harmony, reeling to and
fro at my wits' end ; — clouds, as of frankin-
cense, oppress me — priests, altars, censers
dazzle before me — the genius of his religion
hath me in her toils — a shadowy triple tiara
invests the brow of my friend, late so naked,
so ingenuous — he is Pope, — and by him
sits, like as in the anomaly of dreams, a she-
Pope too, — tri-coroneted like himself ! — I am
converted, and yet a Protestant; — at once
malleus hereticorum, and myself grand heresi-
arch: or three heresies centre in my person:
— I am Marcion, Ebion, and Cerinthus —
Gog and Magog — what not ? — till the com-
ing in of the friendly supper-tray dissipates
the figment, and a draught of true Lutheran
beer (in which chiefly my friend shows himself
no bigot) at once reconciles me to the ration-
alities of a purer faith ; and restores to me the
genuine unterrifying aspects of my pleasant-
countenanced host and hostess.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
(1775-1864)
MSOP AND RHODOPE
SECOND CONVERSATION
Msop. And so, our fellow-slaves are given
to contention on the score of dignity?
Rhodope. 'I do not believe they are much
addicted to contention: for, whenever the
good Xanthus hears a signal of such misbe-
haviour, he either brings a scourge into the
midst of them or sends our lady to scold them
smartly for it.
Msop. Admirable evidence against their
propensity !
Rhodope. I will not have you find them out
so, nor laugh at them.
JEsop. Seeing that the good Xanthus and
our lady are equally fond of thee, and always
visit thee both together, the girls, however
envious, cannot well or safely be arrogant, but
must of necessity yield the first place to thee.
Rhodope. They indeed are observant of the
kindness thus bestowed upon me: yet they
afflict me by taunting me continually with
what I am unable to deny.
ALsop. If it is true, it ought little to trouble
thee; if untrue, less. I know, for I have
looked into nothing else of late, no evil can
thy heart have admitted: a sigh of thine be-
fore the gods would remove the heaviest that
could fall on it. Pray tell me what it may be.
Come, be courageous; be cheerful. I can eas-
ily pardon a smile if thou impleadest me of
curiosity.
Rhodope. They remark to me that enemies
or robbers took them forcibly from their par-
ents . . . and that . . . and that . . .
JEsop. Likely enough: what then 2. Why
desist from speaking? why cover thy face with
thy hair and hands? Rhodope! Rhodope!
dost thou weep moreover?
Rhodope. It is so sure !
JEsop. Was the fault thine?
Rhodope. O that it were ! ... if there was
any.
JEsop. While it pains thee to tell it, keep
thy silence; but when utterance is a solace,
then impart it.
Rhodope. They remind me (oh ! who could
346
WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR
have had the cruelty to relate it?) that my
father, my own dear father . . .
Msop. Say not the rest: I know it: his day
was come.
Rhodope. . . . sold me, sold me. You
start: you did not at the lightning last night,
nor at the rolling sounds above. And do you,
generous ^Esop ! do you also call a misfortune
a disgrace?
sEsop. If it is, I am among the most dis-
graceful of men. Didst thou dearly love thy
father?
Rhodope. All loved him. He was very fond
of me.
JEsop. And yet sold thee! sold thee to a
stranger !
Rhodope. He was the kindest of all kind
fathers, nevertheless. Nine summers ago, you
may have heard perhaps, there was a grievous
famine in our land of Thrace.
jEsop. I remember it perfectly.
Rhodope. O poor ^Esop ! and were you too
famishing in your native Phrygia?
jEsop. The calamity extended beyond the
narrow sea that separates our countries. My
appetite was sharpened; but the- appetite
and the wits are equally set on the same
grindstone.
Rhodope. I was then scarcely five years old :
my mother died the year before: my father
sighed at every funereal, but he sighed more
deeply at every bridal, song. He loved me
because he loved her who bore me: and yet
I made him sorrowful whether I cried or
smiled. If ever I vexed him, it was because
I would not play when he told me, but made
him, by my weeping, weep again.
JEsop. And yet he could endure to lose thee !
he, thy father! Could any other? could any
who lives on the fruits of the earth, endure
it ? O age, that art incumbent over me ! blessed
be thou ; thrice blessed ! Not that thou stillest
the tumults of the heart, and promisest eternal
calm, but that, prevented by thy beneficence,
I never shall experience this only intolerable
wretchedness.
Rhodope. Alas! alas!
JEsop. Thou art now happy, and shouldst
not utter that useless exclamation.
Rhodope. You said something angrily and
vehemently when you stepped aside. Is it
not enough that the handmaidens doubt the
kindness of my father? Must so virtuous and
so wise a man as ^Esop blame him also?
jEsop. Perhaps he is little to be blamed;
certainly he is much to be pitied.
Rhodope. Kind heart ! on which mine must
never rest !
jEsop. Rest on it for comfort and for counsel
when they fail thee: rest on it, as the deities
on the breast of mortals, to console and purify
it.
Rhodope. Could I remove any sorrow from
it, I should be contented.
jEsop. Then be so ; and proceed in thy nar-
rative.
Rhodope. Bear with me a little yet. My
thoughts have overpowered my words, and now
themselves are overpowered and scattered.
Forty-seven days ago (this is only the forty-
eighth since I beheld you first) I was a child;
I was ignorant, I was careless.
jEsop. If these qualities are signs of child-
. hood, the universe is a nursery.
Rhodope. Affliction, which makes many
wiser, had no such effect on me. But rever-
ence and love (why should I hesitate at the one
avowal more than at the other?) came over
me, to ripen my understanding.
JEsop. O Rhodope ! we must loiter no longer
upon this discourse.
Rhodope. Why not?
Msop. Pleasant is yonder beanfield, seen
over the high papyrus when it waves and
bends: deep laden with the sweet heaviness of
its odour is the listless air that palpitates diz-
zily above it: but Death is lurking for the
slumberer beneath its blossoms.
Rhodope. You must not love then! . . .
but may not I?
Msop. We will ... but ...
Rhodope. We! O sound that is to vibrate
on my breast forever ! O hour ! happier than
all other hours since time began ! O gracious
Gods ! who brought me into bondage !
JEsop. Be calm, be composed, be circum-
spect. We must hide our treasure that we
may not lose it.
Rhodope. I do not think that you can love
me; and I fear and tremble to hope so. Ah,
yes; you have said you did. But again you
only look at me, and sigh as if you repented.
JEsop. Unworthy as I may be of thy fond
regard, I am not unworthy of thy fullest con-
fidence : why distrust me ?
Rhodope. Never will I ... never, never.
To know that I possess your love, surpasses all
other knowledge, dear as is all that I receive
from you. I should be tired of my own voice
if I heard it on aught beside: and, even yours
is less melodious in any ofher sound than
Rhodope.
,ESOP AND RHODOPE
347
JEsop. Do such little girls learn to flatter?
Rhodope. Teach me how to speak, since you
could not teach me how to be silent.
JEsop. Speak no longer of me, but of thy-
self; and only of things that never pain thee.
Rhodope. Nothing can pain me now.
JEsop. Relate thy story then, from infancy.
Rhodop^. I must hold your hand: I am
afraid of losing you again.
JEsop. Now begin. Why silent so long ?
Rhodop^. I have dropped all memory of
what is told by me and what is untold.
JEsop. Recollect a little. I can be patient
with this hand in mine.
Rhodope. I am not certain that yours is any
help to recollection.
Msop. Shall I remove it?
Rhodope. O ! now I think I can recall the
whole story. What did you say? did you ask
any question?
jEsop. None, excepting what thou hast an-
swered.
Rhodope. Never shall I forget the morning
when my father, sitting in the coolest part of
the house, exchanged his last measure of grain
for a chlamys of scarlet cloth fringed with
silver. He watched the merchant out of the
door, and then looked wistfully into the corn-
chest. I, who thought there was something
worth seeing, looked in also, and, finding it
empty, expressed my disappointment, not
thinking however about the corn. A faint and
transient smile came over his countenance at
the sight of mine. He unfolded the chlamys,
stretched it out with both hands before me, and
then cast it over my shoulders. I looked down
on the glittering fringe and screamed with
joy. He then went out ; and I know not what
flowers he gathered, but he gathered many;
and some he placed in my bosom, and some in
my hair. But I told him with captious pride,
first that I could arrange them better, and again
that I would have only the white. However,
when he had selected all the white, and I had
placed a few of them according to my fancy,
I told him (rising in my slipper) he might
crown me with the remainder. The splen-
dour of my apparel gave me a sensation of au-
thority. Soon as the flowers had taken their
station on my head," I expressed a dignified
satisfaction at the taste displayed by my father,
just as if I could have seen how they appeared !
But he knew that there was at least as much
pleasure as pride in it, and perhaps we divided
the latter (alas! not both) pretty equally.
He now took me into the market-place, where
a concourse of people was. waiting for the pur-
chase of slaves. Merchants came and looked
at me; some commending, others disparaging;
but all agreeing that I was slender and delicate,
that I could not live long, and that I should
give much trouble. Many would have bought
the chlamys, but there was something less
salable in the child and flowers.
jEsop. Had thy features been coarse and
thy voice rustic, they would all have patted
thy cheeks and found no fault in thee.
Rhodope. As it was, every one had bought
exactly such another in time past, and been a
loser by it. At these speeches I perceived the
flowers tremble slightly on my bosom, from
my father's agitation. Although he scoffed at
them, knowing my healthiness, he was troubled
internally, and said many short prayers, not
very unlike imprecations, turning his head aside.
Proud was I, prouder than ever, when at last
several talents were offered for me, and by the
very man who in the beginning had under-
valued me the most, and prophesied the worst
of me. My father scowled at him, and re-
fused the money. I thought he was playing a
game, and began to wonder what it could be,
since I never had seen it played before. Then
I fancied it might be some celebration because
plenty had returned to the city, insomuch that
my father had bartered the last of the corn he
hoarded. I grew more and more delighted
at the sport. But soon there advanced an
elderly man, who said gravely, "Thou hast
stolen this child: her vesture alone is worth
above a hundred drachmas. Carry her home
again to her parents, and do it directly, or
Nemesis and the Eumenides will overtake thee."
Knowing the estimation in which my father
had always been holden by his fellow-citizens,
I laughed again, and pinched his ear. He,
although naturally choleric, burst forth into
no resentment at these reproaches, but said
calmly, "I think I know thee by name, O
guest ! Surely thou art Xanthus the Samian.
Deliver this child from famine."
Again I laughed aloud and heartily; and,
thinking it was now my part of the game, I
held out both my arms and protruded my
whole body towards the stranger. He would
not receive me from my father's neck, but
he asked me with benignity and solicitude
if I was hungry: at which I laughed again,
and more than ever: for it was early in the
morning, soon after the first meal, and my
father had nourished me most carefully and
plentifully in all the days of the famine. But
348
WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR
Xanthus, waiting for no answer, took out of
a sack, which one of his slaves carried at his
side, a cake of wheaten bread and a piece of
honey-comb, and gave them to me. I held the
honey-comb to my father's mouth, thinking it
the most of a dainty. He dashed it to the
ground; but, seizing the bread, he began to
devour it ferociously. This also I thought was
in play; and I clapped my hands at his dis-
tortions. But Xanthus looked on him like one
afraid, and smote the cake from him, crying
aloud, "Name the price." My father now
placed me in his arms, naming a price much
below what the other had offered, saying,
"The gods are ever with thee, O Xanthus;
therefore to thee do I consign my child." But
while Xanthus was counting out the silver,
my father seized the cake again, which the
slave had taken up and was about to replace
in the wallet. His hunger was exasperated
by the taste and the delay. Suddenly there
arose much tumult. Turning round in the
old woman's bosom who had received me from
Xanthus, I saw my beloved father struggling
on the ground, livid and speechless. The
more violent my cries, the more rapidly they
hurried me away ; and many were soon between
us. Little was I suspicious that he had suf-
fered the pangs of famine long before: alas!
and he had suffered them for me. Do I weep
while I am telling you they ended? I could
not have closed his eyes; I was too young;
but I might have received his last breath; the
only comfort of an orphan's bosom. Do you
now think him blamable, O ^Esop?
jEsop. It was sublime humanity: it was for-
bearance and self-denial which even the im-
mortal gods have never shown us. He could
endure to perish by those torments which alone
are both acute and slow; he could number
the steps of death and miss not one: but he
could never see thy tears, nor let thee see his.
O weakness above all fortitude ! Glory to the
man who rather bears a grief corroding his
breast, than permits it to prowl beyond, and
to prey on the tender and compassionate!
Women commiserate the brave, and men the
beautiful. The dominion of Pity has usually
this extent, no wider. Thy father was ex-
posed to the obloquy not only of the malicious,
but also of the ignorant and thoughtless,
who condemn in the unfortunate what they ap-
plaud in the prosperous. There is no shame
in poverty or in slavery, if we neither make
ourselves poor by our improvidence nor slaves
by our venality. The lowest and highest of
the human race are sold: most of the inter-
mediate are also slaves, but slaves who bring
no money in the market.
Rhodopi. Surely the great and powerful
are never to be purchased: are they?
Msop. It may be a defect in my vision, but
I cannot see greatness on the earth. What
they tell me is great and aspiring, to me seems
little and crawling. Let me meet thy question
with another. What monarch gives his daughter
for nothing? Either he receives stone walls
and unwilling cities in return, or he barters her
for a parcel of spears and horses and horse-
men, waving away from his declining and help-
less age young joyous life, and trampling down
the freshest and the sweetest memories. Midas
in the highth of prosperity would have given
his daughter to Lycaon, rather than to the
gentlest, the most virtuous, the most intelligent
of his subjects. Thy father threw wealth aside,
and, placing thee under the protection of Virtue,
rose up from the house of Famine to partake
in the festivals of the Gods.
Release my neck, O Rhodope ! for I have
other questions to ask of thee about him.
Rhodop^. To hear thee converse on him in
such a manner, I can do even that.
jEsop. Before the day of separation was he
never sorrowful? Did he never by tears or
silence reveal the secret of his soul?
Rhodopt. I was too infantine to perceive
or imagine his intention. The night before
I became the slave of Xanthus, he sat on the
edge of my bed. I pretended to be asleep : he
moved away silently and softly. I saw him
collect in the hollow of his hand the crumbs I
had wasted on the floor, and then eat them, and
then look if any were remaining. I thought he
did so out of fondness for me, remembering
that, even before the famine, he had often swept
up off the table the bread I had broken, and
had made me put it between his lips. I would
not dissemble very long, but said:
"Come, now you have wakened me, you must
sing me asleep again, as you did when I wa
little."
He smiled faintly at this, and, after some
delay, when he had walked up and down the
chamber, thus began :
"I will sing to thee one song more, my wake-
ful Rhodope! my chirping bird! over whom
is no mother's wing ! That it may lull thee
asleep, I will celebrate no longer, as in the
days of wine and plenteousness, the glory of
Mars, guiding in their invisibly rapid onset the
dappled steeds of Rhaesus. What hast thou
WILLIAM HAZLITT
349
to do, my little one, with arrows tired of clus-
tering in the quiver? How much quieter is
thy pallet than the tents which whitened the
plain of Simois! What knowest thou about
the river Eurotas? What knowest thou about
its ancient palace, once trodden by assembled
Gods, and then polluted by the Phrygian?
What knowest thou of perfidious men or of
sanguinary deeds?
"Pardon me, O goddess who presidest in
Cythera ! I am not irreverent to thee, but ever
grateful. May she upon whose brow I lay my
hand, praise and bless thee for evermore !
"Ah yes! continue to hold up above the
coverlet those fresh and rosy palms clasped
together: her benefits have descended on thy
beauteous head, my child! The Fates also
have sung, beyond thy hearing, of pleasanter
scenes than snow-fed Hebrus; of more than dim
grottos and sky-bright waters. Even now a
low murmur swells upward to my ear: and
not from the spindle comes the sound, but from
those who sing slowly over it, bending all three
their tremulous heads together. I wish thou
couldst hear it; for seldom are their voices so
sweet. Thy pillow intercepts the song per-
haps: lie down again, lie down, my Rhodope!
I will repeat what they are saying:
"'Happier shalt thou be, nor less glorious,
than even she, the truly beloved, for whose
return to the distaff and the lyre the portals
of Taenarus flew open. In the woody dells of
Ismarus, and when she bathed among the swans
of Strymon, the nymphs called her Eurydice.
Thou shalt behold that fairest and that fond-
est one hereafter. But first 'thou must go
unto the land of the lotos, where famine never
cometh, and where alone the works of man are
immortal.'
"O my child! the undeceiving Fates have
uttered this. Other powers have visited me,
and have strengthened my heart with dreams
and visions. We shall meet again, my Rhodope,
in shady groves and verdant meadows, and we
shall sit by the side of those who loved us."
He was rising: I threw my arms about his
neck, and, before I would let him go, I made
him promise to place me, not by the side, but
between them : for I thought of her who had
left us. At that time there were but two, O
JEsop.
You ponder: you are about to reprove my
assurance in having thus repeated my own
praises. I would have omitted some of the
words, only that it might have disturbed the
measure and cadences, and have put me out.
They are the very words my dearest father
sang ; and they are the last : yet, shame upon
me ! the nurse (the same who stood listening
near, who attended me into this country)
could remember them more perfectly : it is
from her I have learnt them since; she often
sings them, even by herself.
jEsop. So shall others. There is much both
in them and in thee to render them memorable.
Rhodope. Who flatters now?
JEsop. Flattery often runs beyond Truth,
in a hurry to embrace her; but not here.
The dullest of mortals, seeing and hearing thee,
would never misinterpret the prophecy of the
Fates.
If, turning back, I could overpass the vale
of years, and could stand on the mountain -top,
and could look again far before me at the bright
ascending morn, we would enjoy the prospect
together; we would walk along the summit
hand in hand, O Rhodope, and we would only
sigh at last when we found ourselves below
with others.
WILLIAM HAZLITT (1778-1830)
MR. COLERIDGE
The present is an age of talkers, and not
of doers; and the reason is, that the world is
growing old. We are so far advanced in the
Arts and Sciences, that we live in retrospect,
and doat on past achievements. The accumula-
tion of knowledge has been so great, that we
are lost in wonder at the height it has reached,
instead of attempting to climb or add to it;
while the variety of objects distracts and daz-
zles the looker-on. What niche remains unoc-
cupied? What path untried? What is the
use of doing anything, unless we could do bet-
ter than all those who have gone before us?
What hope is there of this ? We are like those
who have been to see some noble monument
of art, who are content to admire without
thinking of rivalling it; or like guests after a
feast, who praise the hospitality of the donor
"and thank the bounteous Pan" — perhaps
carrying away some trifling fragments; or
like the spectators of a mighty battle, who still
hear its sound afar off, and the clashing of
armour and the neighing of the war-horse
and the shout of victory is in their ears, like
the rushing of innumerable waters !
Mr. Coleridge has "a mind reflecting ages
past"; his voice is like the echo of the con-
gregated roar of the "dark rearward and
35°
WILLIAM HAZLITT
abyss" of thought. He who has seen a mould-
ering tower by the side of a crystal lake, hid
by the mist, but glittering in the wave below,
may conceive the dim, gleaming, uncertain
intelligence of his eye ; he who has marked the
evening clouds uprolled (a world of vapours)
has seen the picture of his mind, unearthly,
unsubstantial, with gorgeous tints and ever-
varying forms —
"That which was now a horse, even with a thought
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct
As water is in water."
Our author's mind is (as he himself might
express it) tangential. There is no subject on
which he has not touched, none on which
he has rested. With an understanding fertile,
subtle, expansive, "quick, forgetive, appre-
hensive," beyond all living precedent, few
traces of it will perhaps remain. He lends
himself to all impressions alike; he gives up
his mind and liberty of thought to none. He is
a general lover of art and science, and wedded
to no one in particular. He pursues knowledge
as a mistress, with outstretched hands and
winged speed; but as he is about to embrace
her, his Daphne turns — alas ! not to a lau-
rel! Hardly a speculation has been left on
record from the earliest time, but it is loosely
folded up in Mr. Coleridge's memory, like a
rich, but somewhat tattered piece of tapestry:
we might add (with more seeming than real
extravagance) that scarce a thought can pass
through the mind of man, but its sound has at
some time or other passed over his head with
rustling pinions.
On whatever question or author you speak,
he is prepared to take up the theme with ad-
vantage — from Peter Abelard down to Thomas
Moore, from the subtlest metaphysics to the
politics of the Courier. There is no man of
genius, in whose praise he descants, but the
critic seems to stand above the author, and
"what in him is weak, to strengthen, what is
low, to raise and support" : nor is there any
work of genius that does not come out of his
hands like an illuminated Missal, sparkling
even in its defects. If Mr. Coleridge had not
been the most impressive talker of his age, he
would probably have been the finest writer;
but he lays down his pen to make sure of
an auditor, and mortgages the admiration of
posterity for the stare of an idler. If he had
not been a poet, he would have been a power-
ful logician; if he had not dipped his wing in
the Unitarian controversy, he might have soared
to the very summit of fancy. But, in writing
verse, he is trying to subject the Muse to tran-
scendental theories: in his abstract reasoning,
he misses his way by strewing it with flowers.
All that he has done of moment, he had
done twenty years ago: since then, he may be
said to have lived on the sound of his own
voice. Mr. Coleridge is too rich in intellectual
wealth, to need to task himself to any drudg-
ery: he has only to draw the slides of his
imagination, and a thousand subjects expand
before him, startling him with their brilliancy,
or losing themselves in endless obscurity —
" And by the force of blear illusion,
They draw him on to his confusion."
What is the little he could add to the stock,
compared with the countless stores that lie
about him, that he should stoop to pick up
a name, or to polish an idle fancy ? He walks
abroad in the majesty of an universal under-
standing, eying the "rich strond" or golden sky
above him, and "goes sounding on his way,"
in eloquent accents, uncompelled and free!
Persons of the greatest capacity are often
those who for this reason do the least; for
surveying themselves from the highest point of
view, amidst the infinite variety of the universe,
their own share in it seems trifling, and scarce
worth a thought; and they prefer the contem-
plation of all that is, or has been, or can be, to
the making a coil about doing what, when done,
is no better than vanity. It is hard to con-
centrate all out attention and efforts on one
pursuit, except from ignorance of others; and
without this concentration of our faculties no
great progress can be made in any one thing.
It is not merely that the mind is not capable of
the effort; it does not think the effort worth
making. Action is one; but thought is mani-
fold. He whose restless eye glances through the
wide compass of nature and art, will not con-
sent to have "his own nothings monstered":
but he must do this before he can give his whole
soul to them. The mind, after "letting con-
templation have its fill," or
"Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air,"
sinks down on the ground, breathless, ex-
hausted, powerless, inactive; or if it must have
some vent to its feelings, seeks the most easy and
obvious; is soothed by friendly flattery, lulled
MR. COLERIDGE
351
by the murmur of immediate applause : thinks,
as it were, aloud, and babbles in its dreams !
A scholar (so to speak) is a more disinterested
and abstracted character than a mere author.
The first looks at the numberless volumes
of a library, and says, "All these are mine":
the other points to a single volume (perhaps it
may be an immortal one) and says, "My name
is written on the back of it." This is a puny
and grovelling ambition, beneath the lofty
amplitude of Mr. Coleridge's mind. No, he
revolves in his wayward soul, or utters to the
passing wind, or discourses to his own shadow,
things mightier and more various ! — Let us
draw the curtain, and unlock the shrine.
Learning rocked him in his cradle, and while
yet a child,
"He lisped in numbers, for the numbers came."
At sixteen he wrote his Ode on Chatterton, and
he still reverts to that period with delight, not
so much as it relates to himself (for that string
of his own early promise of fame rather jars
than otherwise) but as exemplifying the youth
of a poet. Mr. Coleridge talks of himself with-
out being an egotist ; for in him the individual
is always merged in the abstract and general.
He distinguished himself at school and at the
University by his knowledge of the classics,
and gained several prizes for Greek epigrams.
How many men are there (great scholars,
celebrated names in literature) who, having
done the same thing in their youth, have no
other idea all the rest of their lives but of this
achievement, of a fellowship and dinner, and
who, installed in academic honours, would
look down on our author as a mere strolling
bard! At Christ's Hospital, where he was
brought up, he was the idol of those among his
schoolfellows who mingled with their bookish
studies the music of thought and of humanity;
and he was usually attended round the cloisters
by a group of these (inspiring and inspired)
whose hearts even then burnt within them as he
talked, and where the sounds yet linger to mock
Elia on his way, still turning pensive to the past !
One of the finest and rarest parts of Mr.
Coleridge's conversation is, when he expatiates
on the Greek tragedians (not that he is not
well acquainted, when he pleases, with the epic
poets, or the philosophers, or orators, or histo-
rians of antiquity) — on the subtle reasonings
and melting pathos of Euripides, on the har-
monious gracefulness of Sophocles, tuning
his love-laboured song, like sweetest warblings
from a sacred grove; on the high-wrought,
trumpet-tongued eloquence of /Eschylus, whose
Prometheus, above all, is like an Ode to Fate
and a pleading with Providence, his thoughts
being let loose as his body is chained on his
solitary rock, and his afflicted will (the emblem
of mortality)
" Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny."
As the impassioned critic speaks and rises in
his theme, you would think you heard the voice
of the Man hated by the Gods, contending with
the wild winds as they roar; and his eye glitters
with the spirit of Antiquity !
Next, he was engaged with Hartley's tribes
of mind, "etherial braid, thought-woven," -
and he busied himself for a year or two with
vibrations and vibratiuncles, and the great law
of association that binds all things in its mys-
tic chain, and the doctrine of Necessity (the
mild teacher of Charity) and the Millennium,
anticipative of a life to come ; and he plunged
deep into the controversy on Matter and Spirit,
and, as an escape from Dr. Priestley's Material-
ism, where he felt himself imprisoned by the
logician's spell, like Ariel in the cloven pine-
tree, he became suddenly enamoured of Bishop
Berkeley's fairy-world, and used in all com-
panies to build the universe, like a brave poet-
ical fiction, of fine words. And he was deep-
read in Malebranche, and in Cudworth's
Intellectual System (a huge pile of learning,
unwieldy, enormous) and in Lord Brook's
hieroglyphic theories, and in Bishop Butler's
Sermons, and in the Duchess of Newcastle's
fantastic folios, and in Clarke and South, and
Tillotson, and all the fine thinkers and mascu-
line reasoners of that age; and Leibnitz's Pre-
established Harmony reared its arch above his
head, like the rainbow in the cloud, covenanting
with the hopes of man.
And then he fell plumb, ten thousand fath-
oms down (but his wings saved him harm-
less) into the hortus siccus of Dissent, where he
pared religion down to the standard of reason,
and stripped faith of mystery, and preached
Christ crucified and the Unity of the Godhead,
and so dwelt for a while in the spirit with John
Huss and Jerome of Prague and Socinus and
old John Zisca, and ran through Neal's History
of the Puritans and Calamy's Non-Conform-
ists'1 Memorial, having like thoughts and pas-
sions with them. But then Spinoza became his
God, and he took up the vast chain of being
in his hand, and the round world became the
352
WILLIAM HAZLITT
centre and the soul of all things in some shad-
owy sense, forlorn of meaning, and around
him he beheld the living traces and the sky-
pointing proportions of the mighty Pan; but
poetry redeemed him from this spectral phi-
losophy, and he bathed his heart in beauty,
and gazed at the golden light of heaven, and
drank of the spirit of the universe, and wandered
at eve by fairy-stream or fountain,
" — When he saw nought but beauty,
When he heard the voice of that Almighty One
In every breeze that blew, or wave that mur-
mured " —
and wedded with truth in Plato's shade, and in
the writings of Proclus and Plotinus saw the
ideas of things in the eternal mind, and un-
folded all mysteries with the Schoolmen and
fathomed the depths of Duns Scotus and
Thomas Aquinas, and entered the third heaven
with Jacob Behmen, and walked hand in hand
with Swedenborg through the pavilions of
the New Jerusalem, and sang his faith in the
promise and in the word in his Religious Mus-
ings.
And lowering himself from that dizzy height,
he poised himself on Milton's wings, and
spread out his thoughts in charity with the glad
prose of Jeremy Taylor, and wept over Bowles's
Sonnets, and studied Cowper's blank verse,
and betook himself to Thomson's Castle
of Indolence, and sported with the wits of
Charles the Second's days and of Queen Anne,
and relished Swift's style and that of the John
Bull (Arbuthnot's we mean, not Mr. Croker's),
and dallied with the British Essayists and
Novelists, and knew all qualities of more mod-
ern writers with a learned spirit: Johnson, and
Goldsmith, and Junius, and Burke, and God-
win, and the Sorrows of Werter, and Jean
Jacques Rousseau, and Voltaire, and Mari-
vaux, and Crebillon, and thousands more: now
"laughed with Rabelais in his easy chair"
or pointed to Hogarth, or afterwards dwelt on
Claude's classic scenes, or spoke with rapture
of Raphael, and compared the women at Rome
to figures that had walked out of his pictures,
or visited the Oratory of Pisa, and described
the works of Giotto and Ghirlandaio and
Masaccio, and gave the moral of the picture
of the Triumph of Death, where the beggars and
the wretched invoke his dreadful dart, but the
rich and mighty of the earth quail and shrink
before it; and in that land of siren sights and
sounds, saw a dance of peasant girls, and was
charmed with lutes and gondolas, — or wan-
dered into Germany and lost himself in the laby-
rinths of the Hartz Forest and of the Kantean
philosophy, and amongst the cabalistic names
of Fichte and Schelling and Lessing, and God
knows who. This was long after; but all the
former while he had nerved his heart and filled
his eyes with tears, as he hailed the rising orb
of liberty, since quenched in darkness and in
blood, and had kindled his affections at the
blaze of the French Revolution, and sang for
joy, when the towers of the Bastille and the
proud places of the insolent and the oppressor
fell, and would have floated his bark, freighted
with fondest fancies, across the Atlantic wave
with Southey and others to seek for peace and
freedom —
" In Philharmonia's undivided dale ! "
Alas! "Frailty, thy name is Genius /" •
What is become of all this mighty heap of hope,
of thought, of learning and humanity? It has
ended in swallowing doses of oblivion and in
writing paragraphs in the Courier. Such and
so little is the mind of man !
It was not to be supposed that Mr. Coleridge
could keep on at the rate he set off. He could
not realise all he knew or thought, and less
could not fix his desultory ambition. Other
stimulants supplied the place, and kept up the
intoxicating dream, the fever and the madness
of his early impressions. Liberty (the phi-
losopher's and the poet's bride) had fallen a
victim, meanwhile, to the murderous practices
of the hag Legitimacy. Proscribed by court-
hirelings, too romantic for the herd of vulgar
politicians, our enthusiast stood at bay, and at
last turned on the pivot of a subtle casuistry
to the unclean side: but his discursive reason
would not let him trammel himself into a poet-
laureate or stamp-distributor; and he stopped,
ere he had quite passed that well-known "bourne
from whence no traveller returns" — and so has
sunk into torpid, uneasy repose, tantalised by
useless resources, haunted by vain imaginings,
his lips idly moving, but his heart forever still,
or, as the shattered chords vibrate of them-
selves, making melancholy music to the ear of
memory ! Such is the fate of genius in an age
when, in the unequal contest with sovereign
wrong, every man is ground to powder who is
not either a born slave, or who does not willingly
and at once offer up the yearnings of humanity
and the dictates of reason as a welcome sacrifice
to besotted prejudice and loathsome power.
MR. COLERIDGE
353
Of all Mr. Coleridge's productions, the An-
cient Mariner is the only one that we could
with confidence put into any person's hands,
on whom we wished to impress a favourable
idea of his extraordinary powers. Let what-
ever other objections be made to it, it is un-
questionably a work of genius — of wild,
irregular, overwhelming imagination, and has
that rich, varied movement in the verse, which
gives a distant idea of the lofty or changeful
tones of Mr. Coleridge's voice. In the Chris-
tabel, there is one splendid passage on divided
friendship. The Translation of Schiller's Wal-
lenstein is also a masterly production in its kind,
faithful and spirited. Among his smaller
pieces there are occasional bursts of pathos and
fancy, equal to what we might expect from him;
but these form the exception, and not the rule.
Such, for instance, is his affecting Sonnet to the
author of the Robbers.
" Schiller ! that hour I would have wish'd to die,
If through the shudd'ring midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent,
That fearful voice, a famish'd father's cry —
That in no after-moment aught less vast
Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout
Black horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout
From the more with'ring scene diminish'd pass'd.
" Ah ! Bard tremendous in sublimity !
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood,
Wand'ring at eve, with finely frenzied eye,
Beneath some vast old tern pest -swinging wood !
Awhile, with mute awe gazing, I would brood,
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy."
His Tragedy, entitled Remorse, is full of
beautiful and striking passages; but it does not
place the author in the first rank of dramatic
writers. But if Mr. Coleridge's works do not
place him in that rank, they injure instead of
conveying a just idea of the man; for he him-
self is certainly in the first class of general
intellect.
If our author's poetry is inferior to his con-
versation, his prose is utterly abortive. Hardly
a gleam is to be found in it of the brilliancy and
richness of those, stores of thought and language
that he pours out incessantly, when they are
lost like drops of water in the ground. The
principal work, in which he has attempted
to embody his general views of things, is the
Friend, of which, though it contains some noble
passages and fine trains of thought, prolixity and
obscurity are the most frequent characteristics.
No two persons can be conceived more
opposite in character or genius than the sub-
ject of the present and of the preceding sketch.
Mr. Godwin, with less natural capacity and
with fewer acquired advantages, by concen-
trating his mind on some given object, and
doing what he had to do with all his might,
has accomplished much, and will leave more
than one monument of a powerful intellect
behind him; Mr. Coleridge, by dissipating his,
and dallying with every subject by turns, has
done little or nothing to justify to the world
or to posterity the high opinion which all who
have ever heard him converse, or known him
intimately, with one accord entertain of him.
Mr. Godwin's faculties have kept at home, and
plied their task in the workshop of the brain,
diligently and effectually: Mr. Coleridge's
have gossiped away their time, and gadded
about from house to house, as if life's business
were to melt the hours in listless talk. Mr.
Godwin is intent on a subject, only as it con-
cerns himself and his reputation; he works it
out as a matter of duty, and discards from
his mind whatever does not forward his main
object as impertinent and vain.
Mr. Coleridge, on the other hand, delights
in nothing but episodes and digressions,
neglects whatever he undertakes to perform,
and can act only on spontaneous impulses
without object or method. "He cannot be
constrained by mastery." While he should be
occupied with a given pursuit, he is thinking
of a thousand other things : a thousand tastes,
a thousand objects tempt him, and distract his
mind, which keeps open house, and entertains
all comers; and after being fatigued and
amused with morning calls from idle visitors,
he finds the day consumed and its business
unconcluded. Mr. Godwin, on the contrary,
is somewhat exclusive and unsocial in his hab-
its of mind, entertains no company but what
he gives his whole time and attention to, and
wisely writes over the doors of his understand-
ing, his fancy, and his senses — "No admittance
except on business." He has none of that fas-
tidious refinement and false delicacy, which
might lead him to balance between the endless
variety of modern attainments. He does not
throw away his life (nor a single half hour of it)
in adjusting the claims of different accom-
plishments, and in choosing between them or
making himself master of them all. He sets
about his task (whatever it may be), and goes
through it with spirit and fortitude. He has
the happiness to think an author the greatest
character in the world, and himself the greatest
author in it.
354
LEIGH HUNT
Mr. Coleridge, in writing an harmonious
stanza, would stop to consider whether there
was not more grace and beauty in a Pas de
trois, and would not proceed till he had re-
solved this question by a chain of metaphysical
reasoning without end. Not so Mr. Godwin.
That is best to him, which he can do best. He
does not waste himself in vain aspirations
and effeminate sympathies. He is blind, deaf,
insensible to all but the trump of Fame. Plays,
operas, painting, music, ball-rooms, wealth,
fashion, titles, lords, ladies, touch him not.
All these are no more to him than to the magi-
cian in his cell, and he writes on to the end of the
chapter through good report and evil report.
Pingo in eternitatem is his motto. He neither
envies nor admires what others are, but is
contented to be what he is, and strives to do the
utmost he can. Mr. Coleridge has flirted with
the Muses as with a set of mistresses: Mr.
Godwin has been married twice, to Reason
and to Fancy, and has to boast no short-lived
progeny by each.
So to speak, he has valves belonging to his
mind, to regulate the quantity of gas admitted
into it, so that like the bare, unsightly, but well-
compacted steam-vessel, it cuts its liquid way,
and arrives at its promised end: while Mr.
Coleridge's bark, "taught with the little nauti-
lus to sail," the sport of every breath, dancing
to every wave,
" Youth at its prow, and Pleasure at its helm,"
flutters its gaudy pennons in the air, glitters in
the sun, but we wait in vain to hear of its arrival
in the destined harbour. Mr. Godwin, with
less variety and vividness, with less subtlety
and susceptibility both of thought and feeling,
has had firmer nerves, a more determined pur-
pose, a more comprehensive grasp of his sub-
ject; and the results are as we find them.
Each has met with his reward: for justice
has, after all, been done to the pretensions
of each ; and we must, in all cases, use means
to ends!
It was a misfortune to any man of talent to
be born in the latter end of the last century.
Genius stopped the way of Legitimacy, and
therefore it was to be abated, crushed, or set
aside as a nuisance. The spirit of the mon-
archy was at variance with the spirit of the age.
The flame of liberty, the light of intellect, was
to be extinguished with the sword — or with
slander, whose edge is sharper than the sword.
The war between power and reason was carried
on by the first of these abroad, by the last at
home. No quarter was given (then or now)
by the Government-critics, the authorised cen-
sors of the press, to those who followed the
dictates of independence, who listened to the
voice of the tempter Fancy. Instead of gath-
ering fruits and flowers, immortal fruits and
amaranthine flowers, they soon found them
selves beset not only by a host of prejudices,
but assailed with all the engines of power: by
nicknames, by lies, by all the arts of malice,
interest, and hypocrisy, without the possibility
of their defending themselves "from the pelting
of the pitiless storm," that poured down upon
them from the strongholds of corruption and
authority.
The philosophers, the dry abstract reason-
ers, submitted to this reverse pretty well, and
armed themselves with patience "as with triple
steel," to bear discomfiture, persecution, and
disgrace. But the poets, the creatures of
sympathy, could not stand the frowns both
of king and people. They did not like to be
shut out when places and pensions, when the
critic's praises, and the laurel wreath were
about to be distributed. They did not stom-
ach being sent to Coventry, and Mr. Coleridge
sounded a retreat for them by the help of
casuistry and a musical voice. — "His words
were hollow, but they pleased the ear" of his
friends of the Lake School, who turned back
disgusted and panic-struck from the dry des-
ert of unpopularity, like Hassan the camel-
driver,
" And curs'd the hour, and curs'd the luckless day,
When first from Shiraz' walls they bent their way."
They are safely enclosed there. But Mr.
Coleridge did nor enter with them; pitching
his tent upon the barren waste without, and
having no abiding place nor city of refuge !
LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859)
THE DAUGHTER OF HIPPOCRATES l
In the time of the Norman reign in Sicily,
a vessel bound from that island for Smyrna
was driven by a westerly wind upon the island
of Cos. The crew did not know where they
were, though they had often visited the island;
for the trading towns lay in other quarters, and
1 Compare the other versions of this story, one by
Mandeville (p. 6, above), the other by William Morris
(English Poetry, p. 551).
THE DAUGHTER OF HIPPOCRATES
355
they saw nothing before them but woods and
solitudes. They found, however, a comfort-
able harbour; and the wind having fallen in
the night, they went on shore next morning for
water. The country proved as solitary as they
thought it; which was the more extraordinary,
inasmuch as it was very luxuriant, full of wild
figs and grapes, with a rich uneven ground,
and stocked with goats and other animals,
who fled whenever they appeared. The bees
were remarkably numerous; so that the wild
honey, fruits, and delicious water, especially
one spring which fell into a beautiful marble
basin, made them more and more wonder,
at every step, that they could see no human
inhabitants.
Thus idling about and wondering, stretching
themselves now and then among the wild thyme
and grass, and now getting up to look at some
specially fertile place which another called them
to see, and which they thought might be turned
to fine trading purpose, they came upon a
mound covered with trees, which looked into a
flat, wide lawn of rank grass, with a house at
the end of it. They crept nearer towards the
house along the mound, still continuing among
the trees, for fear they were trespassing at last
upon somebody's property. It had a large
garden wall at the back, as much covered with
ivy as if it had been built of it. Fruit-trees
looked over the wall with an unpruned thick-
ness; and neither at the back nor front of the
house were there any signs of humanity. It
was an ancient marble building, where glass
was not to be expected in the windows; but
it was much dilapidated, and the grass grew up
over the steps. They listened again and again ;
but nothing was to be heard like a sound of
men; nor scarcely of anything else. There was
an intense noonday silence. Only the hares
made a rustling noise as they ran about the
long hiding grass. The house looked like the
tomb of human nature amidst the vitality of
earth.
"Did you see?" said one of the crew, turning
pale, and hastening to go. "See what?" said
the others. "What looked out of the window."
They all turned their faces towards the house,
but saw nothing.- Upon this they laughed at
their companion, who persisted, however, with
great earnestness, and with great reluctance at
stopping, to say that he saw a strange, hideous
kind of face look out of the window. " Let us
go, sir," said he, to the Captain; — " for I tell
ye what: I know this place now: and you,
Signor Gualtier," continued he, turning to a
young man, "may now follow that adventure
I have often heard you wish to be engaged in."
The crew turned pale, and Gualtier among
them. "Yes," added the man, "we are fallen
upon the enchanted part of the island of Cos,
where the daughter of — Hush ! Look there !"
They turned their faces again, and beheld the
head of a large serpent looking out of the win-
dow. Its eyes were direct upon them; and
stretching out of the window, it lifted back its
head with little sharp jerks like a fowl; and
so stood keenly gazing.
The terrified sailors would have begun to
depart quicklier than they did, had not fear
itself made them move slowly. Their legs
seemed melting from under them. Gualtier
tried to rally his voice. "They say," said he,
"it is a gentle creature. The hares that feed
right in front of the house are a proof of it; —
let us all stay." The others shook their heads,
and spoke in whispers, still continuing to de-
scend the mound as well as they could. "There
is something unnatural in that very thing,"
said the Captain: "but we will wait for you in
the vessel, if you stay. We will, by St. Ermo."
The Captain had not supposed that Gualtier
would stay an instant; but seeing him linger
more than the rest, he added the oath in ques-
tion, and in the meantime was hastening with
the others to get away. The truth is, Gualtier
was, in one respect, more frightened than any
of them. His legs were more rooted to the
spot. But the same force of imagination that
helped to detain him, enabled him to muster
up courage beyond those who found their will
more powerful: and in the midst of his terror
he could not help thinking what a fine adven-
ture this would be to tell in Salerno, even if he
did but conceal himself a little, and stay a few
minutes longer than the rest. The thought,
however, had hardly come upon him, when it
was succeeded by a fear still more lively; and
he was preparing to follow the others with all
the expedition he could contrive, when a fierce
rustling took place in the trees behind him, and
in an instant the serpent's head was at his feet.
Gualtier's brain as well as heart seemed to
sicken, as he thought the monstrous object
scented him like a bear; but despair coming in
aid of a courage naturally fanciful and chival-
rous, he bent his eyes more steadily, and found
the huge jaws and fangs not only abstaining
from hurting him, but crouching and fawning
at his feet like a spaniel. At the same time
he called to mind the old legend respecting the
creature, and, corroborated as he now saw it,
356
LEIGH HUNT
he ejaculated with good firmness, "In the name
of God and his saints, what art thou?"
"Hast thou not heard of me?" answered
the serpent in a voice whose singular human
slenderness made it seem the more horrible.
"I guess who thou art," answered Gualtier; —
"the fearful thing in the island of Cos."
"I am that loathly thing," replied the ser-
pent; "once not so." And Gualtier thought
that its voice trembled sorrowfully.
The monster told Gualtier that what was said
of her was true; that she had been a serpent
hundreds of years, feeling old age and renewing
her youth at the end of each century; that it
was a curse of Diana's which had changed her;
and that she was never to resume a human form,
till somebody was found kind and bold enough
to kiss her on the mouth. As she spoke this
word, she raised her crest, and sparkled so with
her fiery green eyes, dilating at the same time
the corners of her jaws, that the young man
thrilled through his very scalp. He stepped
back, with a look of the utmost horror and
loathing. The creature gave a sharp groan
inwardly, and after rolling her neck frantically
on the ground, withdrew a little back likewise,
and seemed to be looking another way. Gual-
tier heard two or three little sounds as of a per-
son weeping piteously, yet trying to subdue its
voice; and looking with breathless curiosity,
he saw the side of the loathly creature's face
bathed in tears.
"Why speakest thou, lady," said he, "if
lady thou art, of the curse of the false goddess
Diana, who never was, or only a devil? I
cannot kiss thee," — and he shuddered with
a horrible shudder as he spoke, "but I will
bless thee in the name of the true God, and even
mark thee with his cross."
The serpent shook her head mournfully,
still keeping it turned round. She then faced
him again, hanging her head in a dreary and
desponding manner. "Thou knowest not,"
said she, "what I know. Diana both was and
never was; and there are many other things on
earth which are and yet are not. Thou canst
not comprehend it, even though thou art
kind. But the heavens alter not, neither the
sun nor the strength of nature; and if thou
wert kinder, I should be as I once was, happy
and human. Suffice it, that nothing can change
me but what I said."
"Why wert thou changed, thou fearful and
mysterious thing?" said Gualtier.
"Because I denied Diana, as thou dost,"
answered the serpent; "and it was pronounced
an awful crime in me, though it is none in thee ;
and I was to be made a thing loathsome in
men's eyes. Let me not catch thine eye, I
beseech thee; but go thy way and be safe;
for I feel a cruel thought coming on me, which
will shake my innermost soul, though it shall
not harm thee. But I could make thee suffer
for the pleasure of seeing thine anguish; even
as some tyrants do: and is not that dreadful?"
And the monster openly shed tears, and sobbed.
There was something in this mixture of
avowed cruelty, and weeping contradiction to
it, which made Gualtier remain in spite of
himself. But fear was still uppermost in his
mind when he looked upon the mouth that was
to be kissed; and he held fast round the tree
with one hand, and his sword as fast in the
other, watching the movements of her neck as
he conversed. "How did thy father, the sage
Hippocrates," asked he, "suffer thee to come
to this?" "My father," replied she, "sage
and good as he was, was but a Greek mortal;
and the great Virgin was a worshipped Goddess.
I pray thee, go." She uttered the last word in
a tone of loud anguish; but the very horror of
it made Gualtier hesitate, and he said, "How
can I know that it is not thy destiny to
deceive the merciful into this horrible kiss,
that then and then only thou mayest devour
them?"
But the serpent rose higher at this, and
looking around loftily, said, in a mild and
majestic tone of voice, "O ye green and happy
woods, breathing like sleep ! O safe and
quiet population of these leafy places, dying
brief deaths !. O sea ! O earth ! O heavens,
never uttering syllable to man ! Is there no
way to make better known the meaning of your
gentle silence, of your long basking pleasures
and brief pains? And must the want of what
is beautiful and kind from others, ever remain
different from what is beautiful and kind in
itBelf? And must form obscure essence; and
human confidence in good from within never
be bolder than suspicion of evil from without?
O ye large-looking and grand benignities of
creation, is it that we are atoms in a dream, or
that your largeness and benignity are in those
only who see them, and that it is for us to hang
over ye till we wake you into a voice with our
kisses? I yearn to be made beautiful by one
kind action, and beauty itself will not believe
me!"
Gualtier, though not a foolish youth, under-
stood little or nothing of this mystic apostrophe ;
but something made him bear in mind, and
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
357
really incline to believe, that it was a trans-
formed woman speaking to him; and he was
making a violent internal effort to conquer his
repugnance to the kiss, when some hares,
starting from him as they passed, ran and
cowered behind the folds of the monster:
and she stooped her head, and licked them.
"By Christ," exclaimed he, "whom the wormy
grave gathered into its arms to save us from our
corruptions, I will do this thing; so may he
have mercy on my soul, whether I live or die:
for the very hares take refuge in her shadow."
And shuddering and shutting his eyes, he put
his mouth out for her to meet; and he seemed
to feel, in his blindness, that dreadful mouth
approaching; and he made the sign of the
cross; and he murmured internally the name
of him who cast seven devils out of Mary
Magdalen, that afterwards anointed his feet;
and in the midst of his courageous agony he
felt a small mouth fast and warm upon his, and
a hand about his neck, and another on his left
hand; and opening his eyes, he dropped them
upon two of the sweetest that ever looked into
the eye of man. But the hares fled; for they
had loved the serpent, but knew not the beau-
tiful human being.
Great was the fame of Gualtier, not only
throughout the Grecian islands, but on both
continents; and most of all in Sicily, where
every one of his countrymen thought he had
had a hand in the enterprise, for being born on
the same soil. The Captain and his crew never
came again ; for, alas ! they had gone off with-
out waiting as they promised. But Tancred,
Prince of Salerno, came himself with a knightly
train to see Gualtier, who lived with his lady
in the same place, all her past sufferings ap-
pearing as nothing to her before a month of
love; and even sorrowful habit had endeared
it to her. Tancred, and his knights and
learned clerks, came in a noble ship, every oar
having a painted scutcheon over the rowlock;
and Gualtier and his lady feasted them nobly,
and drank to them amidst music in cups of
Hippocras — that knightly liquor afterwards
so renowned, which she retained the secret of
making from her sage father, whose name it
bore. And when King Tancred, with a gentle
gravity in the midst of his mirth, expressed a
hope that the beautiful lady no longer wor-
shipped Diana, Gualtier said, "No, indeed,
sir;" and she looked in Gualtier's face, as she
sat next him, with the sweetest look in the
world, as who should say, "No, indeed: — I
worship thee and thy kind heart."
THOMAS DE QUINCEY (1785-1859)
FROM CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH
OPIUM-EATER
INTRODUCTION TO THE PAINS OF
OPIUM
If any man, poor or rich, were to say that he
would tell us what had been the happiest day
in his life, and the why and the wherefore, I
suppose that we should all cry out, Hear him !
hear him ! As to the happiest day, that must be
very difficult for any wise man to name; be-
cause any event, that could occupy so distin-
guished a place in a man's retrospect of his life,
or be entitled to have shed a special felicity on
any one day, ought to be of such an enduring
character, as that (accidents apart) it should
have continued to shed the same felicity, or
one not distinguishably less, on many years
together. To the happiest lustrum, however,
or even to the happiest year, it may be allowed
to any man to point without discountenance
from wisdom. This year, in my case, reader,
was the one which we have now reached;
though it stood, I confess, as a parenthesis
between years of a gloomier character. It was
a year of brilliant water (to speak after the
manner of jewellers), set, as it were, and in-
sulated, in the gloom and cloudy melancholy
of opium. Strange as it may sound, I had a
little before this time descended suddenly, and
without any considerable effort, from three
hundred and twenty grains of opium (that is,
eight thousand drops of laudanum) per day,
to forty grains, or one-eighth part. Instanta-
neously, and as if by magic, the cloud of pro-
foundest melancholy which rested upon my
brain, like some black vapours that I have seen
roll away from the summits of mountains,
drew off in one day ; passed off with its murky
banners as simultaneously as a ship that has
been stranded, and is floated off by a spring
tide, —
That moveth altogether, if it move at all.
Now, then, I was again happy: I now took
only one thousand drops of laudanum per day,
— and what was that ? A latter spring had
come to close up the season of youth : my brain
performed its functions as healthily as ever
before. I read Kant again, and again I under-
stood him, or fancied that I did. Again my
feelings of pleasure expanded themselves to all
around me; and, if any man from Oxford or
358
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
Cambridge, or from neither, had been announced
to me in my unpretending cottage, I should have
welcomed him with as sumptuous a reception as
so poor a man could offer. Whatever else was
wanting to a wise man's happiness, of laudanum
I would have given him as much as he wished,
and in a golden cup. And, by the way, now
that I speak of giving laudanum away, I re-
member, about this time, a little incident, which
I mention, because, trifling as it was, the reader
will soon meet it again in my dreams, which it
influenced more tearfully than could be im-
agined. One day a Malay knocked at my door.
What business a Malay could have to transact
amongst English mountains, I cannot conjec-
ture; but possibly he was on his road to a
seaport about forty miles distant.
The servant who opened the door to him
was a young girl, born and bred amongst the
mountains, who had never seen an Asiatic
dress of any sort: his turban, therefore, con-
founded her not a little; ajid as it turned out
that his attainments in English were exactly
of the same extent as hers in the Malay, there
seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed between
all communication of ideas, if either party had
happened to possess any. In this dilemma,
the girl, recollecting the reputed learning of her
master (and, doubtless, giving me credit for a
knowledge of all the languages of the earth,
besides, perhaps, a few of the lunar ones),
came and gave me to understand that there
was a sort of demon below, whom she clearly
imagined that my art could exorcise from
the house. I did not immediately go down ; but
when I did, the group which presented itself,
arranged as it was by accident, though not very
elaborate, took hold of my fancy and my eye
in a way that none of the statuesque attitudes ex-
hibited in the ballets at the opera-house, though
so ostentatiously complex, had ever done.
In a cottage kitchen, but panelled on the wall
with dark wood, that from age and rubbing
resembled oak, and looking more like a rus-
tic hall of entrance than a kitchen, stood the
Malay, his turban and loose trousers of dingy
white relieved upon the dark panelling; he
had placed himself nearer to the girl than she
seemed to relish, though her native spirit of
mountain intrepidity contended with the feeling
of simple awe which her countenance expressed,
as she gazed upon the tiger-cat before her.
And a more striking picture there could not be
imagined, than the beautiful English face of the
girl, and its exquisite fairness, together with
her erect and independent attitude, contrasted
with the sallow and bilious skin of the Malay,
enamelled or veneered with mahogany by
marine air, his small, fierce, restless eyes, thin
lips, slavish gestures, and adorations. Half
hidden by the ferocious-looking Malay, was
a little child from a neighbouring cottage, who
had crept in after him, and was now in the act
of reverting its head and gazing upwards
at the turban and the fiery eyes beneath it,
whilst with one hand he caught at the dress of
the young woman for protection.
My knowledge of the Oriental tongues is not
remarkably extensive, being, indeed, confined to
two words, — the Arabic word for barley, and
the Turkish for opium (madjoon), which I have
learnt from Anastasius. And, as I had neither
a Malay dictionary, nor even Adelung's Mith-
ridates, which might have helped me to a few
words, I addressed him in some lines from
the Iliad ; considering that, of such language as
I possessed, the Greek, in point of longitude,
came geographically nearest to an Oriental
one. He worshipped me in a devout manner,
and replied in what I suppose was Malay. In
this way I saved my reputation with my neigh-
bours ; for the Malay had no means of betraying
the secret. He lay down upon the floor for about
an hour, and then pursued his journey. On
his departure, I presented him with a piece of
opium. To him, as an Orientalist, I concluded
that opium must be familiar, and the expression
of his face convinced me that it was. Never-
theless, I was struck with some little consterna-
tion when I saw him suddenly raise his hand
to his mouth, and (in the school-boy phrase)
bolt the whole, divided into three pieces, at
one mouthful. The quantity was enough
to kill three dragoons and their horses, and I
felt some alarm for the poor creature ; but what
could be done? I had given him the opium in
compassion for his solitary life, on recollecting
that, if he had travelled on foot from London,
it must be nearly three weeks since he could
have exchanged a thought with any human
being. I could not think of violating the laws
of hospitality by having him seized and drenched
with an emetic, and thus frightening him into
a notion that we were going to sacrifice him to
some English idol. No; there was clearly no
help for it. He took his leave, and for some
days I felt anxious; but, as I never heard of any
Malay being found dead, I became convinced
that he was used to opium, and that I must have
done him the service I designed, by giving him
one night of respite from the pains of wander-
ing.
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER
359
This incident I have digressed to mention,
because this Malay (partly from the picturesque
exhibition he assisted to frame, partly from the
anxiety I connected with his image for some
days) fastened afterwards upon my dreams,
and brought other Malays with him worse than
himself, that ran "a-muck" at me, and led me
into a world of troubles. But, to quit this
episode, and to return to my intercalary year
of happiness. I have said already, that on a
subject so important to us all as happiness, we
should listen with pleasure to any man's ex-
perience or experiments, even though he were
but a ploughboy, who cannot be supposed to
have ploughed very deep in such an intractable
soil as that of human pains and pleasures, or
to have conducted his researches upon any very
enlightened principles. But I, who have taken
happiness, both in a solid and a liquid shape,
both boiled and unboiled, both East India
and Turkey, — who have conducted my ex-
periments upon this interesting subject with a
sort of galvanic battery, — and have, for the
general benefit of the world, inoculated myself,
as it were, with the poison of eight hundred
drops of laudanum per day (just for the same
reason as a French surgeon inoculated himself
lately with a cancer, — an English one, twenty
years ago, with plague, — and a third, I
know not of what nation, with hydrophobia), —
I, it will be admitted, must surely know what
happiness is, if anybody does. And therefore
I will here lay down an analysis of happiness;
and, as the most interesting mode of com-
municating it, I will give it, not didactically,
but wrapt up and involved in a picture of one
evening, as I spent every evening during the
intercalary year when laudanum, though taken
daily, was to me no more than the elixir of
pleasure. This done, I shall quit the subject
of happiness altogether, and pass to a very
different one, — the pains of opium.
Let there be a cottage, standing in a valley,
eighteen miles from any town; no spacious
valley, but about two miles long by three
quarters of a mile in average width, — the
benefit of which provision is, that all the fam-
ilies resident within its circuit will compose,
as it were, one -larger household, personally
familiar to your eye, and more or less interest-
ing to your affections. Let the mountains be
real mountains, between three and four thou-
sand feet high, and the cottage a real cottage,
not (as a witty author has it) "a cottage with
a double coach-house"; let it be, in fact (for
I must abide by the actual scene), a white
cottage, embowered with flowering shrubs, so
chosen as to unfold a succession of flowers upon
the walls, and clustering around the windows,
through all the months of spring, summer, and
autumn; beginning, in fact, with May roses,
and ending with jasmine. Let it, however,
not be spring, nor summer, nor autumn; but
winter, in its sternest shape. This is a most
important point in the science of happiness.
And I am surprised to see people overlook it,
and think it matter of congratulation that
winter is going, or, if coming, is not likely to
be a severe one. On the contrary, I put up
a petition, annually, for as much snow, hail, '
frost, or storm of one kind or other, as the skies
can possibly afford us. Surely everybody is
aware of the divine pleasures which attend
a winter fireside, - — candles at four o'clock,
warm hearth-rugs, tea, a fair tea-maker,
shutters closed, curtains flowing in ample
draperies on the floor, whilst the wind and ram
are raging audibly without.
And at the doors and windows seem to call
As heaven and earth they would together mell;
Yet the least entrance find they none at all;
Whence sweeter grows our rest secure in massy hall.
— Castle of Indolence.
All these are items in the description of a
winter evening which must surely be familiar
to everybody born in a high latitude. And it
is evident that most of these delicacies, like ice-
cream, require a very low temperature of the
atmosphere to produce them: they are fruits
which cannot be ripened without weather stormy
or inclement, in some way or other. I am not
"particular" as people say, whether it be snow,
or black frost, or wind so strong that (as
Mr. says) "you may lean your back against
it like a post." I can put up even with rain, pro-
vided that it rains cats and dogs ; but something
of the sort I must have; and if I have not, I
think myself in a manner ill used: for why am
I called on to pay so heavily for winter, in coals,
and candles, and various privations that will
occur even to gentlemen, if I am not to have
the article good of its kind? No: a Canadian
winter, for my money; or a Russian one, where
even- man is but a co-proprietor with the north
wind in the fee-simple of his own ears. Indeed,
so great an epicure am I in this matter, that I
cannot relish a winter night fully, if it be much
past St. Thomas' day, and have degenerated
into disgusting tendencies to vernal appear-
ances; — no, it must be divided by a thick wall
360
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
of dark nights from all return of light and
sunshine. From the latter weeks of October
to Christmas-eve, therefore, is the period dur-
ing which happiness is in season, which, in my
judgment, enters the room with the tea-tray;
for tea, though ridiculed by those who are
naturally of coarse nerves, or are become so
from wine-drinking, and are not susceptible
of influence from so refined a stimulant, will
always be the favourite beverage of the
intellectual; and, for my part, I would have
joined Dr. Johnson in a bellum internecinum
against Jonas Hanway, or any other im-
pious person who should presume to dispar-
age it. But here, to save myself the trouble
of too much verbal description, I will intro-
duce a painter, and give him directions for
the rest of the picture. Painters do not like
white cottages, unless a good deal weather-
stained; but, as the reader now understands
that it is a winter night, his services will
not be required except for the inside of the
house.
Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by
twelve, and not more than seven and a half
feet high. This, reader, is somewhat am-
bitiously styled, in my family, the drawing-
room; but being contrived "a double debt to
pay," it is also, and more justly, termed the
library; for it happens that books are the only
article of property in which I am richer than
my neighbours. Of these I have about five
thousand, collected gradually since my eigh-
teenth year. Therefore, painter, put as many
as you can into this room. Make it populous
with books, and, furthermore, paint me a good
fire; and furniture plain and modest, befitting
the unpretending cottage of a scholar. And
near the fire paint me a tea-table ; and (as it is
clear that no creature can come to see one, such
a stormy night) place only two cups and saucers
on the tea-tray; and, if you know how to paint
such a thing symbolically, or otherwise, paint
me an eternal tea-pot, — eternal a parte ante,
and a parte post; for I usually drink tea from
eight o'clock at night to four in the morning.
And, as it is very unpleasant to make tea, or to
pour it out for one's self, paint me a lovely
young woman, sitting at the table. Paint her
arms like Aurora's, and her smiles like Hebe's;
— but no, dear M., not even in jest let me in-
sinuate that thy power to illuminate my cottage
rests upon a tenure so perishable as mere per-
sonal beauty; or that the witchcraft of angelic
smiles lies within the empire of any earthly
pencil. Pass, then, my good painter, to some-
thing more within its power; and the next
article brought forward should naturally be
myself, — a picture of the Opium-eater, with
his "little golden receptacle of the pernicious
drug" lying beside him on the table. As to the
opium, I have no objection to see a picture of
that, though I would rather see the original;
you may paint it, if you choose ; but I apprise
you that no "little" receptacle would, even in
1816, answer my purpose, who was at a distance
from the "stately Pantheon," and all druggists
(mortal or otherwise). No: you may as well
paint the real receptacle, which was not of
gold, but of glass, and as much like a wine-
decanter as possible. Into this you may put
a quart of ruby-coloured laudanum ; that, and a
book of German metaphysics placed by its
side, will sufficiently attest my being in the
neighbourhood ; but as to myself, there I demur.
I admit that, naturally, I ought to occupy the
foreground of the picture; that being the hero
of the piece, or (if you choose) the criminal at
the bar, my body should be had into court.
This seems reasonable; but why should I
confess, on this point, to a painter? or, why
confess at all? If the public (into whose private
ear I am confidentially whispering my confes-
sions, and not into any painter's) should chance
to have framed some agreeable picture for itself
of the Opium-eater's exterior, — should have
ascribed to him, romantically, an elegant person,
or a handsome face, why should I barbarously
tear from it so pleasing a delusion, — pleasing
both to the public and to me ? No: paint me,
if at all, according to your own fancy; and, as
a painter's fancy should teem with beautiful
creations, I cannot fail, in that way, to be a
gainer. And now, reader, we have run
through all the categories of my condition,
as it stood about 1816-1817, up to the mid-
dle of which latter year I judge myself to
have been a happy man; and the elements
of that happiness I have endeavoured to
place before you, in the above sketch of
the interior of a scholar's library, — in a
cottage among the mountains, on a stormy
winter evening.
But now farewell, a long farewell, to happiness,
winter or summer! farewell to smiles and
laughter ! farewell to peace of mind ! farewell
to hope and to tranquil dreams, and to the
blessed consolations of sleep! For more
than three years and a half I am sum-
moned away from these ; I am now arrived
at an Iliad of woes: for I have now to
record
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER
361
THE PAINS OF OPIUM
I now pass to what is the main subject of
these latter confessions, to the history and
journal of what took place m my dreams;
for these were the immediate and proximate
cause of my acutest suffering.
The first notice I had of any important
change going on in this part of my physical
economy, was from the re-awaking of a state
of eye generally incident to childhood, or
exalted states of irritability. I know not
whether my reader is aware that many children,
perhaps most, have a power of painting, as it
were, upon the darkness, all sorts of phantoms:
in some that power is simply a mechanic affec-
tion of the eye ; others have a voluntary or semi-
voluntary power to dismiss or summon them;
or, as a child once said to me, when I questioned
him on this matter, "I can tell them to go, and
they go ; but sometimes they come when I don't
tell them to come." Whereupon I told him
that he had almost as unlimited a command
over apparitions as a Roman centurion over
his soldiers. In the middle of 1817, I think
it was, that this faculty became positively
distressing to me: at night, when I lay awake
in bed, vast processions passed along in mourn-
ful pomp; friezes of never-ending stories, that
to my feelings were as sad and solemn as if
they were stories drawn from times before
(Edipus or Priam, before Tyre, before Memphis.
And, at the same time, a corresponding change
took place in my dreams; a theatre seemed
suddenly opened and lighted up within my brain,
which presented, nightly, spectacles of more
than earthly splendour. And the four following
facts may be mentioned, as noticeable at this time :
I. That, as the creative state of the eye
increased, a sympathy seemed to arise between
the waking and the dreaming states of the brain
in one point, — that whatsoever I happened
to call up and to trace by a voluntary act upon
the darkness was very apt to transfer itself to
my dreams; so that I feared to exercise this
faculty; for, as Midas turned all things to gold,
that yet baffled his hopes and defrauded his
human desires, so whatsoever things capable
of being visually- represented I did but think of
in the darkness, immediately shaped themselves
into phantoms of the eye; and, by a process
apparently no less inevitable, when thus once
traced in faint and visionary colours, like writings
in sympathetic ink, they were drawn out, by
the fierce chemistry of my dreams, into insuf-
ferable splendour that fretted my heart.
II. For this, and all other changes in my
dreams, were accompanied by deep-seated
anxiety and gloomy melancholy, such as are
wholly incommunicable by words. I seemed
every night to descend — not metaphorically,
but literally to descend — into chasms and
sunless abysses, depths below depths, from
which it seemed hopeless that I could ever re-
ascend. Nor did I, by waking, feel that I had
re-ascended. This I do not dwell upon ; because
the state of gloom which attended these gor-
geous spectacles, amounting at last to utter
darkness, as of some suicidal despondency,
cannot be approached by words.
III. The sense of space, and in the end the
sense of time, were both powerfully affected.
Buildings, landscapes, etc., were exhibited in
proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not
fitted to receive. Space swelled, and was
amplified to an extent of unutterable infinity.
This, however, did not disturb me so much
as the vast expansion of time. I sometimes
seemed to have lived for seventy or one hundred
years in one night; nay, sometimes had feelings
representative of a millennium, passed in that
time, or, however, of a duration far beyond the
limits of any human experience.
IV. The minutest incidents of childhood, or
forgotten scenes of later years, were often
revived. I could not be. said to recollect
them; for if I had been told of them when
waking, I should not have been able to ac-
knowledge them as parts of my past experi-
ence. But placed as they were before me, in
dreams like intuitions, and clothed in all their
evanescent circumstances and accompanying
feelings, I recognised them instantaneously. I
was once told by a near relative of mine, that
having in her childhood fallen into a river, and
being on the very verge of death but for the
critical assistance which reached her, she saw
in a moment her whole life, in its minutest
incidents, arrayed before her simultaneously as
in a mirror; and she had a faculty developed
as suddenly for. comprehending the whole and
every part. This, from some opium experi-
ences of mine, I can believe; I have, indeed,
seen the same thing asserted twice in modern
books, and accompanied by a remark which I
am convinced is true, namely, that the dread
book of account, which the Scriptures speak
of, is, in fact, the mind of each individual.
Of this, at least, I feel assured, that there is
no such thing as forgetting possible to the
mind; a thousand accidents may and will
interpose a veil between our present conscious-
362
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
ness and the secret inscriptions on the mind.
Accidents of the same sort will also rend away
this veil ; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled,
the inscription remains forever; just as the
stars seem to withdraw before the common
light of day, whereas, in fact, we all know
that it is the light which is drawn over them
as a veil; and that they are waiting to be re-
vealed, when the obscuring daylight shall have
withdrawn.
Having noticed these four facts as memor-
ably distinguishing my dreams from those
of health, I shall now cite a case illus-
trative of the first fact; and shall then
cite any others that I remember, either in
their chronological order, or any other that
may give them more effect as pictures to the
reader.
I had been in youth, and even since, for
occasional amusement, a great reader of Livy,
whom I confess that I prefer, both for style
and matter, to any other of the Roman his-
torians; and I had often felt as most solemn
and appalling sounds, and most emphatically
representative of the majesty of the Roman
people, the two words so often occurring in
Livy — Consul Romanus; especially when the
consul is introduced in his military character.
I mean to say, that the words king, sultan,
regent, etc., or any other titles of those who
embody in their own persons the collective
majesty of a great people, had less power over
my reverential feelings. I had, also, though no
great reader of history, made myself minutely
and critically familiar with one period of
English history, namely, the period of the
Parliamentary War, having been attracted by
the moral grandeur of some who figured in
that day, and by the many interesting memoirs
which survive those unquiet times. Both these
parts of my lighter reading, having furnished
me often with matter of reflection, now furnished
me with matter for my dreams. Often I used
to see, after painting upon the blank darkness,
a sort of rehearsal whilst waking, a crowd of
ladies, and perhaps a festival and dances.
And I heard it said, or I said to myself, "These
are English ladies from the unhappy times of
Charles I. These are the wives and daughters
of those who met in peace, and sat at the
same tables, and were allied by marriage or
by blood; and yet, after a certain day in
August, 1642, never smiled upon each other
again, nor met but in the field of battle; and
at Marston Moor, at Newbury, or at Naseby,
cut asunder all ties of love by the cruel sabre,
and washed away in blood the memory of
ancient friendship." The ladies danced, and
looked as lovely as the court of George IV.
Yet I knew, even in my dream, that they had
been in the grave for nearly two centuries.
This pageant would suddenly dissolve; and,
at a clapping of hands, would be heard the
heart -quaking sound of Consul Romanus;
and immediately came "sweeping by," in
gorgeous paludaments, Paulus or Marius,
girt around by a company of centurions,
with the crimson tunic hoisted on a spear,
and followed by the alalagmos of the Roman
legions.
Many years ago, when I was looking over
Piranesi's Antiquities of Rome, Mr. Coleridge,
who was standing by, described to me a set
of plates by that artist, called his Dreams, and
which record the scenery of his own visions
during the delirium of a fever. Some of them
(I describe only from memory of Mr. Coleridge's
account) represented vast Gothic halls ; on the
floor of which stood all sorts of engines and
machinery, wheels, cables, pulleys, levers,
catapults, etc., expressive of enormous power
put forth, and resistance overcome. Creeping
along the sides of the walls, you perceived a
staircase; and upon it, groping his way up-
wards, was Piranesi himself. Follow the stairs
a little further, and you perceive it to come to
a sudden, abrupt termination, without any bal-
ustrade, and allowing no step onwards to him
who had reached the extremity, except into the
depths below. Whatever is to become of poor
Piranesi, you suppose, at least, that his labours
must in some way terminate here. But raise
your eyes, and behold a second flight of stairs
still higher; on which again Piranesi is per-
ceived, by this time standing on the very brink
of the abyss. Again elevate your eye, and a
still more aerial flight of stairs is beheld; and
again is poor Piranesi busy on his aspiring
labours; and so on, until the unfinished stairs
and Piranesi both are lost in the upper gloom
of the hall. With the same power of endless
growth and self-reproduction did my archi-
tecture proceed in dreams. In the early stage
of my malady, the splendours of my dreams
were indeed chiefly architectural; and I be-
held such pomp of cities and palaces as was
never yet beheld by the waking eye, unless in
the clouds. From a great modern poet I cite
the part of a passage which describes, as an
appearance actually beheld in the clouds, what
in mary of its circumstances I saw frequently
in sleep:
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER
363
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
Was of a mighty city — boldly say
A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth,
Far sinking into splendour — without end !
Fabric it seemed of diamond, and of gold,
With alabaster domes and silver spires,
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high
Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,
In avenues disposed; there towers begirt
With battlements that on their restless fronts
Bore stars — illumination of all gems !
By earthly nature had the effect been wrought
Upon the dark materials of the storm
Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves,
And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto
The vapours had receded — • taking there
Their station under a cerulean sky, etc., etc.
The sublime circumstance — "battlements
that on their restless fronts bore stars" —
might have been copied from my architectu-
ral dreams, for it often occurred. We hear it
reported of Dryden, and of Fuselli in modern
times, that they thought proper to eat raw
meat for the sake of obtaining splendid dreams:
how much better, for such a purpose, to have
eaten opium, which yet I do not remember
that any poet is recorded to have done, except
the dramatist Shadwell; and in ancient days,
Homer is, I think, rightly reputed to have
known the virtues of opium.
To my architecture succeeded dreams of
lakes, and silvery expanses of water: these
haunted me so much, that I feared (though
possibly it will appear ludicrous to a medical
man) that some dropsical state or tendency of
the brain might thus be making itself (to use a
metaphysical word) objective, and the sentient
organ project itself as its own object. For two
months I suffered greatly in my head — a part
of my bodily structure which had hitherto been
so clear from all touch or taint of weakness
(physically, I mean), that I used to say of it,
as the last Lord Orford said of his stomach,
that it seemed likely to survive the rest of
my person. Till now I had never felt a head-
ache even, or any the slightest pain, except
rheumatic pains caused by my own folly.
However, I got over this attack, though it
must have been .verging on something very
dangerous.
The waters now changed their character, —
from translucent lakes, shining like mirrors,
they now became seas and oceans. And now
came a tremendous change, which, unfolding
itself slowly like a scroll, through many months,
promised an abiding torment; and, in fact, it
never left me until the winding up of my case.
Hitherto the human face had often mixed in
my dreams, but not despotically, nor with any
special power of tormenting. But now that
which I have called the tyranny of the human
face, began to unfold itself. Perhaps some
part of my London life might be answerable
for this. Be that as it may, now it was that
upon the rocking waters of the ocean the
human face began to appear; the sea appeared
paved with innumerable faces, upturned to the
heavens; faces, imploring, wrathful, despair-
ing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads,
by generations, by centuries : my agitation was
infinite, my mind tossed and surged with the
ocean.
May, 1818. — The Malay has been a fear-
ful enemy for months. I have been every
night, through his means, transported into
Asiatic scenes. I know not whether others
share in my feelings on this point; but I have
often thought that if I were compelled to
forego England, and to live in China, and
among Chinese manners and modes of life
and scenery, I should go mad. The causes
of my horror lie deep, and some of them must
be common to others. Southern Asia, in
general, is the seat of awful images and asso-
ciations. As the cradle of the human race, it
would alone have a dim and reverential feel-
ing connected with it. But there are other
reasons. No man can pretend that the wild,
barbarous, and capricious superstitions of
Africa, or of savage tribes elsewhere, affect
him in the way that he is affected by the
ancient, monumental, cruel, and elaborate
religions of Indostan, etc. The mere antiq-
uity of Asiatic things, of their institutions,
histories, modes of faith, etc., is so impres-
sive, that to me the vast age of the race and
name overpowers the sense of youth in the
individual. A young Chinese seems to me
an antediluvian man renewed. Even English-
men, though not bred in any knowledge of
such institutions, cannot but shudder at the
mystic sublimity of castes that have flowed
apart, and refused to mix, through such im-
memorial tracts of time; nor can any man
fail to be awed by the names of the Ganges,
or the Euphrates. It contributes much to
these feelings, that Southern Asia is, and has
been for thousands of years, the part of the
earth most swarming with human life, the
great officina gentium. Man is a weed in
those regions. The vast empires, also, into
which the enormous population of Asia has
364
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
always been cast, give a further sublimity to
the feelings associated with all oriental names
or images. In China, over and above what it
has in common with the rest of Southern
Asia, I am terrified by the modes of life, by
the manners, and the barrier of utter abhor-
rence, and want of sympathy, placed between
us by feelings deeper than I can analyse. I
could sooner live with lunatics, or brute
animals. All this, and much more than I
can say, or have time to say, the reader must
enter into, before he can comprehend the
unimaginable horror which these dreams of
oriental imagery, and mythological tortures,
impressed upon me. Under the connecting
feeling of tropical heat and vertical sunlights,
I brought together all creatures, birds, beasts,
reptiles, all trees and plants, usages and ap-
pearances, that are found in all tropical
regions, and assembled them together in China
or Indostan. From kindred feelings, I soon
brought Egypt and all her gods under the
same law. I was stared at, hooted at, grinned
at, chattered at, by monkeys, by paroquets,
by cockatoos. I ran into pagodas, and was
fixed, for centuries, at the summit, or-in secret
rooms: I was the idol; I was the priest; I
was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled
from the wrath of Brama through all the
forests of Asia: Vishnu hated me; Seeva laid
wait for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and
Osiris: I had done a deed, they said, which
the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was
buried, for a thousand years, in stone coffins,
with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow cham-
bers at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was
kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles ; and
laid, confounded with all unutterable slimy
things, amongst reeds and Nilotic mud.
I thus give the reader some slight abstrac-
tion of my oriental dreams, which always
filled me with such amazement at the mon-
strous scenery, that horror seemed absorbed,
for a while, in sheer astonishment. Sooner or
later came a reflux of feeling that swallowed
up the astonishment, and left me, not so
much in terror, as in hatred and abomination
of what I saw. Over every form, and threat,
and punishment, and dim sightless incarcera-
tion, brooded a sense of eternity and infinity
that drove me into an oppression as of mad-
ness. Into these dreams only, it was, with
one or two slight exceptions, that any circum-
stances of physical horror entered. All before
had been moral and spiritual terrors. But
here the main agents were ugly birds, or
snakes, or crocodiles, especially the last. The
cursed crocodile became to me the object of
more horror than almost all the rest. I was
compelled to live with him; and (as was
always the case, -almost, in my dreams) for
centuries. I escaped sometimes, and found
myself in Chinese houses with cane tables, etc.
All the feet of the tables, sofas, etc., soon
became instinct with life: the abominable
head of the crocodile, and his leering eyes,
looked out at me, multiplied into a thousand
repetitions; and I stood loathing and fasci-
nated. And so often did this hideous reptile
haunt my dreams, that many times the very
same dream was broken up in the very same
way: I heard gentle voices speaking to me
(I hear everything when I am sleeping), and
instantly I awoke: it was broad noon, and
my children were standing, hand in hand, at
my bedside ; come to show me their coloured
shoes, or new frocks, or to let me see them
dressed for going out. I protest that so awful
was the transition from the damned crocodile,
and the other unutterable monsters and abor-
tions of my dreams, to the sight of innocent
human natures and of infancy, that, in the
mighty and sudden revulsion of mind, I wept,
and could not forbear it, as I kissed their
.faces.
June, 1819. — I have had occasion to re-
mark, at various periods of my life, that the
deaths of those whom we love, and, indeed,
the contemplation of death generally, is (caeteris
paribus} more affecting in summer than in any
other season of the year. And the reasons are
these three, I think: first, that the visible
heavens in summer appear far higher, more
distant, and (if such a solecism may be ex-
cused) more infinite; the clouds by which
chiefly the eye expounds the distance of the blue
pavilion stretched over our heads are in sum-
mer more voluminous, more massed, and accu-
mulated in far grander and more towering piles :
secondly, the light and the appearances of the
declining and the setting sun are much more
fitted to be types and characters of the infinite :
and, thirdly (which is the main reason), the
exuberant and riotous prodigality of life
naturally forces the mind more powerfully
upon the antagonist thought of death, and the
wintry sterility of the grave. For it may be
observed, generally, that wherever two thoughts
stand related to each other by a law of an-
tagonism, and exist, as it were, by mutual
repulsion, they are apt to suggest each other.
On these accounts it is that I find it impossible
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER
365
to banish the thought of death when I am
walking alone in the endless days of summer;
and any particular death, if not more affecting,
at least haunts my mind more obstinately and
besiegingly, in that season. Perhaps this
cause, and a slight incident which I omit,
might have been the immediate occasions of
the following dream, to which, however, a pre-
disposition must always have existed in my
mind; but having been once roused, it never
left me, and split into a thousand fantastic
varieties, which often suddenly reunited, and
composed again the original dream.
I thought that it was a Sunday morning in
May; that it was Easter Sunday, and as yet
very early in the morning. I was standing,
as it seemed to me, at the door of my own
cottage. Right before me lay the very scene
which could really be commanded from that
situation, but exalted, as was usual, and
solemnised by the power of dreams. There
were the same mountains, and the same lovely
valley at their feet; but the mountains were
raised to more than Alpine height, and there
was interspace far larger between them of
meadows and forest lawns; the hedges were
rich with white roses; and no living creature
was to be seen, excepting that in the green
church -yard there were cattle tranquilly repos-
ing upon the verdant graves, and particularly
round about the grave of a child whom I had
tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld
them, a little before sunrise, in the same
summer, when that child died. I gazed upon
the well-known scene, and I said aloud (as I
thought) to myself, "It yet wants much of
sunrise; and it is Easter Sunday; and that is
the day on which they celebrate the first fruits
of resurrection. I will walk abroad; old
griefs shall be forgotten to-day; for the air
is cool and still, and the hills are high, and
stretch away to heaven; and the forest glades
are as quiet as the church-yard ; and with the
dew I can wash the fever from my forehead,
and then I shall be unhappy no longer." And
I turned, as if to open my garden gate; and
immediately I saw upon the left a scene far
different; but which yet the power of dreams
had reconciled into harmony with the other.
The scene was a"n oriental one; and there also
it was Easter Sunday, and very early in the
morning. And at a vast distance were visible,
as a stain upon the horizon, the domes and
cupolas of a great city — an image or faint
abstraction, caught, perhaps, in childhood,
from some picture of Jerusalem. And not a
bow-shot from me, upon a stone, and shaded
by Judean palms, there sat a woman; and I
looked, and it was — Ann ! She fixed her
eyes upon me earnestly; and I said to her,
at length, "So, then, I have found you, at
last." I waited; but she answered me not a
word. Her face was the same as when I saw
it last, and yet, again, how different! Seven-
teen years ago, when the lamp-light fell upon
her face, as for the last time I kissed her lips
(lips, Ann, that to me were not polluted !),
her eyes were streaming with tears ; — her
tears were now wiped away ; she seemed more
beautiful than she was at that time, but in
all other points the same, and not older. Her
looks were tranquil, but with unusual solem-
nity of expression, and I now gazed upon her
with some awe ; but suddenly her countenance
grew dim, and, turning to the mountains, I
perceived vapours rolling between us; in a
moment, all had vanished; thick darkness
came on; and in the twinkling of an eye I
was far away from mountains, and by lamp-
light in Oxford-street, walking again with Ann
— just as we walked seventeen years before,
when we were both children.
As a final specimen, I cite one of a different
character, from 1820.
The dream commenced with a music which
now I often heard in dreams — a music of
preparation and of awakening suspense; a
music like the opening of the Coronation
Anthem, and which, like that, gave the feeling
of a vast march, of infinite cavalcades filing
off, and the tread of innumerable armies.
The morning was come of a mighty day — a
day of crisis and of final hope for human
nature, then suffering some mysterious eclipse,
and labouring in some dread extremity. Some-
where, I knew not where — somehow, I knew
not how — by some beings, I knew not whom
— a battle, a strife, an agony, was conducting,
— was evolving like a great drama, or piece
of music; with which my sympathy was the
more insupportable from my confusion as to
its place, its cause, its nature, and its possi-
ble issue. I, as is usual in dreams (where, of
necessity, we make ourselves central to every
movement), had the power, and yet had not
the power, to decide it. I had the power, if
I could raise myself, to will it; and yet again
had not the power, for the weight of twenty
Atlantics was upon me, or the oppression of
inexpiable guilt. "Deeper than ever plummet
sounded," I lay inactive. Then, like a chorus,
the passion deepened. Some greater interest
366
THOMAS CARLYLE
was at stake; some mightier cause than ever
yet the sword had pleaded, or trumpet had pro-
claimed. Then came sudden alarms; hurry-
ings to and fro; trepidations of innumerable
fugitives. I knew not whether from the good
cause or the bad ; darkness and lights ; tempest
and human faces; and at last, with the sense
that all was lost, female forms, and ine features
that were worth all the world to me, and but
a moment allowed, — and clasped hands, and
heart-breaking partings, and then — everlast-
ing farewells ! and, with a sigh, such as the
caves of hell sighed when the incestuous mother
uttered the abhorred name of death, the sound
was reverberated — everlasting farewells ! and
again, and yet again reverberated — everlast-
ing farewells!
And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud
— "I will sleep no more!"
THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881)
SARTOR RESARTUS
CHAPTER VI
SORROWS OF TEUFELSDROCKH"
We have long felt that, with a man like our
Professor, matters must often be expected to
take a course of their own; that in so multi-
plex, intricate a nature, there might be channels,
both for admitting and emitting, such as the
Psychologist had seldom noted; in short, that
on no grand occasion and convulsion, neither
in the joy-storm nor in the woe-storm, could
you predict his demeanour.
To our less philosophical readers, for ex-
ample, it is now clear that the so passionate
Teufelsdrockh, precipitated through "a shivered
Universe" in this extraordinary way, has only
one of three things which he can next do:
Establish himself in Bedlam; begin writing
Satanic Poetry; or blow-out his brains. In
the progress towards any of which consumma-
tions, do not such readers anticipate extrava-
gance enough; breast-beating, brow-beating
(against walls), lion-bellowings of blasphemy
and the like, stampings, smitings, breakages
of furniture, if not arson itself?
Nowise so does Teufelsdrockh deport him.
He quietly lifts his Pilgerstab (Pilgrim-staff),
"old business being soon wound-up"; and
begins a perambulation and circumambulation
of the terraqueous Globe ! Curious it is, in-
deed, how with such vivacity of conception,
such intensity of feeling; above all, with these
unconscionable habits of Exaggeration in
speech, he combines that wonderful stillness
of his, that stoicism in external procedure.
Thus, if his sudden bereavement, in this
matter of the Flower-goddess, is talked of as
a real Doomsday and Dissolution of Nature,
in which light doubtless it partly appeared to
himself, his own nature is nowise dissolved
thereby; but rather is compressed closer.
For once, as we might say, a Blumine by
magic appliances has unlocked that shut heart
of his, and its hidden things rush-out tu-
multuous, boundless, like genii enfranchised
from their glass phial: but no sooner are
your magic appliances withdrawn, than the
strange casket of a heart springs-to again;
and perhaps there is now no key extant that
will open it; for a Teufelsdrockh, as we re-
marked, will not love a second time. Singular
Diogenes! No sooner has that heart-rending
occurrence fairly taken place, than he affects
to regard it as a thing natural, of which there
is nothing more to be said. "One highest
hope, seemingly legible in the eyes of an
Angel, had recalled him as out of Death-
shadows into celestial life: but a gleam of
Tophet passed over the face of his Angel;
he was rapt away in whirlwinds, and heard
the laughter of Demons. It was a Calenture,"
adds he, "whereby the Youth saw green
Paradise-groves in the waste Ocean -waters:
a lying vision, yet not wholly a lie, for he saw
it." But what things soever passed in him,
when he ceased to see it; what ragings and
despairings soever Teufelsdrockh's soul was the
scene of, he has the goodness to conceal under
a quite opaque cover of Silence. We know it
well; the first mad paroxysm past, our brave
Gneschen collected his dismembered philoso-
phies, and buttoned himself together; he was
meek, silent, or spoke of the weather and the
Journals: only by a transient knitting of
those shaggy brows, by some deep flash of
those eyes, glancing one knew not whether
with tear-dew or with fierce fire, — might you
have guessed what a Gehenna was within;
that a whole Satanic School were spouting,
though inaudibly, there. To consume your
own choler, as some chimneys consume their
own smoke; to keep a whole Satanic School
spouting, if it must spout, inaudibly, is a
negative yet no slight virtue, nor one of the
commonest in these times.
Nevertheless, we will not take upon us to
say, that in the strange measure he fell upon,
there was not a touch of latent Insanity;
SARTOR RESARTUS
367
whereof indeed the actual condition of these
Documents in Capricornus and Aquarius is no
bad emblem. His so unlimited Wanderings,
toilsome enough, are without assigned or per-
haps assignable aim; internal Unrest seems
his sole guidance; he wanders, wanders, as if
that curse of the Prophet had fallen on him,
and he were "made like unto a wheel." Doubt-
less, too, the chaotic nature of these Paper-
bags aggravates our obscurity. Quite without
note of preparation, for example, we come
upon the following slip: "A peculiar feeling
it is that will rise in the Traveller, when turn-
ing some hill-range in his desert road, he
descries lying far below, embosomed among
its groves and green natural bulwarks, and all
diminished to a toybox, the fair Town, where
so many souls, as it were seen and yet unseen,
are driving their multifarious traffic. Its
white steeple is then truly a starward-pointing
finger; the canopy of blue smoke seems like
a sort of Life-breath: for always, of its own
unity, the soul gives unity to whatsoever it
looks on with love; thus does the little Dwell-
ingplace of men, in itself a congeries of houses
and huts, become for us an individual, almost
a person. But what thousand other thoughts
unite thereto, if the place has to ourselves been
the arena of joyous or mournful experiences;
if perhaps the cradle we were rocked in still
stands there, if our Loving ones still dwell
there, if our Buried ones there slumber!"
Does Teufelsdrockh, as the wounded eagle is
said to make for its own eyrie, and indeed
military deserters, and all hunted outcast
creatures, turn as if by instinct in the direction
of their birth-land, — fly first, in this extremity,
towards his native Entepfuhl; but reflecting
that there no help awaits him, takes but one
wistful look from the distance, and then wend
elsewhither?
Little happier seems to be his next flight:
into the wilds of Nature; as if in her mother-
bosom he would seek healing. So at least we
incline to interpret the following Notice,
separated from the former by some consider-
able space, wherein, however, is nothing note-
worthy.
"Mountains were not new to him; but
rarely are Mountains seen in such combined
majesty and grace as here. The rocks are of
that sort called Primitive by the mineralogists,
which always arrange themselves in masses of
a rugged, gigantic character; which rugged-
ness, however, is here tempered by a singular
airiness of form, and softness of environment:
in a climate favourable to vegetation, the gray
cliff, itself covered with lichens, shoots-up
through a garment of foliage or verdure;
and white, bright cottages, tree-shaded, cluster
round the everlasting granite. In fine vicissi-
tude, Beauty alternates with Grandeur: you
ride through stony hollows, along strait passes
traversed by torrents, overhung by high walls
of rock; now winding amid broken shaggy
chasms, and huge fragments; now suddenly
emerging into some emerald valley, where the
streamlet collects itself into a Lake, and man
has again found a fair dwelling, and it seems
as if Peace had established herself in the
bosom of Strength.
"To Peace, however, in this vortex of exist-
ence, can the Son of Time not pretend: still
less if some Spectre haunt him from the Past;
and the Future is wholly a Stygian darkness,
spectre-bearing. Reasonably might the Wan-
derer exclaim to himself: Are not the gates of
this world's Happiness inexorably shut against
thee; hast thou a hope that is not mad?
Nevertheless, one may still murmur audibly,
or in the original Greek if that suit thee better:
'Whoso can look on Death will start at no
shadows.'
"From such meditations is the Wanderer's
attention called outwards; for now the Valley
closes-in abruptly, intersected by a huge moun-
tain mass, the stony water-worn ascent of
which is not to be accomplished on horseback.
Arrived aloft, he finds himself again lifted into
the evening sunset light; and cannot but
pause, and gaze round him, some moments
there. An upland irregular expanse of wold,
where valleys in complex branchings are sud-
denly or slowly arranging their descent towards
every quarter of the sky. The mountain-
ranges are beneath your feet, and folded
together: only the loftier summits look down
here and there as on a second plain; lakes
also lie clear and earnest in their solitude.
No trace of man now visible ; unless indeed it
were he who fashioned that little visible link
of Highway, here, as would seem, scaling the
inaccessible, to unite Province with Province.
But sunwards, lo you! how it towers sheer
up, a world of Mountains, the diadem and
centre of the mountain region ! A hundred
and a hundred savage peaks, in the last light
of Day; all glowing, of gold and amethyst,
like giant spirits of the wilderness; there in
their silence, in their solitude, even as on the
night when Noah's Deluge first dried ! Beauti-
ful, nay solemn, was the sudden aspect to our
368
THOMAS CARLYLE
Wanderer. He gazed over those stupendous
masses with wonder, almost with longing
desire; never till this hour had he known
Nature, that she was One, that she was his
Mother and divine. And as the ruddy glow
was fading into clearness in the sky, and the
Sun had now departed, a murmur of Eternity
and Immensity, of Death and of Life, stole
through his soul; and he felt as if Death and
Life were one, as if the Earth were not dead,
as if the Spirit of the Earth had its throne in
that splendour, and his own spirit were there-
with holding communion.
"The spell was broken by a sound of car-
riage-wheels. Emerging from the hidden
Northward, to sink soon into the hidden
Southward, came a gay Barouche-and-four:
it was open; servants and postillions wore
wedding-favours: that happy pair, then, had
found each other, it was their marriage even-
ing! Few moments brought them near: Du
Himmel ! It was Herr Towgood and Blu-
mine! With slight unrecognising salutation
they passed me; plunged down amid the neigh-
bouring thickets, onwards, to Heaven, and to
England; and I, in my friend Richter's words,
I remained alone, behind them, with the Night."
Were it not cruel in these circumstances,
here might be the place to insert an observa-
tion, gleaned long ago from the great Clothes-
Volume, where it stands with quite other
intent: "Some time before Small-pox was ex-
tirpated," says the Professor, "there came a
new malady of the spiritual sort on Europe:
I mean the epidemic, now endemical, of View-
hunting. Poets of old date, being privileged
with Senses, had also enjoyed external Nature ;
but chiefly as we enjoy the crystal cup which
holds good or bad liquor for us; that is to
say, in silence, or with slight incidental com-
mentary: never, as I compute, till after the
Sorrows of Werter, was there man found who
would say: Come let us make a Description!
Having drunk the liquor, come let us eat the
glass! Of which endemic the Jenner is un-
happily still to seek." Too true!
We reckon it more important to remark
that the Professor's Wanderings, so far as his
stoical and cynical envelopment admits us to
clear insight, here first take their permanent
character, fatuous or not. That Basilisk-
glance of the Barouche-and-four seems to have
withered-up what little remnant of a purpose
may have still lurked in him: Life has become
wholly a dark labyrinth; wherein, through
long years, our Friend, flying from spectres,
has to stumble about at random, and naturally
with more haste than progress.
Foolish were it in us to attempt following
him, even from afar, in this extraordinary
world-pilgrimage of his; the simplest record
of which, were clear record possible, would fill
volumes. Hopeless is the obscurity, unspeak-
able the confusion. He glides from country
to country, from condition to condition ; vanish-
ing and reappearing, no man can calculate
how or where. Through all quarters of the
world he wanders, and apparently through all
circles of society. If in any scene, perhaps
difficult to fix geographically, he settles for a
time, and forms connections, be sure he will
snap them abruptly asunder. Let him sink
out of sight as Private Scholar (Privatisirender),
living by the grace of God, in some European
capital, you may next find him as Hadjee in
the neighbourhood of Mecca. It is an inex-
plicable Phantasmagoria, capricious, quick-
changing ; as if our Traveller, instead of limbs
and highways, had transported himself by some
wishing-carpet, or Fortunatus' Hat. The
whole, too, imparted emblematically, in dim
multifarious tokens (as that collection of
Street -Advertisements) ; with only some touch
of direct historical notice sparingly interspersed:
little light-islets in the world of haze ! So that,
from this point, the Professor is more of an
enigma than ever. In figurative language, we
might say he becomes, not indeed a spirit, yet
spiritualised, vapourised. Fact unparalleled
in Biography: The river of his History, which
we have traced from its tiniest fountains, and
hoped to see flow onward, with increasing
current, into the ocean, here dashes itself
over that terrific Lover's Leap; and, as a
mad-foaming cataract, flies wholly into tu-
multuous clouds of spray! Low down it in-
deed collects again into pools and plashes;
yet only at a great distance, and with difficulty,
if at all, into a general stream. To cast a
glance into certain of those pools and plashes,
and trace whither they run, must, for a chap-
ter or two, form the limit of our endeavour.
For which end doubtless those direct his-
torical Notices, where they can be met with,
are the best. Nevertheless, of this sort too
there occurs much, which, with our present
light, it were questionable to emit. Teufels-
drockh, vibrating everywhere between the high-
est and the lowest levels, comes into con-
tact with public History itself. For example,
those conversations and relations with illus-
trious Persons, as Sultan Mahmoud, the Em-
SARTOR RESARTUS
369
peror Napoleon, and others, are they not as
yet rather of a diplomatic character than of
a biographic? The Editor, appreciating the
sacredness of crowned heads, nay perhaps sus-
pecting the possible trickeries of a Clothes-
Philosopher, will eschew this province for the
present; a new time may bring new insight
and a different dui.y.
If we ask now, not indeed with what ulterior
Purpose, for there was none, yet with what
immediate outlooks; at all events, in what
mood of mind, the Professor undertook and
prosecuted this world-pilgrimage, — the an-
swer is more distinct than favourable. "A
nameless Unrest," says he, "urged me for-
ward ; to which the outward motion was some
momentary lying solace. Whither should I
go? My Loadstars were blotted out; in that
canopy of grim fire shone no star. Yet for-
ward must I; the ground burnt under me;
there was no rest for the sole of my foot. I
was alone, alone ! Ever too the strong inward
longing shaped Fantasms for itself: towards
these, one after the other, must I fruitlessly
wander. A feeling I had, that for my fever-
thirst there was and must be somewhere a
healing Fountain. To many fondly imagined
Fountains, the Saints' Wells of these days,
did I pilgrim; to great Men, to great Cities,
to great Events: but found there no healing.
In strange countries, as in the well-known;
in savage deserts, as in the press of corrupt
civilisation, it was ever the same: how could
your Wanderer escape from — his own
Shadow? Nevertheless still Forward! I felt
as if in great haste; to do I saw not what.
From the depths of my own heart, it called to
me, Forwards! The winds and the streams,
and all Nature sounded to me, Forwards!
Ach Gott, I was even, once for all, a Son of
Time."
From which is it not clear that the internal
Satanic School was still active enough? He
says elsewhere: "The Enchiridion of Epicte-
tus I had ever with me, often as my sole rational
companion; and regret to mention that the
nourishment it yielded was trifling." Thou
foolish Teufelsdrockh! How could it else?
Hadst thou not Greek enough to understand
thus much: The end of Man is an Action,
and not a Thought, though it were the noblest ?
"How I lived?" writes he once: "Friend,
hast thou considered the ' rugged all-nourishing
Earth,' as Sophocles well names her; how she
feeds the sparrow on the house-top, much
more her darling, man? While thou stirrest
and livest, thou hast a probability of victual.
My breakfast of tea has been cooked by a
Tartar woman, with water of the Amur, who '
wiped her earthen kettle with a horse-tail. I
have roasted wild-eggs in the sand of Sahara;
I have awakened in Paris Estrapades and
Vienna Malzleins, with no prospect of break-
fast beyond elemental liquid. That I had my
Living to seek saved me from Dying, — by
suicide. In our busy Europe, is there not an
everlasting demand for Intellect, in the chemi-
cal, mechanical, political, religious, educational,
commercial departments ? In Pagan countries,
cannot one write Fetiches? Living! Little
knowest thou what alchemy is in an inventive
Soul; how, as with its little finger, it can
create provision enough for the body (of a
Philosopher); and then, as with both hands,
create quite other than provision; namely,
spectres to torment itself withal."
Poor Teufelsdrockh ! Flying with Hunger
always parallel to him; and a whole Infernal
Chase in his rear; so that the countenance
of Hunger is comparatively a friend's ! Thus
must he, in the temper of ancient Cain, or of
the modern Wandering Jew, — save only that
he feels himself not guilty and but suffering
the pains of guilt, — wend to and fro with
aimless speed. Thus must he, over the whole
surface of the earth (by foot-prints), write his
Sorrows of Teufelsdrockh; even as the great
Goethe, in passionate words, had to write his
Sorrows of Werter, before the spirit freed her-
self, and he could become a Man. Vain truly
is the hope of your swiftest Runner to escape
"from his own Shadow!" Nevertheless, in
these sick days, when the Born of Heaven first
descries himself (about the age of twenty) in a
world such as ours, richer than usual in two
things, in Truths grown obsolete, and Trades
grown obsolete, — what can the fool think but
that it is all a Den of Lies, wherein whoso will
not speak Lies and act Lies, must stand idle
and despair? Whereby it happens that, for
your nobler minds the publishing of some
such Work of Art, in one or the other dialect,
becomes almost a necessity. For what is it
properly but an Altercation with the Devil,
before you begin honestly Fighting him?
Your Byron publishes his Sorrows of Lord
George, in verse and in prose, and copiously
otherwise: your Bonaparte represents his Sor-
rows of Napoleon Opera, in ail-too stupendous
style; with music of cannon -volleys, and mur
der-shrieks of a world ; his stage-lights are the
fires of Conflagration ; his rhyme and recitative
37°
THOMAS CARLYLE
are the tramp of embattled Hosts and the sound
of falling Cities. — Happier is he who, like
our Clothes Philosopher, can write such mat-
ter, since it must be written, on the insensi-
ble Earth, with his shoe-soles only; and also
survive the writing thereof!
CHAPTER VII
TEE EVERLASTING No
Under the strange nebulous envelopment,
wherein our Professor has now shrouded him-
self, no doubt but his spiritual nature is nev-
ertheless progressive, and growing: for how
can the "Son of Time," in any case, stand
still? We behold him, through those dim
years, in a state of crisis, of transition: his
mad Pilgrimings, and general solution into
aimless Discontinuity, what is all this but a
mad Fermentation; wherefrom, the fiercer it
is, the clearer product will one day evolve
itself?
Such transitions are ever full of pain: thus
the Eagle when he moults is sickly; and, to
attain his new beak, must harshly . dash-off
the old one upon rocks. What Stoicism soever
our Wanderer, in his individual acts and
motions, may affect, it is clear that there is a
hot fever of anarchy and misery raving within ;
coruscations of which flash out: as, indeed,
how could there be other? Have we not
seen him disappointed, bemocked of Destiny,
through long years? All that the young heart
might desire and pray for has been denied;
nay, as in the last worst instance, offered
and then snatched away. Ever an "excellent
Passivity"; but of useful, reasonable Activity,
essential to the former as Food to Hunger,
nothing granted: till at length, in this wild
Pilgrimage, he must forcibly seize for himself
an Activity, though useless, unreasonable.
Alas, his cup of bitterness, which had been
filling drop by drop, ever since the first "ruddy
morning" in the Hinterschlag Gymnasium, was
at the very lip; and then with that poison-
drop, of the Towgood-and-Blumine business,
it runs over, and even hisses over in a deluge of
foam.
He himself says once, with more justice
than originality: "Man is, properly speaking,
based upon Hope, he has no other possession
but Hope; this world of his is emphatically
the Place of Hope." What then was our Pro-
fessor's possession? We see him, for the
present, quite shut-out from Hope; looking
not into the golden orient, but vaguely all
around into a dim copper firmament, pregnant
with earthquake and tornado.
Alas, shut-out from Hope, in a deeper sense
than we yet dream of! For, as he wanders
wearisomely through this world, he has now
lost all tidings of another and higher. Full of
religion, or at least of religiosity, as our Friend
has since exhibited himself, he hides not
that, in those days, he was wholly irreligious:
"Doubt had darkened into Unbelief," says
he; "shade after shade goes grimly over your
soul, till you have the fixed, starless, Tartarean
black." To such readers as have reflected,
what can be called reflecting, on man's life,
and happily discovered, hi contradiction to
much Profit-and-Loss Philosophy, speculative
and practical, that Soul is not synonymous with
Stomach; who understand, therefore, in our
Friend's words, "that, for man's well-being,
Faith is properly the one thing needful; how,
with it, Martyrs, otherwise weak, can cheer-
fully endure the shame and the cross; and
without it, Worldlings puke-up their sick
existence, by suicide, in the midst of luxury":
to such, it will be clear that, for a pure moral
nature, the loss of his religious Belief was
the loss of everything. Unhappy young man !
All wounds, the crush of long-continued Des-
titution, the stab of false Friendship, and of
false Love, all wounds in thy so genial heart,
would have healed again, had not its life-
warmth been withdrawn. Well might he ex-
claim, in his wild way: "Is there no God,
then; but at best an absentee God, sitting
idle, ever since the first Sabbath, at the out-
side of his Universe, and seeing it go? Has
the word Duty no meaning; is what we call
Duty no divine Messenger and Guide, but a
false earthly Fantasm, made-up of Desire and
Fear, of emanations from the Gallows and
from Doctor Graham's Celestial Bed? Hap-
piness of an approving Conscience ! Did not
Paul of Tarsus, whom admiring men have
since named Saint, feel that he was 'the chief
of sinners,' and Nero of Rome, jocund in
spirit (wohlgemuth), spend much of his time
in fiddling ? Foolish Wordmonger, and Motive-
grinder, who in thy Logic-mill hast an earthly
mechanism for the Godlike itself, and wouldst
fain grind me out Virtue from the husks of
Pleasure, — I tell thee, Nay ! To the un-
regenerate Prometheus Vinctus of a man, it is
ever the bitterest aggravation of his wretched-
ness that he is conscious of Virtue, that he
feels himself the victim not of suffering only,
SARTOR RESARTUS
but of injustice. What then? Is the heroic
inspiration we name Virtue but some Passion;
some bubble of the blood, bubbling in the
direction others profit by? I know not: only
this I know, if what thou namest Happiness
be our true aim, then are we all astray. With
Stupidity and sound digestion man may front
much. But what, in these dull unimaginative
days are the terrors of Conscience to the dis-
eases of the Liver! Not on Morality, but on
Cookery, let us build our stronghold: there
brandishing our frying-pan, as censer, let us
offer sweet incense to the Devil, and live at
ease on the fat things he has provided for his
Elect!"
Thus has the bewildered Wanderer to stand,
as so many have done, shouting question after
question into the Sibyl-cave of Destiny, and
receive no Answer but an Echo. It is all a
grim Desert, this once-fair world of his;
wherein is heard only the howling of wild-
beasts, or the shrieks of despairing, hate-filled
men ; and no Pillar of Cloud by day, and no
Pillar of Fire by night, any longer guides the
Pilgrim. To such length has the spirit of
Inquiry carried him. "But what boots it
(was thuts) ? " cries he ; " it is but the common
lot in this era. Not having come to spiritual
majority prior to the Siccle de Louis Quinze,
and not being born purely a Loghead (Dumm-
kopf), thou hadst no other outlook. The whole
world is, like thee, sold to Unbelief; their old
Temples of the Godhead, which for long have
not been rainproof, crumble down; and men
ask now: Where is the Godhead; our eyes
never saw him?"
Pitiful enough were it, for all these wild
utterances, to call our Diogenes wicked. Un-
profitable servants as we all are, perhaps at
no era of his life was he more decisively the
Servant of Goodness, the Servant of God,
than even now when doubting God's existence.
"One circumstance I note," says he: "after
all the nameless woe that Inquiry, which for
me, what it is not always, was genuine Love
of Truth, had wrought me, I nevertheless still
loved Truth, and would bate no jot of my
allegiance to her. 'Truth!' I cried, 'though
the Heavens crush me for following her: no
Falsehood! though a whole celestial Lubber-
land were the price of Apostasy.' In conduct
it was the same. Had a divine Messenger
from the clouds, or miraculous Handwriting
on the wall, convincingly proclaimed to me
This thou shall do, with what passionate readi-
ness, as I often thought, would I have done it,
had it been leaping into the infernal Fire.
Thus, in spite of all Motive-grinders, and
Mechanical Profit-and-Loss Philosophies, with
the sick ophthalmia and hallucination they had
brought on, was the Infinite nature of Duty
still dimly present to me: living without God
in the world, of God's light I was not utterly
bereft; if my as yet sealed eyes, with their
unspeakable longing, could nowhere see Him,
nevertheless in my heart He was present, and
His heaven -written Law still stood legible
and sacred there."
Meanwhile, under all these tribulations, and
temporal and spiritual destitutions, what must
the Wanderer, in his silent soul, have endured !
"The painfullest feeling," writes he, "is that
of your own Feebleness (Unkraff); ever as
the English Milton says, to be weak is the
true misery. And yet of your Strength there
is and can be no clear feeling, save by what
you have prospered in, by what you have done.
Between vague wavering Capability and fixed
indubitable Performance, what a difference !
A certain inarticulate Self-consciousness dwells
dimly in us; which only our Works can ren-
der articulate and decisively discernible. Our
Works are the mirror wherein the spirit first
sees its natural lineaments. Hence, too, the
folly of that impossible Precept, Know thyself;
till it be translated into this partially possible
one, Know what thou canst work at.
"But for me, so strangely unprosperous had
I been, the net-result of my Workings amounted
as yet simply to — Nothing. How then could
I believe in my Strength, when there was as
yet no mirror to see it in? Ever did this
agitating, yet, as I now perceive, quite frivolous
question, remain to me insoluble: Hast thou
a certain Faculty, a certain Worth, such even
as the most have not; or art thou the com-
pletest Dullard of these modern times? Alas!
the fearful Unbelief is unbelief in yourself;
and how could I believe? Had not my first,
last Faith in myself, when even to me the
Heavens seemed laid open, and I dared to
love, been ail-too cruelly belied? The specu-
lative Mystery of Life grew ever more mys-
terious to me ; neither in the practical Mystery
had I made the slightest progress, but been
everywhere buffeted, foiled, and contemptuously
cast out. A feeble unit in the middle of a
threalening Infinitude, I seemed to have noth-
ing given me but eyes, whereby to discern my
own wretchedness. Invisible yet impenetrable
walls, as of Enchantment, divided me from
all living: was there, in the wide world, any
372
THOMAS CARLYLE
true bosom I could press trustfully to mine?
O Heaven, No, there was none ! I kept a
lock upon my lips: why should I speak much
with that shifting variety of so-called Friends,
in whose withered, vain and too-hungry souls,
Friendship was but an incredible tradition?
In such cases, your resource is to talk little,
and that little mostly from the Newspapers.
Now when I look back, it was a strange iso-
lation I then lived in. The men and women
around me, even speaking with me, were
but Figures: I had, practically, forgotten that
they were alive, that they were not merely
automatic. In the midst of their crowded
streets, and assemblages, I walked solitary;
and (except as it was my own heart, not an-
other's, that I kept devouring) savage also, as
the tiger in his jungle. Some comfort it would
have been, could I, like a Faust, have fancied
myself tempted and tormented of the Devil;
for a Hell, as I imagine, without Life, though
only diabolic Life, were more frightful: but
in our age of Down-pulling and Disbelief, the
very Devil has been pulled down, you cannot
so much as believe in a Devil. To me the
Universe was all void of Life, of Purpose, of
Volition, even of Hostility: it was one huge,
dead, immeasurable Steam-engine, rolling on,
in its dead indifference, to grind me limb from
limb. O, the vast gloomy, solitary Golgotha,
and Mill of Death! Why was the Living
banished thither companionless, conscious?
Why, if there is no Devil; nay, unless the
Devil is your God?"
A prey incessantly to such corrosions, might
not, moreover, as the worst aggravation to them,
the iron constitution even of a Teufelsdrockh
threaten to fail? We conjecture that he has
known sickness ; and, in spite of his locomotive
habits, perhaps sickness of the chronic sort.
Hear this, for example: "How beautiful to
die of broken-heart, on Paper ! Quite another
thing in practice; every window of your Feel-
ing, even of your Intellect, as it were, begrimed
and mud-bespattered, so that no pure ray can
enter; a whole Drugshop in your inwards;
the foredone soul drowning slowly in quag-
mires of Disgust!"
Putting all which external and internal
miseries together, may we not find in the
following sentences, quite in our Professor's
still vein, significance enough? "From Sui-
cide a certain aftershine (Nachschein) of Chris-
tianity withheld me: perhaps also a certain
indolence of character; for, was not that a
remedy I had at any time within reach ? Often,
however, was there a question present to me:
Should some one now, at the turning of that
corner, blow thee suddenly out of Space, into
the other World, or other No-world, by pistol-
shot, — how were it? On which ground, too,
I have often, in sea-storms and sieged cities
and other death-scenes, exhibited an imper-
turbability, which passed, falsely enough, for
courage."
"So had it lasted," concludes the Wanderer,
"so had it lasted, as in bitter protracted Death-
agony, through long years. The heart within
me, unvisited by any heavenly dewdrop, was
smouldering in sulphurous, slow-consuming
fire. Almost since earliest memory I had shed
no tear; or once only when I, murmuring half-
audibly, recited Faust's Deathsong, that wild
Selig der den er im Sieges glanze findet (Happy
whom he finds in Battle's splendour), and
thought that of this last Friend even I was not
forsaken, that Destiny itself could not doom me
not to die. Having no hope, neither had I
any definite fear, were it of Man or of Devil:
nay, I often felt as if it might be solacing, could
the Arch-Devil himself, though in Tartarean
terrors, but rise to me, that I might tell him a
little of my mind. And yet, strangely enough,
I lived in a continual, indefinite, pining fear;
tremulous, pusillanimous, apprehensive of I
knew not what : it seemed as if all things in the
Heavens above and the Earth beneath would
hurt me ; as if the Heavens and the Earth were
but boundless jaws of a devouring monster,
wherein I, palpitating, waited to be devoured.
"Full of such humour, and perhaps the mis-
erablest man in the whole French Capital or
Suburbs, was I, one sultry Dog-day, after much
perambulation, toiling along the dirty little
Rue Saint-Thomas de I'Enfer, among civic
rubbish enough, in a close atmosphere, and
over pavements hot as Nebuchadnezzar's
Furnace; whereby doubtless my spirits were
little cheered; when, all at once, there rose a
Thought in me, and I asked myself: 'What
art thou afraid of? Wherefore, like a coward,
dost thou forever pip and whimper, and go
cowering and trembling? Despicable biped!
what is the sum-total of the worst that lies
before thee ? Death ? Well, Death ; and say
the pangs of Tophet too, and all that the Devil
and Man may, will, or can do against thee!
Hast thou not a heart; canst thou not suffer
whatsoever it be ; and, as a Child of Freedom,
though outcast, trample Tophet itself under thy
feet, while it consumes thee? Let it come,
then ; I will meet it and defy it ! ' And as I so
SARTOR RESARTUS
373
thought, there rushed like a stream of fire over
my whole soul; and I shook base Fear away
from me forever. I was strong of unknown
strength; a spirit, almost a god. Ever from
that time, the temper of my misery was changed :
not Fear or whining Sorrow was it, but Indig-
nation and grim fire-eyed Defiance.
"Thus had the Everlasting No (das ewige
Neiri) pealed authoritatively through all the
recesses of my Being, of my Me ; and then was
it that my whole Me stood up, in native God-
created majesty, and with emphasis recorded
its Protest. Such a Protest, the most impor-
tant transaction in Life, may that same Indig-
nation and Defiance, in a psychological point
of view, be fitly called. The Everlasting No
had said : ' Behold, thou art fatherless, outcast,
and the Universe is mine (the Devil's)'; to
which my whole Me now made answer: '/ am
not thine, but Free, and forever hate thee ! '
"It is from this hour that I incline to date my
Spiritual New-birth, or Baphometic Fire-bap-
tism ; perhaps I directly thereupon began to be
a Man."
CHAPTER VIII
CENTRE OF INDIFFERENCE
Though, after this "Baphometic Fire-bap-
tism" of his, our Wanderer signifies that his
Unrest was but increased; as, indeed, "Indig-
nation and Defiance," especially against things
in general, are not the most peaceable inmates;
yet can the Psychologist surmise that it was
no longer a quite hopeless Unrest; that hence-
forth it had at least a fixed centre to revolve
round. For the fire-baptised soul, long so
scathed and thunder-riven, here feels its own
Freedom, which feeling is its Baphometic
Baptism: the citadel of its whole kingdom
it has thus gained by assault; and will keep
inexpugnable; outwards from which the re-
maining dominions, not indeed without hard
battling, will doubtless by degrees be con-
quered and pacificated. _ Under another figure,
we might say, if in that great moment, in the
Rue Saint-Thomas de I'Enfer, the old inward
Satanic School was not yet thrown out of doors,
it received peremptory judicial notice to quit;
— whereby, for the rest, its howl-chantings,
Ernulph us-cursings, and rebellious gnashings
of teeth, might, in the meanwhile, become only
the more tumultuous, and difficult to keep
secret.
Accordingly, if we scrutinise these Pilgrim-
ings well, there is perhaps discernible hence-
forth a certain incipient method in their mad-
ness. Not wholly as a Spectre does Teufels-
drockh now storm through the world ; at worst
as a spectre-fighting Man, nay who will one
day be a Spectre-queller. If pilgriming rest-
lessly to so many "Saints' Wells," and ever
without quenching of his thirst, he neverthe-
less finds little secular wells, whereby from
time to time some alleviation is ministered.
In a word, he is now, if not ceasing, yet inter-
mitting to "eat his own heart"; and clutches
round him outwardly on the Not-Me for whole-
somer food. Does not the following glimpse
exhibit him in a much more natural state?
"Towns also and Cities, especially the an-
cient, I failed not to look upon with interest.
How beautiful to see thereby, as through a long
vista, into the remote Time ; to have, as it were,
an actual section of almost the earliest Past
brought safe into the Present, and set before
your eyes! There, in that old City, was a
live ember of Culinary Fire put down, say only
two-thousand years ago; and there, burning
more or less triumphantly, with such fuel as
the region yielded, it has burnt, and still burns,
and thou thyself seest the very smoke thereof.
Ah ! and the far more mysterious live ember
of Vital Fire was then also put down there;
and still miraculously burns and spreads;
and the smoke and ashes thereof (in these
Judgment-Halls and Churchyards), and its
bellows-engines (in these Churches), thou still
seest; and its flame, looking out from every
kind countenance, and every hateful one, still
warms thee or scorches thee.
"Of Man's Activity and Attainment the chief
results are aeriform, mystic, and preserved in
Tradition only: such are his Forms of Gov-
ernment, with the Authority they rest on; his
Customs, or Fashions both of Cloth-Habits
and of Soul-Habits; much more his collective
stock of Handicrafts, the whole Faculty he
has acquired of manipulating Nature: all
these things, as indispensable and priceless as
they are, cannot in any way be fixed under lock
and key, but must flit, spirit-like, on impalpable
vehicles, from Father to Son; if you demand
sight of them, they are nowhere to be met with.
Visible Ploughmen and Hammermen there
have been, ever from Cain and Tubalcain
downwards: but where does your accumulated
Agricultural, Metallurgic, and other Manu-
facturing Skill lie warehoused? It transmits
itself on the atmospheric air, on the sun's rays
(by Hearing and Vision) ; it is a thing aeriform,
impalpable, of quite spiritual sort. In like
374
THOMAS CARLYLE
manner, ask me not, Where are the Laws;
where is the Government? In vain wilt thou
go to Schonbrunn, to Downing Street, to the
Palais Bourbon: thou findest nothing there,
but brick or stone houses, and some bundles of
Papers tied with tape. Where, then, is that
same cunningly-devised or mighty Government
of theirs to be laid hands on ? Everywhere, yet
nowhere: seen only in its works, this too is a
thing aeriform, invisible ; or if you will, mystic
and miraculous. So spiritual (geistig) is our
whole daily Life : all that we do springs out of
Mystery, Spirit, invisible Force; only like a
little Cloud-image, or Armida's Palace, air-
built, does the Actual body itself forth from the
great mystic Deep.
"Visible and tangible products of the Past,
again, I reckon-up to the extent of three:
Cities, with their Cabinets and Arsenals; then
tilled Fields, to either or to both of which
divisions Roads with their Bridges may belong;
and thirdly — Books. In which third truly,
the last-invented, lies a worth far surpassing
that of the two others. Wondrous indeed is
the virtue of a true Book. Not like a dead
city of stones, yearly crumbling, yearly, needing
repair; more like a tilled field, but then a
spiritual field : like a spiritual tree, let me rather
say, it stands from year to year, and from age to
age (we have Books that already number some
hundred-and-fifty human ages) ; and yearly
comes its new produce of leaves (Commentaries,
Deductions, Philosophical, Political Systems;
or were it only Sermons, Pamphlets, Journalistic
Essays), every one of which is talismanic and
thaumaturgic, for it can persuade men. O thou
who art able to write a Book, which once in the
two centuries or oftener there is a man gifted
to do, envy not him whom they name City-
builder, and inexpressibly pity him whom they
name Conqueror or City-burner! Thou too
art a Conqueror and Victor; but of the true
sort, namely over the Devil : thou too hast built
what will outlast all marble and metal, and be
a wonder-bringing City of the Mind, a Temple
and Seminary and Prophetic Mount, whereto
all kindreds of the Earth will pilgrim. — Fool !
why journeyest thou wearisomely, in thy anti-
quarian fervour, to gaze on the stone pyramids
of Geeza or the clay ones of Sacchara? These
stand there, as I can tell thee, idle and inert,
looking over the Desert, foolishly enough, for
the last three-thousand years: but canst thou
not open thy Hebrew Bible, then, or even
Luther's Version thereof?"
No less satisfactory is his sudden appear-
ance not in Battle, yet on some Battle-field;
which, we soon gather, must be that of Wagram :
so that here, for once, is a certain approxima-
tion to distinctness of date. Omitting much,
let us impart what follows:
"Horrible enough! A whole Marchfeld
strewed with shell-splinters, cannon-shot,
ruined tumbrils, and dead men and horses;
stragglers still remaining not so much as buried.
And those red mould heaps: ay, there lie the
Shells of Men, out of which all the Life and
Virtue has been blown; and now they are
swept together, and crammed-down out of
sight, like blown Egg-shells ! — Did Nature,
when she bade the Donau bring down his
mould-cargoes from the Carinthian and Car-
pathian Heights, and spread them out here
into the softest, richest level, — intend thee,
O Marchfeld, for a corn-bearing Nursery,
whereon her children might be nursed; or for
a Cockpit, wherein they might the more com-
modiously be throttled and tattered ? Were thy
three broad highways, meeting here from the
ends of Europe, made for Ammunition-wagons,
then? Were thy Wagrams and Stillfrieds but
so many ready-built Case-mates, wherein the
house of Hapsburg might batter with artillery,
and with artillery be battered? Konig Otto-
kar, amid yonder hillocks, dies under Rodolf's
truncheon; here Kaiser Franz falls a-swoon
under Napoleon's: within which five centuries,
to omit the others, how hast thy breast, fair
Plain, been defaced and defiled! The green-
sward is torn-up and trampled-down ; man's
fond care of it, his fruit-trees, hedge-rows, and
pleasant dwellings, blown-away with gunpow-
der; and the kind seedfield lies a desolate,
hideous Place of Skulls. — Nevertheless, Na-
ture is at work; neither shall these Powder-
Devilkins with their utmost devilry gainsay her:
but all that gore and carnage will be shrouded-
in, absorbed into manure; and next year the
Marchfeld will be green, nay greener. Thrifty
unwearied Nature, ever out of our great waste
educing some little profit of thy own, — how
dost thou, from the very carcass of the Killer,
bring Life for the Living !
"What, speaking in quite unofficial language,
is the net-purport and upshot of war? To
my own knowledge, for example, there dwell
and toil, in the British village of Dumdrudge,
usually some five-hundred souls. From these,
by certain 'Natural Enemies' of the French,
there are successively selected, during the
French war, say thirty able-bodied men:
Dumdrudge, at her own expense, has suckled
SARTOR RESARTUS
375
and nursed them; she has, not without dif-
ficulty and sorrow, fed them up to manhood,
and even trained them to crafts, so that one can
weave, another build, another hammer, and the
weakest can stand under thirty stone avoir-
dupois. Nevertheless, amid much weeping
and swearing, they are selected; all dressed in
red; and shipped away, at the public charges,
some two-thousand miles, or say only to the
south of Spain; and fed there till wanted.
And now to that same spot in the south of
Spain, are thirty similar French artisans, from
a French Dumdrudge, in like manner wending:
till at length, after infinite effort, the two parties
come into actual juxtaposition; and Thirty
stands fronting Thirty, each with a gun in his
hand. Straightway the word 'Fire!' is given:
and they blow the souls out of one another;
and in place of sixty brisk useful craftsmen, the
world has sixty dead carcasses, which it must
bury, and anew shed tears for. Had these men
any quarrel? Busy as the Devil is, not the
smallest ! They lived far enough apart ;
were the entirest strangers; nay, in so wide
a Universe, there was even unconsciously, by
Commerce, some mutual helpfulness between
them. How then? Simpleton! their Gov-
ernors had fallen-out; and, instead of shooting
one another, had the cunning to make these
poor blockheads shoot. — Alas, so is it in
Deutschland, and hitherto in all other lands;
still as of old, 'what devilry soever Kings do,
the Greeks must pay the piper!' — In that
fiction of the English Smollett, it is true, the
final Cessation of War is perhaps prophetically
shadowed forth; where the two Natural Ene-
mies, in person, take each a Tobacco-pipe,
filled with Brimstone; light the same, and
smoke in one another's faces till the weaker
gives in: but from such predicted Peace-Era,
what blood-filled trenches, and contentious
centuries, may still divide us ! "
Thus can the Professor, at least in lucid
intervals, look away from his own sorrows,
over the many-coloured world, and pertinently
enough note what is passing there. We may
remark, indeed, that for the matter of spiritual
culture, if for nothing else, perhaps few periods
of his life were .richer than this. Internally,
there is the most momentous instructive Course
of Practical Philosophy, with Experiments,
going on ; towards the right comprehension of
which his Peripatetic habits, favourable to
Meditation, might help him rather than hinder.
Externally, again, as he wanders to and fro,
there are, if for the longing heart little sub-
stance, yet for the seeing eye sights enough:
in these so boundless Travels of his, granting
that the Satanic School was even partially kept
down, what an incredible knowledge of our
Planet, and its Inhabitants and their Works,
that is to say, of all knowable things, might not
Teufelsdrockh acquire !
"I have read in most Public Libraries," says
he, "including those of Constantinople and
Samarcand: in most Colleges, except the
Chinese Mandarin ones, I have studied, or seen
that there was no studying. Unknown lan-
guages have I oftenest gathered from their
natural repertory, the Air, by my organ of
Hearing; Statistics, Geographies, Topograph-
ies came, through the Eye, almost of their
own accord. The ways of Man, how he seeks
food, and warmth, and protection for himself,
in most regions, are ocularly known to me.
Like the great Hadrian, I meted-out much of
the terraqueous Globe with a pair of Com-
passes that belonged to myself only.
"Of great Scenes, why speak? Three sum-
mer days, I lingered reflecting, and composing
(dichtete), by the Pine-chasms of Vaucluse;
and in that clear lakelet moistened my bread.
I have sat under the Palm-trees of Tadmor;
smoked a pipe among the ruins of Babylon.
The great Wall of China I have seen; and
can testify that it is of gray brick, coped and
covered with granite, and shows only second-
rate masonry. — Great events, also, have not
I witnessed? Kings sweated-down (ausge-
mergelt} into Berlin-and-Milan Customhouse-
Officers; the World well won, and the World
well lost ; oftener than once a hundred-thousand
individuals shot (by each other) in one day.
All kindreds and peoples and nations dashed
together, and shifted and shovelled into heaps,
that they might ferment there, and in time unite.
The birth -pangs of Democracy, wherewith
convulsed Europe was groaning in cries that
reached Heaven, could not escape me.
"For great Men I have ever had the warmest
predilection; and can perhaps boast that few
such in this era have wholly escaped me.
Great Men are the inspired (speaking and
acting) Texts of that divine Book of Revela-
tions, whereof a Chapter is completed from
epoch to epoch, and by some named History;
to which inspired Texts your numerous talented
men, and your innumerable untalented men,
are the better or worse exegetic Commentaries,
and wagonload of too-stupid, heretical or ortho-
dox, weekly Sermons. For my study, the in-
spired Texts themselves! Thus did not I,
376
THOMAS CARLYLE
in very early days, having disguised me as a
tavern -waiter, stand behind the field-chairs,
under that shady Tree at Treisnitz by the Jena
Highway; waiting upon the great Schiller
and greater Goethe ; and hearing what I have
not forgotten. For —
— But at this point the Editor recalls his
principle of caution, some time ago laid down,
and must suppress much. Let not the sacred-
ness of Laurelled, still more, of Crowned Heads,
be tampered with. Should we, at a future day,
find circumstances altered, and the time come
for Publication, then may these glimpses into
the privacy of the Illustrious be conceded;
which for the present were little better than
treacherous, perhaps traitorous Eavesdroppings.
Of Lord Byron, therefore, of Pope Pius, Em-
peror Tarakwang, and the "White Water-
roses" (Chinese Carbonari) with their mys-
teries, no notice here! Of Napoleon himself
we shall only, glancing from afar, remark that
Teufelsdrockh's relation to him seems to have
been of very varied character. At first we find
our poor Professor on the point of being shot
as a spy; then taken into private conversation,
even pinched on the ear, yet presented, with no
money; at last indignantly dismissed, almost
thrown out of doors, as an "Ideologist." "He
himself," says the Professor, "was among the
completest Ideologists, at least Ideopraxists :
in the Idea (in der Idee) he lived, moved, and
fought. The man was a Divine Missionary,
though unconscious of it; and preached,
through the cannon's throat, that great doctrine,
La carriere ouverte aux talens (The Tools to
him that can handle them), which is our ulti-
mate Political Evangel, wherein alone can
Liberty lie. Madly enough he preached, it is
true, as Enthusiasts and first Missionaries are
wont, with imperfect utterance, amid much
frothy rant; yet as articulately perhaps as the
case admitted. Or call him, if you will, an
American Backwoodsman, who had to fell un-
penetrated forests, and battle with innumer-
able wolves, and did not entirely forbear strong
liquor, rioting, and even theft; whom, not-
withstanding, the peaceful Sower will follow,
and, as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless."
More legitimate and decisively authentic is
Teufelsdrockh's appearance and emergence
(we know not well whence) in the solitude
of the North Cape, on that June Midnight.
He has a "light-blue Spanish cloak" hanging
round him, as his "most commodious, princi-
pal, indeed sole upper-garment"; and stands
there, on the World-promontory, looking over
the infinite Brine, like a little blue Belfry (as
we figure), now motionless indeed, yet ready,
if stirred, to ring quaintest changes.
"Silence as of death," writes he; "for Mid-
night, even in the Arctic latitudes, has its char-
acter: nothing but the granite cliffs ruddy-
tinged, the peaceable gurgle of that slow-
heaving Polar Ocean, over which in the utmost
North the great Sun hangs low and lazy, as
if he too were slumbering. Yet is his cloud-
couch wrought of crimson and cloth -of -gold ;
yet does his light stream over the mirror of
waters, like a tremulous fire-pillar, shooting
downwards to the abyss, and hide itself under
my feet. In such moments, Solitude also is
invaluable ; for who would speak, or be looked
on, when behind him lies all Europe and Africa,
fast asleep, except the watchmen ; and before him
the silent Immensity, and Palace of the Eternal,
whereof our Sun is but a porch -lamp ?
"Nevertheless, in this solemn moment,
comes a man, or monster, scrambling from
among the rock-hollows; and, shaggy, huge as
the Hyperborean Bear, hails me in Russian
speech: most probably, therefore, a Russian
Smuggler. With courteous brevity, I signify
my indifference to contraband trade, my hu-
mane intentions, yet strong wish to be private.
In vain: the monster, counting doubtless on
his superior stature, and minded to make sport
for himself, or perhaps profit, were it with
murder, continues to advance; ever assailing
me with his importunate train-oil breath; and
now has advanced, till we stand both on the
verge of the rock, the deep Sea rippling greedily
down below. What argument will avail?
On the thick Hyperborean, cherubic reasoning,
seraphic eloquence were lost. Prepared for
such extremity, I, deftly enough, whisk aside
one step; draw out, from my interior reser-
voirs, a sufficient Birmingham Horse-pistol,
and say, 'Be so obliging as retire, Friend (Er-
ziehe sich zuruck, Freund), and with prompti-
tude ! ' This logic even the Hyperborean un-
derstands: fast enough, with apologetic, peti-
tionary growl, he sidles off; and, except for
suicidal as well as homicidal purposes, need
not return.
"Such I hold to be the genuine use of Gun-
powder: that it makes all men alike tall. Nay,
if thou be cooler, cleverer than I, if thou have
more Mind, though all but no Body whatever,
then canst thou kill me first, and art the taller.
Hereby, at last, is the Goliath powerless, and
the David resistless; savage Animalism is
nothing, inventive Spiritualism is all.
SARTOR RESARTUS
377
"With respect to Duels, indeed, I have my
own ideas. Few things, in this so surprising
world, strike me with more surprise. Two
little visual Spectra of men, hovering with
insecure enough cohesion in the midst of the
Unfathomable, and to dissolve therein, at any
rate, very soon, — make pause at the distance
of twelve paces asunder; whirl round; and,
simultaneously by the cunningest mechanism,
explode one another into Dissolution; and off-
hand become Air, and Non-extant ! Deuce
on it (verdammf), the little spitfires ! — Nay,
I think with old Hugo von Trimberg: 'God
must needs laugh outright, could such a thing
be, to see his wondrous Manikins here below.'"
But amid these specialties, let us not forget
the great generality, which is our chief quest
here: How prospered the inner man of Teu-
felsdrockh under so much outward shifting?
Does Legion still lurk in him, though repressed;
or has he exorcised that Devil's Brood? We
can answer that the symptoms continue prom-
ising. Experience is the grand spiritual
Doctor; and with him Teufelsdrockh has now
been long a patient, swallowing many a bitter
bolus. Unless our poor Friend belong to the
numerous class of Incurables, which seems not
likely, some cure will doubtless be effected.
We should rather say that Legion, or the
Satanic School, was now pretty well extirpated
and cast out, but next to nothing introduced in
its room; whereby the heart remains, for the
while, in a quiet but no comfortable state.
"At length, after so much roasting," thus
writes our Autobiographer, "I was what you
might name calcined. Pray only that it be
not rather, as is the more frequent issue, re-
duced to a capiit-mortuum! But in any case,
by mere dint of practice, I had grown familiar
with many things. Wretchedness was still
wretched; but I could now partly see through
it, and despise it. Which highest mortal, in this
inane Existence, had I not found a Shadow-
hunter or Shadow-hunted ; and, when I looked
through his brave garnitures, miserable enough ?
Thy wishes have all been sniffed aside, thought
I : but what, had they even been all granted !
Did not the Boy Alexander weep because he
had not two Planets to conquer; or a whole
Solar System; or after that, a whole Universe?
Ach Gott, when I gazed into these Stars, have
they not looked-down on me as if with pity,
from their serene spaces; like Eyes glistening
with heavenly tears over the little lot of man !
Thousands of human generations, all as noisy
as our own, have been swallowed-up of Time,
and there remains no wreck of them any more ;
and Arcturus and Orion and Sirius and the
Pleiades are still shining in their courses, clear
and young, as when the Shepherd first noted
them in the plain of Shinar. Pshaw ! what is
this paltry little Dog -cage of an Earth; what
art thou that sittest whining there? Thou
art still Nothing, Nobody: true; but who,
then, is Something, Somebody? For thee the
Family of Man has no use; it rejects thee;
thou art wholly as a dissevered limb : so be it ;
perhaps it is better so !"
Too-heavy-laden Teufelsdrockh ! Yet surely
his bands are loosening; one day he will hurl
the burden far from him, and bound forth
free and with a second youth.
"This," says our Professor, "was the Centre
of Indifference I had now reached; through
which whoso travels from the Negative Pole to
the Positive must necessarily pass."
CHAPTER IX
THE EVERLASTING YEA
"Temptations in the Wilderness!" exclaims
Teufelsdrockh: "Have we not all to be tried
with such? Not so easily can the old Adam,
lodged in us by birth, be dispossessed. Our
Life is compassed round with Necessity; yet
is the meaning of Life itself no other than Free-
dom, than Voluntary Force: thus have we a
warfare; in the beginning, especially, a hard-
fought battle. For the God-given mandate,
Work thou in Welldoing, lies mysteriously
written, in Promethean Prophetic Characters, in
our hearts ; and leaves us no rest, night or day,
till it be deciphered and obeyed; till it burn
forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted Gospel
of Freedom. And as the clay -given mandate,
Eat thou and be filled, at the same time per-
suasively proclaims itself through every nerve,
— must there not be a confusion, a contest,
before the better Influence can become the
upper?
"To me nothing seems more natural than
that the Son of Man, when such God-given
mandate first prophetically stirs within him, and
the Clay must now be vanquished or vanquish,
— should be carried of the spirit into grim
Solitudes, and there fronting the Tempter do
grimmest battle with him ; defiantly setting
him at naught, till he yield and fly. Name
it as we choose : with or without visible Devil,
whether in the natural Desert of rocks and
sands, or in the populous moral Desert of
THOMAS CARLYLE
selfishness and baseness, — to such Temptation
are we all called. Unhappy if we are not!
Unhappy if we are but Half -men, in whom
that divine handwriting has never blazed forth,
all-subduing, in true sun -splendour; but
quivers dubiously amid meaner lights: or
smoulders, in dull pain, in darkness, under
earthly vapours ! — Our Wilderness is the wide
World in an Atheistic Century; our Forty Days
are long years of suffering and fasting: never-
theless, to these also comes an end. Yes,
to me also was given, if not Victory, yet the
consciousness of Battle, and the resolve to
persevere therein while life or faculty is left.
To me also, entangled in the enchanted forests,
demon-peopled, doleful of sight and of sound,
it was given, after weariest wanderings, to
work out my way into the higher sunlit slopes
— of that Mountain which has no summit, or
whose summit is in Heaven only ! "
He says elsewhere, under a less ambitious
figure; as figures are, once for all, natural to
him: "Has not thy Life been that of most
sufficient men (tuchtigen Manner} thou hast
known in this generation? An outflush of
foolish young Enthusiasm, like the first fallow-
crop, wherein are as many weeds as valu-
able herbs: this all parched away, under the
Droughts of practical and spiritual Unbelief,
as Disappointment, in thought and act, often-
repeated gave rise to Doubt, and Doubt grad-
ually settled into Denial ! If I have had a
second-crop, and now see the perennial green-
sward, and sit under umbrageous cedars, which
defy all Drought (and Doubt) ; herein too, be
the Heavens praised, I am not without ex-
amples, and even exemplars."
So that, for Teufelsdrockh also, there has
been a "glorious revolution": these mad
shadow-hunting and shadow-hunted Pilgrim-
ings of his were but some purifying "Tempta-
tion in the Wilderness," before his apostolic
work (such as it was) could begin; which
Temptation is now happily over, and the Devil
once more worsted! Was "that high moment
in the Rue de I'Enfer," then, properly the turn-
ing-point of the battle; when the Fiend said,
Worship me, or be torn in shreds; and was
answered valiantly with an Apage Satana ? —
Singular Teufelsdrockh, would thou hadst
told thy singular story in plain words! But
it is fruitless to look there, in those Paper-bags,
for such. Nothing but innuendoes, figurative
crotchets: a typical Shadow, fitfully wavering,
prophetico-satiric ; no clear logical Picture.
"How paint to the sensual eye," asks he once,
"what passes in the Holy-of -Holies of Man's
Soul; in what words, known to these profane
times, speak even afar-off of the unspeakable ? "
We ask in turn: Why perplex these times,
profane as they are, with needless obscurity,
by omission and by commission? Not mys-
tical only is our Professor, but whimsical;
and involves himself, now more than ever,
in eye-bewildering chiaroscuro. Successive
glimpses, here faithfully imparted, our more
gifted readers must endeavour to combine for
their own behoof.
He says: "The hot Harmattan wind had
raged itself out; its howl went silent within
me; and the long-deafened soul could now
hear. I paused in my wild wanderings; and
sat me down to wait, and consider; for it was
as if the hour of change drew nigh. I seemed
to surrender, to renounce utterly, and say : Fly,
then, false shadows of Hope; I will chase you
no more, I will believe you no more. And ye
too, haggard spectres of Fear, I care not for
you; ye too are all shadows and a lie. Let
me rest here: for I am way-weary and life-
weary* I will rest here, were it but to die:
to die or to live is alike to me; alike insig-
nificant." — And again: "Here, then, as I lay
in that Centre of Indifference, cast, doubtless
by benignant upper Influence, into a healing
sleep, the heavy dreams rolled gradually away,
and I awoke to a new Heaven and a new
Earth. The first preliminary moral Act,
Annihilation of Self (Selbsttodtung), had been
happily accomplished; and my mind's eyes
were now unsealed, and its hands ungyved."
Might we not also conjecture that the fol-
lowing passage refers to his Locality, during
this same "healing sleep"; that his Pilgrim-
staff lies cast aside here, on "the high table-
land"; and indeed that the repose is already
taking wholesome effect on him ? If it were not
that the tone, in some parts, has more of riancy,
even of levity, than we could have expected!
However, in Teufelsdrockh, there is always
the strangest Dualism: light dancing, with
guitar-music, will be going on in the fore-court,
while by fits from within comes the faint whim-
pering of woe and wail. We transcribe the
piece entire:
"Beautiful it was to sit there, as in my skyey
Tent, musing and meditating; on the high
table-land, in front of the Mountains; over me,
as roof, the azure Dome, and around me, for
walls, four azure-flowing curtains, — namely,
of the Four azure Winds, on whose bottom-
fringes also I have seen gilding. And then to
SARTOR RESARTUS
379
fancy the fair Castles, that stood sheltered
in these Mountain hollows; with their green
flower-lawns, and white dames and damosels,
lovely enough : or better still, the straw-roofed
Cottages, wherein stood many a Mother bak-
ing bread, with her children round her: — all
hidden and protectingly folded-up in the valley-
folds ; yet there and alive, as sure as if I beheld
them. Or to see, as well as fancy, the nine
Towns and Villages, that lay round my moun-
tain-seat, which, in still weather, were wont
to speak to me (by their steeple-bells) with
metal tongue; and, in almost all weather, pro-
claimed their vitality by repeated Smoke-
clouds; whereon, as on a culinary horologue,
I might read the hour of the day. For it was
the smoke of cookery, as kind housewives at
morning, midday, eventide, were boiling their
husbands' kettles; and ever a blue pillar rose
up into the air, successively or simultaneously,
from each of the nine, saying, as plainly as
smoke could say: Such and such a meal is
getting ready here. Not uninteresting! For
you have the whole Borough, with all its love-
makings and scandal-mongeries, contentions
and contentments, as in miniature, and could
cover it all with your hat. — If, in my wide
Wayfarings, I had learned to look into the busi-
ness of the World in its details, here perhaps
was the place for combining it into general
propositions, and deducing inferences there-
from.
"Often also could I see the black Tem-
pest marching in anger through the distance:
round some Schreckhorn, as yet grim-blue,
would the eddying vapour gather, and there
tumultuously eddy, and flow down like a mad
witch's hair; till, after a space, it vanished,
and, in the clear sunbeam, your Schreckhorn
stood smiling grim-white, for the vapour had
held snow. How thou fermentest and elaborat-
est in thy great ferment ing-vat and laboratory
of an Atmosphere, of a World, O Nature ! —
Or what is Nature ? Ha ! why do I not name
thee God? Art thou not the 'Living Garment
of God ?' O Heavens, is it, in very deed, He,
then, that ever speaks through thee ; that lives
and loves in thee, that lives and loves in me?
"Fore-shadows, call them rather fore-splen-
dours, of that Truth, and Beginning of Truths,
fell mysteriously over my soul. Sweeter than
Dayspring to the Shipwrecked in Nova Zembla;
ah, like the mother's voice to her little child
that strays bewildered, weeping, in unknown
tumults; like soft streamings of celestial music
to my too -exasperated heart, came that Evangel.
The Universe is not dead and demoniacal, a
charnel-house with spectres; but godlike, and
my Father's!
"With other eyes, too, could I now look
upon my fellow man: with an infinite Love,
an infinite Pity. Poor, wandering, wayward
man ! Art thou not tried, and beaten with
stripes, even as I am? Ever, whether thou
bear the royal mantle or the beggar's gabardine,
art thou not so weary, so heavy-laden ; and thy
Bed of Rest is but a Grave. O my Brother,
my Brother, why cannot I shelter thee in my
bosom, and wipe away all tears from thy eyes !
— Truly, the din of many-voiced Life, which,
in this solitude, with the mind's organ, I could
hear, was no longer a maddening discord, but
a melting one ; like inarticulate cries, and sob-
bings of a dumb creature, which in the ear of
Heaven are prayers. The poor Earth, with
her poor joys, was now my needy Mother, not
my cruel Stepdame; Man, with his so mad
Wants and so mean Endeavours, had become
the dearer to me; and even for his sufferings
and his sins, I now first named him Brother.
Thus was I standing in the porch of that 'Sanct-
uary of Sorrow' ; by strange, steep ways, had
I too been guided thither; and ere long its
sacred gates would open, and the 'Divine Depth
of Sorrow' lie disclosed to me."
The Professor says, he here first got eye on
the Knot that had been strangling him, and
straightway could unfasten it, and was free.
"A vain interminable controversy," writes he,
"touching what is at present called Origin of
Evil, or some such thing, arises in every soul,
since the beginning of the world; and in every
soul, that would pass from idle Suffering into
actual Endeavouring, must first be put an end
to. The most, in our time, have to go content
with a simple, incomplete enough Suppression
of this controversy; to a few, some Solution of
it is indispensable. In every new era, too, such
Solution comes-out in different terms ; and ever
the Solution of the last era has become obsolete,
and is found unserviceable. For it is man's
nature to change his Dialect from century to
century; he cannot help it though he would.
The authentic Church-Catechism of our pres-
ent century has not yet fallen into my hands:
meanwhile, for my own private behoof, I
attempt to elucidate the matter so. Man's
Unhappiness, as I construe, comes of his
Greatness; it is because there is an Infinite in
him, which with all his cunning he cannot quite
bury under the Finite. Will the whole Finance
Ministers and Upholsterers and Confectioners
38o
THOMAS CARLYLE
of modern Europe undertake, in joint-stock
company, to make one Shoeblack happy?
They cannot accomplish it, above an hour or
two: for the Shoeblack also has a Soul quite
other than his Stomach; and would require,
if you consider it, for his permanent satisfac-
tion and saturation, simply this allotment, no
more, and no less: God's infinite Universe
altogether to himself, therein to enjoy infinitely,
and fill every wish as fast as it rose. Oceans
of Hochheimer, a Throat like that of Ophiu-
chus: speak not of them ; to the infinite Shoe-
black they are as nothing. No sooner is your
ocean filled, than he grumbles that it might
have been of better vintage. Try him with half
of a Universe, of an Omnipotence, he sets to
quarrelling with the proprietor of the other
half, and declares himself the most maltreated
of men. — Always there is a black spot in our
sunshine: it is even, as I said, the Shadow of
Ourselves.
"But the whim we have of Happiness is
somewhat thus. By certain valuations, and
averages, of our own striking, we come upon
some sort of average terrestrial lot; this we
fancy belongs to us by nature, and of indefeasi-
ble right. It is simple payment of our wages,
of our deserts; requires neither thanks nor
complaint ; only such overplus as there may be
do we account Happiness; any deficit again is
Misery. Now consider that we have the val-
uation of our deserts ourselves, and what a
fund of Self-conceit there is in each of us, —
do you wonder that the balance should so often
dip the wrong way, and many a Blockhead cry:
See there, what a payment; was ever worthy
gentleman so used ! — I tell thee, Blockhead,
it all comes of thy Vanity; of what thou
fanciest those same deserts of thine to be.
Fancy that thou deservest to be hanged (as
is most likely), thou wilt feel it happiness to be
only shot: fancy that thou deservest to be
hanged in a hair-halter, it will be a luxury
to die in hemp.
"So true it is, what I then said, that the
Fraction of Life can be increased in value not
so much by increasing your Numerator as by
lessening your Denominator. Nay, unless my
Algebra deceive me, Unity itself divided by
Zero will give Infinity. Make thy claim of
wages a zero, then ; thou hast the world under
thy feet. Well did the Wisest of our time write :
'It is only with Renunciation (Entsagen) that
Life, properly speaking, can be said to begin.'
"I asked myself: What is this that, ever
since earliest years, thou hast been fretting and
fuming, and lamenting and self-tormenting,
on account of? Say it in a word: is it not
because thou art not happy? Because the
Thou (sweet gentleman) is not sufficiently
honoured, nourished, soft -bedded, and lovingly
cared-for? Foolish soul ! What Act of Legis-
lature was there that thou shouldst be Happy?
A little while ago thou hadst no right to be
at all. What if thou wert born and predestined
not to be Happy, but to be Unhappy! Art
thou nothing other than a Vulture, then, that
fliest through the Universe seeking after some-
what to eat; and shrieking dolefully because
carrion enough is not given thee? Close thy
Byron; open thy Goethe."
"Es leuchtet mir ein, I see a glimpse of it!"
cries he elsewhere: "there is in man a Higher
than Love, of Happiness: he can do without
Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessed-
ness ! Was it not to preach-forth this same
Higher that sages and martyrs, the Poet and
the Priest, in all times, have spoken and suf-
fered; bearing testimony, through life and
through death, of the Godlike that is in Man,
and how in the Godlike only has he Strength
and Freedom? Which God-inspired Doctrine
art thou also honoured to be taught ; O Heav-
ens! and broken with manifold merciful Af-
flictions, even till thou become contrite, and
learn it ! O, thank thy Destiny for these ;
thankfully bear what yet remain: thou hadst
need of them; the Self in thee needed to be
annihilated. By benignant fever-paroxysms is
Life rooting out the deep-seated chronic Dis-
ease, and triumphs over Death. On the roar-
ing billows of Time, thou art not engulfed, but
borne aloft into the azure of Eternity. Love
not Pleasure; love God. This is the Ever-
lasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved :
wherein whoso walks and works, it is well with
him."
And again: "Small is it that thou canst
trample the Earth with its injuries under thy
feet, as old Greek Zeno trained thee: thou
canst love the Earth while it injures thee, and
even because it injures thee ; for this a Greater
than Zeno was needed, and he too was sent.
Knowest thou that ' Worship of Sorrow ' ? The
Temple thereof, founded some eighteen cen-
turies ago, now lies in ruins, overgrown with
jungle, the habitation of doleful creatures:
nevertheless, venture forward; in a low crypt,
arched out of falling fragments, thou findest
the Altar still there, and its sacred Lamp
perennially burning."
Without pretending to comment on which
SARTOR RESARTUS
titrange utterances, the Editor will only remark,
that there lies beside them much of a still more
questionable character; unsuited to the gen-
eral apprehension; nay, wherein he himself
does not see his way. Nebulous disquisitions
on Religion, yet not without bursts of splendour;
on the "perennial continuance of Inspiration";
on Prophecy; that there are "true Priests, as
well as Baal-Priests, in our own day": with
more of the like sort. We select some frac-
tions, by way of finish to this farrago.
"Cease, my much-respected Herr von
Voltaire," thus apostrophises the Professor:
"shut thy sweet voice; for the task appointed
thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou
demonstrated this proposition, considerable or
otherwise: That the Myth us of the Christian
Religion looks not in the eighteenth century
as it did in the eighth. Alas, were thy six-
and-thirty quartos, and the six-and-thirty thou-
sand other quartos and folios, and flying sheets
or reams, printed before and since on the
same subject, all needed to convince us of so
little! But what next? Wilt thou help us to
embody the divine Spirit of that Religion in a
new Mythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, that
our Souls, otherwise too like perishing, may
live? What ! thou hast no faculty in that
kind? Only a torch for burning, no hammer
for building? Take our thanks, then, and —
thyself away.
"Meanwhile what are antiquated Myth uses
to me? Or is the God present, felt in my own
heart, a thing which Herr von Voltaire will dis-
pute out of me; or dispute into me? To the
'Worship of Sorrow' ascribe what origin and
genesis thou pleasest, has not that Worship
originated, and been generated ; is it not here ?
Feel it in thy heart, and then say whether it is
of God ! This is Belief; all else is Opinion, —
for which latter whoso will, let him worry and
be worried."
"Neither," observes he elsewhere, "shall ye
tear-out one another's eyes, struggling over
'Plenary Inspiration,' and such-like: try rather
to get a little even Partial Inspiration, each of
you for himself. One Bible I know, of whose
Plenary Inspiration doubt is not so much as
possible; nay with my own eyes I saw the
God's-Hand writing it: thereof all other
Bibles are but Leaves, — say, in Picture-Writ-
ing to assist the weaker faculty."
Or to give the wearied reader relief, and
bring it to an end, let him take the following
perhaps more intelligible passage:
"To me, in this our life," says the Professor,
"which is an internecine warfare with the Time-
spirit, other warfare seems questionable.
Hast thou in any way a Contention with thy
brother, I advise thee, think well what the
meaning thereof is. If thou gauge it to the
bottom, it is simply this: 'Fellow, see! thou
art taking more than thy share of Happiness
in the world, something from my share : which,
by the Heavens, thou shalt not; nay, I will
fight thee rather.' — Alas, and the whole lot
to be divided is such a beggarly matter, truly
a 'feast of shells,' for the substance has been
spilled out: not enough to quench one Appe-
tite; and the collective human species clutch-
ing at them ! — Can we not, in all such cases,
rather say: 'Take it, thou too-ravenous indi-
vidual; take that pitiful additional fraction of
a share, which I reckoned mine, but which thou
so wantest; take it with a blessing: would to
Heaven I had enough for thee P — If Fichte's
Wissenschaftslehre be, 'to a certain extent,
Applied Christianity,' surely to a still greater
extent, so is this. We have here not a Whole
Duty of Man, yet a Half Duty, namely, the
Passive half: could we but do it, as we can
demonstrate it !
"But indeed Conviction, were it never so
excellent, is worthless till it convert itself into
Conduct. Nay, properly Conviction is not pos-
sible till then; inasmuch as ah1 Speculation
is by nature endless, formless, a vortex amid
vortices: only by a felt indubitable certainty
of Experience does it find any centre to revolve
round, and so fashion itself into a system.
Most true is it, as a wise man teaches us, that
'Doubt of any sort cannot be removed except
by Action.' On which ground, too, let him
who gropes painfully in darkness or uncertain
light, and prays vehemently that the dawn may
ripen into day, lay this other precept well to
heart, which to me was of invaluable service:
'Do the Duty which lies nearest Ihee,' which
thou knowest to be a Duty ! Thy second Duty
will already have become clearer.
"May we not say, however, that the hour of
Spiritual Enfranchisement is even this: When
your Ideal World, wherein the whole man has
been dimly struggling and inexpressibly lan-
guishing to work, becomes revealed and thrown
open; and you discover, with amazement
enough, like the Lothario in Wilhelm Meister,
that your 'America is here or nowhere' ? The
Situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was
never yet occupied by man. Yes, here, in this
poor, miserable, hampered, despicable Actual,
wherein thou even now standest, here or
382
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
nowhere is thy Ideal: work it out therefrom;
and working, believe, live, be free. Fool ! the
Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in
thyself: thy Condition is but the stuff thou art
to shape that same Ideal out of: what matters
whether such stuff be of this sort or that, so the
Form thou give it be heroic, be poetic? O
thou that pinest in the imprisonment of the
Actual, and criest bitterly to the gods for a
kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this
of a truth: the thing thou seekest is already
with thee, 'here or nowhere,' couldst thou only
see!
"But it is with man's Soul as it was with
Nature : the beginning of Creation is — Light.
Till the eye have vision, the whole members
are in bonds. Divine moment, when over the
tempest-tost Soul, as once over the wild-welter-
ing Chaos, it is spoken: Let there be light!
Ever to the greatest that has felt such moment,
is it not miraculous and God-announcing;
even as, under simpler figures, to the simplest
and least. The mad primeval Discord is
hushed; the rudely- jumbled conflicting ele-
ments bind themselves into separate Firma-
ments: deep silent rock-foundations-are built
beneath; and the skyey vault with its ever-
lasting Luminaries above: instead of a dark
wasteful Chaos, we have a blooming, fertile,
Heaven-encompassed World.
"I too could now say to myself: Be no lon-
ger a Chaos, but a World, or even Worldkin.
Produce ! Produce ! Were it but the piti-
fullest infinitesimal fraction of a Product, pro-
duce it, in God's name ! 'Tis the utmost thou
hast in thee: out with it, then. Up, up!
Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with
thy whole might. Work while it is called To-
day; for the Night cometh, wherein no man
can work."
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD
MACAULAY (1800-1859)
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
VOLUME I
FROM CHAPTER III
I intend, in this chapter, to give a description
of the state in which England was at the time
when the crown passed from Charles the
Second to his brother. Such a description,
composed from scanty and dispersed materials,
must necessarily be very imperfect. Yet it
may perhaps correct some false notions which
would make the subsequent narrative unin-
telligible or uninstructive.
If we would study with profit the history of
our ancestors, we must be constantly on our
guard against that delusion which the well-
known names of families, places, and offices
naturally produce, and must never forget that
the country of which we read was a very dif-
ferent country from that in which we live.
In every experimental science there is a ten-
dency toward perfection. In every human
being there is a wish to ameliorate his own
condition. These two principles have often
sufficed, even when counteracted by great pub-
lic calamities and by bad institutions, to carry
civilisation rapidly forward. No ordinary
misfortune, no ordinary misgovernment, will
do so much to make a nation wretched, as the
constant progress of physical knowledge and
the constant effort of every man to better him-
self will do to make a nation prosperous.
It has often been found that profuse expen-
diture, heavy taxation, absurd commercial
restrictions, corrupt tribunals, disastrous wars,
seditions, persecutions, conflagrations, inunda-
tions, have not been able to destroy capital so
fast as the exertions of private citizens have
been able to create it. It can easily be proved
that, in our own land, the national wealth has,
during at least six centuries, been almost un-
interruptedly increasing; that it was greater
under the Tudors than under the Plantagenets;
that it was greater under the Stuarts than un-
der the Tudors; that, in spite of battles, sieges,
and confiscations, it was greater on the day
of the Restoration than on the day when the
Long Parliament met; that, in spite of mal-
administration, of extravagance, of public
bankruptcy, of two costly and unsuccessful
wars, of the pestilence and of the fire, it was
greater on the day of the death of Charles the
Second than on the day of his Restoration.
This progress, having continued during many
ages, became at length, about the middle of
the eighteenth century, portentously rapid,
and has proceeded, during the nineteenth, with
accelerated velocity. In consequence partly
of our geographical and partly of our moral
position, we have, during several generations,
been exempt from evils which have elsewhere
impeded the efforts and destroyed the fruits
of industry. While every part of the Con-
tinent, from Moscow to Lisbon, has been the
theatre of bloody and devastating wars, no
hostile standard has been seen here but as a
trophy. While revolutions have taken place
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
383
all around us, our government has never once
been subverted by violence. During more
than a hundred years there has been in our
island no tumult of sufficient importance to be
called an insurrection; nor has the law been
once borne down either by popular fury or by
regal tyranny: public credit has been held sa-
cred: the administration of justice has been
pure: even in times which might by English-
men be justly called evil times, we have en-
joyed what almost every other nation in the
world would have considered as an ample meas-
ure of civil and religious freedom. Every man
has felt entire confidence that the state would
protect him in the possession of what had been
earned by his diligence and hoarded by his
self-denial. Under the benignant influence of
peace and liberty, science has flourished, and
has been applied to practical purposes on a
scale never before known. The consequence
is that a change to which the history of the old
world furnishes no parallel has taken place in
our country. Could the England of 1685 be,
by some magical process, set before our eyes,
we should not know one landscape in a hundred
or one building in ten thousand. The country
gentleman would not recognise his own fields.
The inhabitant of the town would not rec-
ognise his own street. Everything has been
changed but the great features of nature, and a
few massive and durable works of human art.
We might find out Snowdon and Windermere,
the Cheddar Cliffs and Beachy Head. We
might find out here and there a Norman min-
ster, or a castle which witnessed the wars of
the Roses. But, with such rare exceptions,
everything would be strange to us. Many
thousands of square miles which are now rich
corn land and meadow, intersected by green
hedgerows, and dotted with villages and pleas-
ant country seats, would appear as moors over-
grown with furze, or fens abandoned to wild
ducks. We should see straggling huts built
of wood and covered with thatch, where we
now see manufacturing towns and seaports
renowned to the farthest ends of the world. "
The capital itself would shrink to dimensions
not much exceeding those of its present suburb
on the south of the Thames. Not less strange
to us would be the garb and manners of the
people, the furniture and the equipages, the
interior of the shops and dwellings. Such a
change in the state of a nation seems to be at
least as well entitled to the notice of a historian
as any change of the dynasty or of the ministry.
One of the first objects of an inquirer, who
wishes to form a correct notion of the state of
a community at a given time, must be to as-
certain of how many persons that community
then consisted. Unfortunately the population
of England in 1685 cannot be ascertained with
perfect accuracy. For no great state had then
adopted the wise course of periodically num-
bering the people. All men were left to con-
jecture for themselves; and, as they generally
conjectured without examining facts, and under
the influence of strong passions and prejudices,
their guesses were often ludicrously absurd.
Even intelligent Londoners ordinarily talked of
London as containing several millions of souls.
It was confidently asserted by many that, dur-
ing the thirty-five years which had elapsed be-
tween the accession of Charles the First and
the Restoration, the population of the City
had increased by two millions. Even while
the ravages of the plague and fire were recent,
it was the fashion to say that the capital still
had a million and a half of inhabitants. Some
persons, disgusted by these exaggerations, ran
violently into the opposite extreme. Thus
Isaac Vossius, a man of undoubted parts and
learning, strenuously maintained that there
were only two millions of human beings
in England, Scotland, and Ireland taken
together.
We are not, however, left without the means
of correcting the wild blunders into which some
minds were hurried by national vanity and
others by a morbid love of paradox. There
are extant three computations which seem
to be entitled to peculiar attention. They are
entirely independent of each other: they pro-
ceed on different principles; and yet there is
little difference in the results.
*******
Of these three estimates, framed without
concert by different persons from different sets
of materials, the highest, which is that of King,
does not exceed the lowest, which is that of
Finlaison, by one twelfth. We may, therefore,
with confidence pronounce that, when James
the Second reigned, England contained between
five million and five million five hundred thou-
sand inhabitants. On the very highest sup-
position she then had less than one third of her
present population, and less than three times
the population which is now collected in her
gigantic capital.
*******
We should be much mistaken if we pictured
to ourselves the squires of the seventeenth
century as men bearing a close resemblance to
384
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
their descendants, the country members and
chairmen of quarter sessions with whom we
are familiar. The modern country gentleman
generally receives a liberal education, passes
from a distinguished school to a distinguished
college, and has ample opportunity to become
an excellent scholar. He has generally seen
something of foreign countries. A consider-
able part of his life has generally been passed
in the capital; and the refinements of the cap-
ital follow him into the country. There is per-
haps no class of dwellings so pleasing as the
rural seats of the English gentry. In the parks
and pleasure grounds, nature, dressed yet not
disguised by art, wears her most alluring form.
In the buildings, good sense and good taste
combine to produce a happy union of the com-
fortable and the graceful. The pictures, the
musical instruments, the library, would in any
other country be considered as proving the
owner to be an eminently polished and ac-
complished man. A country gentleman who
witnessed the Revolution was probably in re-
ceipt of about a fourth part of the rent which
his acres now yield to his posterity. He was,
therefore, as compared with his posterity, a
poor man, and was generally under the neces-
sity of residing, with little interruption, on his
estate. To travel on the Continent, to main-
tain an establishment in London, or even to
visit London frequently, were pleasures in
which only the great proprietors could indulge.
It may be confidently affirmed that of the
squires whose names were then in the Com-
missions of Peace and Lieutenancy not one in
twenty went to town once in five years, or had
ever in his life wandered so far as Paris. Many
lords of manors had received an education dif-
fering little from that of their menial servants.
The heir of an estate often passed his boyhood
and youth at the seat of his family with no bet-
ter tutors than grooms and gamekeepers, and
scarce attained learning enough to sign his
name to a Mittimus. If he went to school and
to college, he generally returned before he was
twenty to the seclusion of the old hall, and
there, unless his mind were very happily con-
stituted by nature, soon forgot his academical
pursuits in rural business and pleasures. His
chief serious employment was the care of his
property. He examined samples of grain,
handled pigs, and, on market days, made bar-
gains over a tankard with drovers and hop
merchants. His chief pleasures were com-
monly derived from field sports and from an
unrefined sensuality. His language and pro-
nunciation were such as we should now expect
to hear only from the most ignorant clowns.
His oaths, coarse jests, and scurrilous terms
of abuse, were uttered with the broadest accent
of his province. It was easy to discern, from
the first words which he spoke, whether he
came from Somersetshire or Yorkshire. He
troubled himself little about decorating his
abode, and, if he attempted decoration, seldom
produced anything but deformity. The litter
of a farmyard gathered under the windows of
his bedchamber, and the cabbages and goose-
berry bushes grew close to his hall door. His
table was loaded with coarse plenty; and guests
were cordially welcomed to it. ' But, as the
habit of drinking to excess was general in the
class to which he belonged, and as his fortune
did not enable him to intoxicate large assemblies
daily with claret or canary, strong beer was the
ordinary beverage. The quantity of beer con-
sumed in those days was indeed enormous.
For beer then was to the middle and lower
classes, not only all that beer now is, but all
that wine, tea, and ardent spirits now are.
It was only at great houses, or on great oc-
casions, that foreign drink was placed on the
board. The ladies of the house, whose busi-
ness it had commonly been to cook the repast,
retired as soon as the dishes had been devoured,
and left the gentlemen to their ale and tobacco.
The coarse jollity of the afternoon was often
prolonged till the revellers were laid under the
table.
It was very seldom that the country gentle-
man caught glimpses of the great world; and
what he saw of it tended rather to confuse than
to enlighten his understanding. His opinions
respecting religion, government, foreign coun-
tries and former times, having been derived,
not from study, from observation, or from con-
versation with enlightened companions, but
from such traditions as were current in his
own small circle, were the opinions of a child.
He adhered to them, however, with the obsti-
nacy which is generally found in ignorant men
accustomed to be fed with flattery. His ani-
mosities were numerous and bitter. He hated
Frenchmen and Italians, Scotchmen and Irish-
men, Papists and Presbyterians, Independents
and Baptists, Quakers and Jews. Towards
London and Londoners he felt an aversion
which more than once produced important
political effects. His wife and daughter were
in tastes and acquirements below a housekeeper
or a still-room maid of the present day. They
stitched and spun, brewed gooseberry wine,
THE HISTORY. OF ENGLAND
385
cured marigolds, and made the crust for the
venison pasty.
From this description it might be supposed
that the English esquire of the seventeenth cen-
tury did not materially differ from a rustic
miller or alehouse keeper of our time. There
are, however, some important parts of his char-
acter still to be noted, which will greatly modify
this estimate. Unlettered as he was and un-
polished, he was still in some most important
points a gentleman. He was a member of a
proud and powerful aristocracy, and was dis-
tinguished by many both of the good and of
the bad qualities which belong to aristocrats.
His family pride was beyond that of a Talbot
or a Howard. He knew the genealogies and
coats of arms of all his neighbours, and could tell
which of them had assumed supporters without
any right, and which of them were so unfortu-
nate as to be great-grandsons of aldermen.
He was a magistrate, and, as such, administered
gratuitously to those who dwelt around him a
rude patriarchal justice, which, in spite of in-
numerable blunders and of occasional acts of
tyranny, was yet better than no justice at all.
He was an officer of the trainbands; and his
military dignity, though it might move the mirth
of gallants who had served a campaign in
Flanders, raised his character in his own eyes
and in the eyes of his neighbours. Nor indeed
was his soldiership justly a subject of derision.
In every county there were elderly gentlemen
who had seen service which was no child's
play. One had been knighted by Charles the
First, after the battle of Edgehill. Another
still wore a patch over the scar which he had
received at Naseby. A third had defended his
old house till Fairfax had blown in the door with
a petard. The presence of these old Cavaliers,
with their old swords and holsters, and with
their old stories about Goring and Lunsford,
gave to the musters of militia an earnest and
warlike aspect which would otherwise have
been wanting. Even those country gentlemen
who were too young to have themselves ex-
changed blows with the cuirassiers of the Par-
liament had, from childhood, been surrounded
by the traces of recent war, and fed with stories
of the martial exploits of their fathers and
uncles. Thus the character of the English
esquire of the seventeenth century was com-
pounded of two elements which we seldom
or never find united. His ignorance and un-
couthness, his low tastes and gross phrases,
would, in our time, be considered as indicating
a nature and a breeding thoroughly plebeian.
Yet he was essentially a patrician, and had, in
large measure, both the virtues and the vices
which flourish among men set from their birth
in high place, and used to respect themselves
and to be respected by others. It is not easy
for a generation accustomed to find chivalrous
sentiments only in company with liberal studies
and polished manners to image to itself a man
with the deportment, the vocabulary, and the
accent of a carter, yet punctilious on matters
of genealogy and precedence, and ready to
risk his life rather than see a stain cast on the
honour of his house. It is, however, only by
thus joining together things seldom or never
found together in our own experience that we
can form a just idea of that rustic aristocracy
which constituted the main strength of the
armies of Charles the First, and which long
supported, with strange fidelity, the interest
of his descendants.
The gross, uneducated, untravelled country
gentleman was commonly a Tory : but, though
devotedly attached to hereditary monarchy, he
had no partiality for courtiers and ministers.
He thought, not without reason, that Whitehall
was filled with the most corrupt of mankind,
and that of the great sums which the House of
Commons had voted to the Crown since the
Restoration part had been embezzled by cun-
ning politicians, and part squandered on buf-
foons and foreign courtesans. His stout Eng-
lish heart swelled with indignation at the
thought that the government of his country
should be subject to French dictation. Being
himself generally an old Cavalier, or the son of
an old Cavalier, he reflected with bitter resent-
ment on the ingratitude with which the Stuarts
had requited their best friends. Those who
heard him grumble at the neglect with which
he was treated, and at the profusion with which
wealth was lavished on the bastards of Nell
Gwynn and Madam Carwell, would have sup-
posed him ripe for rebellion. But all this ill
humour lasted only till the throne was really
in danger. It was precisely when those whom
the sovereign had loaded with wealth and
honours shrank from his side that the country
gentlemen, so surly and mutinous in the season
of his prosperity, rallied round him in a body.
Thus, after murmuring twenty years at the
misgovernment of Charles the Second, they
came to his rescue in his extremity, when his
own Secretaries of State and the Lords of his
own Treasury had deserted him, and enabled
him to gain a complete victory over the opposi-
tion; nor can there be any doubt that they
386
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
would have shown equal loyalty to his brother
James, if James would, even at the last mo-
ment, have refrained from outraging their
strongest feeling. For there was one institu-
tion, and one only, which they prized even more
than hereditary monarchy; and that institu-
tion was the Church of England. Their love
of the Church was not, indeed, the effect of
study or meditation. Few among them could
have given any reason, drawn from Scripture
or ecclesiastical history, for adhering to her
doctrines, her ritual, and her polity; nor were
they, as a class, by any means strict observers
of that code of morality which is common
to all Christian sects. But the experience of
many ages proves that men may be ready to
fight to the death, and to persecute without
pity, for a religion whose creed they do not un-
derstand, and whose precepts they habitually
disobey.
The rural clergy were even more vehement
in Toryism than the rural gentry, and were a
class scarcely less important. It is to be ob-
served, however, that the individual clergyman,
as compared with the individual gentleman,
then ranked much lower than in our days. . . .
The place of the clergyman in society had
been completely changed by the Reformation.
Before that event, ecclesiastics had formed the
majority of the House of Lords, had, in wealth
and splendour, equalled, and sometimes out-
shone, the greatest of the temporal barons, and
had generally held the highest civil offices.
Many of the Treasurers, and almost all the
Chancellors of the Plantagenets, were bishops.
The Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal and the
Master of the Rolls were ordinarily churchmen.
Churchmen transacted the most important
diplomatic business. Indeed, all that large
portion of the administration which rude and
warlike nobles were incompetent to conduct
was considered as especially belonging to
divines. Men, therefore, who were averse to
the life of camps, and who were, at the same
time, desirous to rise in the state, commonly
received the tonsure. Among them were sons
of all the most illustrious families, and near
kinsmen of the throne, Scroops and Nevilles,
Bourchiers, Staffords, and Poles. To the re-
ligious houses belonged the rents of immense
domains, and all that large portion of the tithe
which is now in the hands of laymen. Down
to the middle of the reign of Henry the Eighth,
therefore, no line of life was so attractive to
ambitious and covetous natures as the priest-
hood. Then came a violent revolution. The
abolition of the monasteries deprived the
Church at once of the greater part of her
wealth, and of her predominance in the Upper
House of Parliament. There was no longer
an Abbot of Glastonbury or an Abbot of Read-
ing seated among the peers, and possessed of
revenues equal to those of a powerful Earl.
The princely splendour of William of Wykeham
and of William of Waynflete had disappeared.
The scarlet hat of the Cardinal, the silver cross
of the Legate, were no more. The clergy had
also lost the ascendency which is the natural
reward of superior mental cultivation. Once
the circumstance that a man could read had
raised a presumption that he was in orders.
But, in an age which produced such laymen
as William Cecil and Nicholas Bacon, Roger
Ascham and Thomas Smith, Walter Mildmay'
and Francis Walsingham, there was no reason
for calling away prelates from their dioceses to
negotiate treaties, to superintend the finances,
or to administer justice. The spiritual char-
acter not only ceased to be a qualification for
high civil office, but began to be regarded as a
disqualification. Those worldly motives, there-
fore, which had formerly induced so many able,
aspiring, and high-born youths to assume the
ecclesiastical habit, ceased to operate. Not one
parish in two hundred then afforded what a
man of family considered as a maintenance.
There were still indeed prizes in the Church:
but they were few: and even the highest were
mean, when compared with the glory which
had once surrounded the princes of the hie-
rarchy. The state kept by Parker and Grindal
seemed beggarly to those who remembered
the imperial pomp of Wolsey, his palaces,
which had become the favourite abodes of
royalty, Whitehall and Hampton Court, the
three sumptuous tables daily spread in his
refectory, the forty-four gorgeous copes in his
chapel, his running footmen in rich liveries,
and his bodyguards with gilded poleaxes.
Thus the sacerdotal office lost its attraction
for the higher classes. During the century
which followed the accession of Elizabeth,
scarce a single person of noble descent took
orders. At the close of the reign of Charles
the Second, two sons of peers were Bishops;
four or five sons of peers were priests, and held
valuable preferment; but these rare exceptions
did not take away the reproach which lay on
the body. The clergy were regarded as, on the
whole, a plebeian class. And, indeed, for one
who made the figure of a gentleman, ten were
mere menial servants. A large proportion of
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
387
those divines who had no benefices, or whose
benefices were too small to afford a comfortable
revenue, lived in the houses of laymen. It had
long been evident that this practice tended
to degrade the priestly character. Laud had
exerted himself to effect a change ; and Charles
the First had repeatedly issued positive orders
that none but men of high rank should presume
to keep domestic chaplains. But these injunc-
tions had become obsolete. Indeed, during
the domination of the Puritans, many of the
ejected ministers of the Church of England
could obtain bread and shelter only by attach-
ing themselves to the households of Royalist
gentlemen; and the habits which had been
formed in those times of trouble continued long
after the reestablishment of monarchy and
episcopacy. In the mansions of men of liberal
sentiments and cultivated understandings, the
chaplain was doubtless treated with urbanity
and kindness. His conversation, his literary
assistance, his spiritual advice, were considered
as an ample return for his food, his lodging,
and his stipend. But this was not the general
feeling of the country gentlemen. The coarse
and ignorant squire, who thought that it be-
longed to his dignity to have grace said every
day at his table by an ecclesiastic in full canon-
icals, found means to reconcile dignity with
economy. A young Levite — such was the
phrase then in use — might be had for his
board, a small garret, and ten pounds a year,
and might not only perform his own professional
functions, might not only be the most patient
of butts and of listeners, might not only be
always ready in fine weather for bowls, and in
rainy weather for shovel-board, but might also
save the expense of a gardener or of a groom.
Sometimes the reverend man nailed up the
apricots; and sometimes he curried the coach-
horses. He cast up the farrier's bills. He
walked ten miles with a message or a parcel.
He was permitted to dine with the family;
but he was expected to content himself with the
plainest fare. He might fill himself with the
corned beef and the carrots : but, as soon as the
tarts and cheese-cakes made their appearance,
he quitted his seat, and stood aloof till he was
summoned to return thanks for the repast,
from a great part of which he had been ex-
cluded.
Perhaps, after some years of service, he was
presented to a living sufficient to support him ;
but he often found it necessary to purchase his
preferment by a species of Simony, which fur-
nished an inexhaustible subject of pleasantry
to three or four generations of scoffers. With
his cure he was expected to take a wife. The
wife had ordinarily been in the patron's ser-
vice; and it was well if she was not suspected
of standing too high in the patron's favour.
Indeed, the nature of the matrimonial con-
nections which the clergymen of that age
were in the habit of forming is the most certain
indication of the place which the order held
in the social system. An Oxonian, writing a few
months after the death of Charles the Second,
complained bitterly, not only that the country
attorney and the country apothecary looked
down with disdain on the country clergyman,
but that one of the lessons most earnestly
inculcated on every girl of honourable family
was to give no encouragement to a lover in
orders, and that, if any young lady forgot this
precept, she was almost as much disgraced as
by an illicit amour. Clarendon, who assuredly
bore no ill will to the priesthood, mentions it as
a sign of the confusion of ranks which the great
rebellion had produced, that some damsels
of noble families had bestowed themselves on
divines. A waiting-woman was generally con-
sidered as the most suitable helpmate for a
parson. Queen Elizabeth, as head of the
Church, had given what seemed to be a formal
sanction to this prejudice, by issuing special
orders that no clergyman should presume to
espouse a servant girl, without the consent of
the master or mistress. During several genera-
tions accordingly the relation between divines
and handmaidens was a theme for endless jest ;
nor would it be easy to find, in the comedy of
the seventeenth century, a single instance of a
clergyman who wins a spouse above the rank
of a cook. Even so late as the time of George
the Second, the keenest of all observers of life
and manners, himself a priest, remarked that,
in a great household, the chaplain was the
resource of a lady's maid whose character had
been blown upon, and who was therefore forced
to give up hopes of catching the steward.
In general the divine who quitted his chap-
lainship for a benefice and a wife found that he
had only exchanged one class of vexations for
another. Hardly one living in fifty enabled the
incumbent to bring up a family comfortably.
As children multiplied and grew, the household
of the priest became more and more beggarly.
Holes appeared more and more plainly in
the thatch of his parsonage and in his single
cassock. Often it was only by toiling on
his glebe, by feeding swine, and by load-
ing dung-carts, that he could obtain daily
388
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
bread; nor did his utmost exertions always
prevent the bailiffs from taking his concordance
and his inkstand in execution. It was a white
day on which he was admitted into the kitchen
of a great house, and regaled by the servants
with cold meat and ale. His children were
brought up like the children of the neigh-
bouring peasantry. His boys followed the
plough; and his girls went out to service.
Study he found impossible; for the advowson
of his living would hardly have sold for a
sum sufficient to purchase a good theological
library; and he might be considered as un-
usually lucky if he had ten or twelve dog-
eared volumes among the pots and pans on his
shelves. Even a keen and strong intellect
might be expected to rust in so unfavourable
a situation.
Assuredly there was at that time no lack in
the English Church of ministers distinguished
by abilities and learning. But it is to be ob-
served that these ministers were not scattered
among the rural population. They were
brought together at a few places where the
means of acquiring knowledge were abundant,
and where the opportunities of .vigorous
intellectual exercise were frequent. At such
places were to be found divines qualified by
parts, by eloquence, by wide knowledge of
literature, of science, and of life, to defend their
Church victoriously against heretics and scep-
tics, to command the attention of frivolous and
worldly congregations, to guide the delibera-
tions of senates, and to make religion respect-
able, even in the most dissolute of courts.
Some laboured to fathom the abysses of meta-
physical theology; some were deeply versed
in biblical criticism; and some threw light on
the darkest parts of ecclesiastical history.
Some proved themselves consummate masters
of logic. Some cultivated rhetoric with such
assiduity and success that their discourses are
still justly valued as models of style. These
eminent men were to be found, with scarcely
a single exception, at the Universities, at the
great Cathedrals, or in the capital. Barrow
had lately died at Cambridge, and Pearson
had gone thence to the episcopal bench. Cud-
worth and Henry More were still living there.
South and Pococke, Jane and Aldrich, were at
Oxford, Prideaux was in the close of Norwich,
and Whitby in the close of Salisbury. But it
was chiefly by the London clergy, who were
always spoken of as a class apart, that the
fame of their profession for learning and elo-
quence was upheld. The principal pulpits of
the metropolis were occupied about this time
by a crowd of distinguished men, from among
whom was selected a large proportion of the
rulers of the Church. Sherlock preached at
the Temple, Tillotson at Lincoln's Inn, Wake
and Jeremy Collier at Gray's Inn, Burnet at the
Rolls, Stillingfleet at Saint Paul's Cathedral,
Patrick at Saint Paul's in Covent Garden,
Fowler at Saint Giles's, Cripplegate, Sharp at
Saint Giles's in the Fields, Tenison at Saint
Martin's, Sprat at Saint Margaret's, Beveridge
at Saint Peter's in Cornhill. Of these twelve
men, all of high note in ecclesiastical history,
ten became Bishops, and four Archbishops.
Meanwhile almost the only important theologi-
cal works which came forth from a rural par-
sonage were those of George Bull, afterward
Bishop of Saint David's; and Bull never would
have produced those works, had he not in-
herited an estate, by the sale of which he was
enabled to collect a library, such as probably no
other country clergyman in England possessed.
Thus the Anglican priesthood was divided
into two sections, which, in acquirements, in
manners, and in social position, differed widely
from each other. One section, trained for
cities and courts, comprised men familiar with
all ancient and modern learning; men able to
encounter Hobbes or Bossuet at all the weapons
of controversy; men who could, in their ser-
mons, set forth the majesty and beauty of
Christianity with such justness of thought,
and such energy of language, that the indolent
Charles roused himself to listen, and the fas-
tidious Buckingham forgot to sneer; men
whose address, politeness, and knowledge of
the world qualified them to manage the con-
sciences of the wealthy and noble; men
with whom Halifax loved to discuss the inter-
ests of empires, and from whom Dryden was
not ashamed to own that he had learned to
write. The other section was destined to ruder
and humbler service. It was dispersed over
the country, and consisted chiefly of persons
not at all wealthier, and not much more re-
fined, than small farmers or upper servants.
Yet it was in these rustic priests, who derived
but a scanty subsistence from their tithe sheaves
and tithe pigs, and who had not the smallest
chance of ever attaining high professional hon-
ours, that the professional spirit was strongest.
*******
Great as has been the change in the rural
life of England since the Revolution, the change
which has come to pass in the cities is still
more amazing. At present above a sixth part
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
389
of the nation is crowded into provincial towns
of more than thirty thousand inhabitants.
In the reign of Charles the Second no provincial
town in the kingdom contained thirty thousand
inhabitants; and only four provincial towns
contained so many as ten thousand inhabitants.
*******
The position of London, relatively to the
other towns of the empire, was, in the time of
Charles the Second, far higher than at present.
For at present the population of London is
little more than six times the population of
Manchester or of Liverpool. In the days of
Charles the Second the population of London
was more than seventeen times the population
of Bristol or of Norwich. It may be doubted
whether any other instance can be mentioned
of a great kingdom in which the first city was
more than seventeen times as large as the
second. There is reason to believe that, in
1685, London had been, during about half a
century, the most populous capital in Europe.
The inhabitants, who are now at least nineteen
hundred thousand, were then probably little
more than half a million. London had in the
world only one commercial rival, now long
ago outstripped, the mighty and opulent Am-
sterdam. English writers boasted of the
forest of masts and yardarms which covered
the river from the Bridge to the Tower, and of
the stupendous sums which were collected at
the Custom House in Thames Street. There is,
indeed, no doubt that the trade of the metropolis
then bore a far greater proportion than at pres-
ent to the whole trade of the country; yet to
our generation the honest vaunting of our
ancestors must appear almost ludicrous. The
shipping which they thought incredibly great
appears not to have exceeded seventy thou-
sand tons. This was, indeed, then more than
a third of the' whole tonnage of the kingdom,
but is now less than a fourth of the tonnage
of Newcastle, and is nearly equalled by the
tonnage of the steam vessels of the Thames.
The customs of London amounted, in 1685,
to about three hundred and thirty thousand
pounds a year. In our time the net duty
paid annually, at the same place, exceeds ten
millions.
Whoever examines the maps of London
which were published toward the close of the
reign of Charles the Second will see that only
the nucleus of the present capital then existed.
The town did not, as now, fade by imper-
ceptible degrees into the country. No long
avenues of villas, embowered in lilacs and
laburnums, extended from the great centre
of wealth and civilisation almost to the boun-
daries of Middlesex and far into the heart of
Kent and Surrey. In the east, no part of the
immense line of warehouses and artificial lakes
which now stretches from the Tower to Black-
wall had even been projected. On the west,
scarcely one of those stately piles of building
which are inhabited by the noble and wealthy
was in existence; and Chelsea, which is now
peopled by more than forty thousand human
beings, was a quiet country village with about
a thousand inhabitants. On the north, cattle
fed, and sportsmen wandered with dogs and
guns, over the site of the borough of Maryle-
bone, and over far the greater part of the space
now covered by the boroughs of Finsbury
and of the Tower Hamlets. Islington was
almost a solitude; and poets loved to contrast
its silence and repose with the din and turmoil
of the monster London. On the south the
capital is now connected with its suburb by
several bridges, not inferior in magnificence and
solidity to the noblest works of the Caesars.
In 1685, a single line of irregular arches, over-
hung by piles of mean and crazy houses, and
garnished, after a fashion worthy of the naked
barbarians of Dahomy, with scores of moulder-
ing heads, impeded the navigation of the river.
Of the metropolis, the City, properly so
called, was the most important division. At
the time of the Restoration it had been built,
for the most part, of wood and plaster; the
few bricks that were used were ill baked; the
booths where goods were exposed to sale pro-
jected far into the streets, and were overhung
by the upper stories. A few specimens of this
architecture may still be seen in those dis-
tricts which were not reached by the great fire.
That fire had, in a few days, covered a space of
less than a square mile with the ruins of eighty-
nine churches and of thirteen thousand houses.
But the City had risen again with a celerity
which had excited the admiration of neighbouring
countries. Unfortunately, the old lines of the
streets had been to a great extent preserved;
and those lines, originally traced in an age
when even princesses performed their journeys
on horseback, were often too narrow to allow
wheeled carriages to pass each other with ease,
and were therefore ill adapted for the residence
of wealthy persons in an age when a coach
and six was a fashionable luxury. The style of
building was, however, far superior to that of
the City which had perished. The ordinary
material was brick, of much better qualit)
390
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
than had formerly been used. On the sites
of the ancient parish churches had arisen a
multitude of new domes, towers, and spires
which bore the mark of the fertile genius of
Wren. In every place save one the traces of
the great devastation had been completely
effaced. But the crowds of workmen, the
scaffolds, and the masses of hewn stone were
still to be seen where the noblest of Protestant
temples was slowly rising on the ruins of the
old Cathedral of Saint Paul.
*******
He who then rambled to what is now the
gayest and most crowded part of Regent Street
found himself in a solitude, and was sometimes
so fortunate as to have a shot at a woodcock.
On the north the Oxford road ran between
hedges. Three or four hundred yards to the
south were the garden walls of a few great
houses which were considered as quite out of
town. On the west was a meadow renowned
for a spring from which, long afterwards, Con-
duit Street was named. On the east was a field
not to be passed without a shudder by any
Londoner of that age. There, as in a place
far from the haunts of men, had been dug,
twenty years before, when the great plague was
raging, a pit into which the dead carts had
nightly shot corpses by scores. It was popularly
believed that the earth was deeply tainted with
infection, and could not be disturbed without
imminent risk to human life. No foundations
were laid there till two generations had passed
without any return of the pestilence, and till
the ghastly spot had long been surrounded by
buildings.
We should greatly err if we were to suppose
that any of the streets and squares then bore
the same aspect as at present. The great
majority of the houses, indeed, have, since
that time, been wholly, or in great part, rebuilt.
If the most fashionable parts of the capital
could be placed before us such as they then
were, we should be disgusted by their squalid
appearance, and poisoned by their noisome
atmosphere.
In Covent Garden a filthy and noisy market
was held close to the dwellings of the great.
Fruit women screamed, carters fought, cab-
bage stalks and rotten apples accumulated in
heaps at the thresholds of the Countess of
Berkshire and of the Bishop of Durham.
The centre of Lincoln's Inn Fields was an
open space where the rabble congregated every
evening, within a few yards of Cardigan House
and Winchester House, to hear mountebanks
harangue, to see bears dance, and to set dogs
at oxen. Rubbish was shot in every part of
the area. Horses were exercised there. The
beggars were as noisy and importunate as in
the worst governed cities of the Continent.
A Lincoln's Inn mumper was a proverb. The
whole fraternity knew the arms and liveries of
every charitably disposed grandee in the neigh-
bourhood, and, as soon as his lordship's coach
and six appeared, came hopping and crawling
in crowds to persecute him. These disorders
lasted, in spite of many accidents, and of some
legal proceedings, till, in the reign of George
the Second, Sir Joseph Jekyll, Master of the
Rolls, was knocked down and nearly killed in
the middle of the square. Then at length
palisades were set up, and a pleasant garden
laid out.
Saint James's Square was a receptacle for all
the offal and cinders, for all the dead cats and
dead dogs of Westminster. At one time a
cudgel player kept the ring there. At another
time an impudent squatter settled himself
there, and built a shed for rubbish under the
windows of the gilded saloons in which the
first magnates of the realm, Norfolk, Ormond,
Kent, and Pembroke, gave banquets and balls.
It was not till these nuisances had lasted through
a whole generation, and till much had been
written about them, that the inhabitants
applied to Parliament for permission to put up
rails, and to plant trees.
When such was the state of the region in-
habited by the most luxurious portion of soci-
ety, we may easily believe that the great body
of the population suffered what would now be
considered as insupportable grievances. The
pavement was detestable: all foreigners cried
shame upon it. The drainage was so bad that
in rainy weather the gutters soon became
torrents. Several facetious poets have com-
memorated the fury with which these black
rivulets roared down Snow Hill and Ludgate
Hill, bearing to Fleet Ditch a vast tribute of
animal and vegetable filth from the stalls of
butchers and green -grocers. This flood was
profusely thrown to right and left by coaches
and carts. To keep as far from the carriage
road as possible was therefore the wish of every
pedestrian. The mild and timid gave the
wall. The bold and athletic took it. If two
roisterers met, they cocked their hats in each
other's faces, and pushed each other about till
the weaker was shoved towards the kennel.
If he was a mere bully he sneaked off, mutter-
in? that he should find a time. If he was
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
391
pugnacious, the encounter probably ended in
a duel behind Montague House.
The houses were not numbered. There
would indeed have been little advantage in
numbering them; for of the coachmen, chair-
men, porters, and errand boys of London, a
very small proportion could read. It was
necessary to use marks which the most ignorant
could understand. The shops were therefore
distinguished by painted or sculptured signs,
which gave a gay and grotesque aspect to
the streets. The walk from Charing Cross to
Whitechapel lay through an endless succession
of Saracens' Heads, Royal Oaks, Blue Bears,
and Golden Lambs, which disappeared when
they were no longer required for the direction
of the common people.
When the evening closed in, the difficulty
and danger of walking about London became
serious indeed. The garret windows were
opened, and pails were emptied, with little
regard to those who were passing below.
Falls, bruises, and broken bones were of con-
stant occurrence. For, till the last year of the
reign of Charles the Second, most of the streets
were left in profound darkness. Thieves and
robbers plied their trade with impunity: yet
they were hardly so terrible to peaceable citizens
as another class of ruffians. It was a favourite
amusement of dissolute young gentlemen to
swagger by night about the town, breaking
windows, upsetting sedans, beating quiet men,
and offering rude caresses to pretty women.
Several dynasties of these tyrants had, since the
Restoration, domineered over the streets. The
Muns and Tityre Tus had given place to the
Hectors, and the Hectors had been recently suc-
ceeded by the Scourers. At a later period arose
the Nicker, the Hawcubite, and the yet more
dreaded name of Mohawk. The machinery
for keeping the peace was utterly contemptible.
There was an Act of Common Council which
provided that more than a thousand watch-
men should be constantly on the alert in the
city, from sunset to sunrise, and that every
inhabitant should take his turn of duty. But
this Act was negligently executed. Few of
those who were summoned left their homes;
and those few generally found it more agree-
able to tipple in alehouses than to pace the
streets.
It ought to be noticed that, in the last year of
the reign of Charles the Second, began a great
change in the police of London, a change which
has perhaps added as much to the happiness
of the body of the people as revolutions of much
greater fame. An ingenious projector, named
Edward Heming, obtained letters patent con-
veying to him, for a term of years, the exclusive
right of lighting up London. He undertook,
for a moderate consideration, to place a light
before every tenth door, on moonless nights,
from Michaelmas to Lady Day, and from six
to twelve of the clock. Those who now see
the capital all the year round, from dusk to
dawn, blazing with a splendour beside which
the illuminations for La Hogue and Blenheim
would have looked pale, may perhaps smile to
think of Heming's lanterns, which glimmered
feebly before one house in ten during a small
part of one night in three. But such was riot
the feeling of his contemporaries. His scheme
was enthusiastically applauded, and furiously
attacked. The friends of improvement extolled
him as the greatest of all the benefactors of his
city. What, they asked, were the boasted in-
ventions of Archimedes, when compared with
the achievement of the man who had turned
the nocturnal shades into noonday? In spite
of these eloquent eulogies the cause of darkness
was not left undefended. There were fools
in that age who opposed the introduction of
what was called the new light as strenuously
as fools in our age have opposed the introduction
of vaccination and railroads, as strenuously as
the fools of an age anterior to the dawn of
history doubtless opposed the introduction of
the plough and of alphabetical writing. Many
years after the date of Heming's patent there
were extensive districts in which no lamp was
seen.
We may easily imagine what, in such times,
must have been the state of the quarters of
London which were peopled by the outcasts
of society. Among those quarters one had
attained a scandalous preeminence. On the
confines of the City and the Temple had been
founded, in the thirteenth century, a House of
Carmelite Friars, distinguished by their white
hoods. The precinct of this house had, before
the Reformation, been a sanctuary for crimi-
nals, and still retained the privilege of protecting
debtors from arrest. Insolvents consequently
were to be found in every dwelling, from cellar
to garret. Of these a large proportion were
knaves and libertines, and were followed to
their asylum by women more abandoned than
themselves. The civil power was unable to
keep order in a district swarming with such
inhabitants; and thus Whitefriars became the
favourite resort of all who wished to be eman-
cipated from the restraints of the law. Though
392
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
the immunities legally belonging to the place
extended only to cases of debt, cheats, false
witnesses, forgers, and highwaymen found
refuge there. For amidst a rabble so desper-
ate no peace officer's life was in safety. At the
cry of "Rescue," bullies with swords and cud-
gels, and termagant hags with spits and broom-
sticks, poured forth by hundreds; and the
intruder was fortunate if he escaped back into
Fleet Street, hustled, stripped, and pumped
upon. Even the warrant of the Chief -justice
of England could not be executed without the
help of a company of musketeers. Such relics
of. the barbarism of the darkest ages were to be
found within a short walk of the chambers
where Somers was studying history and law,
of the chapel where Tillotson was preaching,
of the coffee-house where Dryden was passing
judgment on poems and plays, and of the hall
where the Royal Society was examining the
astronomical system of Isaac Newton.
*******
The coffee-house must not be dismissed with
a cursory mention. It might, indeed, at that
time have been not improperly called a most
important political institution. No Parliament
had sat for years. The municipal council of
the city had ceased to speak the sense of the
citizens. Public meetings, harangues, resolu-
tions, and the rest of the modern machinery
of agitation had not yet come into fashion.
Nothing resembling the modern newspaper
existed. In such circumstances the coffee-
houses were the chief organs through which
the public opinion of the metropolis vented
itself.
The first of these establishments had been
set up, in the time of the Commonwealth, by a
Turkey merchant, who had acquired among the
Mahometans a taste for their favourite beverage.
The convenience of being able to make ap-
pointments in any part of the town, and of
being able to pass evenings socially at a very
small charge, was so great that the fashion
spread fast. Every man of the upper or middle
class went daily to his coffee-house to learn the
news and to discuss it. Every coffee-house
had one or more orators to whose eloquence the
crowd listened with admiration, and who soon
became, what the journalists of our time have
been called, a fourth Estate of the realm. The
court had long seen with uneasiness the growth
of this new power in the state. An attempt
had been made, during Danby's administration,
to close the coffee-houses. But men of all
parties missed their usual places of resort so
much that there was a universal outcry. The
government did not venture, in opposition to
a feeling so strong and general, to enforce a
regulation of which the legality might well be
questioned. Since that time ten years had
elapsed, and during those years the number
and influence of the coffee-houses had been
constantly increasing. Foreigners remarked
that the coffee-house was that which especially
distinguished London from all other cities;
that the coffee-house was the Londoner's
home, and that those who wished to find a
gentleman commonly asked, not whether he
lived in Fleet Street or Chancery Lane, but
whether he frequented the Grecian or the Rain-
bow. Nobody was excluded from these places
who laid down his penny at the bar. Yet
every rank and profession, and every shade
of religious and political opinion, had its own
headquarters. There were houses near Saint
James's Park where fops congregated, their
heads and shoulders covered with black or
flaxen wigs, not less ample than those which
are now worn by the Chancellor and by the
Speaker of the House of Commons. The wig
came from Paris ; and so did the rest of the fine
gentleman's ornaments, his embroidered coat,
his fringed gloves, and the tassels which upheld
his pantaloons. The conversation was in that
dialect which, long after it had ceased to be
spoken in fashionable circles, continued, in the
mouth of Lord Foppington, to excite the mirth
of theatres. The atmosphere was like that of a
perfumer's shop. Tobacco in any other form
than that of richly scented snuff was held in
abomination. If any clown, ignorant of the
usages of the house, called for a pipe, the sneers
of the whole assembly and the short answers
of the waiters soon convinced him that he had
better go somewhere else. Nor, indeed, would
he have had far to go. For, in general, the
coffee-rooms reeked with tobacco like a guard-
room ; and strangers sometimes expressed their
surprise that so many people should leave their
own firesides to sit in the midst of eternal fog
and stench. Nowhere was the smoking more
constant than at Will's. That celebrated house,
situated between Covent Garden and Bow
Street, was sacred to polite letters. There the
talk was about poetical justice and the unities
of place and time. There was a faction for
Perrault and the moderns, a faction for Boileau
and the ancients. One group debated whether
Paradise Lost ought not to have been in rhyme.
To another an envious poetaster demonstrated
that Venice Preserved oughtjo have been hooted
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
393
from the stage. Under no roof was a greater
variety of figures to be seen. There were
Earls in stars and garters, clergymen in cas-
socks and bands, pert Templars, sheepish
lads from the Universities, translators and
index-makers in ragged coats of frieze. The
great press was to get near the chair where John
Dryden sat. In winter that chair was always
in the warmest nook by the fire; in summer it
stood in the balcony. To bow to the Laureate,
and to hear his opinion of Racine's last tragedy
or of Bossu's treatise on epic poetry, was
thought a privilege. A pinch from his snuff- /
box was an honour sufficient to turn the head of/
a young enthusiast. There were coffee-houses
where the first medical men might be con-
sulted. Dr. John Radcliffe, who, in the year
1685, rose to the largest practice in London,
came daily, at the hour when the Exchange was
full, from his house in Bow Street, then a
fashionable part of the capital, to Garraway's,
and was to be found, surrounded by surgeons and
apothecaries, at a particular table. There were
Puritan coffee-houses where no oath was heard,
and where lank-haired men discussed election
and reprobation through their noses; Jew
coffee-houses where dark-eyed money changers
from Venice and from Amsterdam greeted each
other; and popish coffee-houses where, as good
Protestants believed, Jesuits planned, over
their cups, another great fire, and cast silver
bullets to shoot the King.
These gregarious habits had no small share
in forming the character of the Londoner of
that age. He was, indeed, a different being
from the rustic Englishman. There was not
then the intercourse which now exists between
the two classes. Only very great men were in
the habit of dividing the year between town and
country. Few esquires came to the capital thrice
in their lives. Nor was it yet the practice of all
citizens in easy circumstances to breathe the fresh
air of the fields and woods during some weeks of
every summer. A cockney in a rural village was
stared at as much as if he had intruded into a
Kraal of Hottentots. On the other hand, when
the Lord of a Lincolnshire or Shropshire
manor appeared in Fleet Street, he was as
ear.ily distinguished from the resident popula-
tion as a Turk or a Lascar. His dress, his gait,
his accent, the manner in which he gazed at the
shops, stumbled into the gutters, ran against
the porters, and stood under the waterspouts,
marked him out as an excellent subject for the
operations of swindlers and banterers. Bullies
jostled him into the kennel. Hackney coach-
men splashed him from head to foot. Thieves
explored with perfect security the huge pockets
of his horseman's coat, while he stood entranced
by the splendour of the Lord Mayor's show.
Money droppers, sore from the cart's tail,
introduced themselves to him, and appeared
to him the most honest friendly gentlemen
that he had ever seen. Painted women, the
refuse of Lewkner Lane and Whetstone Park,
passed themselves on him for countesses and
maids of honour. If he asked his way to Saint
James's, his informants sent him to Mile End.
If he went into a shop, he was instantly dis-
cerned to be a fit purchaser of everything that
nobody else would buy, of second-hand em-
broidery, copper rings, and watches that would
not go. If he rambled into any fashionable
coffee-house, he became a mark for the insolent
derision of fops and the grave waggery of
Templars. Enraged and mortified, he soon
returned to his mansion, and there, in the
homage of his tenants and the conversation of
his boon companions, found consolation for the
vexations and humiliations which he had under-
gone. There he was once more a great man,
and saw nothing above himself except when at
the assizes he took his seat on the bench near
the judge, or when at the muster of the militia
he saluted the Lord Lieutenant.
The chief cause which made the fusion of the
different elements of society so imperfect was the
extreme difficulty which our ancestors found in
passing from place to place. Of all inventions,
the alphabet and the printing-press alone ex-
cepted, those inventions which abridge distance
have done most for the civilisation of our
species. Every improvement of the means of
locomotion benefits mankind morally and in-
tellectually as well as materially, and not only
facilitates the interchange of the various pro-
ductions of nature and art, but tends to remove
national and provincial antipathies, and to bind
together all the branches of the great human
family. In the seventeenth century the in-
habitants of London were, for almost every
practical purpose, farther from Reading than
they now are from Edinburgh, and farther from
Edinburgh than they now are from Vienna.
The subjects of Charles the Second were not,
it is true, quite unacquainted with that principle
which has, in our own time, produced an un-
precedented revolution in human affairs, which
has enabled navies to advance in face of wind
and tide, and brigades of troops, attended by
all their baggage and artillery, to traverse
kingdoms at a pace equal to that of the fleetest
394
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
race horse. The Marquess of Worcester had
recently observed the expansive power of
moisture rarefied by heat. After many ex-
periments he had succeeded in constructing a
rude steam engine, which he called a fire water
work, and which he pronounced to be an ad-
mirable and most forcible instrument of pro-
pulsion. But the Marquess was suspected to
be a madman, and known to be a Papist. His
inventions, therefore, found no favourable re-
ception. His fire water work might, perhaps,
furnish matter for conversation at a meeting of
the Royal Society, but was not applied to any
practical purpose. There were no railways, ex-
cept a few made of timber, on which coals were
carried from the mouths of the Northumbrian
pits to the banks of the Tyne. There was very
little internal communication by water. A few
attempts had been made to deepen and embank
the natural streams, but with slender success.
Hardly a single navigable canal had been even
projected. The English of that day were in the
habit of talking with mingled admiration and
despair of the immense trench by which Lewis
the Fourteenth had made a junction between
the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. They
little thought that their country would, in the
course of a few generations, be intersected, at
the cost of private adventurers, by artificial
rivers making up more than four times the
length of the Thames, the Severn, and the
Trent together.
It was by the highways that both travellers
and goods generally passed from place to place ;
and those highways appear to have been far
worse than might have been expected from the
degree of wealth and civilisation which the
nation had even then attained. On the best
lines of communication the ruts were deep, the
descents precipitous, and the way often such
as it was hardly possible to distinguish, in the
dusk, from the uninclosed heath and fen which
lay on both sides. Ralph Thoresby, the an-
tiquary, was in danger of losing his way
on the great North road, between Barnby
Moor and Tuxford, and actually lost his
way between Doncaster and York. Pepys
and his wife, travelling in their own coach,
lost their way between Newbury and Read-
ing. In the course of the same tour they
lost their way near Salisbury, and were in dan-
ger of having to pass the night on the plain.
It was only in fine weather that the whole
breadth of the road was available for wheeled
vehicles. Often the mud lay deep on the right
and the left; and only a narrow track of firm
ground rose above the quagmire. At such
times obstructions and quarrels were frequent,
and the path was sometimes blocked up during
a long time by carriers, neither of whom would
break the way. It happened, almost every
day, that coaches stuck fast, until a team of
cattle could be procured from some neigh-
bouring farm to tug them out of the slough.
But in bad seasons the traveller had to en-
counter inconveniences still more serious.
Thoresby, who was in the habit of travelling
between Leeds and the capital, has recorded,
in his Diary, such a series of perils and dis-
asters as might suffice for a journey to the
Frozen Ocean or to the Desert of Sahara.
On one occasion he learned that the floods were
out between Ware and London, that passengers
had to swim for their lives, and that a higgler
had perished in the attempt to cross. In con-
sequence of these tidings he turned out of the
high-road, and was conducted across some
meadows, where it was necessary for him to
ride to the saddle skirts in water. In the
course of another journey he narrowly escaped
being swept away by an inundation of the Trent.
He was afterwards detained at Stamford four
days, on account of the state of the roads, and
then ventured to proceed only because fourteen
members of the House of Commons, who were
going up in a body to Parliament with guides
and numerous attendants, took him into their
company. On the roads of Derbyshire, trav-
ellers were in constant fear for their necks,
and were frequently compelled to alight and
lead their beasts. The great route through
Wales to Holyhead was in such a state that, in
1685, a viceroy, going to Ireland, was five hours
in travelling fourteen miles, from Saint Asaph
to Conway. Between Conway and Beaumaris
he was forced to walk great part of the way;
and his lady was carried in a litter. His
coach was, with much difficulty, and by the
help of many hands, brought after him entire.
In general, carriages were taken to pieces at
Conway, and borne, on the shoulders of stout
Welsh peasants, to the Menai Straits. In some
parts of Kent and Sussex none but the strongest
horses could, in winter, get through the bog,
in which, at every step, they sank deep. The
markets were often inaccessible during several
months. It is said that the fruits of the earth
were sometimes suffered to rot in one place,
while in another place, distant only a few miles,
the supply fell far short of the demand. The
wheeled carriages were, in this district, generally
pulled by oxen. When Prince George of Den-
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
395
mark visited the stately mansion of Petworth
in wet weather, he was six hours in going nine
miles; and it was necessary that a body of
sturdy hinds should be on each side of his
coach, in order to prop it. Of the carriages
which conveyed his retinue, several were upset
and injured. A letter from one of the party
has been preserved, in which the unfortunate
courtier complains that, during fourteen hours,
he never once alighted except when his coach
was overturned or stuck fast in the mud.
*******
On the best highways heavy articles were,
in the time of Charles the Second, generally
conveyed from place to place by stage wagons.
In the straw of these vehicles nestled a crowd
of passengers, who could not afford to travel
by coach or on horseback, and who were pre-
vented by infirmity, or by the weight of their
luggage, from going on foot. The expense of
transmitting heavy goods in this way was
enormous. From London to Birmingham the
charge was seven pounds a ton ; from London
to Exeter, twelve pounds a ton. This was
about fifteen pence a ton for every mile, more
by a third than was afterwards charged on
turnpike roads, and fifteen times what is now
demanded by railway companies. The cost of
conveyance amounted to a prohibitory tax on
many useful articles. Coal in particular was
never seen except in the districts where it was
produced, or in the districts to which it could
be carried by sea, and was indeed always
known in the south of England by the name
of sea coal.
On by-roads, and generally throughout the
country north of York and west of Exeter,
goods were carried by long trains of pack
horses. These strong and patient beasts, the
breed of which is now extinct, were attended by
a class of men who seem to have borne much
resemblance to the Spanish muleteers. A trav-
eller of humble condition often found it con-
venient to perform a journey mounted on a
pack saddle between two baskets, under the
care of these hardy guides. The expense of
this mode of conveyance was small. But the
caravan moved at a foot's pace ; and in winter
the cold was often insupportable.
The rich commonly travelled in their own
carriages, with at least four horses. Cotton,
the facetious poet, attempted to go from London
to the Peak with a single pair, but found at
Saint Albans that the journey would be insup-
portably tedious, and altered his plan. A
coach and six is in our time never seen, except
as part of some pageant. The frequent men-
tion therefore of such equipages in old books is
likely to mislead us. We attribute to mag-
nificence what was really the effect of a very
disagreeable necessity. People, in the time of
Charles the Second, travelled with six horses,
because with a smaller number there was great
danger of sticking fast in the mire. Nor were
even six horses always sufficient. Vanbrugh,
in the succeeding generation, described with
great humour the way in which a country gentle-
man, newly chosen a member of Parliament,
went up to London. On that occasion all the
exertions of six beasts, two of which had been
taken from the plough, could not save the
family coach from being embedded in a quag-
mire.
Public carriages had recently been much
improved. During the years which immedi-
ately followed the Restoration, a diligence ran
between London and Oxford in two days.
The passengers slept at Beaconsfield. At
length, in the spring of 1669, a great and daring
innovation was attempted. It was announced
that a vehicle, described as the Flying Coach,
would perform the whole journey between
sunrise and sunset. This spirited under-
taking was solemnly considered and sanctioned
by the Heads of the University, and appears to
have excited the same sort of interest which is
excited in our own time by the opening of a new
railway. The Vice-Chancellor, by a notice
affixed in all public places, prescribed the hour
and place of departure. The success of the
experiment was complete. At six in the
morning the carriage began to move from
before the ancient front of All Souls College;
and at seven in the evening the adventurous
gentlemen who had run the first risk were
safely deposited at their inn in London. The
emulation of the sister University was moved;
and soon a diligence was set up which in one
day carried passengers from Cambridge to the
capital. At the close of the reign of Charles
the Second, flying carriages ran thrice a week
from London to the chief towns. But no
stagecoach, indeed no stage wagon, appears to
have proceeded further north than York, or
further west than Exeter. The ordinary day's
journey of a flying coach was about fifty miles
in the summer; but in winter, when the ways
were bad and the nights long, little more than
thirty. The Chester coach, the York coach,
and the Exeter coach generally reached London
in four days during the fine season, but at
Christmas not till the sixth day. The pas-
396
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
sengers, six in number, were all seated in the
carriage. For accidents were so frequent that
it would have been most perilous to mount the
roof. The ordinary fare was about twopence
half-penny a mile in summer, and somewhat
more in winter.
*******
In spite of the attractions of the flying coaches,
it was still usual for men who enjoyed health
and vigour, and who were not encumbered by
much baggage, to perform long journeys on
horseback. If the traveller wished to move
expeditiously, he rode post. Fresh saddle
horses and guides were to be procured at con-
venient distances along all the great lines of
road. The charge was threepence a mile for
each horse, and fourpence a stage for the guide.
In this manner, when the ways were good, it
was possible to travel, for a considerable time,
as rapidly as by any conveyance known in
England, till vehicles were propelled by steam.
There were as yet no post-chaises; nor could
those who rode in their own coaches ordinarily
procure a change of horses. The King, how-
ever, and the great officers of state were able
to command relays. Thus Charles commonly
went in one day from Whitehall to New-
market, a distance of about fifty-five miles,
through a level country; and this was thought
by his subjects a proof of great activity. Evelyn
performed the same journey in company with
the Lord Treasurer Clifford. The coach was
drawn by six horses, which were changed at
Bishop Stortford, and again at Chesterford.
The travellers reached Newmarket at night.
Such a mode of conveyance seems to have been
considered as a rare luxury, confined to princes
and ministers.
Whatever might be the way in which a
journey was performed, the travellers, unless
they were numerous and well armed, ran con-
siderable risk of being stopped and plundered.
The mounted highwayman, a marauder known
to our generation only from books, was to be
found on every main road. The waste tracts
which lay on the great routes near London were
especially haunted by plunderers of this class.
Hounslow Heath, on the Great Western Road,
and Finchley Common, on the Great Northern
Road, were perhaps the most celebrated of these
spots. The Cambridge scholars trembled
when they approached Epping Forest, even in
broad daylight. Seamen who had just been
paid off at Chatham were often compelled to
deliver their purses on Gadshill, celebrated near
a hundred vears earlier by the greatest of poets
as the scene of the depredations of Falstaff.
The public authorities seem to have been often
at a loss how to deal with the plunderers. At
one time it was announced in the Gazette
that several persons who were strongly sus-
pected of being highwaymen, but against whom
there was not sufficient evidence, would be
paraded at Newgate in riding-dresses: their
horses would also be shown; and all gentlemen
who had been robbed were invited to inspect
this singular exhibition. On another occasion
a pardon was publicly offered to a robber if
he would give up some rough diamonds, of
immense value, which he had taken when he
stopped the Harwich mail. A short time after
appeared another proclamation, warning the
innkeepers that the eye of the government
was upon them. Their criminal connivance,
it was affirmed, enabled banditti to infest the
roads with impunity. That these suspicions
were not without foundation is proved by the
dying speeches of some penitent robbers of that
age, who appear to have received from the inn-
keepers services much resembling those which
Farquhar's Boniface rendered to Gibbet.
*******
All the various dangers by which the traveller
was beset were greatly increased by darkness.
He was therefore commonly desirous of having
the shelter of a roof during the night ; and such
shelter it was not difficult to obtain. From a
very early period the inns of England had been
renowned. Our first great poet had described
the excellent accommodation which they af-
forded to the pilgrims of the fourteenth century.
Nine and twenty persons with their horses,
found room in the wide chambers and stables
of the Tabard in Southwark. The food was of
the best, and the wines such as drew the com-
pany on to drink largely. Two hundred years
later, under the reign of Elizabeth, William
Harrison gave a lively description of the plenty
and comfort of the great hostelries. The Con-
tinent of Europe, he said, could show nothing
like them. There were some in which two or
three hundred people, with their horses, could
without difficulty be lodged and fed. The
bedding, the tapestry, above all, the abundance
of clean and fine linen was matter of wonder.
Valuable plate was often set on the tables.
Nay, there were signs which had cost thirty
or forty pounds. In the seventeenth century
England abounded with excellent inns of every
rank. The traveller sometimes, in a small
village, lighted on a public-house such as
Walton has described, where the brick floor
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
397
was swept clean, where the walls were stuck
round with ballads, where the sheets smelled
of lavender, and where a blazing fire, a cup of
good ale, and a dish of trouts fresh from the
neighbouring brook, were to be procured at
small charge. At the larger houses of entertain-
ment were to be found beds hung with silk,
choice cookery, and claret equal to the best
which was drunk in London. The inn-
keepers too, it was said, were not like other
innkeepers. On the Continent the landlord
was the tyrant of those who crossed the thresh-
old. In England he was a servant. Never
was an Englishman more at home than when he
took his ease in his inn. Even men of fortune,
who might in their mansions have enjoyed
every luxury, were often in the habit of passing
their evenings in the parlour of some neighbour-
ing house of public entertainment. They seem
to have thought that comfort and freedom
could in no other place be enjoyed with equal
perfection. This feeling continued during
many generations to be a national peculiarity.
The liberty and jollity of inns long furnished
matter to our novelists and dramatists. John-
son declared that a tavern chair was the throne
of human felicity; and Shenstone gently com-
plained that no private roof, however friendly,
gave the wanderer so warm a welcome as that
which was to be found at an inn.
*******
The mode in which correspondence was
carried on between distant places may excite
the scorn of the present generation ; yet it was
such as might have moved the admiration and
envy of the polished nations of antiquity, or
of the contemporaries of Raleigh and Cecil.
A rude and imperfect establishment of posts
for the conveyance of letters had been set up
by Charles the First, and had been swept away
by the civil war. Under the Commonwealth
the design was resumed. At the Restoration
the proceeds of the Post Office, after all ex-
penses had been paid, were settled on the Duke
of York. On most lines of road the mails went
out and came in only on the alternate days.
In Cornwall, in the fens of Lincolnshire, and
among the hills and lakes of Cumberland,
letters were received only once a week. During
a royal progress " a daily post was despatched
from the capital to the place where the court
sojourned. There was also daily communica-
tion between London and the Downs ; and the
same privilege was sometimes extended to
Tunbridge Wells and Bath at the seasons when
those places were crowded by the great. The
bags were carried on horseback day and night
at the rate of about five miles an hour.
The revenue of this establishment was not
derived solely from the charge for the trans-
Ed ssion of letters. The Post Office alone was
entitled to furnish post horses; and, from the
care with which this monopoly was guarded,
we may infer that it was found profitable. If,
indeed, a traveller had waited half an hour
without being supplied, he might hire a horse
wherever he could.
To facilitate correspondence between one
part of London and another was not originally
one of the objects of the Post Office. But,
in the reign of Charles the Second, an enter-
prising citizen of London, William Dockwray,
set up, at great expense, a penny post, which
delivered letters and parcels six or eight times
a day in the busy and crowded streets near the
Exchange, and four times a day in the outskirts
of the capital. This improvement was, as usual,
strenuously resisted. The porters complained
that their interests were attacked, and tore
down the placards in which the scheme was
announced to the public. The excitement
caused by Godfrey's death, and by the discovery
of Coleman's papers, was then at the height.
A cry was therefore raised that the penny
post was a popish contrivance. The great
Doctor Gates, it was affirmed, had hinted a
suspicion that the Jesuits were at the bottom
of the scheme, and that the bags, if examined,
would be found full of treason. The utility
of the enterprise was, however, so great and
obvious that all opposition proved fruitless.
As soon as it became clear that the speculation
would be lucrative, the Duke of York com-
plained of it as an infraction of his monopoly;
and the courts of law decided in his favour.
*******
No part of the load which the old mails
carried out was more important than the news-
letters. In 1685 nothing like the London daily
paper of our time existed, or could exist.
Neither the necessary capital nor the necessary
skill was to be found. Freedom tod was want-
ing, a want as fatal as that of either capital
or skill. The press was not indeed at that
moment under a general censorship. The
licensing act, which had been passed soon after
the Restoration, had expired in 1679. Any
person might therefore print, at his own risk,
a history, a sermon, or a poem, without the
previous approbation of any officer; but the
judges were unanimously of opinion that this
liberty did not extend to Gazettes, and that,
398
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
by the common law of England, no man, not
authorised by the Crown, had a right to pub-
lish political news. While the Whig party was
still formidable, the government thought it
expedient occasionally to connive at the viola-
tion of the rule. During the great battle of the
Exclusion Bill, many newspapers were suffered
to appear, the Protestant Intelligence, the Cur-
rent Intelligence, the Domestic Intelligence,
the True News, the London Mercury. None
of these was published oftener than twice a
week. None exceeded in size a single small
leaf. The quantity of matter which one of
them contained in a year was not more, than
is often found in two numbers of the Times.
After the defeat of the Whigs it was no longer
necessary for the King to be sparing in the use
of that which all his judges had pronounced to
be his undoubted prerogative. At the close of
his reign no newspaper was suffered to appear
without his allowance; and his allowance was
given exclusively to the London Gazette. The
London Gazette came out only on Mondays
and Thursdays. The contents generally were
a royal proclamation, two or three Tory ad-
dresses, notices of two or three promotions,
an account of a skirmish between the' imperial
troops and the janizaries on the Danube, a
description of a highwayman, an announce-
ment of a grand cockfight between two persons
of honour, and an advertisement offering a
reward for a strayed dog. The whole made up
two pages of moderate size. Whatever was
communicated respecting matters of the highest
moment was communicated in the most meagre
and formal style. Sometimes, indeed, when the
government was disposed to gratify the public
curiosity respecting an important transaction,
a broadside was put forth giving fuller details
than could be found in the Gazette; but
neither the Gazette nor any supplementary
broadside printed by authority ever contained
any intelligence which it did not suit the pur-
poses of the court to publish. The most
important parliamentary debates; the most
important state trials, recorded in our history,
were passed over in profound silence. In the
capital the coffee-houses supplied in some
measure the place of a journal. Thither the
Londoners flocked, as the Athenians of old
flocked to the market-place, to hear whether
there was any news. There men might learn
how brutally a Whig had been treated the day
before in Westminster Hall, what horrible
accounts the letters from Edinburgh gave of
the torturing of Covenanters, how grossly the
Navy Board had cheated the Crown in the
victualling of the fleet, and what grave charges
the Lord Privy Seal had brought against the
Treasury in the matter of the hearth money.
But people who lived at a distance from the
great theatre of political contention could be
kept regularly informed of what was passing
there only by means of news-letters. To pre-
pare such letters became a calling in London,
as it now is among the natives of India. The
news-writer rambled from coffee-room to coffee-
room, collecting reports, squeezed himself into
the Sessions House at the Old Bailey if there
was an interesting trial, nay, perhaps obtained
admission to the gallery of Whitehall, and no-
ticed how the King and Duke looked. In this
way he gathered materials for weekly epistles
destined to enlighten some county town or
some bench of rustic magistrates. Such were
the sources from which the inhabitants of the
largest provincial cities, and the great body of
the gentry and clergy, learned almost all that
they knew of the history of their own time.
We must suppose that at Cambridge there were
as many persons curious to know what was
passing in the world as at almost any place in
the kingdom, out of London. Yet at Cam-
bridge, during a great part of the reign of Charles
the Second, the Doctors of Laws and the Masters
of Arts had no regular supply of news except
through the London Gazette. At length the
services of one of the collectors of intelligence
in the capital were employed. That was a
memorable day on which the first news-letter
from London was laid on the table of the only
coffee-room in Cambridge. At the seat of a
man of fortune in the country the news-letter
was impatiently expected. Within a week after
it had arrived it had been thumbed by twenty
families. It furnished the neighbouring squires
with matter for talk over their October, and the
neighbouring rectors with topics for sharp
sermons against Whiggery or Popery. Many
of these curious journals might doubtless still
be detected by a diligent search in the archives
of old families. Some are to be found in our
public libraries: and one series, which is not
the least valuable part of the literary treasures
collected by Sir James Mackintosh, will be oc-
casionally quoted in the course of this work.
It is scarcely necessary to say that there were
then no provincial newspapers. Indeed, ex-
cept in the capital and at the two Universities,
there was scarcely a printer in the kingdom.
The only press in England north of Trent
appears to have been at York.
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
399
Literature which could be carried by the
post bag then formed the greater part of the
intellectual nutriment ruminated by the coun-
try divines and country justices. The diffi-
culty and expense of conveying large packets
from place to place was so great, that an ex-
tensive work was longer in making its way
from Paternoster Row to Devonshire or Lan-
cashire than it now is in reaching Kentucky.
How scantily a rural parsonage was then fur-
nished, even with books the most necessary
to a theologian, has already been remarked.
The houses of the gentry were not more plenti-
fully supplied. Few knights of the shire had
libraries so good as may now perpetually be
found ia a servants' hall, or in the back par-
lour of a small shopkeeper. An esquire passed
among his neighbours for a great scholar, if
Hudibras and Baker's Chronicle, Tarlton's
Jests and the Seven Champions of Christen-
dom, lay in his hall window among the fishing-
rods and fowling-pieces. No circulating li-
brary, no book society, then existed even in
the capital: but in the capital those students
who could not afford to purchase largely had
a resource. The shops of the great book-
sellers, near Saint Paul's Churchyard, were
crowded every day and all day long with
readers; and a known customer was often
permitted to carry a volume home. In the
country there was no such accommodation;
and every man was under the necessity of buy-
ing whatever he wished to read.
As to the lady of the manor and her daugh-
ters, their literary stores generally consisted of
a prayer book and a receipt book. But in
truth they lost little by living in rural seclusion.
For, even in the highest ranks, and in those
situations which afforded the greatest facilities
for mental improvement, the English women
of that generation were decidedly worse edu-
cated than they have been at any other time
since the revival of learning. At an earlier
period they had studied the masterpieces of
ancient genius. In the present day they
seldom bestow much attention on the dead
languages; but they are familiar with the
tongue of Pascal and Moliere, with the tongue
of Dante and Tasso, with the tongue of Goethe
and Schiller; nor is there any purer or more
graceful English than that which accomplished
women now speak and write. But, during
the latter part of the seventeenth century, the
culture of the female mind seems to have been
almost entirely neglected. If a damsel had
the least smattering of literature she was re-
garded as a prodigy. Ladies highly born,
highly bred, and naturally quick-witted, were
unable to write a line in their mother tongue
without solecisms and faults of spelling such
as a charity girl would now be ashamed to
commit.
The explanation may easily be found.
Extravagant licentiousness, the natural effect
of extravagant austerity, was now the mode;
and licentiousness had produced its ordinary
effect, the moral and intellectual degradation
of women. To their personal beauty it was
the fashion to pay rude and impudent homage.
But the admiration and desire which they in-
spired were seldom mingled with respect, with
affection, or with any chivalrous sentiment.
The qualities which fit them to be companions,
advisers, confidential friends, rather repelled
than attracted the libertines of Whitehall. In
that court a maid of honour, who dressed in
such a manner as to do full justice to a white
bosom, who ogled significantly, who danced
voluptuously, who excelled in pert repartee,
who was not ashamed to romp with Lords of
the Bedchamber and Captains of the Guards,
to sing sly verses with sly expression, or to
put on a page's dress for a frolic, was more
likely to be followed and admired, more likely
to be honoured with royal attentions, more
likely to win a rich and noble husband than
Jane Grey or Lucy Hutchinson would have
been. In such circumstances the standard of
female attainments was necessarily low; and
it was more dangerous to be above that stand-
ard than to be beneath it. Extreme ignorance
and frivolity were thought less unbecoming in
a lady than the slightest tincture of pedantry.
Of the too celebrated women whose faces we
still admire on the walls of Hampton Court,
few indeed were in the habit of reading any-
thing more valuable than acrostics, lampoons,
and translations of the Clelia and the Grand
Cyrus.
The literary acquirements, even of the ac-
complished gentlemen of that generation, seem
to have been somewhat less solid and pro-
found than at an earlier or a later period.
Greek learning, at least, did not flourish
among us in the days of Charles the Second,
as it had flourished before the civil war, or
as it again flourished long after the Revolution.
There were undoubtedly scholars to whom
the whole Greek literature, from Homer to
Photius, was familiar: but such scholars were
to be found almost exclusively among the
4oo
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
clergy resident at the Universities, and even at
the Universities were few, and were not fully
appreciated. At Cambridge it was not thought
by any means necessary that a divine should
be able to read the Gospels in the original.
Nor was the standard at Oxford higher.
When, in the reign of William the Third,
Christ Church rose up as one man to defend
the genuineness of the Epistles of Phalaris,
that great college, then considered as the first
seat of philology in the kingdom, could not
muster such a stock of Attic learning as is now
possessed by several youths at every great
public school. It may easily be supposed that
a dead language, neglected at the Universities,
was not much studied by men of the world.
In a former age the poetry and eloquence of
Greece had been the delight of Raleigh and
Falkland. In a later age the poetry and elo-
quence of Greece were the delight of Pitt and
Fox, of Windham and Grenville. But during
the latter part of the seventeenth century there
was in England scarcely one eminent states-
man who could read with enjoyment a page of
Sophocles or Plato.
Good Latin scholars were numerous. The
language of Rome, indeed, had not altogether
lost its imperial prerogatives, and was still, in
many parts of Europe, almost indispensable
to a traveller or a negotiator. To speak it
well was therefore a much more common
accomplishment than in our time ; and neither
Oxford nor Cambridge wanted poets who, on
a great occasion, could lay at the foot of the
throne happy imitations of the verses in which
Virgil and Ovid had celebrated the greatness of
Augustus.
Yet even the Latin was giving way to a
younger rival. France united at that time
almost every species of ascendency. Her
military glory was at the height. She had
vanquished mighty coalitions. She had dic-
tated treaties. She had subjugated great cities
and provinces. She had forced the Castilian
pride to yield her the precedence. She had
summoned Italian princes to prostrate them-
selves at her footstool. Her authority was
supreme in all matters of good breeding, from
a duel to a minuet. She determined how a
gentleman's coat must be cut, how long his
peruke must be, whether his heels must be
high or low, and whether the lace on his hat
must be broad or narrow. In literature she
gave law to the world. The fame of her great
writers filled Europe.
* ******
It would have been well if our writers had
also copied the decorum which their great
French contemporaries, with few exceptions,
preserved; for the profligacy of the English
plays, satires, songs, and novels of that age is
a deep blot on our national fame. The evil
may easily be traced to its source. The wits
and the Puritans had never been on friendly
terms. There was no sympathy between the
two classes. They looked on the whole system
of human life from different points and in
different lights. The earnest of each was the
jest of the other. The pleasures of each were
the torments of the other. To the stern pre-
cisian even the innocent sport of the fancy
seemed a crime. To light and festive natures
the solemnity of the zealous brethren furnished
copious matter of ridicule. From the Refor-
mation to the civil war, almost every writer,
gifted with a fine sense of the ludicrous, had
taken some opportunity of assailing the straight-
haired, snuffling, whining saints, who christened
their children out of the Book of Nehemiah,
who groaned in spirit at the sight of Jack in
the Green, and who thought it impious to
taste plum porridge on Christmas day. At
length a time came when the laughers began
to look grave in their turn. The rigid, ungainly
zealots, after having furnished much good
sport during two generations, rose up in arms,
conquered, ruled, and, grimly smiling, trod
down under their feet the whole crowd of
mockers. The wounds inflicted by gay and
petulant malice were retaliated with the gloomy
and implacable malice peculiar to bigots who
mistake their own rancour for virtue. The
theatres were closed. The players were
flogged. The press was put under the guardian-
ship of austere licensers. The Muses were
banished from their own favourite haunts,
Cambridge and Oxford. Cowley, Crashaw,
and Cleveland were ejected from their fellow-
ships. The young candidate for academical
honours was no longer required to write Ovid-
ian epistles or Virgilian pastorals, but was
strictly interrogated by a synod of lowering
Supralapsarians as to the day and hour when
he experienced the new birth. Such a system
was of course fruitful of hypocrites. Under
sober clothing and under visages composed
to the expression of austerity lay hid during
several years the intense desire of license and
of revenge. At length that desire was gratified.
The Restoration emancipated thousands of
minds from a yoke which had become insup-
portable. The old fight recommenced, but
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
401
with an animosity altogether new. It was now
not a sportive combat, but a war to the death.
The Roundhead had no better quarter to ex-
pect from those whom he had persecuted than
a cruel slave-driver can expect from insurgent
slaves still bearing the marks of his collars and
his scourges.
The war between wit and Puritanism soon
became a war between wit and morality. The
hostility excited by a grotesque caricature of
Virtue did not spare Virtue herself. Whatever
the canting Roundhead had regarded with
reverence was insulted. Whatever he had
proscribed was favoured. Because he had been
scrupulous about trifles, all scruples were
treated with derision. Because he had covered
his failings with the mask of devotion, men
were encouraged to obtrude with Cynic impu-
dence all their most scandalous vices on the
public eye. Because he had punished illicit
love with barbarous severity, virgin purity and
conjugal fidelity were made a jest. To that
sanctimonious jargon which was his shibboleth
was opposed another jargon not less absurd
and much more odious. As he -never opened
his mouth except in scriptural phrase, the new
breed of wits and fine gentlemen never opened
their mouths without uttering ribaldry of which
a porter would now be ashamed, and without
calling on their Maker to curse them, sink
them, confound them, blast them, and damn
them.
It is not strange, therefore, that our polite
literature, when it revived with the revival of
the old civil and ecclesiastical polity, should
have been profoundly immoral. A few emi-
nent men, who belonged to an earlier and
better age, were exempt from the general
contagion. The verse of Waller still breathed
the sentiments which had animated a more
chivalrous generation. Cowley, distinguished
as a loyalist and as a man of letters, raised
his voice courageously against the immorality
which disgraced both letters and loyalty. A
mightier poet, tried at once by pain, danger,
poverty, obloquy, and blindness, meditated,
undisturbed by the obscene tumult which raged
all around him, a song so sublime and so holy
that it would not- have misbecome the lips of
those ethereal Virtues whom he saw, with that
inner eye which no calamity could darken,
flinging down on the jasper pavement their
crowns of amaranth and gold. The vigorous
and fertile genius of Butler, if it did not alto-
gether escape the prevailing infection, took the
disease in a mild form. But these were men
whose minds had been trained in a world
which had passed away. They gave place in
no long time to a younger generation of wits;
and of that generation, from Dryden down to
Durfey, the common characteristic was hard-
hearted, shameless, swaggering licentiousness,
at once inelegant and inhuman. The influ-
ence of these writers was doubtless noxious,
yet less noxious than it would have been had
they been less depraved. The poison which
they administered was so strong that it was,
in no long time, rejected with nausea. None
of them understood the dangerous art of asso-
ciating images of unlawful pleasure with all
that is endearing and ennobling. None of
them was aware that a certain decorum is
essential even to voluptuousness, that drapery
may be more alluring than exposure, and that
the imagination may be far more powerfully
moved by delicate hints which impel it to exert
itself than by gross descriptions which it takes
in passively.
The spirit of the anti-Puritan reaction per-
vades almost the whole polite literature of the
reign of Charles the Second. But the very
quintessence of that spirit will be found in the
comic drama. The playhouses, shut by the
meddling fanatic in the day of his power,
were again crowded. To their old attractions
new and more powerful attractions had been
added. Scenery, dresses, and decorations,
such as would now be thought mean or absurd,
but such as would have been esteemed in-
credibly magnificent by those who, early in
the seventeenth century, sat on the filthy
benches of the Hope, or under the thatched
roof of the Rose, dazzled the eyes of the mul-
titude. The fascination of sex was called in
to aid the fascination of art: and the young
spectator saw, with emotions unknown to the
contemporaries of Shakespeare and Jonson,
tender and sprightly heroines personated by
lovely women. From the day on which the
theatres were reopened they became semi-
naries of vice; and the evil propagated itself.
The profligacy of the representations soon
drove away sober people. The frivolous and
dissolute who remained required every year
stronger and stronger stimulants. Thus the
artists corrupted the spectators, and the spec-
tators the artists, till the turpitude of the
drama became such as must astonish all who
are not aware that extreme relaxation is the
natural effect of extreme restraint, and that
an age of hypocrisy is, in the regular course of
things, followed by an age of impudence.
402
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
Nothing is more characteristic of the times
than the care with which the poets con-
trived to put all their loosest verses into the
mouths of women. The compositions in
which the greatest license was taken were
the epilogues. They were almost always re-
cited by favourite actresses; and nothing
charmed the depraved audience so much as
to hear lines grossly indecent repeated by a
beautiful girl, who was supposed to have not
yet lost her innocence.
*******
Such was the state of the drama; and the
drama was the department of polite literature
in which a poet had the best chance of obtain-
ing a subsistence by his pen. The sale of
books was so small that a man of the great-
est name could hardly expect more than a pit-
tance for the copyright of the best performance.
There cannot be a stronger instance than the
fate of Dryden's last production, the Fables.
That volume was published when he was uni-
versally admitted to be the chief of living
English poets. It contains about twelve thou-
sand lines. The versification is admirable, the
narratives and descriptions full of life: To this
day Palamon and Arcite, Cymon and Iphigenia,
Theodore and Honoria, are the delight both of
critics and of schoolboys. The collection in-
cludes Alexander's Feast, the noblest ode in
our language. For the copyright Dryden
received two hundred and fifty pounds, less
than in our days has sometimes been paid for
two articles in a review. Nor does the bargain
seem to have been a hard one. For the book
went off slowly; and the second edition was
not required till the author had been ten years
in his grave. By writing for the theatre it was
possible to earn a much larger sum with much
less trouble. Southern made seven hundred
pounds by one play. Otway was raised from
beggary to temporary affluence by the success
of his Don Carlos. Shadwell cleared a hundred
and thirty pounds by a single representation of
the Squire of Alsatia. The consequence was
that every man who had to live by his wit
wrote plays, whether he had any internal
vocation to write plays or not. It was thus
with Dryden. As a satirist he has rivalled
Juvenal. As a didactic poet he perhaps
might, with care and meditation, have rivalled
Lucretius. Of lyric poets he is, if not the
most sublime, the most brilliant and spirit
stirring. But nature, profuse to him of many
rare gifts, had withheld from him the dramatic
faculty. Nevertheless, all the energies of his
best years were wasted on dramatic composi-
tion. He had too much judgment not to be
aware that in the power of exhibiting character
by means of dialogue he was deficient. That
deficiency he did his best to conceal, some-
times by surprising and amusing incidents,
sometimes by stately declamation, sometimes
by harmonious numbers, sometimes by ribaldry
but too well suited to the taste of a profane
and licentious pit. Yet he never obtained any
theatrical success equal to that which rewarded
the exertions of some men far inferior to him
in general powers. He thought himself fortu-
nate if he cleared a hundred guineas by a
play; a scanty remuneration, yet apparently
larger than he could have earned in any other
way by the same quantity of labour.
The recompense which the wits of that age
could obtain from the public was so small,
that they were under the necessity of eking
out their incomes by levying contributions on
the great. Every rich and good-natured lord
was pestered by authors with a mendicancy so
importunate, and a flattery so abject, as may
in our time seem incredible. The patron to
whom a work was inscribed was expected to
reward the writer with a purse of gold. The
fee paid for the dedication of a book was
often much larger than the sum which any
publisher would give for the copyright. Books
were therefore frequently printed merely that
they might be dedicated. This traffic in praise
produced the effect which might have been
expected. Adulation pushed to the verge,
sometimes of nonsense, and sometimes of im-
piety, was not thought to disgrace "a poet.
Independence, veracity, self-respect, were things
not required by the world from him. In truth,
he was in morals something between a pander
and a beggar.
*******
It is a remarkable fact that, while the
lighter literature of England was thus becom-
ing a nuisance and a national disgrace, the
English genius was effecting in science a revo-
lution which will, to the end of time, be reckoned
among the highest achievements of the human
intellect. Bacon had sown the good seed in a
sluggish soil and an ungenial season. He had
not expected an early crop, and in his last
testament had solemnly bequeathed his fame
to the next age. During a whole generation,
his philosophy had, amidst tumults, wars, and
proscriptions, been slowly ripening in a few
well-constituted minds. While factions were
struggling for dominion over each other, a
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
403
small body of sages had turned away with
benevolent disdain from the conflict, and had
devoted themselves to the nobler work of ex-
tending the dominion of man over matter.
As soon as tranquillity was restored, these
teachers easily found attentive audience. For
the discipline through which the nation had
passed had brought the public mind to a
temper well fitted for the reception of the
Verulamian doctrine. The civil troubles had
stimulated the faculties of the educated classes,
and had called forth a restless activity and an
insatiable curiosity, such as had not before
been known among us. Yet the effect of those
troubles was that schemes of political and
religious reform were generally regarded with
suspicion and contempt. During twenty years
the chief employment of busy and ingenious
men had been to frame constitutions with
first magistrates, without first magistrates, with
hereditary senates, with senates appointed by
lot, with annual senates, with perpetual senates.
In these plans nothing was omitted. All the
detail, all the nomenclature, all the ceremonial
of the imaginary government was fully set
forth — Polemarchs and Phylarchs, Tribes
and Galaxies, the Lord Archon and the Lord
Strategus. Which ballot boxes were to be
green and which red, which balls were to be of
gold and which of silver, which magistrates
were to wear hats and which black velvet caps
with peaks, how the mace was to be carried
and when the heralds were to uncover, these,
and a hundred more such trifles, were gravely
considered and arranged by men of no com-
mon capacity and learning. But the time for
these visions had gone by; and, if any stead-
fast republican still continued to amuse him-
self with them, fear of public derision and of a
criminal information generally induced him
to keep his fancies to himself. It was now
unpopular and unsafe to mutter a word against
the fundamental laws of the monarchy: but
daring and ingenious men might indemnify
themselves by treating with disdain what had
lately been considered as the fundamental
laws of nature. The torrent which had been
dammed up in one channel rushed violently
into another. The revolutionary spirit, ceasing
to operate in politics, began to exert itself with
unprecedented vigour and hardihood in every
department of physics. The year 1660, the
era of the restoration of the old constitution,
is also the era from which dates the ascendency
of the new philosophy. In that year the Royal
Society, destined to be a chief agent in a long
series of glorious and salutary reforms, began
to exist. In a few months experimental sci-
ence became all the mode. The transfusion of
blood, the ponderation of air, the fixation of
mercury, succeeded to that place in the public
mind which had been lately occupied by the
controversies of the Rota. Dreams of perfect
forms of government made way for dreams
of wings with which men were to fly from the
Tower to the Abbey, and of double-keeled
ships which were never to founder in the
fiercest storm. All classes were hurried along
by the prevailing sentiment. Cavalier and
Roundhead, Churchman and Puritan, were
for once allied. Divines, jurists, statesmen,
nobles, princes, swelled the triumph of the
Baconian philosophy. Poets sang with emu-
lous fervour the approach of the golden age.
Cowley, in lines weighty with thought and re-
splendent with wit, urged the chosen seed to
take possession of the promised land flowing
with milk and honey, that land which their
great deliverer and lawgiver had seen, as from
the summit of Pisgah, but had not been per-
mitted to enter. Dryden, with more zeal than
knowledge, joined his voice to the general
acclamation, and foretold things which neither
he nor anybody else understood. The Royal
Society, he predicted, would soon lead us to
the extreme verge of the globe, and there de-
light us with a better view of the moon. Two
able and aspiring prelates, Ward, Bishop of
Salisbury, and Wilkins, Bishop of Chester,
were conspicuous among the leaders of the
movement. Its history was eloquently written
by a younger divine, who was rising to high
distinction in his profession, Thomas Sprat,
afterward Bishop of Rochester. Both Chief
Justice Hale and Lord Keeper Guildford stole
some hours from the business of their courts
to write on hydrostatics. Indeed, it was
under the immediate direction of Guildford
that the first barometers ever exposed to sale
in London were constructed. Chemistry di-
vided, for a time, with wine and love, with the
stage and the gaming-table, with the intrigues
of a courtier and the intrigues of a demagogue,
the attention of the fickle Buckingham. Rupert
has the credit of having invented mezzotinto;
and from him is named that curious bubble of
glass which has long amused children and
puzzled philosophers. Charles himself had a
laboratory at Whitehall, and was far more
active and attentive there than at the council
board. It was almost necessary to the char-
acter of a fine gentleman to have something
404
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
to say about air-pumps and telescopes; and
even fine ladies, now and then, thought it
becoming to affect a taste for science, went in
coaches and six to visit the Gresham curiosi-
ties, and broke forth into cries of delight at
finding that a magnet really attracted a needle,
and that a microscope really made a fly look
as large as a sparrow.
In this, as in every stir of the human mind,
there was doubtless something which might
well move a smile. It is the universal law
that whatever pursuit, whatever doctrine, be-
comes fashionable, shall lose a portion of that
dignity which it has possessed while it was
confined to a small but earnest minority, and
was loved for its own sake alone. It is true
that the follies of some persons who, without
any real aptitude for science, professed a pas-
sion for it, furnished matter of contemptuous
mirth to a few malignant satirists who be-
longed to the preceding generation, and were
not disposed to unlearn the lore of their youth.
But it is not less true that the great work
of interpreting nature was performed by the
English of that age as it had never before been
performed in any age by any nation. The
spirit of Francis Bacon was abroad, a spirit
admirably compounded of audacity and so-
briety. There was a strong persuasion that
the whole world was full of secrets of high
moment to the happiness of man, and that
man had, by his Maker, been entrusted with
the key which, rightly used, would give access
to them. There was at the same time a con-
viction that in physics it was impossible to
arrive at the knowledge of general laws except
by the careful observation of particular facts.
Deeply impressed with these great truths, the
professors of the new philosophy applied them-
selves to their task, and, before a quarter of a
century had expired, they had given ample
earnest of what has since been achieved.
Already a reform of agriculture had been
commenced. New vegetables were cultivated.
New implements of husbandry were employed.
New manures were applied to the soil. Evelyn
had, under the formal sanction of the Royal
Society, given instruction to his countrymen
in planting. Temple, in his intervals of
leisure, had tried many experiments in horti-
culture, and had proved that many delicate
fruits, the natives of more favoured climates,
might, with the help of art, be grown on
English ground. Medicine, which in France
was still in abject bondage, and afforded an
inexhaustible subject of just ridicule to Moliere,
had in England become an experimental and
progressive science, and every day made some
new advance, in defiance of Hippocrates and
Galen. The attention of speculative men had
been, for the first time, directed to the im-
portant subject of sanitary police. The great
plague of 1665 induced them to consider with
care the defective architecture, draining, and
ventilation of the capital. The great fire of
1666 afforded an opportunity for effecting
extensive improvements. The whole matter
was diligently examined by the Royal Society;
and to the suggestions of that body must be
partly attributed the changes which, though
far short of what the public welfare required,
yet made a wide difference between the new
and the old London, and probably put a final
close to the ravages of pestilence in our coun-
try. At the same time one of the founders
of the Society, Sir William Petty, created the
science of political arithmetic, the humble but
indispensable handmaid of political philosophy.
No kingdom of nature was left unexplored.
To that period belong the chemical discoveries
of Boyle, and the earliest botanical researches
of Sloane. It was then that Ray made a new
classification of birds and fishes, and that the
attention of Woodward was first drawn towards
fossils and shells. One after another phan-
toms which had haunted the world through
ages of darkness fled before the light. As-
trology and alchemy became jests. Soon there
was scarcely a county in which some of the
Quorum did not smile contemptuously when
an old woman was brought before them for
riding on broomsticks or giving cattle the mur-
rain. But it was in those noblest and most
arduous departments of knowledge in which
induction and mathematical demonstration
cooperate for the discovery of truth, that the
English genius won in that age the most
memorable triumphs. John Wallis placed the
whole system of statics on a new foundation.
Edmund Halley investigated the properties of
the atmosphere, the ebb and flow of the sea,
the laws of magnetism, and the course of the
comets; nor did he shrink from toil, peril, and
exile in the cause of science. While he, pn
the rock of Saint Helena, mapped the con-
stellations of the southern hemisphere, our
national observatory was rising at Greenwich;
and John Flamsteed, the first Astronomer
Royal, was commencing that long series of
observations which is never mentioned with-
out respect and gratitude in any part of the
globe. But the glory of these men, eminent
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
405
as they were, is cast into the shade by the
transcendent lustre of one immortal name. In
Isaac Newton two kinds of intellectual power,
which have little in common, and which are
not often found together in a very high degree
of vigour, but which nevertheless are equally
necessary in the most sublime departments of
physics, were united as they have never been
united before or since. There may have been
minds as happily constituted as his for the
cultivation of pure mathematical science;
there may have been minds as happily con-
stituted for the cultivation of science purely
experimental; but in no other mind have the
demonstrative faculty and the inductive faculty
coexisted in such supreme excellence and per-
fect harmony. Perhaps in the days of Scotists
and Thomists even his intellect might have
run to waste, as many intellects ran to waste
which were inferior only to his. Happily the
spirit of the age on which his lot was cast
gave the right direction to his mind; and his
mind reacted with tenfold force on the spirit
of the age. In the year 1685 his fame, though
splendid, was only dawning; but his genius
was in the meridian. His great work, that
work which effected a revolution in the most
important provinces of natural philosophy, had
been completed, but was not yet published,
and was just about to be submitted to the
consideration of the Royal Society.
*******
It is time that this description of the Eng-
land which Charles the Second governed should
draw to a close. Yet one subject of the highest
moment still remains untouched. Nothing
has yet been said of the great body of the
people, of those who held the ploughs, who
tended the oxen, who toiled at the looms of
Norwich, and squared the Portland stone for
Saint Paul's. Nor can very much be said.
The most numerous class is precisely the class
respecting which we have the most meagre
information. In those times philanthropists
did not yet regard it as a sacred duty, nor had
demagogues yet found it a lucrative trade, to
talk and write about the distress of the labourer.
History was too much occupied with courts and
camps to spare a line for the hut of the peasant
or the garret of the mechanic. The press
now often sends forth in a day a greater
quantity of discussion and declamation about
the condition of the workingman than was
published during the twenty-eight years which
elapsed between the Restoration and the
Revolution. But it would be a great error to
infer from the increase of complaint that there
has been any increase of misery.
The great criterion of the state of the com-
mon people is the amount of their wages;
and as four-fifths of the common people were,
in the seventeenth century, employed in agricul-
ture, it is especially important to ascertain
what were then the wages of agricultural in-
dustry. On this subject we have the means
of arriving at conclusions sufficiently exact for
our purpose.
Sir William Petty, whose mere assertion
carries great weight, informs us that a labourer
was by no means in the lowest state who
received for a day's work fourpence with food,
or eightpence without food. Four shillings a
week therefore were, according to Petty's cal-
culation, fair agricultural wages.
That this calculation was not remote from
the truth, we have abundant proof. About
the beginning of the year 1685 the justices
of Warwickshire, in the exercise of a power
entrusted to them by an act of Elizabeth, fixed,
at their quarter sessions, a scale of wages for
the county, and notified that every employer
who gave more than the authorised sum, and
every workingman who received more, would
be liable to punishment. The wages of the
common agricultural labourer, from March to
September, were fixed at the precise amount
mentioned by Petty, namely, four shillings a
week without food. From September to March
the wages were to be only three and sixpence a
week.
But in that age, as in ours, the earnings of
the peasants were very different in different
parts of the kingdom. The wages of War-
wickshire were probably about the average,
and those of the counties near the Scottish
border below it : but there were more favoured
districts. In the same year, 1685, a gentle-
man of Devonshire, named Richard Dunning,
published a small tract, in which he described
the condition of the poor of that county.
That he understood his subject well it is im-
possible to doubt; for a few months later his
work was reprinted, and was, by the magis-
trates assembled in quarter sessions at Exeter,
strongly recommended to the attention of all
parochial officers. According to him the
wages of the Devonshire peasant were, with-
out food, about five shillings a week.
Still better was the condition of the labourer
in the neighbourhood of Bury Saint Edmund's.
The magistrates of Suffolk met there in the
spring of 1682 to fix a rate of wages, and resolved
406
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
that, where the labourer was not boarded, he
should have five shillings a week in winter,
and six in summer.
In 1661 the justices of Chelmsford had
fixed the wages of the Essex labourer, who
was not boarded, at six shillings in winter,
and seven in summer. This seems to have
been the highest remuneration given in the
kingdom for agricultural labour between the
Restoration and the Revolution; and it is to
be observed that, in the year in which this
order was made, the necessaries of life were
immoderately dear. Wheat was at seventy
shillings the quarter, which would even now
be considered as almost a famine price.
*******
The remuneration of workmen employed in
manufactures has always been higher than that
of the tillers of the soil. In the year 1680, a
member of the House of Commons remarked
that the high wages paid in this country made
it impossible for our textures to maintain a
competition with the produce of the Indian
looms. An English mechanic, he said, in-
stead of slaving like a native of Bengal for
a piece of copper, exacted a shilling a day.
Other evidence is extant, which proves that a
shilling a day was the pay to which the English
manufacturer then thought himself entitled,
but that he was often forced to work for less.
The common people of that age were not in
the habit of meeting for public discussion, of
haranguing, or of petitioning Parliament. No
newspaper pleaded their cause. It was in
rude rhyme that their love and hatred, their
exultation and their distress, found utterance.
A great part of their history is to be learned
only from their ballads. One of the most re-
markable of the popular lays chanted about
the streets of Norwich and Leeds in the time
of Charles the Second may still be read on the
original broadside. It is the vehement and
bitter cry of labour against capital. It de-
scribes the good old times when every artisan
employed in the woollen manufacture lived as
well as a farmer. But those times were past.
Sixpence a day was now all that could be
earned by hard labour at the loom. If the
poor complained that they could not live on
such a pittance, they were told that they were
free to take it or leave it. For so miserable a
recompense were the producers of wealth com-
pelled to toil, rising early and lying down late,
while the master clothier, eating, sleeping, and
idling, became rich by their exertions. A
shilling a day, the poet declares, is what the
weaver would have, if justice were done. We
may therefore conclude that, in the generation
which preceded the Revolution, a workman
employed in the great staple manufacture of
England thought himself fairly paid if he
gained six shillings a week.
It may here be noticed that the practice of
setting children prematurely to work, a practice
which the state, the legitimate protector of
those who cannot protect themselves, has, in
our time, wisely and humanely interdicted,
prevailed in the seventeenth century to an
extent which, when compared with the extent
of the manufacturing system, seems almost in-
credible. At Norwich, the chief seat of the
clothing trade, a little creature of six years old
was thought fit for labour. Several writers of
that time, and among them some who were
considered as eminently benevolent, mention,
with exultation, the fact that, in that single
city, boys and girls of very tender age created
wealth exceeding what was necessary for their
own subsistence by twelve thousand pounds
a year. The more carefully we examine the
history of the past, the more reason shall we
find to dissent from those who imagine that
our age has been fruitful of new social evils.
The truth is that the evils are, with scarcel)
an exception, old. That which is new is the
intelligence which discerns and the humanitj
which remedies them.
When we pass from the weavers of cloth to
a different class of artisans, our inquiries will
still lead us to nearly the same conclusions.
During several generations, the Commissioners
of Greenwich Hospital have kept a register of
the wages paid to different classes of workmer
who have been employed in the repairs of the
building. From this valuable record it ap-
pears that, in the course of a hundred and
twenty years, the daily earnings of the brick-
layer have risen from half a crown to four
and tenpence, those of the mason from half a
crown to five and threepence, those of the
carpenter from half a crown to five and five-
pence, and those of the plumber from three
shillings to five and sixpence.
It seems clear, therefore, that the wages of
labour estimated in money, were, in 1685, not
more than half of what they now are; and
there were few articles important to the work-
ingman of which the price was not, in 1685,
more than half of what it now is. Beer was
undoubtedly much cheaper in that age than
at present. Meat was also cheaper, but was
still so dear that hundreds of thousands of
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
407
families scarcely knew the taste of it. In the
cost of wheat there has been very little change.
The average price of the quarter, during the
last twelve years of Charles the Second, was
fifty shillings. Bread, therefore, such as is
now given to the inmates of a workhouse, was
then seldom seen, even on the trencher of a
yeoman or of a shopkeeper. The great ma-
jority of the nation lived almost entirely on
rye, barley, and oats.
*******
Of the blessings which civilisation and
philosophy bring with them a large proportion
is common to all ranks, and would, if with-
drawn, be missed as painfully by the labourer
as by the peer. The market-place which the
rustic can now reach with his cart in an hour
was, a hundred and sixty years ago, a day's
journey from him. The street which now
affords to the artisan, during the whole night,
a secure, a convenient, and a brilliantly lighted
walk was, a hundred and sixty years ago, so
dark after sunset that he would not have been
able to see his hand, so ill paved that he would
have run constant risk of breaking his neck,
and so ill watched that he would have been in
imminent danger of being knocked down and
plundered of his small earnings. Every brick-
layer who falls from a scaffold, every sweeper
of a crossing who is run over by a carriage,
may now have his wounds dressed and his
limbs set with a skill such as, a hundred and
sixty years ago, all the wealth of a great lord
like Ormond, or of a merchant prince like
Clayton, could not have purchased. Some
frightful diseases have been extirpated by
science; and some have been banished by
police. The term of human life has been
lengthened over the whole kingdom, and es-
pecially in the towns. The year 1685 was not
accounted sickly; yet in the year 1685 more
than one in twenty-three of the inhabitants of
the capital died. At present only one inhab-
itant of the capital in forty dies annually. The
difference in salubrity between the London of
the nineteenth century and the London of the
seventeenth century is very far greater than the
difference between London in an ordinary year
and London in a year of cholera.
Still more important is the benefit which
all orders of society, and especially the lower
orders, have derived from the mollifying in-
fluence of civilisation on the national character.
The groundwork of that character has indeed
been the same through many generations, in
the sense in which the groundwork of the
character of an individual may be said to be
the same when he is a rude and thoughtless
schoolboy and when he is a refined and accom-
plished man. It is pleasing to reflect that the
public mind of England has softened while it
has ripened, and that we have, in the course
of ages, become, not only a wiser, but also a
kinder people. There is scarcely a page of
the history or lighter literature of the seven-
teenth century which does not contain some
proof that our ancestors were less humane
than their posterity. The discipline of work-
shops, of schools, of private families, though
not more efficient than at present, was infinitely
harsher. Masters, well born and bred, were in
the habit of beating their servants. Pedagogues
knew no way of imparting knowledge but by
beating their pupils. Husbands, of decent
station, were not ashamed to beat their wives.
The implacability of hostile factions was such
as we can scarcely conceive. Whigs were dis-
posed to murmur because Stafford was suffered
to die without seeing his bowels burned before
his face. Tories reviled and insulted Russell
as his coach passed from the Tower to the
scaffold in Lincoln's Inn Fields. As little
mercy was shown by the populace to sufferers
of a humbler rank. If an offender was put
into the pillory, it was well if he escaped with
life from the shower of brickbats and paving-
stones. If he was tied to the cart's tail, the
crowd pressed round him, imploring the hang-
man to give it the fellow well, and make him
howl. Gentlemen arranged parties of pleasure
to Bridewell on court days for the purpose of
seeing the wretched women who beat hemp
there whipped. A man pressed to death for
refusing to plead, a woman burned for coining,
excited less sympathy than is now felt for a
galled horse or an overdriven ox. Fights
compared with which a boxing-match is a
refined and humane spectacle were among the
favourite diversions of a large part of the
town. Multitudes assembled to see gladiators
hack each other to pieces with deadly weapons,
and shouted with delight when one of the com-
batants lost a finger or an eye. The prisons
were hells on earth, seminaries of every crime
and of every disease. At the assizes the lean
and yellow culprits brought with them from
their cells to the dock an atmosphere of stench
and pestilence which sometimes avenged them
signally on bench, bar, and jury. But on all
this misery society looked with profound in-
difference. Nowhere could be found that
sensitive and restless compassion which has,
4o8
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
in our time, extended a powerful protection to
the factory child, to the Hindoo widow, to the
negro slave, which pries into the stores and
water-casks of every emigrant ship, which
winces at every lash laid on the back of a
drunken soldier, which will not suffer the thief
in the hulks to be ill fed or overworked, and
which has repeatedly endeavoured to save the
life even of the murderer. It is true that
compassion ought, like all other feelings, to be
under the government of reason, and has, for
want of such government, produced some
ridiculous and some deplorable effects. But
the more we study the annals of the past, the
more shall we rejoice that we live in a merciful
age, in an age in which cruelty is abhorred,
and in which pain, even when deserved, is
inflicted reluctantly and from a sense of duty.
Every class doubtless has gained largely by
this great moral change: but the class which
has gained most is the poorest, the most de-
pendent, and the most defenceless.
The general effect of the evidence which has
been submitted to the reader seems hardly to
admit of doubt. Yet, in spite of evidence,
many will still image to themselves the Eng-
land of the Stuarts as a more pleasant country
than the England in which we live. It may
at first sight seem strange that society, while
constantly moving forward with eager speed,
should be constantly looking backward with
tender regret. But these two propensities, in-
consistent as they may appear, can easily be
resolved into the same principle. Both spring
from our impatience of the state in which we
actually are. That impatience, while it stimu-
lates us to surpass preceding generations, dis-
poses us to overrate their happiness. It is,
in some sense, unreasonable and ungrateful in
us to be constantly discontented with a condi-
tion which is constantly improving. But, in
truth, there is constant improvement precisely
because there is constant discontent. If we
were perfectly satisfied with the present, we
should cease to contrive, to labour, and to
save with a view to the future. And it is
natural that, being dissatisfied with the present,
we should form a too favourable estimate of the
past.
In truth we are under a deception similar to
that which misleads the traveller in the Arabian
desert. Beneath the caravan all is dry and
bare; but far in advance, and far in the rear,
is the semblance of refreshing waters. The
pilgrims hasten forward and find nothing but
sand where an hour before they had seen a
lake. They turn their eyes and see a lake
where an hour before they were toiling through
sand. A similar illusion seems to haunt na-
tions through every stage of the long progress
from poverty and barbarism to the highest
degrees of opulence and civilisation. But, if
we resolutely chase the mirage backward, we
shall find it recede before us into the regions
of fabulous antiquity. It is now the fashion
to place the golden age of England in times
when noblemen were destitute of comforts the
want of which would be intolerable to a modern
footman, when farmers and shopkeepers break-
fasted on loaves the very sight of which would
raise a riot in a modern workhouse, when to
have a clean shirt once a week was a privilege
reserved for the higher class of gentry, when
men died faster in the purest country air than
they now die in the most pestilential lanes of
our towns, and when men died faster in the
lanes of our towns than they now die on the
coast of Guiana. We too shall, in our turn,
be outstripped, and in our turn be envied.
It may well be, in the twentieth century, that
the peasant of Dorsetshire may think himself
miserably paid with twenty shillings a week;
that the carpenter at Greenwich may receive
ten shillings a day; that labouring men may
be as little used to dine without meat as they
now are to eat rye bread; that sanitary polic
and medical discoveries may have addec
several more years to the average length or
human life; that numerous comforts and
luxuries which are now unknown, or confined
to a few, may be within the reach of every
diligent and thrifty workingman. And yet it
may then be the mode to assert that the in-
crease of wealth and the progress of science
have benefited the few at the expense of the
many, and to talk of the reign of Queen Vic-
toria as the time when England was truly
merry England, when all classes were bound
together by brotherly sympathy, when the rich
did not grind the faces of the poor, and when
the poor did not envy the splendour of the
rich.
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. II
JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN
(1801-1890)
FROM THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY
DISCOURSE VI
KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO LEARNING
I suppose the primd-facie view which the
public at large would take of a University,
considering it as a place of Education, is noth-
ing more or less than a place for acquiring a
great deal of knowledge on a great many sub-
jects. Memory is one of the first developed
of the mental faculties; a boy's business when
he goes to school is to. learn, that is, to store
up things in his memory. For some years
his intellect is little more than an instrument
for taking in facts, or a receptacle for storing
them ; he welcomes them as fast as they come
to him; he lives on what is without; he has
his eyes ever about him; he has a lively sus-
ceptibility of impressions; he imbibes infor-
mation of every kind ; and little does he make
his own in a true sense of the word, living
rather upon his neighbours all around him.
He has opinions, religious, political, and liter-
ary, and, for a boy, is very positive in them
and sure about them; but he gets them from
his schoolfellows, or his masters, or his parents,
as the case may be. Such as he is in his other
relations, such also is he in his school exercises;
his mind is observant, sharp, ready, retentive;
he is almost passive in the acquisition of
knowledge. I say this in no disparagement of
the idea of a clever boy. Geography, chro-
nology, history, lapguage, natural history, he
heaps up the matter of these studies as treas-
ures for a future day. It is the seven years of
plenty with him: he gathers in by handfuls,
like the Egyptians, without counting; and
though, as time goes on, there is exercise for
his argumentative powers in the Elements of
Mathematics, and for his taste in the Poets
and Orators, still, while at school, or at least,
till quite the last years of his time, he acquires,
and little more; and when he is leaving for
the University, he is mainly the creature of
foreign influences and circumstances, and
made up of accidents, homogeneous or not,
as the case may be. Moreover, the moral
habits, which are a boy's praise, encourage
and assist this result; that is, diligence, assi-
duity, regularity, despatch, persevering appli-
cation; for these are the direct conditions of
acquisition, and naturally lead to it. Acquire-
ments, again, are emphatically producible, and
at a moment; they are a something to show,
both for master and scholar; an audience,
even though ignorant themselves of the sub-
jects of an examination, can comprehend when
questions are answered and when they are
not. Here again is a reason why mental cul-
ture is in the minds of men identified with the
acquisition of knowledge.
The same notion possesses the public mind,
when it passes on from the thought of a school
to that of a University: and with the best of
reasons so far as this, that there is no true
culture without acquirements, and that phi-
losophy presupposes knowledge. It requires a
great deal of reading, or a wide range of in-
formation, to warrant us in putting forth our
opinions on any serious subject; and without
such learning the most original mind may be
able indeed to dazzle, to amuse, to refute, to
perplex, but not to come to any useful result
or any trustworthy conclusion. There are in-
deed persons who profess a different view of
the matter, and even act upon it. Every now
and then you will find a person of vigorous
or fertile mind, who relies upon his own re-
sources, despises all former authors, and gives
the world, with the utmost fearlessness, his
views upon religion, or history, or any other
popular subject. And his works may sell for
a while; he may get a name in his day; but
this will be all. His readers are sure to find
on the long run that his doctrines are mere
theories, and not the expression of facts, that
they are chaff instead of bread, and then his
popularity drops as suddenly as it rose.
409
4io
JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN
Knowledge then is the indispensable condi-
tion of expansion of mind, and the instrument
of attaining to it; this cannot be denied, it is
ever to be insisted on; I begin with it as a
first principle; however, the very truth of it
carries men too far, and confirms to them the
notion that it is the whole of the matter. A
narrow mind is thought to be that which con-
tains little knowledge; and an enlarged mind,
that which holds a great deal; and what
seems to put the matter beyond dispute is,
the fact of the great number of studies which
are pursued in a University, by its very pro-
fession. Lectures are given on every kind of
subject ; examinations are held ; prizes awarded.
There are moral, metaphysical, physical Pro-
fessors; Professors of languages, of history, of
mathematics, of experimental science. Lists
of questions are published, wonderful for their
range and depth, variety and difficulty ; treatises
are written, which carry upon their very face the
evidence of extensive reading or multifarious
information; what then is wanting for mental
culture to a person of large reading and scien-
tific attainments? what is grasp of mind but
acquirement? where shall philosophical repose
be found, but in the consciousness and enjoy-
ment of large intellectual possessions?
And yet this notion is, I conceive, a mis-
take, and my present business is to show that
it is one, and that the end of a Liberal Educa-
tion is not mere knowledge, or knowledge con-
sidered in its matter; and I shall best attain
my object, by actually setting down some
cases, which will be generally granted to be
instances of the process of enlightenment or
enlargement of mind, and others which are not,
and thus, by the comparison, you will be able
to judge for yourselves, Gentlemen, whether
Knowledge, that is, acquirement, is after all
the real principle of the enlargement, or
whether that principle is not rather something
beyond it.
For instance, let a person, whose experience
has hitherto been confined to the more calm
and unpretending scenery of these islands,
whether here or in England, go for the first
time into parts where physical nature puts on
her wilder and more awful forms, whether at
home or abroad, as into mountainous districts;
or let one, who has ever lived in a quiet village,
go for the first time to a great metropolis, —
then I suppose he will have a sensation which
perhaps he never had before. He has a feel-
ing not in addition or increase of former feel-
ings, but of something different in its nature.
He will perhaps be borne forward, and find
for a time that he has lost his bearings. He
has made a certain progress, and he has a
consciousness of mental enlargement; he does
not stand where he did, he has a new centre,
and a range of thoughts to which he was before
a stranger.
Again, the view of the heavens which the
telescope opens upon us, if allowed to fill and
possess the mind, may almost whirl it round
and make it dizzy. It brings in a flood of
ideas, and is rightly called an intellectual en-
largement, whatever is meant by the term.
And so again, the sight of beasts of prey
and other foreign animals, their strangeness,
the originality (if I may use the term) of their
forms and gestures and habits and their va-
riety and independence of each other, throw
us out of ourselves into another creation, and
as if under another Creator, if I may so ex-
press the temptation which may come on the
mind. We seem to have new faculties, or a
new exercise for our faculties, by this addition
to our knowledge; like a prisoner, who, hav-
ing been accustomed to wear manacles or
fetters, suddenly finds his arms and legs free.
Hence Physical Science generally, in all its
departments, as bringing before us the exu-
berant riches and resources, yet the orderly
course, of the Universe, elevates and excites
the student, and at first, I may say, almost
takes away his breath, while in time it exercises
a tranquillising influence upon him.
Again, the study of history is said to enlarge
and enlighten the mind, and why? because,
as I conceive, it gives it a power of judging of
passing events, and of all events, and a con-
scious superiority over them, which before it
did not possess.
And in like' manner, what is called seeing
the world, entering into active life, going intc
society, travelling, gaining acquaintance wit!
the various classes of the community, coming
into contact with the principles and modes of
thought of various parties, interests, and races,
their views, aims, habits and manners, their
religious creeds and forms of worship, — gain-
ing experience how various yet how alike men
are, how low-minded, how bad, how opposed,
yet how confident in their opinions; all this
exerts a perceptible influence upon the mind,
which it is impossible to mistake, be it good
or be it bad, and is popularly called its en-
largement.
THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY
411
And then again, the first time the mind
comes across the arguments and speculations
of unbelievers, and feels what a novel light
they cast upon what he has hitherto accounted
sacred; and still more, if it gives in to them
and embraces them, and throws off as so
much prejudice what it has hitherto held,
and, as if waking from a dream, begins to
realise to its imagination that there is now no
such thing as law and the transgression of
law, that sin is a phantom, and punishment a
bugbear, that it is free to sin, free to enjoy
the world and the flesh; and still further,
when it does enjoy them, and reflects that it
may think and hold just what it will, that "the
world is all before it where to choose," and
what system to build up as its own private
persuasion ; when this torrent of wilful thoughts
rushes over and inundates it, who will deny
that the fruit of the tree of knowledge, or
what the mind takes for knowledge, has made
it one of the gods, with a sense of expansion
and elevation, — an intoxication in reality,
still, so far as the subjective state of the mind
goes, an illumination? Hence the fanaticism
of individuals or nations, who suddenly cast
off their Maker. Their eyes are opened ; and,
like the judgment-stricken king in the Tragedy,
they see two suns, and a magic universe, out
of which they look back upon their former
state of faith and innocence with a sort of
contempt and indignation, as if they were then
but fools, and the dupes of imposture.
On the other hand, Religion has its own
enlargement, and an enlargement, not of tu-
mult, but of peace. It is often remarked of
uneducated persons, who have hitherto thought
little of the unseen world, that, on their turn-
ing to God, looking into themselves, regulat-
ing their hearts, reforming their conduct, and
meditating on death and judgment, heaven
and hell, they seem to become, in point of
intellect, different beings from what they were.
Before, they took things as they came, and
thought no more of one thing than another.
But now every event has a meaning; they
have their own estimate of whatever happens
to them ; they are mindful of times and seasons,
and compare the present with the past ; and the
world, no longer dull, monotonous, unprofitable,
and hopeless, is a various and complicated drama,
with parts and an object, and an awful moral.
Now from these instances, to which many
more might be added, it is plain, first, that
the communication of knowledge certainly is
either a condition or the means of that sense
of enlargement or enlightenment, of which at
this day we hear so much in certain quarters:
this cannot be denied; but next, it is equally
plain, that such communication is not the whole
of the process. The enlargement consists,
not merely in the passive reception into the
mind of a number of ideas hitherto unknown
to it, but in the mind's energetic and simul-
taneous action upon and towards and among
those new ideas, which are rushing in upon it.
It is the action of a formative power, reducing
to order and meaning the matter of our acquire-
ments; it is a making the objects of our know-
ledge subjectively our own, or, to use a familiar
word, it is a digestion of what we receive, into
the substance of our previous state of thought ;
and without this no enlargement is said to
follow. There is no enlargement, unless there
be a comparison of ideas one with another,
as they come before the mind, and a systematis-
ing of them. We feel our minds to be growing
and expanding then, when we not only learn,
but refer what we learn to what we know al-
ready. It is not the mere addition to our
knowledge that is the illumination; but the
locomotion, the movement onwards, of that
mental centre, to which both what we know,
and what we are learning, the accumulating
mass of our acquirements, gravitates. And
therefore a truly great intellect, and recognised
to be such by the common opinion of mankind,
such as the intellect of Aristotle, or of St.
Thomas, or of Newton, or of Goethe, (I pur-
posely take instances within and without the
Catholic pale, when I would speak of the
intellect as such,) is one which takes a connected
view of old and new, past and present, far and
near, and which has an insight into the in-
fluence of all these one on another; without
which there is no whole, and no centre. It
possesses the knowledge, not only of things,
but also of their mutual and true relations;
knowledge, not merely considered as acquire-
ment, but as philosophy.
Accordingly, when this analytical, distribu-
tive, harmonising process is away, the mind
experiences no enlargement, and is not reck-
oned as enlightened or comprehensive, whatever
it may add to its knowledge. For instance, a
great memory, as I have already said, does not
make a philosopher, any more than a dictionary
can be called a grammar. There are men who
embrace in their minds a vast multitude of
ideas, but with little sensibility about their
412
JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN
real relations towards each other. These may
be antiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they
may be learned in the law ; they may be versed
in statistics ; they are most useful in their own
place; I should shrink from speaking dis-
respectfully of them; still, there is nothing in
such attainments to guarantee the absence of
narrowness of mind. If they are nothing more
than well-read men, or men of information,
they have not what specially deserves the name
of culture of mind, or fulfils the type of Liberal
Education.
In like manner, we sometimes fall in with
persons who have seen much of the world,
and of the men who, in their day, have played
a conspicuous part in it, but who generalise
nothing, and have no observation, in the true
sense of the word. They abound in informa-
tion in detail, curious and entertaining, about
men and things; and, having lived under the
influence of no very clear or settled principles,
religious or political, they speak of every one
and everything, only as so many phenomena,
which are complete in themselves, and lead to
nothing, not discussing them, or teaching any
truth, or instructing the hearer, but simply
talking. No one would say that these persons,
well informed as they are, had attained to any
great culture of intellect or to philosophy.
The case is the same still more strikingly
where the persons in question are beyond dis-
pute men of inferior powers and deficient edu-
cation. Perhaps they have been much in for-
eign countries, and they receive, in a passive,
otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts which
are forced upon them there. Seafaring men,
for example, range from one end of the earth
to the other; but the multiplicity of external
objects which they have encountered forms
no symmetrical and consistent picture upon
their imagination; they see the tapestry of
human life, as it were, on the wrong side, and it
.tells no story. They sleep, and they rise up,
and they find themselves, now in Europe, now
in Asia ; they see visions of great cities and wild
regions; they are in the marts of commerce,
or amid the islands of the South; they gaze on
Pompey's Pillar, or on the Andes; and noth-
ing which meets them carries them forward or
backward, to any idea beyond itself. Nothing
has a drift or relation ; nothing has a history or
a promise. Everything stands by itself, and
comes and goes in its turn, like the shifting
scenes of a show, which leave the spectator
where he was. Perhaps you are near such a
man on a particular occasion, and expect him
to be shocked or perplexed at something which
occurs ; but one thing is much the same to him
as another, or, if he is perplexed, it is as not
knowing what to say, whether it is right to
admire, or to ridicule, or to disapprove, while
conscious that some expression of opinion is
expected from him ; for in fact he has no stand-
ard of judgment at all, and no landmarks to
guide him to a conclusion. Such is mere ac-
quisition, and, I repeat, no one would dream
of calling it philosophy.
Instances, such as these, confirm, by the con-
trast, the conclusion I have already drawn from
those which preceded them. That only is true
enlargement of mind which is the power of
viewing many things at once as one whole, of
referring them severally to their true place in
the universal system, of understanding their
respective values, and determining their mutual
dependence. Thus is that form of Universal
Knowledge, of which I have on a former oc-
casion spoken, set up in the individual intellect,
and constitutes its perfection. Possessed of
this real illumination, the mind never views
any part of the extended subject-matter of
Knowledge without recollecting that it is but
a part, or without the associations which spring
from this recollection. It makes everything in
some sort lead to everything else; it would
communicate the image of the whole to every
separate portion, till that whole becomes in
imagination like a spirit, everywhere pervading
and penetrating its component parts, and giving
them one definite meaning. Just as our bodily
organs, when mentioned, recall their function
in the body, as the word "creation" suggests
the Creator, and "subjects" a sovereign, so,
in the mind of the Philosopher, as we are ab-
stractedly conceiving of him, the elements of
the physical and moral world, sciences, arts,
pursuits, ranks, offices, events, opinions, indi-
vidualities, are all viewed as one, with correla-
tive functions, and as gradually by successive
combinations converging, one and all, to the
true centre.
, To have even a portion of this illuminative
reason and true philosophy is the highest state
to which nature can aspire, in the way of in-
tellect; it puts the mind above the influence
of chance and necessity, above anxiety, sus- ,
pense, unsettlement, and superstition, which is
the lot of the many. Men, whose minds are
possessed with some one object, take exag-
THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY
413
gerated views of its importance, are feverish in
the pursuit of it, make it the measure of things
which are utterly foreign to it, and are startled
and despond if it happens to fail them. They
are ever in alarm or in transport. Those on
the other hand who have no object or principle
whatever to hold by, lose their way, every step
they take. They are thrown out, and do not
know what to think or say, at every fresh junc-
ture; they have no view of persons, or occur-
rences, or facts, which come suddenly upon
them, and they hang upon the opinion of others,
for want of internal resources. But the in-
tellect, which has been disciplined to the per-
fection of its powers, which knows, and thinks
while it knows, which has learned to leaven the
dense mass of facts and events with the elastic
force of reason, such an intellect cannot be
partial, cannot be exclusive, cannot be impetu-
ous, cannot be at a loss, cannot but be patient,
collected, and majestically calm, because it dis-
cerns the end in every beginning, the origin in
every end, the law in every interruption, the limit
in each delay; because it ever knows where it
stands, and how its path lies from one point to
another. It is the rerpaywvos of the Peripatetic,
and has the "nil admirari" of the Stoic, —
Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari.1
There are men who, when in difficulties, origi-
nate at the moment vast ideas or dazzling
projects; who, under the influence of excite-
ment, are able to cast a light, almost as if from
inspiration, on a subject or course of action
which comes before them ; who have a sudden
presence of mind equal to any emergency,
rising with the occasion, and an undaunted
magnanimous bearing, and an energy and
keenness which is but made intense by oppo-
sition. This is genius, this is heroism; it is
the exhibition of a natural gift, which no culture
can teach, at which no Institution can aim;
here, on the contrary, we 'are concerned, not
with mere nature, but with training and teach-
ing. That perfection of the Intellect, which
is the result of Education, and its beau ideal,
to be imparted to individuals in their respective
measures, is the clear, calm, accurate vision
and comprehension of all things, as far as the
finite mind can embrace them, each in its place,
and with its own characteristics upon it. It
1 Fortunate is he who is able to understand things in
their real nature and can trample upon fears of all sorts
and inexorable fate and the noise of greedy Acheron.
is almost prophetic from its knowledge of his-
tory; it is almost heart -searching from its
knowledge of human nature; it has almost
supernatural charity from its freedom from
littleness and prejudice ; it has almost the repose
of faith, because nothing can startle it; it has
almost the beauty and harmony of heavenly
contemplation, so intimate is it with the eternal
order of things and the music of the' spheres.
And now, if I may take for granted that the
true and adequate end of intellectual training
and of a University is not Learning or Acquire-
ment, but rather, is Thought or Reason exer-
cised upon Knowledge, or what may be called
Philosophy, I shall be in a position to explain
the various mistakes which at the present day
beset the subject of University Education.
I say then, if we would improve the intellect,
first of all, we must ascend ; we cannot gain real
knowledge on a level ; we must generalise, we
must reduce to method, we must have a grasp
of principles, and group and shape our acqui-
sitions by means of them. It matters not
whether our field of operation be wide or
limited; in every case, to command it, is
to mount above it. Who has not felt the irri-
tation of mind and impatience created by a
deep, rich country, visited for the first time, with
winding lanes, and high hedges, and green
steeps, and tangled woods, and everything
smiling indeed, but in a maze? The same
feeling comes upon us in a strange city, when
we have no map of its streets. Hence you hear
of practised travellers, when they first come
into a place, mounting some high hill or church
tower, by way of reconnoitring its neighbour-
hood. In like manner, you must be above your
knowledge, not under it, or it will oppress you;
and the more you have of it, the greater will be
the load. The learning of a Salmasius or a
Burman, unless you are its master will be your
tyrant. "Imperat aut servit";1 if you can
wield it with a strong arm, it is a great weapon ;
otherwise,
Vis concili cxpers
Mole ruit sua ; 2
You will be overwhelmed, like Tarpeia, by the
heavy wealth which you have exacted from
tributary generations.
Instances abound; there are authors who
are as pointless as they are inexhaustible in
1 It either rules or serves. 2 Power without judg-
ment falls of its own weight.
414
JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN
their literary resources. They measure know-
ledge by bulk, as it lies in the rude block, with-
out symmetry, without design. How many
commentators are there on the Classics, how
many on Holy Scripture, from whom we rise
up, wondering at the learning which has passed
before us, and wondering why it passed ! How
many writers are there of Ecclesiastical History,
such as Mosheim or Du Pin, who, breaking up
their subject into details, destroy its life, and
defraud us of the whole by their anxiety about
the parts ! The Sermons, again, of the English
Divines in the seventeenth century, how often
are they mere repertories of miscellaneous and
officious learning! Of course Catholics also
may read without thinking; and in their case,
equally as with Protestants, it holds good, that
such knowledge is unworthy of the name,
knowledge which they have not thought
through, and thought out. Such readers are
only possessed by their knowledge, not possessed
of it ; nay, in matter of fact they are often even
carried away by it, without any volition of their
own. Recollect, the Memory can tyrannise,
as well as the Imagination. Derangement, I
believe, has been considered as a loss of con-
trol over the sequence of ideas. The mind,
once set in motion, is henceforth deprived of
the power of initiation, and becomes the victim
of a train of associations, one thought sug-
gesting another, in the way of cause and effect,
as if by a mechanical process, or some physical
necessity. No one, who has had experience of
men of studious habits, but must recognise
the existence of a parallel phenomenon in the
case of those who have over-stimulated the
Memory. In such persons Reason acts almost
as feebly and as impotently as in the madman ;
once fairly started on any subject whatever,
they have no power of self-control; they pas-
sively endure the succession of impulses which
are evolved out of the original exciting cause;
they are passed on from one idea to another and
go steadily forward, plodding along one line
of thought in spite of the amplest concessions
of the hearer, or wandering from it in endless
digression in spite of his remonstrances. Now,
if, as is very certain, no one would envy the
madman the glow and originality of his con-
ceptions, why must we extol the cultivation of
that intellect, which is the prey, not indeed of
barren fancies but of barren facts, of random
intrusions from without, though not of morbid
imaginations from within ? And in thus speak-
ing, I am not denying that a strong and ready
memory is in itself a real treasure; I am not
disparaging a well-stored mind, though it be
nothing besides, provided it be sober, any more
than I would despise a bookseller's shop: — it
is of great value to others, even when not so to
the owner. Nor am I banishing, far from it,
the possessors of deep and multifarious learning
from my ideal University; they adorn it in the
eyes of men ; I do but say that they constitute
no type of the results at which it aims; that it
is no great gain to the intellect to have enlarged
the memory at the expense of faculties which
are indisputably higher.
8
Nor indeed am I supposing that there is
any great danger, at least in this day, of over-
education; the danger is on the other side.
I will tell you, Gentlemen, what has been the
practical error of the last twenty years, — not
to load the memory of the student with a mass
of undigested knowledge, but to force upon him
so much that he has rejected all. It has been
the error of distracting and enfeebling the mind
by an unmeaning profusion of subjects ; of im-
plying that a smattering in a dozen branches
of study is not shallowness, which it really is,
but enlargement, which it is not; of consider-
ing an acquaintance with the learned names
of things and persons, and the possession of
clever duodecimos, and attendance on eloquent
lecturers, and membership with scientific insti-
tutions, and the sight of the experiments of a
platform and the specimens of a museum, that
all this was not dissipation of mind, but pro-
gress. All things now are to be learned at once,
not first one thing, then another, not one well,
but many badly. Learning is to be without
exertion, without attention, without toil;
without grounding, without advance, without
finishing. There is to be nothing individual
in it; and this, forsooth, is the wonder of the
age. What the steam engine does .with matter,
the printing press is to do with mind; it is to
act mechanically, and the population is to be
passively, almost unconsciously enlightened,
by the mere multiplication and dissemination
of volumes. Whether it be the school boy
or the school girl, or the youth at college, or
the mechanic in the town, or the politician in
the senate, all have been the victims in one way
or other of this most preposterous and perni-
cious of delusions. Wise men have lifted up
their voices in vain; and at length, lest their
own institutions should be outshone and should
disappear in the folly of the hour, they have
THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY
415
been obliged, as far as they could with a good
conscience, to humour a spirit which they could
not withstand, and make temporising conces-
sions at which they could not but inwardly smile.
It must not be supposed that, because I so
speak, therefore I have some sort of fear of the
education of the people: on the contrary, the
more education they have, the better, so that
it is really education. Nor am I an enemy
to the cheap publication of scientific and
literary works, which is now in vogue: on the
contrary, I consider it a great advantage, con-
venience, and gain; that is, to those to whom
education has given a capacity for using them.
Further, I consider such innocent recreations as
science and literature are able to furnish will
be a very fit occupation of the thoughts and the
leisure of young persons, and may be made the
means of keeping them from bad employments
and bad companions. Moreover, as to that
superficial acquaintance with chemistry, and
geology, and astronomy, and political economy,
and modern history, and biography, and other
branches of knowledge, which periodical liter-
ature and occasional lectures and scientific
institutions diffuse through the community, I
think it a graceful accomplishment, and a suit-
able, nay, in this day a necessary accomplish-
ment, in the case of educated men. Nor,
lastly, am I disparaging or discouraging the
thorough acquisition of any one of these studies,
or denying that, as far as it goes, such thorough
acquisition is a real education of the mind.
All I say is, call things by their right names, and
do not confuse together ideas which are es-
sentially different. A thorough knowledge of
one science and a superficial acquaintance
with many, are not the same thing; a smatter-
ing of a hundred things or a memory for detail,
is not a philosophical or comprehensive view.
Recreations are not education; accomplish-
ments are not education. Do not say, the
people must be educated, when, after all,
you only mean, amused, refreshed, soothed,
put into good spirits and good humour, or kept
from vicious excesses. I do not say that such
amusements, such occupations of mind, are
not a great gain; but they are not education.
You may as well call drawing and fencing edu-
cation, as a general knowledge of botany or
conchology. Stuffing birds or playing stringed
instruments is an elegant pastime, and a re-
source to the idle, but it is not education;
it does not form or cultivate the intellect.
Education is a high word ; it is the preparation
for knowledge, and it is the imparting of know-
ledge in proportion to that preparation. We
require intellectual eyes to know withal, as
bodily eyes for sight. We need both objects
and organs intellectual; we cannot gain them
without setting about it; we cannot gain them
in our sleep, or by hap-hazard. The best
telescope does not dispense with eyes; the
printing press or the lecture room will assist
us greatly, but we must be true to ourselves,
we must be parties in the work. A University
is, according to the usual designation, an Alma
Mater, knowing her children one by one, not
a foundry or a mint, or a treadmill.
I protest to you, Gentlemen, that if I had to
choose between a so-called University, which
dispensed with residence and tutorial super-
intendence, and gave its degrees to any person
who passed an examination in a wide range of
subjects, and a University which had no pro-
fessors or examinations at all, but merely
brought a number of young men together for
three or four years, and then sent them away
as the University of Oxford is said to have
done some sixty years since, if I were asked
which of these two methods was the better
discipline of the intellect, — mind, I do not
say which is morally the better, for it is plain
that compulsory study must be a good and
idleness an intolerable mischief, — but if I
must determine which of the two courses
was the more successful in training, moulding,
enlarging the mind, which sent out men the
more fitted for their secular duties, which pro-
duced better public men, men of the world,
men whose names would descend to posterity,
I have no hesitation in giving the preference
to that University which did nothing, over that
which exacted of its members an acquaintance
with every science under the sun. And, para-
dox as this may seem, still if results be the test
of systems, the influence of the public schools
and colleges of England, in the course of the
last century, at least will bear out one side of
the contrast as I have drawn it. What would
come, on the other hand, of the ideal systems
of education which have fascinated the imagi-
nation of this age, could they ever take effect,
and whether they would not produce a genera-
tion frivolous, narrow-minded, and resource-
less, intellectually considered, is a fair subject
for debate; but so far is certain, that the Uni-
versities and scholastic establishments, to which
I refer, and which did little more than bring
416
JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN
together first boys and then youths in large
numbers, these institutions, with miserable de-
formities on the side of morals, with a hollow
profession of Christianity, and a heathen code
of ethics, — I say, at least they can boast of a
succession of heroes and statesmen, of literary
men and philosophers, of men conspicuous for
great natural virtues, for habits of business,
for knowledge of life, for practical judgment,
for cultivated tastes, for accomplishments, who
have made England what it is, — able to sub-
due the earth, able to domineer over Catholics.
How is this to be explained? I suppose as
, follows. When a multitude of young men,
keen, open-hearted, sympathetic, and observ-
ant, as young men are, come together and
) freely mix with each other, they are sure to
learn one from another, even if there be no
one to teach them; the conversation of all is
a series of lectures to each, and they gain for
themselves new ideas and views, fresh matter
of thought, and distinct principles for judging
and acting, day by day. An infant has to
learn the meaning of the information which its
senses convey to it, and this seems to be its
employment. It fancies all that the eye pre-
sents to it to be close to it, till it actually
learns the contrary, and thus by practice does
it ascertain the relations and uses of those first
elements of knowledge which are necessary
for its animal existence. A parallel teaching
is necessary for our social being, and it is se-
cured by a large school or a college ; and this
effect may be fairly called in its own depart-
ment an enlargement of mind. It is seeing the
world on a small field with little trouble; for
the pupils or students come from very different
places, and with widely different notions, and
there is much to generalise, much to adjust,
much to eliminate, there are interrelations to
be defined, and conventional rules to be es-
tablished, in the process, by which the whole
assemblage is moulded together, and gains one
tone and one character.
Let it be clearly understood, I repeat it,
that I am not taking into account moral or
religious considerations; I am but saying
that that youthful community will constitute
a whole, it will embody a specific idea, it will
represent a doctrine, it will administer a code
of conduct, and it will furnish principles of
thought and action. It will give birth to a living
teaching, which in course of time will take the
shape of a self-perpetuating tradition, or a genius
loci, as it is sometimes called ; which haunts the
home where it has been born, and which imbues
and forms, more or less, and one by one, every
individual who is successively brought under its
shadow. Thus it is that, independent of direct
instruction on the part of Superiors, there is a
sort of self-education in the academic institu-
tions of Protestant England; a characteristic
tone of thought, a recognised standard of judg-
ment is found in them, which, as developed in
the individual who is submitted to it, becomes
a twofold source of strength to him, both from
the distinct stamp it impresses on his mind,
and from the bond of union which it creates
between him and others, — effects which are
shared by the authorities of the place, for they
themselves have been educated in it, and at
all times are exposed to the influence of its
ethical atmosphere. Here then is a real teach-
ing, whatever be its standards and principles,
true or false ; and it at least tends towards cul-
tivation of the intellect; it at least recognises
that knowledge is something more than a sort
of passive reception of scraps and details ; it is
a something, and it does a something, which
never will issue from the most strenuous efforts
of a set of teachers, with no mutual sympathies
and no intercommunion, of a set of examiners
with no opinions which they dare profess, and
with no common principles, who are teaching
or questioning a set of youths who do not know
them, and do not know each other, on a large
number of subjects, different in kind, and
connected by no wide philosophy, three times
a week, or three times a year, or once in three
years, in chill lecture-rooms or on a pompous
anniversary.
Nay, self -education in any shape, in the most
restricted sense, is preferable to a system of
teaching which, professing so much, really
does so little for the mind. Shut your College
gates against the votary of knowledge, throw
him back upon the searchings and the efforts
of his own mind ; he will gain by being spared
an entrance into your Babel. Few indeed
there are who can dispense with the stimulus
and support of instructors, or will do anything
at all, if left to themselves. And fewer still
(though such great minds are to be found),
who will not, from such unassisted attempts,
contract a self-reliance and a self-esteem, which
are not only moral evils, but serious hindrances
to the attainment of truth. And next to none,
perhaps, or none, who will not be reminded
from time to time of the disadvantage under
which they lie, by their imperfect grounding,
GEORGE BORROW
417
by the breaks, deficiencies, and irregularities
of their knowledge, by the eccentricity of opin-
ion and the confusion of principle which
they exhibit. They will be too often ignorant
of what every one knows and takes for granted,
of that multitude of small truths which fall
upon the mind like dust, impalpable and ever
accumulating ; they may be unable to converse,
they may argue perversely, they may pride
themselves on their worst paradoxes or their
grossest truisms, they may be full of their own
mode of viewing things, unwilling to be put out
of their way, slow to enter into the minds of
others ; — but, with these and whatever other
liabilities upon their heads, they are likely to
have more thought, more mind, more philoso-
phy, more true enlargement, than those ear-
nest but ill-used persons, who are forced to load
their minds with a score of subjects against
an examination, who have too much on their
hands to indulge themselves in thinking or
investigation, who devour premiss and conclu-
sion together with indiscriminate greediness,
who hold whole sciences on faith, and commit
demonstrations to memory, and who too of-
ten, as might be expected, when their period of
education is passed, throw up all they have
learned in dfsgust, having gained nothing
really by their anxious labours, except perhaps
the habit of application.
Yet such is the better specimen of the fruit
of that ambitious system which has of late years
been making way among us: for its result on
ordinary minds, and on the common run of
students, is less satisfactory still; they leave
their place of education simply dissipated and
relaxed by the multiplicity of subjects, which
they have never really mastered, and so shallow
as not even to know their shallowness. How
much better, I say, is it for the active and
thoughtful intellect, where such is to be found,
to eschew the College and the University alto-
gether, than to submit to a drudgery so ignoble,
a mockery so contumelious ! How much more
profitable for the independent mind, after the
mere rudiments of education, to range through
a library at random, taking down books as they
meet him, and pursuing the trains of thought
which his mother wit suggests! How much
healthier to wander into the fields, and there
with the exiled Prince to find "tongues in the
trees, books in the running brooks!" How
much more genuine an education is that of the
poor boy in the Poem — a Poem, whether in
conception or in execution, one of the most
touching in our language — who, not in the
wide world, but ranging day by day around his
widowed mother's home, "a dexterous gleaner"
in a narrow field, and with only such slender
outfit
" as the village school and books a few
Supplied,"
contrived from the beach, and the quay, and
the fisher's boat, and the inn's fireside, and the
tradesman's shop, and the shepherd's walk, and
the smuggler's hut, and the mossy moor, and
the screaming gulls, and the restless waves,
to fashion for himself a philosophy and a
poetry of his own !
But in a large subject, I am exceeding my f
necessary limits. Gentlemen, I must conclude
abruptly; and postpone any summing up of
my argument, should that be necessary, to
another day.
GEORGE BORROW (1803-1881)
LAVENGRO
CHAPTER LXX
I passed the greater part of the day in en-
deavouring to teach myself the mysteries of my
new profession. I cannot say that I was very
successful, but the time passed agreeably,
and was therefore not ill spent. Towards
evening I flung my work aside, took some
refreshment, and afterwards a walk.
This time I turned up the small footpath,
of which I have already spoken. It led in
a zigzag manner through thickets of hazel,
elder, and sweet brier; after following its
windings for somewhat better than a furlong,
I heard a gentle sound of water, and presently
came to a small rill, which ran directly across
the path. I was rejoiced at the sight, for I
had already experienced the want of water,
which I yet knew must be nigh at hand, as
I was in a place to all appearance occasionally
frequented by wandering people, who I was
aware never take up their quarters in places
where water is difficult to be obtained. Forth-
with I stretched myself on the ground, and took
a long and delicious draught of the crystal
stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, I
continued for some time gazing on the water as
it purled tinkling away in its channel through
an opening in the hazels, and should have
probably continued much longer had not the
thought that I had left my property unprotected
compelled me to rise and return to my encamp-
ment.
4i8
GEORGE BORROW
Night came on, and a beautiful night it was;
up rose the moon, and innumerable stars decked
the firmament of heaven. I sat on the shaft,
my eyes turned upwards. I had found it:
there it was twinkling millions of miles above
me, mightiest star of the system to which we
belong: of all stars, the one which has the
most interest for me — the star Jupiter.
Why have I always taken an interest in thee,
0 Jupiter? I know nothing about thee, save
what every child knows, that thou art a big
star, whose only light is derived from moons.
And is not that knowledge enough to make
me feel an interest in thee ? Ay, truly, I never
look at thee without wondering what is going
on in thee ; what is life in Jupiter ? That there
is life in Jupiter who can doubt? There is
life in our own little star, therefore there must
be life in Jupiter, which is not a little star.
But how different must life be in Jupiter from
what it is in our own little star! Life here is
life beneath the dear sun — life in Jupiter is
life beneath moons — four moons — no single
moon is able to illumine that vast bulk. All
know what life is in our own little star; it is
anything but a routine of happiness here, where
the dear sun rises to us every day: then how
sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter,
on which no sun ever shines, and which is
never lighted save by pale moonbeams! The
thought that there is more sadness and melan-
choly in Jupiter than in this world of ours,
where, alas ! there is but too much, has always
made me take a melancholy interest in that
huge distant star.
Two or three days passed by 'in much the
same manner as the first. During the morning
1 worked upon my kettles, and employed the re-
maining part of the day as I best could. The
whole of this time I only saw two individuals,
rustics, who passed by my encampment with-
out vouchsafing me a glance; they probably
considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps
they were.
One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work
in very good spirits, for by this time I had
actually mended in a very creditable way, as I
imagined, two kettles and a frying pan, I heard
a voice which seemed to proceed from the path
leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from
a considerable distance, but drew nearer by
degrees. I soon remarked that the tones were
exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet some-
thing of childhood in them. Once or twice
I distinguished certain words in the song which
the voice was singing; the words were — but
no, I thought again I was probably mistaken —
and then the voice ceased for a time ; presently
I heard it again, close to the entrance of the
footpath; in another moment I heard it in the
lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it
abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the
very words which I at first thought I had distin-
guished.
I turned my head ; at the entrance of the foot-
path, which might be about thirty yards from
the place where I was sitting, I perceived the
figure of a young girl ; her face was turned tow-
ards me, and she appeared to be scanning me
and my encampment; after a little time she
looked in the other direction, only for a moment,
however; probably observing nothing in that
quarter, she again looked towards me, and
almost immediately stepped forward; and,
as she advanced, sang the song which I had
heard in the wood, the first words of which
were those which I have already alluded to.
"The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dock the gry
Of the farming rye." l
A very pretty song, thought I, failing again
hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty
song, which bodes the farmers much good.
Let them look to their cattle.
"All alone here, brother?" said a voice close
by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones.
I made no answer, but continued my work,
click, click, with the gravity which became
one of my profession. I allowed at least half
a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my
eyes.
A girl of about thirteen was standing before
me; her features were very pretty, but with
a peculiar expression ; her complexion was a
clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back
upon her shoulders. She was rather scantily
dressed, and her arms and feet were bare;
round her neck, however, was a handsome string
of corals, with ornaments of gold ; in her hand
she held a bulrush.
"All alone here, brother?" said the girl,
as I looked up; "all alone here, in the lane;
where are your wife and children?"
"Why do you call me brother?" said I; "I
am no brother of yours. Do you take me for
1 For the translation, see p. 423 below.
LAVENGRO
419
one of your people? I am no gipsy; not I,
indeed!"
"Don't be afraid, brother, you are no Roman
— Roman indeed, you are not handsome
enough to be a Roman; not black enough,
tinker though you be. If I called you brother,
it was because I didn't know what else to call
you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be
very sorry to have you for a brother."
"Then you don't like me?"
"Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother;
what will you have for that kekaubi?"
"What's the use of talking to me in that
un-Christian way; what do you mean, young
gentlewoman?"
"Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every
tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking
you what you would have for that kettle."
"Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman;
isn't it well mended?"
"Well mended! I could have done it better
myself; three-and-sixpence ! it's only fit to be
played at football with."
"I will take no less for it, young gentle-
woman; it has caused me a world of trouble."
"I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say,
brother, your hair is white."
'"Tis nature; your hair is black; nature,
nothing but nature."
"I am young, brother; my hair is black —
that's nature: you are young, brother; your
hair is white — that's not nature."
"I can't help it if it be not, but it is nature
after all; did you never see gray hair on the
young?"
"Never! I have heard it is true of a gray
lad, and a bad one he was. Oh, so bad."
"Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about
it, sister; do, to oblige me, pretty sister."
"Hey, brother, you don't speak as you did
— you don't speak like a gorgio, you speak like
one of us, you call me sister."
"As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil
person after all, sister."
"I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look
me in the face — there — do you speak
Rommany?"
"Rommany! Rommany! what is Rom-
many?"
"What is Rommany? our language, to be
sure ; tell me, brother, only one thing, you don't
speak Rommany?"
"You say it."
"I don't say it, I wish to know. Do you
speak Rommany?"
"Do you mean thieves' slang — cant? no,
I don't speak cant, I don't like it, I only know
a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner,
don't they?"
"I don't know," said the girl, sitting down
on the ground, "I was almost thinking — well,
never mind, you don't know Rommany. I
say, brother, I think I should like to have the
kekaubi."
"I thought you said it was badly mended?"
"Yes, yes, brother, but —
"I thought you said it was only fit to be played
at football with?"
"Yes, yes, brother, but —
"What will you give for it?"
"Brother, I am the poor person's child, I
will give you sixpence for the kekaubi."
"Poor person's child ; how came you by that
necklace ? "
"Be civil, brother; am I to have the ke-
kaubi?"
"Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely
mended?"
"I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother;
am I to have the kekaubi, brother?"
"You like me then?"
"I don't dislike you — I dislike no one;
there's only one, and him I don't dislike, him
I hate."
"Who is he?"
"I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis
no affair of yours, you don't speak Rommany;
you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty
brother?"
"You may have it, but not for sixpence, I'll
give it to you."
"Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother;
the rikkeni kekaubi is now mine. O, rare !
I thank you kindly, brother."
Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which
she had hitherto held in her hand, and seizing
the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and
then began a kind of dance, flourishing the
kettle over her head the while, and singing —
"The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dock the gry
Of the farming rye."
"Good by, brother, I must be going."
"Good by, sister; why do you sing that
wicked song?"
"Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't un-
derstand the song !' '
"Ha, ha! gipsy daughter," said I, starting
420
GEORGE BORROW
up and clapping my hands, "I don't understand
Rommany, don't I? You shall see; here's
the answer to your gillie —
" 'The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Love Luripen
And dukkeripen,
And hokkeripen,
And every pen
But Lachipen
And tatchipen.' "
The girl, who had given a slight start when I
began, remained for some time after I had con-
cluded the song, standing motionless as a statue,
with the kettle in her hand. At length she
came towards me, and stared me full in the
face. "Gray, tall, and talks Rommany,"
said she to herself. In her countenance there
was an expression which I had not seen before
— an expression which struck me as being
composed of fear, curiosity, and the deepest
hate. It was momentary, however, and was
succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open.
"Ha, ha, brother," said she, "well, I like you
all the better for talking Rommany; it is a
sweet language, isn't it? especially as- you sing
it. How did you pick it up? But you picked
it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was
funny in you to pretend not to know it, and you
so flush with it all the time ; it was not kind
in you, however, to frighten the poor person's
child so by screaming out, but it was kind in
you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of
the poor person. She will be grateful to you;
she will bring you her little dog to show you,
her pretty juggal; the poor person's child will
come and see you again; you are not going
away to-day, I hope, or to-morrow, pretty
brother, gray-haired brother — you are not
going away to-morrow, I hope?"
"Nor the next day," said I, "only to take
a stroll to see if I can sell a kettle; good by,
little sister, Rommany sister, dingy sister."
"Good by, tall brother," said the girl, as
she departed, singing
" The Rommany chi," etc.
"There's something about that girl that I
don't understand," said I to myself; "some-
thing mysterious. However, it is nothing to
me, she knows not who I am, and if she did,
what then?"
Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my
cart in deep meditation, with my arms folded,
I thought I heard a rustling in the bushes over
against me. I turned my eyes in that direction,
but saw nothing. "Some bird," said I; "an
owl, perhaps;" and once more I fell into medi-
tation; my mind wandered from one thing to
another — musing now on the structure of the
Roman tongue — now on the rise and fall of
the Persian power — and now on the powers
vested in recorders at quarter sessions. I was
thinking what a fine thing it must be to be
a recorder of the peace, when lifting up my
eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the
bar, but, staring at me through a gap in the
bush, a face wild and strange, half covered with
gray hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it
had disappeared.
CHAPTER LXXI
The next day at an early hour, I harnessed
my little pony, and, putting my things in my
cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing
the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small
village, from which, after a short stay, I pro-
ceeded to another, and from thence to a third.
I found that the name of Slingsby was well
known in these parts.
"If you are a friend of Slingsby you must
be an honest lad," said an ancient crone; "you
shall never want for work whilst I can give
it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came
out this morning, and lend me that of yours
till you bring it back. I'm not afraid to trust
you — not I. Don't hurry yourself, young
man, if you don't come back for a fortnight I
shan't have the worse opinion of you."
I returned to my quarters at evening, tired
but rejoiced at heart ; I had work before me for
several days, having collected various kekaubies
which required mending, in place of those which
I left behind — those which I had been em-
ployed upon during the last few days. I found
all quiet in the lane or glade, and, unharnessing
my little horse, I once more pitched my tent
in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my
fire, ate my frugal meal, and then, after looking
for some time at the heavenly bodies, and more
particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my
tent, lay down upon my pallet, and went to
sleep.
Nothing occurred on the following day
which requires any particular notice, nor
indeed on the one succeeding that. It was
about noon on the third day that I sat beneath
the shade of the ash tree; I was not at work,
for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt
but little inclination to make any exertion.
Leaning my back against the tree, I was not
LAVENGRO
421
long in falling into a slumber; I particularly
remember that slumber of mine beneath the
ash tree, for it was about the sweetest that I
ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I
do not know; I could almost have wished that
it had lasted to the present time. All of a
sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in
my ear, "Danger ! danger ! danger ! " Nothing
seemingly could be more distinct than the
words which I heard ; then an uneasy sensation
came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and
at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gipsy
girl was standing just opposite to me, with her
eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular
kind of little dog stood beside her.
"Ha !" said I, "was it you that cried danger?
What danger is there?"
"Danger, brother, there is no danger; what
danger should there be? I called to my little
dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's
name is not danger, but stranger; what danger
should there be, brother?"
"What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath
a tree; what is that you have got in your
hand?"
"Something for you," said the girl, sitting
down and proceeding to untie a white napkin ;
"a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I
went home to my people I told my grandbebee
how kind you had been to the poor person's
child, and when my grandbebee saw the ke-
kaubi, she said, 'Hir mi devlis, it won't do for
the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God,
I will bake a cake for the young harko mes-
cro.'"
"But there are two cakes."
"Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my
grandbebee meant them both for you — but
list, brother, I will have one of them for bring-
ing them. I know you will give me one, pretty
brother, gray -haired brother — which shall I
have, brother?"
In the napkin were two round cakes, seem-
ingly made of rich and costly compounds, and
precisely similar in form, each weighing about
half a pound.
"Which shall I have, brother?" said the
gipsy girl.
"Whichever you please."
"No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not
mine, it is for you to say."
"Well, then, give me the one nearest you,
and take the other."
"Yes, brother, yes," said the girl; and taking
the cakes, she flung them into the air two or
three times, catching them as they fell, and
singing the while. "Pretty brother, gray-
haired brother — here, brother," said she,
"here is your cake, this other is mine."
"Are you sure," said I, taking the cake,
"that this is the one I chose?"
"Quite sure, brother; but if you like you
can have mine; there's no difference, however
— shall I eat?"
"Yes, sister, eat."
"See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty
brother, gray-haired brother."
"I am not hungry."
"Not hungry! well, what then — what has
being hungry to do with the matter? It is
my grandbebee's cake which was sent because
you were kind to the poor person's child; eat,
brother, eat, and we shall be like the children
in the wood that the gorgios speak of."
"The children in the wood had nothing to
eat."
"Yes, they had hips and haws; we have
better. Eat, brother."
"See, sister, I do," and I ate a piece of the
cake.
"Well, brother, how do you like it?" said
the girl, looking fixedly at me.
"It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is
something strange about it; I don't think I
shall eat any more."
"Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor
person's cake; see, I have nearly eaten mine."
"That's a pretty little dog."
"Is it not, brother? that's my juggal, my
little sister, as I call her."
"Come here, juggal," said I to the animal.
"What do you want with my juggal?" said
the girl.
"Only to give her a piece of cake," said I,
offering the dog a piece which I had just broken
off.
"What do you mean?" said the girl, snatch-
ing the dog away; "my grandbebee's cake is
not for dogs."
"Why, I just now saw you give the animal
a piece of yours."
"You lie, brother, you saw no such thing;
but I see how it is, you wish to affront the poor
person's child. I shall go to my house."
"Keep still, and don't be angry; see, I have
eaten the piece which I offered the dog. I
meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all."
"Isn't it, brother? I am glad you like it.
Offence ! brother, no offence at all ! I am so
glad you like my grandbebee's cake, but she
will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece
more of grandbebee's cake and I will go."
422
GEORGE BORROW
"I am not hungry, I will put the rest by."
"One piece more before I go, handsome
brother, gray-haired brother."
"I will not eat any more, I have already
eaten more than I wished to oblige you; if
you must go, good day to you."
The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at
me, then at the remainder of the cake which
I held in my hand, and then at me again, and
then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep
thought; presently an air of satisfaction came
ovef her countenance, she smiled and said,
"Well, brother, well, do as you please, I merely
wished you to eat because you have been so kind
to the poor person's child. She loves you so,
that she could have wished to have seen you eat
it all ; good by, brother, I dare say when I am
gone you will eat some more of it, and if you
don't I dare say you have eaten enough to —
to — show your love for us. After all it was
a poor person's cake, a Rommany manricli,
and all you gorgios are somewhat gorgious.
Farewell, brother, pretty brother, gray-haired
brother. Come, juggal."
I remained under the ash tree seated on the
grass for a minute or two, and endeavoured to
resume the occupation in which I had been en-
gaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclina-
tion for labour. I then thought I would sleep
again, and once more reclined against the tree,
and slumbered for some little time, but my
sleep was more agitated than before. Some-
thing appeared to bear heavy on my breast, I
struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, and
awoke; my temples were throbbing, there
was a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt
parched ; the oppression about the chest which
I had felt in my sleep still continued. "I
must shake off these feelings," said I, "and get
upon my legs." I walked rapidly up and down
upon the green sward; at length, feeling my
thirst increase, 'I directed my steps down the
narrow path to the spring which ran amidst
the bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and
drank of the water, but on lifting up my head
I felt thirstier than before ; again I drank, but
with the like results; I was about to drink for
the third time, when I felt a dreadful qualm,
which instantly robbed me of nearly all my
strength. What can be the matter with me,
thought I; but I suppose I have made myself
ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made
the best of my way back to my tent; before
I reached it the qualm had seized me again,
and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my
pallet, qualm succeeded qualm, but in the inter-
vals my mouth was dry and burning, and I
felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water was
at hand, and to reach the spring once more
was impossible: the qualms continued, deadly
pains shot through my whole frame ; I could
bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a
trance or swoon. How long I continued therein
I know not; on recovering, however, I felt
somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head
off my couch; the next moment, however,
the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with
greater violence than before. I am dying,
thought I, like a dog, without any help; and
then methought I heard a sound at a distance
like people singing, and then once more I
relapsed into my swoon.
I revived just as a heavy blow sounded, upon
the canvas of the tent. I started, but my con-
dition did not permit me to rise; again the
same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas;
I thought for a moment of crying out and re-
questing assistance, but an inexplicable some-
thing chained my tongue, and now I heard a
whisper on the outside of the tent. "He does
not move, bebee," said a voice which I knew.
"I should not wonder if it has done for him
already; however, strike again with your ran;"
and then there was another blow, after which
another voice cried aloud in a strange tone,
"Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he
taking his dinner?" I remained quite silent
and motionless, and in another moment the
voice continued, "What, no answer? what can
the gentleman of the house be about that he
makes no answer ? perhaps the gentleman of the
house may be darning his stockings?" There-
upon a face peered into the door of the tent,
at the farther extremity of which I was stretched.
It was that of a woman, but owing to the pos-
ture in which she stood, with her back to the
light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet,
I could distinguish but very little of the features
of her countenance. I had, however, recog-
nised her voice ; it was that of my old acquaint-
ance, Mrs. Herne. "Ho, ho, sir!" said she,
"here you are. Come here, Leonora," said
she to the gipsy girl, who pressed in at the other
side of the door; "here is the gentleman, not
asleep, but only stretched out after dinner.
Sit down on your ham, child, at the door, I
shall do the same. There — you have seen
me before, sir, have you not?"
"The gentleman makes no answer, bebee;
perhaps he does not know you."
"I have known him of old, Leonora," said
Mrs. Herne; "and, to tell you the truth, though
LAVENGRO
423
I spoke to him just now, I expected no an-
swer."
"It's a way he has, bebee, I suppose?"
"Yes, child, it's a way he has."
"Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he
cannot see your face."
"I do not think that will be of much use,
child; however, I will take off my bonnet —
there — and shake out my hair — there —
you have seen this hair before, sir, and this
face — "
"No answer, bebee."
"Though the one was not quite so gray, nor
the other so wrinkled."
"How came they so, bebee?"
"All along of this gorgio, child."
"The gentleman in the house, you mean,
bebee."
"Yes, child, the gentleman in the house.
God grant that I may preserve my temper.
Do you know, sir, my name? My name is
Herne, which signifies a hairy individual,
though neither gray-haired nor wrinkled. It
is not the nature of the Hernes to be gray or
wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am
not old."
"How old are you, bebee?"
"Sixty-five years, child — an inconsiderable
number. My mother was a hundred and one
— a considerable age — when she died, yet
she had not one gray hair, and not more than
six wrinkles — an inconsiderable number."
"She had no griefs, bebee?"
"Plenty, child, but not like mine."
"Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?"
"No, child, my head wanders when I think
of them. After the death of my husband, who
came to his end untimeously, I went to live
with a daughter of mine, married out among
certain Romans who walk about the eastern
counties, and with whom for some time I found
a home and pleasant society, for they lived right
Romanly, which gave my heart considerable
satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope
to die so. When I say right Romanly, I mean
that they kept to themselves, and were not
much given to blabbing about their private
matters in promiscuous company. Well, things
went on in this way for some time, when
one day my son-in-law brings home a young
gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness,
and, without much preamble, says to me and
to mine, 'This is my pal, a'n't he a beauty?
fall down and worship him.' 'Hold,' said I,
'I for one will never consent to such foolish-
ness.'"
"That was right, bebee, I think I should
have done the same."
"I think you would, child; but what was the
profit of it? The whole party makes an al-
mighty of this gorgio, lets him into their ways,
says prayers of his making, till things come to
such a pass that my own daughter says to me,
'I shall buy myself a veil and fan, and treat
myself to a play and sacrament.' 'Don't,'
says I; says she, 'I should like for once in my
life to be courtesied to as a Christian gentle-
woman.' "
"Very foolish of her, bebee."
"Wasn't it, child? Where was I? At the
fan and sacrament; with a heavy heart I put
seven score miles between us, came back to the
hairy ones, and found them over-given to gor-
gious companions; said I, 'foolish manners is
catching, all this comes of that there gorgio.'
Answers the child Leonora, 'Take comfort,
bebee, I hate the gorgios as much as you do.'"
"And I say so again, bebee, as much or
more."
"Time flows on, I engage in many matters,
in most miscarry. Am sent to prison; says
I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned
out of prison, and go back to the hairy ones,
who receive me not over courteously; says I,
for their unkindness, and my own foolishness,
all the thanks to that gorgio. Answers to me
the child, 'I wish I could set my eyes upon
him, bebee.'"
"I did so, bebee; go on."
"'How shall I know him, bebee?' says the
child. 'Young and gray, tall, and speaks
Romanly.' Runs to me the child, and says,
'I've found him, bebee.' 'Where, child?' says
I. 'Come with me, bebee,' says the child.
'That's he,' says I, as I looked at my gentleman
through the hedge."
"Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned
like a hog."
"You have taken drows, sir," said Mrs.
Herne; "do you hear, sir? drows; tip him a
stave, child, of the song of poison."
And thereupon the girl clapped her hands,
and sang —
" The Rommany churl
And the Rommany girl,
To-morrow shall hie
To poison the sty,
And bewitch on the mead
• The farmer's steed."
"Do you hear that, sir?" said Mrs. Herne;
"the child has tipped you a stave of the song of
424
GEORGE BORROW
poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly,
though perhaps you would like to hear it
Romanly; you were always fond of what was
Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child."
"He has heard it Romanly already, bebee;
'twas by that I found him out, as I told you."
"Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you 'have
taken drows; the gentleman makes no answer.
God give me patience ! "
"And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he
poisoned like a hog ? Gentleman ! indeed,
why call him gentleman? if he ever was one
he's broke, and is now a tinker, and a worker
of blue metal."
"That's his way, child, to-day a tinker,
to-morrow something else; and as for being
drabbed, I don't know what to say about it."
"Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee?
but look there, bebee; ha, ha, look at the
gentleman's motions."
"He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho!
sir, you have taken drows; what, another
throe ! writhe, sir, writhe, the hog died by the
drow of gipsies ; I saw him stretched at evening.
That's yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir,
no help, you have taken drows; shall I tell you
your fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless
you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you
have to suffer, and much water to cross; but
never mind, pretty gentleman, you shall be
fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall
take off their hats to you."
"Hey, bebee !" cried the girl; "what is this?
what do you mean? you have blessed the
gorgio!"
"Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say?
Oh, I remember, I'm mad; well, I can't help
it, I said what the dukkerin dook told me;
woe's me, he'll get up yet."
"Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions,
he's drabbed, spite of dukkerin."
"Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but
don't laugh at dukkerin, only folks do that that
know no better. I, for one, will never laugh
at the dukkerin dook. Sick again ; I wish he
was gone."
"He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him.
He's as good as gone; look there, he's dead."
"No, he's not, he'll get up — I feel it; can't
we hasten him?"
"Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog
upon him. Here, juggal, look in there, my
dog."
The dog made its appearance at the door of
the tent, and began to bark and tear up the
ground.
"At him, juggal, at him; he wished to
poison, to drab you. Halloo!"
The dog barked violently, and seemed about
to spring at my face, but retreated.
"The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed
at the dog with his eye, and scared him. He'll
get up."
"Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry;
how should he get up?"
"The dook tells me so, and, what's more,
I had a dream. I thought I was at York,
standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung,
and the crowd shouted 'There he comes!'
and I looked, and, lo ! it was the tinker; before
I could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I
found myself in Ely's big church, which was
chock full of people to hear the dean preach,
and all eyes were turned to the big pulpit;
and presently I heard them say, ' There
he mounts!' and I looked up to the big
pulpit, and lo ! the tinker was in the pulpit,
and he raised his arm and began to preach.
Anon, I found myself at York again, just as
the drop fell, and I looked up, and I saw,
not the tinker, but my own self hanging in
the air."
"You are going mad, bebee; if you want to
hasten him, take your stick and poke him in
the eye."
"That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin
tells me so ; but I will try what I can do.
Halloo, tinker! you must introduce yourself
into a quiet family, and raise confusion —
must you? You must steal its language, and,
what was never done before, write it down
Christianly — must you? Take that — and
that;" and she stabbed violently with her stick
towards the end of the tent.
"That's right, bebee, you struck his face;
now once more, and let it be in the eye. Stay,
what's that? get up, bebee."
"What's the matter, child?"
"Some one is coming, come away."
"Let me make sure of him, child; he'll
be up yet." And thereupon Mrs. Herne,
rising, leaned forward into the tent, and sup-
porting herself against the pole, took aim in
the direction of the farther end. "I will
thrust out his eye," said she ; and, lunging with
her stick, she would probably have accom-
plished her purpose had not at that moment
the pole of the tent given way, whereupon she
fell to the ground, the canvas falling upon her
and her intended victim.
"Here's a pretty affair, bebee," screamed the
girl.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
425
"He'll get up yet," said Mrs. Herne, from
beneath the canvas.
"Get up ! — get up yourself; where are you ?
where is your — • Here, there, bebee, here's the
door; there, make haste, they are coming."
"He'll get up yet," said Mrs. Herne, recover-
ing her breath, "the dook tells me so."
' ' Never mind him or the dook ; he is drabbed ;
come away, or we shall be grabbed — both of
us."
"One more blow, I know where his head
lies."
"You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow —
gorgio avella."
And thereupon the females hurried away.
A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing
nigh; in a little time it came alongside of the
place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped
suddenly. There was a silence for a moment,
and then a parley ensued between two voices,
one of which was that of a woman. It was not
in English, but in a deep guttural tongue.
"Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y
ddaear?" said a masculine voice.
" Yn wirionedd — I do not know what it can
be," said the female voice, in the same tongue.
"Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what
is that on the ground?"
"Something moves beneath it; and what
was that — a groan ? "
"Shall I get down?"
"Of course, Peter, some one may want your
help."
"Then I will get down, though I do not like
this place, it is frequented by Egyptians, and I
do not like their yellow faces, nor their clib-
berty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now
I am down. It is a tent, Winifred, and see,
here is a boy beneath it. Merciful father!
what a face ! "
A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked
and serious countenance, dressed in sober-
coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling
folds of the tent and was bending over me.
"Can you speak, my lad?" said he in English,
"what is the matter with you? if you could
but tell me, I could perhaps help you — "
"What is it that you say? I can't hear you.
I will kneel down1;" and he flung himself on
the ground, and placed his ear close to my
mouth. "Now speak if you can. Hey! what!
no, sure, God forbid!" then starting up, he
cried to a female who sat in the cart, anxiously
looking on — "Gwenwyn! gwenwyn! yw
y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw. The oil ! Wini-
fred, the oil!"
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACK-
ERAY (1811-1863)
THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS
STERNE
. Roger Sterne, Sterne's father, was the second
son of a numerous race, descendants of Richard
Sterne, Archbishop of York, in the reign of
Charles II.; and children of Simon Sterne
and Mary Jaques, his wife, heiress of Elving-
ton, near York. Roger was an ensign in
Colonel Hans Hamilton's regiment, and en-
gaged in Flanders in Queen Anne's wars.
He married the daughter of a noted sutler.
"N. B., he was in debt to him," his son writes,
pursuing the paternal biography — and marched
through the world with his companion; she
following the regiment and bringing many
children to poor Roger Sterne. The Captain
was an irascible but kind and simple little man,
Sterne says, and he informs us that his sire was
run through the body at Gibraltar, by a brother
officer, in a duel which arose out of a dispute
about a goose. Roger never entirely recovered
from the effects of this rencontre, but died
presently at Jamaica, whither he had followed
the drum.
Laurence, his second child, was born at
Clonmel, in Ireland, in 1713, and travelled
for the first ten years of his life, on his father's
march, from barrack to transport, from Ire-
land to England.
One relative of his mother's took her and her
family under shelter for ten months at Mullin-
gar; another collateral descendant of the
Archbishop's housed them for a year at his
castle near Carrickfergus. Larry Sterne was
put to school at Halifax in England, finally
was adopted by his kinsman of Elvington, and
parted company with his father, the Captain,
who marched on his path of life till he met the
fatal goose which closed his career. The most
picturesque and delightful parts of Laurence
Sterne's writings we owe to his recollections of
the military life. Trim's montero cap, and
Le Fevre's sword, and dear Uncle Toby's
roquelaure are doubtless reminiscences of the
boy, who had lived with the followers of William
and Marlborough, and had beat time with his
little feet to the fifes of Ramillies in Dublin
barrack-yard, or played with the torn flags and
halberds of Malplaquet on the parade-ground
at Clonmel.
Laurence remained at Halifax school till
426
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
he was eighteen years old. His wit and clever-
ness appear to have acquired the respect of
his master here; for when the usher whipped
Laurence for writing his name on the newly
whitewashed schoolroom ceiling, the peda-
gogue in chief rebuked the understrapper, and
said that the name should never be effaced, for
Sterne was a boy of genius, and would come to
preferment.
His cousin, the Squire of Elvington, sent
Sterne to Jesus College, Cambridge, where he
remained some years, and, taking orders,
got, through his uncle's interest, the living of
Sutton and a prebendal stall at York. Through
his wife's connections he got the living of Still;
ington. He married her in 1741, having
ardently courted the young lady for some years
previously. It was not until the young lady
fancied herself dying, that she made Sterne
acquainted with the extent of her liking for him.
One evening when he was sitting with her, with
an almost broken heart to see her so ill (the
Reverend Mr. Sterne's heart was a good deal
broken in the course of his life), she said —
"My dear Laurey, I never can be yours, for I
verily believe I have not long to live ; but I have
left you every shilling of my fortune;" a gen-
erosity which overpowered Sterne. She re-
covered: and so they were married, and grew
heartily tired of each other before many years
were over. "Nescio quid _est materia cum
me," Sterne writes to one of his friends (in
dog-Latin, and very sad dog-Latin too); "sed
sum fatigatus et aegrotus de mea uxore plus
quam unquam:" which means, I am sorry to
say, "I don't know what is the matter with
me; but I am more tired and sick of my wife
than ever."
This to be sure was five-and-twenty years
after Laurey had been overcome by her gen-
erosity, and she by Laurey's love. Then he
wrote to her of the delights of marriage, saying,
"We will be as merry and as innocent as our
first parents in Paradise, before the arch-fiend
entered that indescribable scene. The kindest
affections will have room to expand in our
retirement: let the human tempest and hur-
ricane rage at a distance, the desolation is
beyond the horizon of peace. My L. has
seen a polyanthus blow in December? — Some
friendly wall has sheltered it from the biting
wind. No planetary influence shall reach us
but that which presides and cherishes the
sweetest flowers. The gloomy family of care
and distrust shall be banished from our dwell-
ing, guarded by thy kind and tutelar deity.
We will sing our choral songs of gratitude
and rejoice to the end of our pilgrimage.
Adieu, my L. Return to one who languishes
for thy society ! — As I take up my pen, my
poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and
tears are trickling down on my paper as I
trace the word L."
And it is about this woman, with whom he
finds no fault but that she bores him, that our
philanthropist writes, "Sum fatigatus et
aegrotus" — Sum mortaliter in amore with
somebody else ! That fine flower of love, that
polyanthus over which Sterne snivelled so
many tears, could not last for a quarter of a
century !
Or rather it could not be expected that a
gentleman with such a fountain at command
should keep it to arroser one homely old lady,
when a score of younger and prettier people
might be refreshed from the same gushing
source. It was in December 1767, that the
Reverend Laurence Sterne, the famous Shand-
ean, the charming Yorick, the delight of the
fashionable world, the delicious divine for whose
sermons the whole polite world was subscribing,
the occupier of Rabelais's easy-chair, only fresh
stuffed and more elegant than when in posses-
sion of the cynical old curate of Meudon, —
the more than rival of the Dean of Saint
Patrick's, wrote the above-quoted respectable
letter to his friend in London: and it was in
April of the same year that he was pouring out
his fond heart to Mrs. Elizabeth Draper, wife
of "Daniel Draper, Esquire, Councillor of Bom-
bay, and, in 1775, chief of the factory of Surat
— a gentleman very much respected in that
quarter of the globe."
"I got thy letter last night, Eliza," Sterne
writes, "on my return from Lord Bathurst's,
where I dined"- - (the letter has this merit
in it, that it contains a pleasant reminiscence of
better men than Sterne, and introduces us to
a portrait of a kind old gentleman) — "I got
thy letter last night, Eliza, on my return from
Lord Bathurst's; and where I was heard — as
I talked of thee an hour without intermission —
with so much pleasure and attention, that the
good old Lord toasted your health three differ-
ent times; and now he is in his 85th year, says
he hopes to live long enough to be introduced as
a friend to my fair Indian disciple, and to see
her eclipse all other Nabobesses as much in
wealth as she does already in exterior and, what
is far better" (for Sterne is nothing without his
morality), "in interior merit. This nobleman
is an old friend of mine. You know he was
THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS
427
always the protector of men of wit and genius,
and has had those of the last century, Addison,
Steele, Pope, Swift, Prior, &c., always at his
table. The manner in which his notice began
of me was as singular as it was polite. He came
up to me one day as I was at the Princess of
Wales's Court, and said, 'I want to know you,
Mr. Sterne, but it is fit you also should know
who it is that wishes this pleasure. You have
heard of an old Lord Bathurst, of whom your
Popes and Swifts have sung and spoken so
much? I have lived my life with geniuses of
that cast; but have survived them; and,
despairing ever to find their equals, it is some"
years since I have shut up my books and closed
my accounts; but you have kindled a desire
in me of opening them once more before I die :
which I now do: so go home and dine with me.'
This nobleman, I say, is a prodigy, for he has all
the wit and promptness of a man of thirty;
a disposition to be pleased, and a power to
please others, beyond whatever I knew ; added
to which a man of learning, courtesy, and
feeling.
"He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with un-
common satisfaction — for there was only a
third person, and of sensibility, with us: and
a most sentimental afternoon, till nine o'clock
have we passed! But thou, Eliza, wert the
star that conducted and enlivened the dis-
course! And when I talked not of thee, still
didst thou fill my mind, and warm every thought
I uttered, for I am not ashamed to acknowledge
I greatly miss thee. Best of all good girls!
the sufferings I have sustained all night in con-
sequence of thine, Eliza, are beyond the power
of words. . . . And so thou hast fixed thy
Bramin's portrait over thy writing-desk, and
wilt consult it in all doubts and difficulties? —
Grateful and good girl! Yorick smiles con-
tentedly over all thou dost : his picture does not
do justice to his own complacency. I am glad
your shipmates are friendly beings" (Eliza was
at Deal, going back to the Councillor at Bom-
bay, and indeed it was high time she should be
off). "You could least dispense with what is
contrary to your own nature, which is soft and
gentle, Eliza; it would civilise savages —
though pity were it thou shouldst be tainted
with the office. Write to me, my child, thy
delicious letters. Let them speak the easy
carelessness of a heart that opens itself anyhow,
everyhow. Such, Eliza, I write to thee!"
(The artless rogue, of course he did!) "And
so I should ever love thee, most artlessly, most
affectionately, if Providence permitted thy resi-
dence in the same section of the globe: for
I am all that honour and affection can make
me 'Thy Bramin.'"
The Bramin continues addressing Mrs.
Draper until the departure of the Earl oj
Chatham Indiaman from Deal, on the 3rd
of April 1767. He is amiably anxious about
the fresh paint for Eliza's cabin; he is uncom-
monly solicitous about her companions on
board : —
"I fear the best of your shipmates are only
genteel by comparison with the contrasted
crew with which thou beholdest them. So
was — you know who — from the same fallacy
which was put upon your judgment when —
but I will not mortify you ! "
"You know who" was, of course, Daniel
Draper, Esquire, of Bombay — a gentleman
very much respected in that quarter of the globe,
and about whose probable health our worthy
Bramin writes with delightful candour:
"I honour you, Eliza, for keeping secret
some things which, if explained, had been a
panegyric on yourself. There is a dignity in
venerable affliction which will not allow it to
appeal to the world for pity or redress. Well
have you supported that character, my amiable,
my philosophic friend! And, indeed, I begin
to think you have as many virtues as my
Uncle Toby's widow. Talking of widows —
pray, Eliza, if ever you are such, do not think
of giving yourself to some wealthy Nabob,
Because I design to marry you myself. My
wife cannot live long, and I know not the
woman I should like so well for her substitute
as yourself. 'Tis true I am ninety-five in con-
stitution, and you but twenty-five; but what
I want in youth, I will make up in wit and
good-humour. Not Swift so loved his Stella,
Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his Saccha-
rissa. Tell me, in answer to this, that you ap-
prove and honour the proposal."
Approve and honour the proposal ! The
coward was writing gay letters to his friends this
while, with sneering allusions to this poor
foolish Bramine. Her ship was not out of the
Downs and the charming Sterne was at the
"Mount Coffee-house," with a sheet of gilt-
edged paper before him, offering that precious
treasure his heart to Lady P -, asking whether
it gave her pleasure to see him unhappy?
whether it added to her triumph that her eyes
and lips had turned a man into a fool? — quot-
ing the Lord's Prayer, with a horrible baseness
of blasphemy, as a proof that he had desired
not to be led into temptation, and swearing
428
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
himself the most tender and sincere fool in the
world. It was from his home at Coxwold,
that he wrote the Latin Letter, which, I suppose,
he was ashamed to put into English. I find
in my copy of the Letters that there is a note of,
I can't call it admiration, at Letter 112, which
seems to announce that there was a No. 3 to
whom the wretched worn-out old scamp was
paying his addresses; and the year after,
having come back to his lodgings in Bond Street,
with his "Sentimental Journey" to launch upon
the town, eager as ever for praise and pleasure
— as vain, as wicked, as witty, as false as he
had ever been, death at length seized the feeble
wretch, and on the i8th of March 1768, that
"bale of cadaverous goods," as he calls his
body, was consigned to Pluto. In his last letter
there is one sign of grace — the real affection
with which he entreats a friend to be a guardian
to his daughter Lydia. All his letters to her are
artless, kind, affectionate, and not sentimental ;
as a hundred pages in his writings are beautiful,
and full, not of surprising humour merely, but
of genuine love and kindness. A perilous trade,
indeed, is that of a man who has to bring his
tears and laughter, his recollections, his per-
sonal griefs and joys, his private thoughts and
feelings to market, to write them on paper, and
sell them for money. Does he exaggerate his
grief, so as to get his reader's pity for a false
sensibility? feign indignation, so as to establish
a character for virtue? elaborate repartees, so
that he may pass for a wit? steal from other
authors, and put down the theft to the credit
side of his own reputation for ingenuity and
learning? feign originality? affect benev-
olence or misanthropy? appeal to the gallery
gods with claptraps and vulgar baits to catch
applause ?
How much of the pain and emphasis is
necessary for the fair business of the stage,
and how much of the rant and rouge is put on
for the vanity of the actors ? His audience trusts
him: can he trust himself? How much was
deliberate calculation and imposture — how
much was false sensibility — and how much
true feeling? Where did the lie begin, and
did he know where? and where did the truth
end in the art and scheme of this man of genius,
this actor, this quack? Some time since, I
was in the company of a French actor who began
after dinner, and at his own request, to sing
French songs of the sort called des chansons
grivoises, and which he performed admira-
bly, and to the dissatisfaction of most persons
present. Having finished these, he commenced
a sentimental ballad — it was so charmingly
sung that it touched all persons present, and
especially the singer himself, whose voice
trembled, whose eyes filled with emotion, and
who was snivelling and weeping quite genuine
tears by the time his own ditty was over. I
suppose Sterne had this artistical sensibility;
he used to blubber perpetually in his study,
and finding his tears infectious, and that they
brought him a great popularity, he exercised
the lucrative gift of weeping : he utilised it, and
cried on every occasion. I own that I don't
value or respect much the cheap dribble of
those fountains. He fatigues me with his per-
petual disquiet and his uneasy appeals to my
risible or sentimental faculties. He is always
looking in my face, watching his effect, uncer-
tain whether I think him an impostor or not;
posture-making, coaxing, and imploring me.
"See what sensibility I have — own now that
I'm very clever — do cry now, you can't resist
this." The humour of Swift and Rabelais,
whom he pretended to succeed, poured from
them as naturally as song does from a bird;
they lose no manly dignity with it, but laugh
their hearty great laugh out of their broad chests
as nature bade them. But this man — who
can make you laugh, who can make you cry too
— never lets his reader alone, or will permit
his audience repose: when you are quiet, he
fancies he must rouse you, and turns over head
and heels, or sidles up and whispers a nasty
story. The man is a great jester, not a great
homourist. He goes to work systematically
and of cold blood ; paints his face, puts on his
ruff and motley clothes, and lays down his car-
pet and tumbles on it.
For instance, take the " Sentimental Jour-
ney," and see in the writer the deliberate pro-
pensity to make points and seek applause. He
gets to "Dessein's Hotel," he wants a carriage
to travel to Paris, he goes to the inn-yard,
and begins what the actors call "business"
at once. There is that little carriage (the
desobligeante).
"Four months had elapsed since it had
finished its career of Europe in the corner of
Monsieur Dessein's coach-yard, and having
sallied out thence but a vamped-up business
at first, though it had been twice taken to pieces
on Mont Cenis, it had not profited much by its
adventures, but by none so little as the stand-
ing so many months unpitied in the corner of
Monsieur Dessein's coach-yard. Much, indeed,
was not to be said for it — but something
might — and when a few words will rescue
THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS
429
misery out of her distress, I hate the man
who can be a churl of them."
Le tour est fait! Paillasse has tumbled!
Paillasse has jumped over the dfcobligeante,
cleared it, hood and all, and bows to the noble
company. Does anybody believe that this is a
real Sentiment? that this luxury of generosity,
this gallant rescue of Misery — out of an old
cab, is genuine feeling? It is as genuine as
the virtuous oratory of Joseph Surface when he
begins, "The man who," etc., etc., and wishes
to pass off for a saint with his credulous, good-
humoured dupes.
Our friend purchases the carriage : after turn-
ing that notorious old monk to good account,
and effecting (like a soft and good-natured
Paillasse as he was, and very free with his
money when he had it) an exchange of snuff-
boxes with the old Franciscan, jogs out of
Calais; sets down in immense figures on the
credit side of his account the sous he gives
away to the Montreuil beggars; and, at Nam-
pont, gets out of the chaise and whimpers over
that famous dead donkey, for which any sen-
timentalist may cry who will. It is agreeably
and skilfully done — that dead jackass: like
Monsieur de Soubise's cook on the campaign,
Sterne dresses it, and serves it up quite tender
and with a very piquant sauce. But tears and
fine feelings, and a white pocket-handkerchief,
and funeral serrrton, and horses and feathers,
and a procession of mutes, and a hearse with
a dead donkey inside! Psha, mountebank!
I'll not give thee one penny more for that trick,
donkey and all !
This donkey had appeared once before with
signal effect. In 1765, three years before the
publication of the "Sentimental Journey,"
the seventh and eighth volumes of "Tristram
Shandy" were given to the world, and the
famous Lyons donkey makes his entry in those
volumes (pp. 315, 316) : —
"'Twas by a poor ass, with a couple of large
panniers at his back, who had just turned in
to collect eleemosynary turnip-tops and cab-
bage-leaves, and stood dubious, with his two
forefeet at the inside of the threshold, and with
his two hinder feet towards the street, as not
knowing very well "whether he was to go in or
no.
"Now 'tis an animal (be in what hurry I
may) I cannot bear to strike: there is a patient
endurance of suffering wrote so unaffectedly
in his looks and carriage which pleads so
mightily for him, that it always disarms me,
and to that degree that I do not like to speak
unkindly to him: on the contrary, meet him
where I will, whether in town or country, in
cart or under panniers, whether in liberty or
bondage, I have ever something civil to say to
him on my part; and, as one word begets
another (if he has as little to do,as I), I gener-
ally fall into conversation with him ; and surely
never is my imagination so busy as in framing
responses from the etchings of his countenance ;
and where those carry me not deep enough, in
flying from my own heart into his, and seeing
what is natural for an ass to think — as well
as a man, upon the occasion. In truth, it is
the only creature of all the classes of beings
below me with whom I can do this. . . . With
an ass I can commune forever.
"'Come, Honesty,' said I, seeing it was
impracticable to pass betwixt him and the
gate, 'art thou for coming in or going out?'
"The ass twisted his head round to look up
the street.
"'Well!' replied I, 'we'll wait a minute for
thy driver.'
"He turned his head thoughtfully about,
and looked wistfully the opposite way.
"'I understand thee perfectly,' answered I:
'if thou takest a wrong step in this affair, he
will cudgel thee to death. Well ! a minute is
but a minute; and if it saves a fellow-creature
a drubbing, it shall not be set down as ill spent.'
"He was eating the stem of an artichoke
as this discourse went on, and, in the little
peevish contentions between hunger and un-
savouriness, had dropped it out of his mouth
half-a-dozen times, and had picked it up again.
'God help thee, Jack!' said I, 'thou hast a
bitter breakfast on't — and many a bitter day's
labour, and many a bitter blow, I fear, for its
wages ! 'Tis all, all bitterness to thee — what-
ever life is to others! And now thy mouth,
if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter, I dare
say, as soot' (for he had cast aside the stem),
'and thou hast not a friend perhaps in all this
world that will give thee a macaroon.' In
saying this, I pulled out a paper of 'em, which
I had just bought, and gave him one ; and at
this moment that I am telling it, my heart smites
me that there was more of pleasantry in the
conceit of seeing how an ass would eat a
macaroon than of benevolence in giving him
one, which presided in the act.
"When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I
pressed him to come in. The poor beast was
heavy loaded — his legs seemed to tremble
under him — he hung rather backwards, and,
as I pulled at his halter, it broke in my hand.
43°
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
He looked up pensive in my face : 'Don't thrash
me with it; but if you will you may.' 'If I
do,' said I, Til be d—.'"
A critic who refuses to see in this charming
description wit, humour, pathos, a kind nature
speaking, and a real sentiment, must be hard
indeed to move and to please. A page or two
farther we come to a description not less beau-
tiful — a landscape and figures, deliciously
painted by one who had the keenest enjoyment
and the most tremulous sensibility: —
" 'Twas in the road between Nismes and
Lunel, where is the best Muscatto wine in all
France: the sun was set, they had done their
work: the nymphs had tied up their hair
afresh, and the swains were preparing for a
carousal. My mule made a dead point.
"Tis the pipe and tambourine,' said I — 'I
never will argue a point with one of your
family as long as I live;' so leaping off his
back, and kicking off one boot into this ditch
and t'other into that, Til take a dance,' said
I, 'so stay you here.'
"A sunburnt daughter of labour rose up
from the group to meet me as I advanced
towards them; her hair, which was of a dark
chestnut approaching to a black, was tied up in
a knot, all but a single tress.
"'We want a cavalier,' said she, holding out
both her hands, as if to offer them. 'And a
cavalier you shall have,' said I, taking hold
of both of them. 'We could not have done
without you,' said she, letting go one hand,
with self-taught politeness, and leading me up
with the other.
"A lame youth, whom Apollo had recom-
pensed with a pipe, and to which he had added
a tambourine of his own accord, ran sweetly
over the prelude, as he sat upon the bank.
'Tie me up this tress instantly,' said Nannette,
putting a piece of string into my hand. It
taught me to forget I was a stranger. The
whole knot fell down — we had been seven
years acquainted. The youth struck the note
upon the tambourine, his pipe followed, and off
we bounded.
"The sister of the youth — who had stolen
her voice from heaven — sang alternately with
her brother. 'Twas a Gascoigne roundelay:
' Viva la joia, fidon la tristessa.' The nymphs
joined in unison, and their swains an octave
below them.
"Viva la joia was in Nannette's lips, viva
la joia in her eyes. A transient spark of amity
shot across the space betwixt us. She looked
amiable. Why could I not live and end my
days thus? 'Just Disposer of our joys and
sorrows!' cried I, 'why could not a man sit
down in the lap of content here, and dance,
and sing, and say his prayers, and go to heaven
with this nut-brown maid?' Capriciously did
she bend her head on one side, and dance up
insidious. 'Then 'tis time to dance off,' quoth
I."
And with this pretty dance and chorus, the
volume artfully concludes. Even here one
can't give the whole description. There is not
a page in Sterne's writing but has something
that were better away, a latent corruption — a
hint, as of an impure presence.
Some of that dreary double entendre may be
attributed to freer times and manners than
ours, but not all. The foul satyr's eyes leer
out of the leaves constantly: the last words the
famous author wrote were bad and wicked —
the last lines the poor stricken wretch penned
were for pity and pardon. I think of these past
writers and of one who lives amongst us now,
and am grateful for the innocent laughter and
the sweet and unsullied page which the author
of "David Copperfield" gives to my children.
VANITY" FAIR
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH LORD STEYNE SHOWS HIMSELF IN A
MOST AMIABLE LIGHT
When Lord Steyne was benevolently disposed,
he did nothing by halres, and his kindness
towards the Crawley family did the greatest
honour to his benevolent discrimination. His
lordship extended his good-will to little Rawdon :
he pointed out to the boy's parents the neces-
sity of sending him to a public school : that he
was of an age now when emulation, the first
principles of the Latin language, pugilistic
exercises, and the society of his fellow-boys
would be of the greatest benefit to the boy. His
father objected that he was not rich enough
to send the child to a good public school ; his
mother, that Briggs was a capital mistress for
him, and had brought him on (as indeed was the
fact) famously in English, the Latin rudiments,
and in general learning: but all these objec-
tions disappeared before the generous perse-
verance of the Marquis of Steyne. His lord-
ship was one of the governors of that famous
old collegiate institution called the Whitefriars.
It had been a Cistercian Convent in old days,
when the Smithfield, which is contiguous to it,
VANITY FAIR
was a tournament ground. Obstinate heretics
used to be brought thither convenient for
burning hard by. Henry VIII., the Defender
of the Faith, seized upon the monastery and its
possessions, and hanged and tortured some of
the monks who could not accommodate them-
selves to the pace of his reform. Finally, a
great merchant bought the house and land
adjoining, in which, and with the help of other
wealthy endowments of land and money, he
established a famous foundation hospital for
old men and children. An extern school grew
round the old almost monastic foundation,
which subsists still, with its middle-age costume
and usages: and all Cistercians pray that it
may long flourish.
Of this famous house, some of the greatest
noblemen, prelates, and dignitaries in England
are governors: and as the boys are very com-
fortably lodged, fed, and educated, and sub-
sequently inducted to good scholarships at the
University and livings in the Church, many little
gentlemen are devoted to the ecclesiastical pro-
fession from their tenderest years, and there is
considerable emulation to procure nominations
for the foundation. It was originally intended
for the sons of poor and deserving clerics and
laics; but many of the noble governors of the
Institution, with an enlarged and rather
capricious benevolence, selected all sorts of
objects for their bounty. To get an education
for nothing, and a future livelihood and pro-
fession assured, was so excellent a scheme
that some of the richest people did not disdain
it ; and not only great men's relations, but great
men themselves, sent their sons to profit by
the chance — Right Reverend Prelates sent
their own kinsmen or the sons of their clergy,
'* while, on the other hand, some great noblemen
did not disdain to patronise the children of their
confidential servants, — so that a lad entering
this establishment had every variety of youthful
society wherewith to mingle.
Rawdon Crawley, though the only book
which he studied was the Racing Calendar, and
though his chief recollections of polite learning
were connected with the floggings which he
received at Eton in his early youth, had that
decent and honest reverence for classical learning
which all English gentlemen feel, and was glad
to think that his son was to have a provision
for life, perhaps, and a certain opportunity of
becoming a scholar. And although his boy
was his chief solace and companion, and en-
deared to him by a thousand small ties, about
which he did not care to speak to his wife,
who had all along shown the utmost indifference
to their son, yet Rawdon agreed at once to part
with him, and to give up his own greatest com-
fort and benefit for the sake of the welfare of
the little lad. He did not know how fond he
was of the child until it became necessary to let
him go away. When he was gone, he felt more
sad and downcast than he cared to own — far
sadder than the boy himself, who was happy
enough to enter a new career, and find com-
panions of his own age. Becky burst out
laughing once or twice, when the colonel, in
his clumsy, incoherent way, tried to express
his sentimental sorrows at the boy's departure.
The poor fellow felt that his dearest pleasure and
closest friend was taken from him. He looked
often and wistfully at the little vacant bed in
his dressing-room, where the child used to
sleep. He missed him sadly of mornings, and
tried in vain to walk in the Park without him.
He did not know how solitary he was until little
Rawdon was gone. He liked the people who
were fond of him; and would go and sit for
long hours with his good-natured sister Lady
Jane, and talk to her about the virtues, and
good looks, and hundred good qualities of
the .child.
Young Rawdon' s aunt, we have said, was
very fond of him, as was her little girl, who
wept copiously when the time for her cousin's
departure came. The elder Rawdon was thank-
ful for the fondness of mother and daughter.
The very best and honestest feelings of the man
came out in these artless out-pourings of pater-
nal feeling in which he indulged in their pres-
ence, and encouraged by their sympathy.
He secured not only Lady Jane's kindness, but
her sincere regard, by the feelings which he
manifested, and which he could not show to
his own wife. The two kinswomen met as
seldom as possible. Becky laughed bitterly at
Jane's feelings and softness ; the other's kindly
and gentle nature could not but revolt at her
sister's callous behaviour.
It estranged Rawdon from his wife more
than he knew or acknowledged to himself.
She did not care for the estrangement. Indeed,
she did not miss him or anybody. She looked
upon him as her errand-man and humble slave.
He might be ever so depressed or sulky, and she
did not mark his demeanour, or only treated it
with a sneer. She was busy thinking about her
position, or her pleasures, or her advancement
in society; she ought to have held a great place
in it, that is certain.
It was honest Briggs who made up the little
43 2
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
kit for the boy which he was to take to school.
Molly, the housemaid, blubbered in the passage
when he went away — Molly, kind and faithful
in spite of a long arrear of unpaid wages. Mrs.
Becky could not let her husband have the
carriage to take the boy to school. Take the
horses into the city ! — such a thing was never
heard of. Let a cab be brought. She did not
offer to kiss him when he went: nor did the
child propose to embrace her: but gave a kiss
to old Briggs (whom, in general, he was very
shy of caressing), and consoled her by pointing
out that he was to come home on Saturdays,
when she would have the benefit of seeing him.
As the cab rolled towards the city, Becky's
carriage rattled off to the Park. She was chat-
tering and laughing with a score of young
dandies by the Serpentine, as the father and
son entered at the old gates of the school —
where Rawdon left the child, and came away
with a sadder, purer feeling in his heart than
perhaps that poor battered fellow had ever
known since he himself came out of the nursery.
He walked all the way home very dismally,
and dined alone with Briggs. He was very kind
to her, and grateful for her love and watch-
fulness over the boy. His conscience smote
him that he had borrowed Briggs's money, and
aided in deceiving her. They talked about
little Rawdon a long time, for Becky only came
home to dress and go out to dinner — and
then he went off uneasily to drink tea with
Lady Jane, and tell her of what had happened,
and how little Rawdon went off like a trump,
and how he was to wear a gown and little knee-
breeches, and how young Blackball, Jack
Blackball's son, of the old regiment, had taken
him in charge and promised to be kind to him.
In the course of a week, young Blackball had
constituted little Rawdon his fag, shoe-black,
and breakfast toaster; initiated him into the
mysteries of the Latin grammar, and thrashed
him three or four times; but not severely.
The little chap's good-natured honest face won
his way for him. He only got that degree of
beating which was, no doubt, good for him;
and as for blacking shoes, toasting bread, and
fagging in general, were these offices not deemed
to be necessary parts of every young English
gentleman's education?
Our business does not lie with the second
generation and Master Rawdon's life at school,
otherwise the present tale might be carried to
any indefinite length. The colonel went to
see his son a short time afterwards, and found
the lad sufficiently well and happy, grinning and
laughing in his little black gown and little
breeches.
His father sagaciously tipped Blackball,
his master, a sovereign, and secured that young
gentleman's good-will towards his fag. As a
protege of the great Lord Steyne, the nephew
of a county member, and son of a colonel and
C.B., whose name appeared in some of the
most fashionable parties in the Morning Post,
perhaps the school authorities were disposed
not to look unkindly on the child. He had
plenty of pocket-money, which he spent in
treating his comrades royally to raspberry tarts,
and he was often allowed to come home on
Saturdays to his father, who always made a
jubilee of that day. When free, Rawdon would
take him to the play, or send him thither with
the footman ; and on Sundays he went to church
with Briggs and Lady Jane and his cousins.
Rawdon marvelled over his stories about school,
and fights, and fagging. Before long, he knew
the names of all the masters and the principal
boys as well as little Rawdon himself. He
invited little Rawdon's crony from school, and
made both the children sick with pastry, and
oysters, and porter after the play. He tried
to look knowing over the Latin grammar when
little Rawdon showed him what part of that
work he was "in." "Stick to it, my boy,"
he said to him with much gravity, "there's
nothing like a good classical education!
nothing ! "
Becky's contempt for her husband grew
greater every day. "Do what you like, —
dine where you please, — go and have ginger-
beer and sawdust at Astley's, or psalm-singing
with Lady Jane, — only don't expect me to
busy myself with the boy. I have your in-
terests to attend to, as you can't attend to them
yourself. I should like to know where you
would have been now, and in what sort of a
position in society, if I had not looked after
you?" Indeed, nobody wanted poor old
Rawdon at the parties whither Becky used to go.
She was often asked without him now. She
talked about great people as if she had the
fee-simple of May Fair; and when the Court
went into mourning, she always wore black.
Little Rawdon being disposed of, Lord Steyne,
who took such a parental interest in the affairs
of this amiable poor family, thought that their
expenses might be very advantageously cur-
tailed by the departure of Miss Briggs; and
that Becky was quite clever enough to take
the management of her own house. It has been
narrated, in a former chapter, how the benevo-
VANITY FAIR
433
lent nobleman had given his protege money to
pay off her little debt to Miss Briggs, who how-
ever still remained behind with her friends;
whence my lord came to the painful conclusion
that Mrs. Crawley had made some other use of
the money confided to her than that for which
her generous patron had given the loan.
However, Lord Steyne was not so rude as to
impart his suspicions upon this head to Mrs.
Becky, whose feelings might be hurt by any
controversy on the money-question, and who
might have a thousand painful reasons for dis-
posing otherwise of his lordship's generous
loan. But he determined to satisfy himself of
the real state of the case: and instituted the
necessary inquiries in a most cautious and
delicate manner.
In the first place he took an early opportu-
nity of pumping Miss Briggs. That was not
a difficult operation. A very little encourage-
ment would set that worthy woman to talk
volubly, and pour out all within her. And one
day when Mrs. Rawdon had gone out to drive
(as Mr. Fiche, his lordship's confidential ser-
vant, easily learned at the livery stables where
the Crawleys kept their carriage and horses,
or rather, where the livery-man kept a car-
riage and horses for Mr. and Mrs. Crawley) —
my lord dropped in upon the Curzon Street
house — asked Briggs for a cup of coffee —
told her that he had good accounts of the little
boy at school — and in five minutes found out
from her that Mrs. Rawdon had given her
nothing except a black silk gown, for which
Miss Briggs was immensely grateful.
He laughed within himself at this artless
story. For the truth is, our dear friend Re-
becca had given him a most circumstantial
narration of Briggs's delight at receiving her
money — eleven hundred and twenty-five pounds
— and in what securities she had invested it;
and what a pang Becky herself felt in being
obliged to pay away such a delightful sum of
money. "Who knows," the dear woman may
have thought within herself, "perhaps he may
give me a little more?" My lord, however,
made no such proposal to the little schemer —
very likely thinking that he had been suffi-
ciently generous already.
He had the curiosity, then, to ask Miss
Briggs about the state of her private affairs —
and she told his lordship candidly what her
position was — how Miss Crawley had left
her a legacy — how her relatives had had part
of it — how Colonel Crawley had put out another
portion, for which she had the best security
and interest — and how Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon
had kindly busied themselves with Sir Pitt,
who was to dispose of the remainder most
advantageously for her, when he had time.
My lord asked how much the colonel had al-
ready invested for her, and Miss Briggs at once
and truly told him that the sum was six hun-
dred and odd pounds.
But as soon as she had told her story, the
voluble Briggs repented of her frankness, and
besought my lord not to tell Mr. Crawley of
the confessions which she had made. "The
colonel was so kind — Mr. Crawley might
be offended and pay back the money, for which
she could get no such good interest anywhere
else." Lord Steyne, laughing, promised he
never would divulge their conversation, and
when he and Miss Briggs parted he laughed
still more.
"What an accomplished little devil it is!"
thought he. "What a splendid actress and
manager ! She had almost got a second supply
out of me the other day, with her coaxing ways.
She beats all the women I have ever seen in the
course of all my well spent life. They are
babies compared to her. I am a greenhorn
myself, and a fool in her hands — an old fool.
She is insurpassable in lies." His lordship's
admiration for Becky rose immeasurably at
this proof of her cleverness. Getting the money
was nothing — but getting double the sum she
wanted, and paying nobody — it was a magnifi-
cent stroke. And Crawley, my lord thought
— Crawley is not such a fool as he looks and
seems. He has managed the matter cleverly
enough on his side. Nobody would ever have
supposed from his face and demeanour that
he knew anything about this money business;
and yet he put her up to it, and has spent the
money, no doubt. In this opinion my lord, we
know, was mistaken ; but it influenced a good
deal his behaviour towards Colonel Crawley,
whom he began to treat with even less than that
semblance of respect which he had formerly
shown -towards that gentleman. It never en-
tered into the head of Mrs. Crawley's patron
that the little lady might be making a purse for
herself; and, perhaps, if the truth must be
told, he judged of Colonel Crawley by his
experience of other husbands whom he had
known in the course of the long and well spent
life which had made him acquainted with a great
deal of the weakness of mankind. My lord
had bought so many men during his life, that
he was surely to be pardoned for supposing that
he had found the price of this one.
434
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
He taxed Becky upon the point on the very
first occasion when he met her alone, and he
complimented her, good-humouredly, on her
cleverness in getting more than the money
which she required. Becky was only a little
taken aback. It was not the habit of this dear
creature to tell falsehoods, except when necessity
compelled, but in these great emergencies it
was her practice to lie very freely; and in an
instant she was ready with another neat plau-
sible circumstantial story which she adminis-
tered to her patron. The previous statement
which she had made to him was a falsehood —
a wicked falsehood: she owned it: but who
had made her tell it ? "Ah, my lord," she said,
"you don't know all I have to suffer and bear
in silence: you see me gay and happy before
you — you little know what I have to endure
when there is no protector near me. It was my
husband, who, by threats and the most savage
treatment, forced me to ask for that sum about
which I deceived you. It was he, who, fore-
seeing that questions might be asked regarding
the disposal of the money, forced me to account
for it as I did. He took the money. He told
me he had paid Miss Briggs; I did not want,
I did not dare to doubt him. Pardon the wrong
which a desperate man is forced to commit,
and pity a miserable, miserable woman."
She burst into tears as she spoke. Persecuted
virtue never looked more bewitchingly wretched.
They had a long conversation, driving round
and round the Regent's Park in Mrs. Crawley's
carriage together, a conversation of which it
is not necessary to repeat the details: but the
upshot of it was, that, when Becky came home,
she flew to her dear Briggs with a smiling face,
and announced that she had some very good
news for her. Lord Steyne had acted in the
noblest and most generous manner. He was
always thinking how and when he could do
good. Now that little Rawdon was gone to
school, a dear companion and friend was no
longer necessary to her. She was grieved
beyond measure to part with Briggs; but her
means required that she should practise every
retrenchment, and her sorrow was mitigated
by the idea that her dear Briggs would be far
better provided for by her generous patron than
in her humble home. Mrs. Pilkington, the
housekeeper at Gauntly Hall, was growing
exceedingly old, feeble, and rheumatic: she
was not equal to the work of superintending
that vast mansion, and must be on the lookout
for a successor. It was a splendid position.
The family did not go to Gauntly once in two
years. At other times the housekeeper was
the mistress of the magnificent mansion — had
four covers daily for her table; was visited by
the clergy and the most respectable people of
the county — was the lady of Gauntly, in fact ;
and the two last housekeepers before Mrs.
Pilkington had married rectors of Gauntly:
but Mrs. P. could not, being the aunt of the
present rector. The place was not to be hers
yet; but she might go down on a visit to Mrs.
Pilkington, and see whether she would like
to succeed her.
What words can paint the ecstatic gratitude
of Briggs ! All she stipulated for was that little
Rawdon should be allowed to come down and
see her at the Hall. Becky promised this —
anything. She ran up to her husband when
he came home, and told him the joyful news.
Rawdon was glad, deuced glad; the weight
was off his conscience about poor Briggs's
money. She was provided for, at any rate,
but — but his mind was disquiet. He did not
seem to be all right somehow. He told little
Southdown what Lord Steyne had done, and
the young man eyed Crawley with an air which
surprised the latter.
He told Lady Jane of this second proof of
Steyne's bounty, and she, too, looked odd and
alarmed; so did Sir Pitt. "She is too clever
and — and gay, to be allowed to go from party
to party without a companion," both said.
"You must go with her, Rawdon, wherever she
goes, and you must have somebody with her
— one of the girls from Queen's Crawley,
perhaps, though they were rather giddy guar-
dians for her."
Somebody Becky should have. But, in the
meantime, it was clear that honest Briggs must
not lose her chance of settlement for life; and
so she and her bags were packed, and she
set off on her journey. And so two of Raw-
don's out-sentinels were in the hands of the
enemy.
Sir Pitt went and expostulated with his
sister-in-law upon the subject of the dismissal
of Briggs, and other matters of delicate family
interest. In vain she pointed out to him how
necessary was the protection of Lord Steyne
for her poor husband; how cruel it would be
on their part to deprive Briggs of the position
offered to her. Cajolements, coaxings, smiles,
tears could not satisfy Sir Pitt, and he had
something very like a quarrel with his once
admired Becky. He spoke of the honour of
the family; the unsullied reputation of the
Crawleys: expressed himself in indignant
VANITY FAIR
435
tones about her receiving those young French-
men — those wild young men of fashion, my
Lord Steyne himself, whose carriage was
always at her door, who passed hours daily
in her company, and whose constant presence
made the world talk about her. As the head of
the house he implored her to be more prudent.
Society was already speaking lightly of her.
Lord Steyne, though a nobleman of the greatest
station and talents, was a man whose attentions
would compromise any woman; he besought,
he implored, he commanded his sister-in-law
to be watchful in her intercourse with that
nobleman.
Becky promised anything and everything
that Pitt wanted; but Lord Steyne came to
her house as often as ever, and Sir Pitt's anger
increased. I wonder was Lady Jane angry or
pleased that her husband at last found fault
with his favourite Rebecca? Lord Steyne's
visits continuing, his own ceased; and his
wife was for refusing all further intercourse
with that nobleman, and declining the invi-
tation to the Charade-night which the mar-
chioness sent to her; but Sir Pitt thought it
was necessary to accept it, as His Royal High-
ness would be there.
Although he went to the party in question,
Sir Pitt quitted it very early, and his wife, too,
was very glad to come away. Becky hardly
so much as spoke to him or noticed her sister-
in-law. Pitt Crawley declared her behaviour
was monstrously indecorous, reprobated in
strong terms the habit of play-acting and
fancy-dressing, as highly unbecoming a Brit-
ish female ; and after the charades were over,
took his brother Rawdon severely to task for
appearing himself, and allowing his wife to
join in such improper exhibitions.
Rawdon said she should not join in any
more such amusements; but, indeed, and per-
haps from hints from his elder brother and
sister, he had already become a very watchful
and exemplary domestic character. He left
off his clubs and billiards. He never left
home. He took Becky out to drive: he went
laboriously with her to all her parties. When-
ever my Lord Steyne called, he was sure to find
the colonel. And when Becky proposed to go
out without her husband, or received invita-
tions for herself, he peremptorily ordered her
to refuse them; and there was that in the
gentleman's manner which enforced obedience.
Little Becky, to do her justice, was charmed
with Rawdon's gallantry. If he was surly,
she never was. Whether friends were present
or absent, she had always a kind smile for
him, and was attentive to his pleasure and
comfort. It was the early days of their mar-
riage over again: the same good-humour,
prevenances, merriment, and artless confidence
and regard. "How much pleasanter it is,"
she would say, "to have you by my side in the
carriage than that foolish old Briggs! Let us
always go on so, dear Rawdon. How nice it
would be, and how happy we should always
be, if we had but the money ! " He fell asleep
after dinner in his chair; he did not see the
face opposite to him, haggard, weary, and ter-
rible; it lighted up with fresh candid smiles
when he woke. It kissed him gaily. He
wondered that he had ever had suspicions.
No, he never had suspicions; all those dumb
doubts and surly misgivings which had been
gathering on his mind were mere idle jealousies.
She was fond of him; she always had been.
As for her shining in society, it was no fault
of hers; she was formed to shine there. Was
there any woman who could talk, or sing, or
do anything like her? If she would but like
the boy! Rawdon thought. But the mother
and son never could be brought together.
And it was while Rawdon's mind was agi-
tated with these doubts and perplexities that
the incident occurred which was mentioned in
the last chapter; and the unfortunate colonel
found himself a prisoner away from home.
CHAPTER XIII
A RESCUE AND A CATASTROPHE
Friend Rawdon drove on then to Mr. Moss's
mansion in Cursitor Street, and was duly in-
ducted into that dismal place of hospitality.
Morning was breaking over the cheerful house-
tops of Chancery Lane as the rattling cab woke
up the echoes there. A little pink-eyed Jew-
boy, with a head as ruddy as the rising morn,
let the party into the house, and Rawdon was
welcomed to the ground-floor apartments by
Mr. Moss, his travelling companion and host,
who cheerfully asked him if he would like a
glass of something warm after his drive.
The colonel was not so depressed as some
mortals would be, who, quitting a palace and
a placens uxor, find themselves barred into a
sponging-house, for, if the truth must be told,
he had been a lodger at Mr. Moss's estab-
lishment once or twice before. We have not
thought it necessary in the previous course
of this narrative to mention these trivial little
436
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
domestic incidents: but the reader may be
assured that they can't unfrequently occur in
the life of a man who lives on nothing a year.
Upon his first visit to Mr. Moss, the colonel,
then a bachelor, had been liberated by the
generosity of his aunt: on the second mishap,
little Becky, with the greatest spirit and kind-
ness, had borrowed a sum of money from Lord
Southdown, and had coaxed her husband's
creditor (who was her shawl, velvet-gown, lace
pocket-handkerchief, trinket, and gimcrack
purveyor, indeed) to take a portion of the
sum claimed, and Rawdon's promissory note
for the remainder: so on both these occasions
the capture and release had been conducted
with the utmost gallantry on all sides, and
Moss and the colonel were therefore on the
very best of terms.
"You'll find your old bed, colonel, and
everything comfortable," that gentleman said,
"as I may honestly say. You may be pretty
sure it's kep aired, and by the best of com-
pany, too. It was slep in the night afore last
by the Honourable Capting Famish, of the
Fiftieth Dragoons, whose mar took him out,
after a fortnight, jest to punish him, -she said.
But, Law bless you, I promise you, he punished
my champagne, and had a party ere every night
— reglar tip-top swells, down from the clubs
and the West End — Captain Ragg, the Hon-
ourable Deuceace, who lives in the Temple,
and some fellers as knows a good glass of wine,
I warrant you. I've got a Doctor of Diwinity
upstairs, five gents in the coffee-room, and
Mrs. Moss has a tably-dy-hoty at half-past
five, and a little cards or music afterwards,
when we shall be most happy to see you."
"I'll ring when I want anything," said
Rawdon, and went quietly to his bedroom.
He was an old soldier, we have said, and not
to be disturbed by any little shocks of fate.
A weaker man would have sent off a letter to
his wife on the instant of his capture. "But
what is the use of disturbing her night's rest?"
thought Rawdon. "She won't know whether
I am in my room or not. It will be time
enough to write to her when she has had her
sleep out, and I have had mine. It's only a
hundred and seventy, and the deuce is in it if
we can't raise that." And so, thinking about
little Rawdon (whom he would not have know
i that he was in such a queer place), the colonel
turned into the bed lately occupied by Captain
Famish, and fell asleep. It was ten o'clock
when he woke up, and the ruddy-headed
youth brought him, with conscious pride, a
fine silver dressing-case, wherewith he might
perform the operation of shaving. Indeed,
Mr. Moss's house, though somewhat dirty,
was splendid throughout. There were dirty
trays, and wine-coolers en permanence on the
sideboard, huge dirty gilt cornices, with dingy
yellow satin hangings to the barred windows
which looked into Cursitor Street — vast and
dirty gilt picture-frames surrounding pieces
sporting and sacred, all of which works were
by the greatest masters; and fetched the
greatest prices, too, in the bill transactions, in
the course of which they were sold and bought
over and over again. The colonel's breakfast
was served to him in the same dingy and
gorgeous plated ware. Miss Moss, a dark-
eyed maid in curl-papers, appeared with the
teapot, and, smiling, asked the colonel how
he had slep? and she brought him in the
Morning Post, with the names of all the great
people who had figured at Lord Steyne's
entertainment the night before. It contained
a brilliant account of the festivities, and of
the beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley's admirable personifications.
After a lively chat with this lady (who sat
on the edge of the breakfast -table in an easy
attitude, displaying the drapery of her stock-
ing and an ex-white satin shoe, which was
down at heel), Colonel Crawley called for pens
and ink and paper; and being asked how
many sheets, chose one, which was brought
to him between Miss Moss's own finger and
thumb. Many a sheet had that dark -eyed
damsel brought in; many a poor fellow had
scrawled and blotted hurried lines of entreaty,
and paced up and down that awful room until
his messenger brought back the reply. Poor
men always use messengers instead of the post.
Who has not had their letters, with the wafers
wet, and the announcement that a person is
waiting in the hall?
Now, on the score of his application, Rawdon
had not many misgivings.
"Dear Becky," (Rawdon wrote): —
"I hope you slept well. Don't be frightened
if I don't bring in your coffy. Last night as I
was coming home smoaking, I met with an
accadent. I was nabbed by Moss of Cursitor
Street — from whose gilt and splendid parler I
write this — the same that had me this time
two years. Miss Moss brought in my tea —
she is grown very fat, and, as usual, had her
stockens down at heal.
"It's Nathan's business — a hundred-and-
VANITY FAIR
437
fifty — with costs, hundred-and -seventy.
Please send me my desk and some cloths —
I'm in pumps and a white tye (something like
Miss M.'s stockings) — I've seventy in it.
And as soon as you get this, Drive to Nathan's
— offer him seventy -five down, and ask him
to renew — say I'll take wine — we may as
well have some dinner sherry ; but not picturs,
they're too dear.
"If he won't stand it. Take my ticker and
such of your things as you can spare, and
send them to Balls — we must, of coarse, have
the sum to-night. It won't do to let it stand
over, as to-morrow's Sunday; the beds here
are not very clean, and there may be other
things out against me — I'm glad it ain't
Rawdon's Saturday for coming home. God
bless you.
" Yours in haste,
"R. C.
"P.S. Make haste and come."
This letter, sealed with a wafer, was de-
spatched by one of the messengers who are
always hanging about Mr. Moss's establish-
ment; and Rawdon, having seen him depart,
went out in the court-yard, and smoked his
cigar with a tolerably easy mind — in spite of
the bars overhead; for Mr. Moss's court -yard
is railed in like a cage, lest the gentlemen who
are boarding with him should take a fancy to
escape from his hospitality.
Three hours, he calculated, would be the
utmost time required, before Becky should
arrive and open his prison doors: and he
passed these pretty cheerfully in smoking, in
reading the paper, and in the coffee-room with
an acquaintance, Captain Walker, who hap-
pened to be there, and with whom he cut for
sixpences for some hours, with pretty equal
luck on either side.
But the day passed away and no messenger
returned, — no Becky. Mr. Moss's tably-dy-
hoty was served at the appointed hour of half-
past five, when such of the gentlemen lodging
in the house as could afford to pay for the
banquet, came and partook of it in the splendid
front parlour before described, and with which
Mr. Crawley's temporary lodging communi-
cated, when Miss M. (Miss Hem, as her papa
called her) appeared without the curl-papers of
the morning, and Mrs. Hem did the honours
of a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips,
of which the colonel ate with a very faint
appetite. Asked whether he would "stand"
a bottle of champagne for the company, he
consented, and the ladies drank to his 'ealth,
and Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner,
"looked towards him."
In the midst of this repast, however, the
door-bell was heard, — young Moss of the
ruddy hair rose up with the keys and answered
the summons, and, coming back, told the colo-
nel that the messenger had returned with a
bag, a desk, and a letter, which he gave him.
"No ceramony, colonel, I beg," said Mrs.
Moss with a wave of her hand, and he opened
the letter rather tremulously. — It was a
beautiful letter, highly scented, on a pink
paper, and with a light-green seal.
"Mon pauvre cher petit," (Mrs. Crawley
wrote) —
"I could not sleep one wink for thinking of
what had become of my odious old monstre:
and only got to rest in the morning after send-
ing for Mr. Blench (for I was in a fever), who
gave me a composing draught and left orders
with Finette that I should be disturbed on no
account. So that my poor old man's messenger,
who had bien mauvaise mine, Finette says, and
sentoit le Genievre remained in the hall for
some hours waiting my bell. You may fancy
my state when I read your poor dear old ill-
spelt letter.
"Ill as I was, I instantly called for the
carriage, and as soon as I was dressed (though
I couldn't drink a drop of chocolate — I assure
you I couldn't without my monstre to bring it
to me), I drove venire a terre to Nathan's. I
saw him — I wept — I cried — I fell at his
odious knees. Nothing would mollify the
horrid man. He would have all the money,
he said, or keep my poor monstre in prison.
I drove home with the intention of paying that
triste visile chez man oncle (when every trinket
I have should be at your disposal though they
would not fetch a hundred pounds, for some,
you know, are with ce cher oncle already), and
found Milor there with the Bulgarian old
sheep-faced monster, who had come to com-
pliment me upon last night's performances.
Paddington came in, too, drawling and lisping
and twiddling his hair; so did Champignac,
and his chef — everybody with foison of com-
pliments and pretty speeches — plaguing poor
me, who longed to be rid of them, and was
thinking every moment of the time ofmon pauvre
prisonnier.
"When they were gone, I went down on my
knees to Milor; told him we were going to
pawn everything, and begged and prayed him
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
to give me two hundred pounds. He pish'd
and psha'd in a fury — told me not to be such
a fool as to pawn — and said he would see
whether he could lend me the money. At last
he went away, promising that he would send
it me in the morning: when I will bring it to
my poor old monster with a kiss from his
affectionate
"Becky.
"I am writing in bed. Oh, I have such a
headache and such a heartache!"
When Rawdon read over this letter, he
turned so red and looked so savage, that the
company at the table-d'hote easily perceived
that bad news had reached him. All his sus-
picions, which he had been trying to banish,
returned upon him. She could not even go out
and sell her trinkets to free him. She could
laugh and talk about compliments paid to her,
whilst he was in prison. Who had put him
there? Wenham had walked with him.
Was there . . . He could hardly bear to
think of what he suspected. Leaving the room
hurriedly, he ran into his own — opened his
desk, wrote two hurried lines, which he directed
to Sir Pitt or Lady Crawley, and bade the
messenger carry them at once to Gaunt Street,
bidding him to take a cab, and promising him
a guinea if he was back in an hour.
In the note he besought his dear brother
and sister, for the sake of God; for the sake
of his dear child and his honour; to come to
him and relieve him from his difficulty. He
was in prison: he wanted a hundred pounds
to set him free — he entreated them to come
to him.
He went back to the dining-room after de-
spatching his messenger, and called for more
wine. He laughed and talked with a strange
boisterousness, as the people thought. Some-
times he laughed madly at his own fears, and
went on drinking for an hour; listening all
the while for the carriage which was to bring
his fate back.
At the expiration of that time, wheels were
heard whirling up to the gate — the young
janitor went out with his gate-keys. It was a
lady whom he let in at the bailiff's door.
"Colonel Crawley," she said, trembling very
much. He, with a knowing look, locked the
outer door upon her — then unlocked and
opened the inner one, and calling out, " Colonel,
you're wanted," led her into the back parlour,
which he occupied.
Rawdon came in from the dining-parlour
where all those people were carousing, into his
back room; a flare of coarse light following
him into the apartment where the lady stood,
still very nervous.
"It is I, Rawdon," she said, in a timid
voice, which she strove to render cheerful.
"It is Jane." Rawdon was quite overcome by
that kind voice and presence. He ran up to
her — caught her in his arms — gasped out
some inarticulate words of thanks, and fairly
sobbed on her shoulder. She did not know
the cause of his emotion.
The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled,
perhaps to the disappointment of that gentle-
man, who had counted on having the colonel
as his guest over Sunday at least; and Jane,
with beaming smiles and happiness in her
eyes, carried away Rawdon from the bailiff's
house, and they went homewards in the cab
in which she had hastened to his release.
"Pitt was gone to a Parliamentary dinner,"
she said, "when Rawdon's note came, and so,
dear Rawdon, I — I came myself;" and she
put her kind hand in his. Perhaps it was
well for Rawdon Crawley that Pitt was away
at that dinner. Rawdon thanked his sister a
hundred times, and with an ardour of grati-
tude which touched and almost alarmed that
soft-hearted woman. "Oh," said he in his
rude, artless way, "you — you don't know how
I'm changed since I've known you, and — and
little Rawdy. I — I'd like to change some-
how. You see I want — I want to be —
He did not finish the sentence, but she could
interpret it. And that night after he left her,
and as she sat by her own little boy's bed, she
prayed humbly for that poor wayworn sinner.
Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly.
It was nine o'clock at night. He ran across
the streets, and the great squares of Vanity
Fair, and at length came up breathless oppo-
site his own house. He started back and fell
against the railings, trembling as he looked
up. The drawing-room windows were blazing
with light. She had said that she was in bed
and ill. He stood there for some time, the
light from the rooms on his pale face.
He took out his door-key and let himself
into the house. He could hear laughter in the
upper rooms. He was in the ball-dress in
which he had been captured the night before.
He went silently up the stairs; leaning against
the banisters at the stair-head. — Nobody was
stirring in the house besides — all the servants
had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter
VANITY FAIR
439
within — laughter and singing. Becky was
singing a snatch of the song of the night before ;
a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava!"
it was Lord Steyne's.
Rawdon opened the door and went in. A
little table with a dinner was laid out — and
wine and plate. Steyne was hanging over the
sofa on which Becky sat. The wretched
woman was in a brilliant full toilet, her arms
and all her fingers sparkling with bracelets and
rings: and the brilliants on her breast which
Steyne had given her. He had her hand in
his, and was bowing over it to kiss it, when
Becky started up with a faint scream as she
caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the
next instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile,
as if to welcome her husband: and Steyne
rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury
in his looks.
He, too, attempted a laugh — and came
forward holding out his hand. "What, come
back! How d'ye do, Crawley?" he said, the
nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to
grin at the intruder.
There was that in Rawdon's face which
caused Becky to fling herself before him. "I
am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before
God, I am innocent." She clung hold of his
coat, of his hands; her own were all covered
with serpents, and rings, and bawbles. "I
am innocent. — Say I am innocent," she said
to Lord Steyne.
He thought a trap had been laid for him,
and was as furious with the wife as with the
husband. "You innocent!- Damn you," he
screamed out. "You innocent! Why, every
trinket you have on your body is paid for by
me. I have given you thousands of pounds
which this fellow has spent, and for which he
has sold you. Innocent, by — ! You're as
innocent as your mother, the ballet-girl, and
your husband, the bully. Don't think to
frighten me as you have done others. Make
way, sir, and let me pass;*' and Lord Steyne
seized up his hat, and, with flame in his eyes,
and looking his enemy fiercely in the face,
marched upon him, never for a moment doubt-
ing that the other would give way.
But Rawdon Crawley, springing out, seized
him by the neck-cloth, until Steyne, almost
strangled, writhed, and bent under his arm.
"You lie, you dog!" said Rawdon. "You
lie, you coward and villain!" And he struck
the peer twice over the face with his open
hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground.
It was all done before Rebecca could interpose.
She stood there trembling before him. She
admired her husband, strong, brave, and vic-
torious.
"Come here," he said. — She came up at
once.
"Take off those things." — She began,
trembljng, pulling the jewels from her arms,
and the rings from her shaking fingers, and
held them all in a heap, quivering and looking
up at him. "Throw them down," he said,
and she dropped them. He tore the diamond
ornament out of her breast, and flung it at
Lord Steyne. It cut him on his bald fore-
head. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day.
"Come up stairs," Rawdon said to his wife.
"Don't kill me, Rawdon," she said. He
laughed savagely. — "I want to see if that
man lies about the money as he has about me.
Has he given you any?"
"No," said Rebecca, "that is —
"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered,
and they went out together.
Rebecca gave him all the keys but one;
and she was in hopes that he would not have
remarked the absence of that. It belonged to
the little desk which Amelia had given her in
early days, and which she kept in a secret
place. But Rawdon flung open boxes and
wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery
of their contents here and there, and at last
he found the desk. The woman was forced
to open it. It contained papers, love-letters
many years old — all sorts of small trinkets
and woman's memoranda. And it contained
a pocket-book with bank-notes. Some of
these were dated ten years back, too, and one
was quite a fresh one — a note for a thousand
pounds which Lord Steyne had given her.
"Did he give you this?" Rawdon said.
. "Yes," Rebecca answered.
"I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said
(for day had dawned again, and many hours
had passed in this search), "and I will pay
Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some
of the debts. You will let me know where I
shall send the rest to you. You might have
spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of
all this — I have always shared with you."
"I am innocent," said Becky. And he left
her without another word..
What were her thoughts when he left her?
She remained for hours after he was gone, the
sunshine pouring into the room, and Rebecca
sitting alone on the bed's edge. The drawers
were all opened and their contents scattered
440
CHARLES DICKENS
about, — dresses and feathers, scarfs and
trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying in a
wreck. Her hair was falling over her shoulders ;
her gown was torn where Rawdon had wrenched
the brilliants out of it. She heard him go
down stairs a few minutes after he left her,
and the door slamming and closing on him.
She knew he would never come back. He
was gone forever. Would he kill himself? —
she thought — not until after he had met
Lord Steyne. She thought of her long past
life, and all the dismal incidents of it. Ah,
how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely,
and profitless! Should she take laudanum,
and end it, too — have done with all hopes,
schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French
maid found her in this position — sitting in
the midst of her miserable ruins with clasped
hands and dry eyes. The woman was her
accomplice and in Steyne' s pay. "Mon Dieu,
madame, what has happened?" she asked.
What had happened? Was she guilty or
not? She said not; but who could tell what
was truth which came from those lips; or if
that corrupt heart was in this case pure? All
her lies and her schemes, all her selfishness and
her wiles, all her wit and genius had come to
this bankruptcy. The woman closed the cur-
tains, and with some entreaty and show of
kindness, persuaded her mistress to lie down
on the bed. Then she went below and gathered
up the trinkets which had been lying on the
floor since Rebecca dropped them there at her
husband's orders, and Lord Steyne went away.
CHARLES DICKENS (1812-1870)
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR
There was once a child, and he strolled
about a good deal, and thought of a number
of things. He had a sister, who was a child,
too, and his constant companion. These two
used to wonder all day long. They wondered
at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered
at the height and blueness of the sky; they
wondered at the depth of the bright water;
they wondered at the goodness and the power
of God who made the lovely world.
They used to say to one another sometimes,
supposing all the children upon earth were to
die, would the flowers, and the water, and the
sky be sorry? They believed they would be
sorry. For, said they, the buds are the chil-
dren of the flowers, and the little playful
streams that gambol down the hillsides are the
children of the water; and the smallest bright
specks playing at hide-and-seek in the sky all
night, must surely be the children of the stars;
and they would all be grieved to see their
playmates, the children of men, no more.
There was one clear shining star that used
to come out in the sky before the rest, near
the church spire, above the graves. It was
larger and more beautiful, they thought, than
all others, and every night they watched for it,
standing hand in hand at the window. Who-
ever saw it first, cried out, "I see the star!"
And often they cried out both together, know-
ing so well when it would rise, and where. So
they grew to be such friends with it, that
before lying down in their beds, they always
looked out once again, to bid it good night;
and when they were turning around to sleep,
they used to say, "God bless the star!"
But while she was very young, oh, very,
very young, the sister drooped, and came to
be so weak that she could no longer stand
in the window at night; and then the child
looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw
the star, turned round and said to the patient,
pale face on the bed, "I see the star!" and
then a smile would come upon the face, and a
little weak voice used to say, "God bless my
brother and the star!"
And so the time came, all too soon! when
the child looked out alone, and when there
was no face on the bed; and when there was a
little grave among the graves, not there before;
and when the star made long rays down tow-
ard him, as he saw it through his tears.
Now, these rays were so bright, and they
seemed to make such a shining way from earth
to heaven, that when the child went to his
solitary bed, he dreamed about the star; and
dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a
train of people taken up that sparkling road
by angels. And the star, opening, showed
him a great world«of light, where many more
such angels waited to receive them.
All these angels who were waiting turned
their beaming eyes upon the people who were
carried up into the star; and some came out
from the long rows in which they stood, and
fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them
tenderly, and went away with them down
avenues of light, and were so happy in their
company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy.
But there were many angels who did not go
with them, and among them one he knew.
The patient face that once had lain upon the
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
441
bed was glorified and radiant, but his heart
found out his sister among all the host.
His sister's angel lingered near the entrance
of the star, and said to the leader among those
who had brought the people thither: —
"Is my brother come?"
And he said, "No."
She was turning hopefully away, when the
child stretched out his arms, and cried, "O
sister, I am here! Take me!" And then she
turned her beaming eyes upon him and it was
night; and the star was shining into the room,
making long rays down toward him as he saw
it through his tears.
From that hour forth the child looked out
upon the star as on the home he was to go to,
when his time should come; and he thought
that he did not belong to the earth alone, but
to the star, too, because of his sister's angel
gone before.
There was a baby born to be a brother to
the child;" and while he was so little that he
never yet had spoken word, he stretched his
tiny form out on his bed and died.
Again the child dreamed of the opened star,
and of the company of angels, and the train
of people, and the rows of angels with their
beaming eyes all turned upon those people's
faces.
Said his sister's angel to the leader: —
"Is my brother come?"
And he said, "Not that one, but another."
As the child beheld his brother's angel in
her arms, he cried: "O sister, I am here!
Take me !" And she turned and smiled upon
him, and the star was shining.
He grew to be a young man, and was busy
at his books, when an old servant came to
him and said: —
"Thy mother is no more. I bring her
blessing on her darling son ! "
Again at night he saw the star, and all that
former company. Said his sister's angel to the
leader: —
"Is my brother come?"
And he said, "Thy mother!"
A mighty cry of joy went forth through all
the star, because the mother was reunited to
her two children. And he stretched out his
arms and cried: "O mother, sister, and
brother, I am here! Take me!" And they
answered him, "Not yet." And the star was
shining.
He grew to be a man whose hair was turn-
ing gray, and he was sitting in his chair by the
fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face
bedewed with tears, when the star opened once
again.
Said his sister's angel to the leader, "Is my
brother come?"
And he said, "Nay, but his maiden daughter."
And the man who had been the child saw
his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial
creature among those three, and he said,
"My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom,
and her arm is round my mother's neck, and
at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I
can bear the parting from her, God be praised ! "
And the star was shining.
Thus the child came to be an old man, and
his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his
steps were slow and feeble, and his back was
bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed,
his children standing round, he cried, as he
had cried so long ago : —
"I see the star!"
They whispered one another, "He is dying."
And he said: "I am. My age is falling
from me like a garment, and I move toward
the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I
thank thee that it has so often opened to receive
those dear ones who await me ! "
And the star was shining; and it shines
upon his grave.
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
CHAPTER V
BOFFIN'S BOWER
Over against a London house, a corner
house not far from Cavendish Square, a man
with a wooden leg had sat for some years,
with his remaining foot in a basket in cold
weather, picking up a living on this wise : —
Every morning at eight o'clock, he stumped
to the corner, carrying a chair, a clothes-horse,
a pair of trestles, a board, a basket, and an
umbrella, all strapped together. Separating
these, the board and trestles became a counter,
the basket supplied the few small lots of fruit
and sweets that he offered for sale upon it
and became a foot-warmer, the unfolded
clothes-horse displayed a choice collection of
half-penny ballads and became a screen, and
the stool planted within it became his post
for the rest of the day. All weathers saw the
man at the post. This is to be accepted in a
double sense, for he contrived a back to his
wooden stool, by placing it against the lamp-
post. When the weather was wet, he put his
umbrella over his stock in trade, not over him-
442
CHARLES DICKENS
self; when the weather was dry, he furled
that faded article, tied it round with a piece
of yarn, and laid it crosswise under the trestles :
where it looked like an unwholesomely-forced
lettuce that had lost in colour and crispness
what it had gained in size.
He had established his right to the corner,
by imperceptible prescription. He had never
varied his ground an inch, but had in the
beginning diffidently taken the corner upon
which the side of the house gave. A howling
corner in the winter time, a dusty corner in
the summer time, an undesirable corner at the
best of times. Shelterless fragments of straw
and paper got up revolving storms there, when
the main street was at peace; and the water-
cart, as if it were drunk or short-sighted, came
blundering and jolting round it, making it
muddy when all else was clean.
On the front of his sale-board hung a little
placard, like a kettle-holder, bearing the in-
scription in his own small text : —
Errands gone
On with fi
Delity By
Ladies and Gentlemen
I remain
Your humble Serv*:
Silas Wegg.
He had not only settled it with himself in course
of time, that he was errand-goer by appoint-
ment to the house at the corner (though he
received such commissions not half a dozen
times in a year, and then only as some servant's
deputy), but also that he was one of the house's
retainers and owed vassalage to it and was
bound to leal and loyal interest in it. For this
reason, he always spoke of it as "Our House,"
and, though his knowledge of its affairs was
mostly speculative and all wrong, claimed to
be in its confidence. On similar grounds he
never beheld an inmate at any one of its
windows but he touched his hat. Yet, he
knew so little about the inmates that he gave
them names of his own invention; as "Miss
Elizabeth," "Master George," "Aunt Jane,"
"Uncle Parker" — having no authority what-
ever for any such designations, but particularly
the last — to which, as a natural consequence,
he stuck with great obstinacy.
Over the house itself, he exercised the same
imaginary power as over its inhabitants and
their affairs. He had never been in it, the
length of a piece of fat black water-pipe which
trailed itself over the area-door into a damp
stone passage, and had rather the air of a
leech on the house that had "taken" wonder-
fully; but this was no impediment to his
arranging it according to a plan of his own.
It was a great dingy house with a quantity of
dim side window and blank back premises,
and it cost his mind a world of trouble so to
lay it out as to account for everything in its
external appearance. But, this once done, was
quite satisfactory, and he rested persuaded
that he knew his way about the house blind-
fold: from the barred garrets in the high
roof, to the two iron extinguishers before the
main door — which seemed to request all
lively visitors to have the kindness to put
themselves out, before entering.
Assuredly, this stall of Silas Wegg's was
the hardest little stall of all the sterile little
stalls in London. It gave you the face-ache to
look at his apples, the stomach-ache to look at
his oranges, the tooth-ache to look at his nuts.
Of the latter commodity he had always a grim
little heap, on which lay a little wooden meas-
ure which had no discernible inside, and was
considered to represent the penn'orth appointed
by Magna Charta. Whether from too much
east wind or no — it was an easterly corner —
the stall, the stock, and the keeper, were all
as dry as the Desert. Wegg was a knotty
man, and a close-grained, with a face carved
out of very hard material, that had just as
much play of expression as a watchman's
rattle. When he laughed, certain jerks oc-
curred in it, and the rattle sprung. Sooth to
say, he was so wooden a man that he seemed
to have taken his wooden leg naturally, and
rather suggested to the fanciful observer, that
he might be expected — if his development
received no untimely check — to be completely
set up with a pair of wooden legs in about six
months.
Mr. Wegg was an observant person, or, as
he himself said, "took a powerful sight of
notice." He saluted all his regular passers-by
every day, as he sat on his stool backed up
by the lamp-post; and on the adaptable char-
acter of these salutes he greatly plumed him-
self. Thus, to the rector, he addressed a bow,
compounded of lay deference, and a slight
touch of the shady preliminary meditation at
church; to the doctor, a confidential bow, as
to a gentleman whose acquaintance with his
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
443
inside he begged respectfully to acknowledge;
before the Quality he delighted to abase him-
self; and for Uncle Parker, who was in the
army (at least, so he had settled it), he put his
open hand to the side of his hat, in a military
manner which that angry-eyed, buttoned-up,
inflammatory-faced old gentleman appeared
but imperfectly to appreciate.
The only article in which Silas dealt that
vvas not hard was gingerbread. On a certain
day, some wretched infant having purchased
the damp gingerbread-horse (fearfully out of
condition), and the adhesive bird-cage, which
had been exposed for the day's sale, he had
taken a tin box from under his stool to pro-
duce a relay of those dreadful specimens, and
was going to look in at the lid, when he said
to himself, pausing: "Oh! Here you are
again!"
The words referred to a broad, round-
shouldered, one-sided old fellow in mourning,
coining comically ambling toward the corner,
dressed in a pea overcoat, and carrying a large
stick. He wore thick shoes, and thick leather
gaiters, and thick gloves like a hedger's. Both
as to his dress and to himself, he was of
an overlapping, rhinoceros build, with folds in
his cheeks, and his forehead, and his eyelids,
and his lips, and his ears; but with bright,
eager, childishly-inquiring, gray eyes, under his
ragged eyebrows and broad-brimmed hat. A
very odd-looking old fellow altogether.
"Here you are again," repeated Mr. Wegg,
musing. "And what are you now? Are you
in the Funns, or where are you? Have you
lately come to settle in this neighbourhood, or
do you own to another neighbourhood? Are
you in independent circumstances, or is it
wasting the motions of a bow on you ? Come !
I'll speculate! I'll invest a bow in you."
Which Mr. Wegg, having replaced his tin
box, accordingly did, as he rose to bait his
gingerbread- trap for some other devoted in-
fant. The salute was acknowledged with:
"Morning, sir! Morning! Morning!"
("Calls me Sir !" said Mr. Wegg, to himself.
"He won't answer. A bow gone!")
"Morning, morning, morning!"
"Appears to be rather a 'arty old cock,
too," said Mr. Wegg, as before. "Good
morning to you, sir."
"Do you remember me, then?" asked his
new acquaintance, stopping in his amble, one-
sided, before the stall, and speaking in a
pouncing way, though with great good-humour.
"I have noticed you go past our house, sir,
several times in the course of the last week
or so."
"Our house," repeated the other. "Mean-
ing-?" .
"Yes," said Mr. Wegg, nodding, as the
other pointed the clumsy forefinger of his right
glove at the corner house.
"Oh! Now, what," pursued the old fellow,
in an inquisitive manner, carrying his knotted
stick in his left arm as if it were a baby, "what
do they allow you now?"
"It's job work that I do for our house,"
returned Silas, dryly, and with reticence; "it's
not yet brought to an exact allowance."
"Oh! It's not yet brought to an exact
allowance? No! It's not yet brought to an
exact allowance. Oh ! — Morning, morning,
morning ! "
"Appears to be rather a cracked old cock,"
thought Silas, qualifying his former good
opinion, as the other ambled off. But in a
moment he was back again with the question :
"How did you get your wooden leg?"
Mr. Wegg replied (tartly to this personal
inquiry), "In an accident."
"Do you like it?"
"Well! I haven't got to keep it warm,"
Mr. Wegg made answer, in a sort of despera-
tion occasioned by the singularity of the
question.
"He hasn't," repeated the other to his
knotted stick, as he gave it a hug; "he hasn't
got — ha ! — ha ! — to keep it warm ! Did
you ever hear of the name of Boffin?"
"No," said Mr. Wegg, who was growing
restive under this examination. "I never did
hear of the name of Boffin."
"Do you like it?"
"Why, no," retorted Mr. Wegg, again ap-
proaching desperation; "I can't say I do."
"Why don't you like it?"
"I don't know why I don't," retorted Mr.
Wegg, approaching frenzy, "but I don't at
all."
"Now, I'll tell you something that'll make
you sorry for that," said the stranger, smiling.
"My name's Boffin."
"I can't help it!" returned Mr. Wegg,
implying in his manner the offensive addition,
"and if I could, I wouldn't."
"But there's another chance for you," said
Mr. Boffin, smiling still. "Do you like the
name of Nicodemus ? Think it over. Nick or
Noddy."
"It is not, sir," Mr. Wegg rejoined, as he
sat down on his stool, with an air of gentle
444
CHARLES DICKENS
resignation, combined with melancholy can-
dour; "it is not a name as I could wish any
one that I had a respect for to call me by;
but there may be persons that would not view
it with the same objections. I don't know
why," Mr. Wegg added, anticipating another
question.
"Noddy Boffin," said that gentleman.
"Noddy. That's my name. Noddy — or
Nick — Boffin. What's your name?"
"Silas Wegg. I don't," said Mr. Wegg,
bestirring himself to take the same precaution
as before; "I don't know why Silas, and I
don't know why Wegg."
"Now, Wegg," said Mr. Boffin, hugging his
stick closer, "I want to make a sort of offer
to you. Do you remember when you first see
me?"
The wooden Wegg looked at him with a
meditative eye, and also with a softened air,
as descrying possibility of profit. "Let me
think. I ain't quite sure, and yet I generally
take a powerful sight of notice, too. Was it
on a Monday morning, when the butcher-boy
had been to our house for orders, and bought
a ballad of me, which, being unacquainted
with the tune, I run it over to him?"
"Right, Wegg, right! But he bought more
than one."
"Yes, to be sure, sir; he bought several;
and wishing to lay out his money to the best,
he took my opinion to guide his choice, and
we went over the collection together. To be
sure we did. Here was him as it might be,
and here was myself as it might be, and there
was you, Mr. Boffin, as you identically are,
with your self-same stick under your very
same arm, and your very same back toward
us. To — be — sure!" added Mr. Wegg,
looking a little round Mr. Boffin, to take him
in the rear, and identify this last extraordinary
coincidence, "your wery, self-same back!"
"What do you think I was doing, Wegg?"
"I should judge, sir, that you might be
glancing your eye down the street."
"No, Wegg. I was a listening."
"Was you, indeed?" said Mr. Wegg,
dubiously.
"Not in a dishonourable way, Wegg, because
you was singing to the butcher; and you
wouldn't sing secrets to a butcher in the street,
you know."
"It never happened that I did so yet, to the
best of my remembrance," said Mr. Wegg,
cautiously. "But I might do it. A man can't
say what he might wish to do some day or
another." (This, not to release any little
advantage he might derive from Mr. Boffin's
avowal.)
"Well," repeated Boffin, "I was a listening
to. you and to him. And what do you — you
haven't got another stool, have you? I'm
rather thick in my breath."
"I haven't got another, but you're welcome
to this," said Wegg, resigning it. "It's a treat
to me to stand."
"Lard!" exclaimed Mr. Boffin, in a tone of
great enjoyment, as he settled himself down,
still nursing his stick like a baby, "it's a
pleasant place, this! And then to be shut in
on each side, with these ballads, like so many
book-leaf blinkers! Why, it's delightful!"
"If I am not mistaken, sir," Mr. Wegg
delicately hinted, resting a hand on his stall,
and bending over the discursive Boffin, "you
alluded to some offer or another that was in
your mind?"
"I'm coming to it! All right. I'm coming
to it ! I was going to say that when I listened
that morning, I listened with hadmiration
amounting to hawe. I thought to myself,
'Here's a man with a wooden leg — a literary
man with —
"N — not exactly so, sir," said Mr. Wegg.
"Why, you know every one of these songs
by name and by tune, and if you want to read
or to sing any one on 'em off straight, you've
only to whip on your spectacles and do it!"
cried Mr. Boffin. "I see you at it!"
"Well, sir," returned Mr. Wegg, with a
conscious inclination of the head; "we'll say
literary, then."
"'A literary man — with a wooden leg —
and all Print is open to him!' That's what I
thought to myself, that morning,:' pursued Mr.
Boffin, leaning forward to describe, uncramped
by the clothes-horse, as large an arc as his
right arm could make; "'all Print is open to
him!' And it is, ain't it?"
"Why, truly, sir," Mr. Wegg admitted, with
modesty; "I believe you couldn't show me
the piece of English print, that I wouldn't be
equal to collaring and throwing."
"On the spot?" said Mr. Boffin.
"On the spot."
"I know'd it! Then consider this. Here
am I, a man without a wooden leg, and yet
all print is shut to me."
"Indeed, sir?" Mr. Wegg returned with in-
creasing self-complacency. "Education neg-
lected?"
"Neg — lected!" repeated Boffin, with
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
445
emphasis. "That ain't no word for it. I
don't mean to say but what if you showed me
a B, I could so far give you change for it, as
to answer ' Boffin.' "
"Come, come, sir," said Mr. Wegg, throw-
ing in a little encouragement, "that's some-
thing, too."
"It's something," answered Mr. Boffin, "but
I'll take my oath it ain't much."
"Perhaps it's not as much as could be
wished by an inquiring mind, sir," Mr. Wegg,
admitted.
"Now, look here. I'm retired from busi-
ness. Me and Mrs. Boffin — Henerietty Boffin
— which her father's name was Henery, and
her mother's name was Hetty, and so you get
it — we live on a compittance, under the will
of a deceased governor."
"Gentleman dead, sir?"
"Man alive, don't I tell you? A deceased
governor? Now, it's too' late for me to begin
shovelling and sifting at alphabeds and gram-
mar-books. I'm getting to be an old bird,
and I want to take it easy. But I want some
reading — some fine bold reading, some
splendid book in a gorging Lord-Mayor's-
Show of wollumes" (probably meaning gor-
geous, but misled by association of ideas) ;
"as' 11 reach right down your pint of view, and
take time to go by you. How can I get that
reading, Wegg? By," tapping him on the
breast with the head of his thick stick, "pay-
ing a man truly qualified to do it, so much an
hour (say twopence) to come and do it."
"Hem! Flattered, sir, I am sure," said
Wegg, beginning to regard himself in quite
a new light. "Hem! This is the offer you
mentioned, sir?"
"Yes. Do you like it?"
"I am considering of it, Mr. Boffin."
"I don't," said Boffin, in a free-handed
manner, "want to tie a literary man — with
a wooden leg — down too tight. A half
penny an hour shan't part us. The hours are
your own to choose, after you've done for the
day with your house here. I live over Maiden-
Lane way — out Holloway direction — and
you've only got to go East-and-by-North when
you've finished here, and you're there. Two-
pence halfpenny an hour," said Boffin, taking
a piece of chalk from his pocket and getting off
the stool to work the sum on the top of it in
his own way; "two long'uns and a short'un —
twopence halfpenny; two short'uns is a long'un'
and two two long'uns is four Jong'uns — making
five long'uns; six nights a week at five long'uns
a night," scoring them all down separately,
"and you mount up to thirty long'uns. A
round'un ! Half a crown ! "
Pointing to this result as a large and satis-
factory one, Mr. Boffin smeared it out with his
moistened glove, and sat down on the remains.
"Half a crown," said Wegg, meditating,
"Yes. (It ain't much, sir.) Half a crown."
"Per week, you know."
"Per week. Yes. As to the amount of
strain upon the intellect now. Was you think-
ing at all of poetry?" Mr. Wegg inquired,
musing.
"Would it come dearer?" Mr. Boffin asked.
"It would come dearer," Mr. Wegg returned.
"For when a person comes to grind off poetry
night after night, it is but right he should expect
to be paid for its weakening effect on his mind."
"To tell you the truth, Wegg," said Boffin,
"I wasn't thinking of poetry, except in so fur
as this : — If you was to happen now and
then to feel yourself in the mind to tip me and
Mrs. Boffin one of your ballads, why then we
should drop into poetry."
"I follow you, sir," said Wegg. "But not
being a regular musical professional, I should be
loath to engage myself for that; and therefore
when I dropped into poetry, I should ask to be
considered so fur, in the light of a friend."
At this, Mr. Boffin's eyes sparkled, and he
shook Silas earnestly by the hand; protesting
that it was more than he could have asked, and
that he took it very kindly indeed.
"What do you think of the terms, Wegg?"
Mr. Boffin then demanded, with unconcealed
anxiety.
Silas, who had stimulated this anxiety by his
hard reserve of manner, and who had begun
to understand his man very well, replied with
an air; as if he were saying something extraor-
dinarily generous and great:
"Mr. Boffin, I never bargain."
"So I should have thought of you !" said Mr.
Boffin, admiringly.
"No, sir. I never did 'aggie and I never will
'aggie. Consequently I meet you at once, free
and fair, with — Done, for double the money ! "
Mr. Boffin seemed a little unprepared for
this conclusion, but assented with the remark,
"You know better what it ought to be than I
do, Wegg," and again shook hands with him
upon it.
"Could you begin to-night, Wegg?" he then
demanded.
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Wegg, careful to leave
all the eagerness to him. "I see no difficulty
446
CHARLES DICKENS
if you wish it. You are provided with the
needful implement — a book, sir?"
"Bought him at a sale," said Mr. Boffin.
" Eight wollumes. Red and gold. Purple rib-
bon in every wollume, to keep the place where
you leave off. Do you know him?"
"The book's name, sir?" inquired Silas.
"I thought you might have know'd him with-
out it," said Mr. Boffin, slightly disappointed.
"His name is Decline -And-Fall -Off The-
Rooshan-Empire." (Mr. Boffin went over
these stones slowly and with much caution.)
"Ay, indeed!" said Mr. Wegg, nodding his
head with an air of friendly recognition.
"You know him, Wegg? "
"I haven't been not to say right slap through
him, very lately," Mr. Wegg made answer,
"having been otherways employed, Mr. Boffin.
But know him? Old familiar declining and
falling off the Rooshan? Rather, sir! Ever
since I was not so high as your stick. Ever
since my eldest brother left our cottage to enlist
into the army. On which occasion, as the
ballad that was made about it describes:
" Beside that cottage door, Mr. Boffin,
A girl was on her knees;
She held aloft a snowy scarf, Sir,
Which (my eldest brother noticed) fluttered in
the breeze.
She breathed a prayer for him, Mr. Boffin;
A prayer he could not hear.
And my eldest brother lean'd upon his sword,
Mr. Boffin,
And wiped away a tear."
Much impressed by this family circumstance,
and also by the friendly disposition of Mr.
Wegg, as exemplified in his so soon dropping
into poetry, Mr. Boffin again shook hands with
that ligneous sharper, and besought him to
name his hour. Mr. Wegg named eight.
"Where I live," said Mr. Boffin, "is called
The Bower. Boffin's Bower is the name Mrs.
Boffin christened it when we come into it as a
property. If you should meet with anybody
that don't know it by that name (which hardly
anybody does), when you've got nigh upon
about a odd mile, or say and a quarter if you
like, up Maiden Lane, Battle Bridge, ask for
Harmony Jail, and you'll be put right. I shall
expect you, Wegg," said Mr. Boffin, clapping
him on the shoulder with the greatest en-
thusiasm, "most joyfully. I shall have no
peace or patience till you come. Print is now
opening ahead of me. This night, a literary
man — with a wooden leg — " he bestowed an
admiring look upon that decoration, as if
it greatly enhanced the relish of Mr. Wegg's
attainments — "will begin to lead me a new
life ! My fist again, Wegg. Morning, morn-
ing, morning!"
Left alone at his stall as the other ambled
off, Mr. Wegg subsided into his screen, pro-
duced a small pocket-handkerchief of a peni-
tentially-scrubbing character, and took him-
self by the nose with a thoughtful aspect. Also,
while he still grasped that feature, he directed
several thoughtful looks down the street, after
the retiring figure of Mr. Boffin. But, pro-
found gravity sat enthroned on Wegg's counte-
nance. For, while he considered within him-
self that this was an old fellow of rare simplicity,
that this was an opportunity to be improved,
and that here might be money to be got beyond
present calculation, still he compromised him-
self by no admission that his new engagement
was at all out of his way, or involved the least
element of the ridiculous. Mr. Wegg would
even have picked a handsome quarrel with any
one who should have challenged his deep ac-
quaintance with those aforesaid eight volumes
of Decline and Fall. His gravity was unusual,
portentous, and immeasurable, not because he
admitted any doubt of himself, but because he
perceived it necessary to forestall any doubt of
himself in others. And herein he ranged with
that very numerous class of impostors, who are
quite as determined to keep up appearances to
themselves, as to their neighbours.
A certain loftiness, likewise, took possession
of Mr. Wegg ; a condescending sense of being
in request as an official expounder of mysteries.
It did not move him to commercial greatness,
but rather to littleness, insomuch that if it had
been within the possibilities of things for the
wooden measure to hold fewer nuts than usual,
it would have done so that day. But, when
night came, and with her veiled eyes beheld
him stumping toward Boffin's Bower, he was
elated too.
The Bower was as difficult to find as Fair
Rosamond's without the clew. Mr. Wegg,
having reached the quarter indicated, inquired
for the Bower half a dozen times, without the
least success, until he remembered to ask for
Harmony Jail. This occasioned a quick change
in the spirit of a hoarse gentleman and a donkey,
whom he had much perplexed.
"Why, yer mean Old Harmon's, do yer?"
said the hoarse gentleman, who was driving his
donkey in a truck, with a carrot for a whip.
"Why didn't yer niver say so? Eddard and
me is a goin' by him I Jump in."
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
447
Mr. Wegg complied, and the hoarse gentle-
man invited his attention to the third person
in company, thus:
" Now, you look at Eddard's ears. What was
it as you named, agin? Whisper."
Mr. Wegg whispered, "Boffin's Bower."
"Eddard ! (keep yer hi on his ears) cut away
to Boffin's Bower!"
Edward, with his ears lying back, remained
immovable.
"Eddard! (keep yer hi on his ears) cut
away to Old Harmon's."
Edward instantly pricked up his ears to their
utmost, and rattled off at such a pace that Mr.
Wegg's conversation was jolted out of him in
a most dislocated state.
" Was-it-Ev-verajail ? " asked Mr. Wegg,
holding on.
"Not a proper jail, wot you and me would
get committed to," returned his escort; "they
giv' it the name on accounts of Old Harmon
living solitary there."
" And-why-did-they-callitharm-Ony ? " asked
Wegg.
"On accounts of his never agreeing with
nobody. Like a speeches of chaff. Harmon's
Jail; Harmony Jail. Working it round like."
"Doyouknow-Mist-Erboff-in?" asked Wegg.
"I should think so! Everybody do about
here. Eddard knows him. (Keep yer hi on
his ears.) Noddy Boffin, Eddard!"
The effect of the name was so very alarming,
in respect of causing a temporary disappearance
of Edward's head, casting his hind hoofs in the
air, greatly accelerating the pace and increasing
the jolting, that Mr. Wegg was fain to devote
his attention exclusively to holding on, and to
relinquish his desire of ascertaining whether
' this homage to Boffin was to be considered com-
plimentary or the reverse.
Presently, Edward stopped at a gateway,
and Wegg discreetly lost no time in slipping out
at the back of the truck. The moment he was
landed, his late driver with a wave of the carrot,
said "Supper, Eddard ! " and he, the hind hoofs,
the truck, and Edward, all seemed to fly into
the air together, in a kind of apotheosis.
Pushing the gate, which stood ajar, Wegg
looked into an enclosed space where certain
tall dark mounds rose high against the sky,
and where the pathway to the Bower was in-
dicated, as the moonlight showed, between
two lines of broken crockery set in ashes. A
white figure advancing along this path, proved
to be nothing more ghostly than Mr. Boffin,
easily attired for the pursuit of knowledge, in
an undress garment of short white smock-
frock. Having received his literary friend
with great cordiality, he conducted him to the
interior of the Bower, and there presented him
-to Mrs. Boffin, a stout lady, of a rubicund and
cheerful aspect, dressed (to Mr. Wegg's con-
sternation) in a low evening-dress of sable
satin, and a large black velvet hat and feathers.
"Mrs. Boffin, Wegg," said Boffin, "is a
highflyer at Fashion. And her make is such,
that she does it credit. As to myself, I ain't
yet as Fash'nable as I may come to be. Hen-
erietty, old lady, this is the gentleman that's
a going to decline and fall off the Rooshan
Empire."
"And I am sure I hope it'll do you both
good," said Mrs. Boffin.
It was the queerest of rooms, fitted and
furnished more like a luxurious amateur tap-
room than anything else within the ken of
Silas Wegg. There were two wooden settles
by the fire, one on either side of it, with a
corresponding table before each. On one of
these tables, the eight volumes were ranged flat,
in a row, like a galvanic battery ; on the other,
certain squat case-bottles, of inviting appear-
ance, seemed to stand on tiptoe to exchange
glances with Mr. Wegg over a front row of
tumblers and a basin of white sugar. On the
hob, a kettle steamed; on the hearth, a cat
reposed. Facing the fire between the settles.
a sofa, a footstool, and a little table, formed
a centrepiece, devoted to Mrs. Boffin. They
were garish in taste and colour, but were ex-
pensive articles of drawing-room furniture, that
had a very odd look beside the settles and
the flaring gaslight pendent from the ceiling.
There was a flowery carpet on the floor; but,
instead of reaching to the fireside, its glowing
vegetation stopped short at Mrs. Boffin's foot-
stool, and gave place to a region of sand and
sawdust. Mr. Wegg also noticed with admir-
ing eyes, that, while the flowery land displayed
such hollow ornamentation as stuffed birds and
waxen fruits under glass-shades, there were,
in the territory where vegetation ceased, com-
pensatory shelves on which the best part of a
large pie, and likewise of a cold joint, were
plainly discernible among other solids. The
room itself was large, though low, and the
heavy frames of its old-fashioned windows,
and the heavy beams in its crooked ceiling,
seemed to indicate that it had once been a house
of some mark, standing alone in the country.
"Do you like it, Wegg?" asked Mr. Boffin,
in his pouncing manner.
448
CHARLES DICKENS
"I admire it greatly, sir," said Wegg. "Pe-
culiar comfort at this fireside, sir.''
"Do you understand it, Wegg?"
"Why, in a general way, sir," Mr. Wegg
was beginning slowly and knowingly, with his
head stuck on one side, as evasive people do
begin, when the other cut him short :
"You don't understand it, Wegg, and I'll
explain it. These arrangements is made by
mutual consent between Mrs. Boffin and me.
Mrs. Boffin, as I've mentioned, is a high-
flyer at Fashion; at present I'm not. I don't
go higher than comfort, and comfort of the sort
that I'm equal to the enjoyment of. Well then.
Where would be the good of Mrs. Boffin and me
quarrelling over it? We never did quarrel
before we come into Boffin's Bower as a prop-
erty; why quarrel when we have come into
Boffin's Bower as a property? So Mrs.
Boffin, she keeps up her part of the room
in her way; I keep up my part of the room in
mine. In consequence of which we have at
once, Sociability (I should go melancholy mad
without Mrs. Boffin), Fashion, and Comfort. If
I get by degrees to be a highflyer at Fashion,
then Mrs. Boffin will by degrees come for'arder.
If Mrs. Boffin should ever be less of a dab at
Fashion than she is at the present time, then
Mrs. Boffin's carpet would go back'arder. If
we should both continny as we are, why then
here we are, and give us a kiss, old lady."
Mrs. Boffin, who, perpetually smiling, had ap-
proached and drawn her plump arm through
her lord's, most willingly complied. Fashion,
in the form of her black velvet hat and feathers,
tried to prevent it ; but got deservedly crushed
in the endeavour.
"So now, Wegg," said Mr. Boffin, wiping his
mouth with an air of much refreshment, "you
begin to know us as we are. This is a charming
spot, is the Bower, but you must get to appre-
chiate it by degrees. It's a spot to find out
the merits of, little by little, and a new 'un every
day. There's a serpentining walk up each of
the mounds, that gives you the yard and neigh-
bourhood changing every moment. When you
get to the top, there's a view of the neighbouring
premises, not to be surpassed. The premises
of Mrs. Boffin's late father (Canine Provision
Trade), you look down into, as if they was your
own. And the top of the High Mound is
crowned with a lattice-work Arbor, in which,
if you don't read out loud many a book in the
summer, ay, and as a friend, drop many a time
into poetry too, it shan't be my fault. Now
what'll you read on?"
"Thank you, sir," returned Wegg, as if
there were nothing new in his reading at all.
"I generally do it on gin and water."
"Keeps the organ moist, does it, Wegg?"
asked Mr. Boffin, with innocent eagerness.
"N — no, sir," replied Wegg, coolly, "I
should hardly describe it so, sir. I should say,
mellers it. Mellers it, is the word I should
employ, Mr. Boffin."
His wooden conceit and craft kept exact pace
with the delighted expectations of his victim.
The visions rising before his mercenary mind,
of the many ways in which this connection was
to be turned to account, never obscured the
foremost idea natural to a dull, over-reaching,
man, that he must not make himself too
cheap.
Mrs. Boffin's Fashion, as a less inexorable
deity than the idol usually worshipped under
that name, did not forbid her mixing for her
literary guest, or asking if he found the result
to his liking. On his returning a gracious
answer and taking his place at the literary
settle, Mr. Boffin began to compose himself as
a listener at the opposite settle, with exultant
eyes.
"Sorry to deprive you of a pipe, Wegg," he
said, filling his own, "but you can't do both
together. Oh ! and another thing I forgot to
name ! When you come here of an evening,
and look round you, and notice anything on a
shelf that happens to catch your fancy, mention
it."
Wegg, who had been going to put on his
spectacles, immediately laid them down, with
the sprightly observation :
"You read my thoughts, sir. Do my eyes
deceive me, or is that object up there — a pie?
It can't be a pie."
"Yes, it's a pie, Wegg," replied Mr. Boffin,
with a glance of some little discomfiture at the
Decline and Fall.
"Have I lost my smell for fruits, or is it a
apple pie, sir?" asked Wegg.
"It's a veal and ham pie," said Mr. Boffin.
"Is it indeed, sir? And it would be hard,
sir, to name the pie that is a better pie than a
weal and hammer," said Mr. Wegg, nodding his
head emotionally.
"Have some, Wegg?"
"Thank you, Mr. Boffin, I think I will,
at your invitation. I wouldn't at any other
party's, at the present juncture; but at yours,
sir ! — And meaty jelly too, especially when a
little salt, which is the case where there's ham,
is mellering to the organ, is very mellering to
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
449
the organ." Mr. Wegg did not say what organ,
but spoke with a cheerful generality.
So the pie was brought down, and the worthy
Mr. Boffin exercised his patience until Wegg, in
the exercise of his knife and fork, had finished
the dish: only profiting by the opportunity to
inform Wegg that "although it was not strictly
Fashionable to keep the contents of a larder
thus exposed to view, he (Mr. Boffin) considered
it hospitable; for the reason, that instead of
saying, in a comparatively unmeaning manner,
to a visitor, 'There are such and such edibles
down stairs; will you have anything up?'
you took the bold practical course of say-
ing, 'Cast your eye along the shelves, and, if
you see anything you like there, have it
down.'"
And now, Mr. Wegg at length pushed away
his plate and put on his spectacles, and Mr.
Boffin lighted his pipe and looked with beaming
eyes into the opening world before him, and
Mrs. Boffin reclined in a fashionable manner
on her sofa: as one who would be part of the
audience if she found she could, and would go
to sleep if she found she couldn't.
"Hem!" began Wegg. "This, Mr. Boffin
and Lady, is the first chapter of the first wollume
of the Decline and Fall of — " here he looked
hard at the book, and stopped.
"What's the matter, Wegg?"
"Why, it comes into my mind, do you know,
sir," said Wegg with an air of insinuating
frankness (having first again looked hard at the
book), "that you made a little mistake this
morning, which I had meant to set you right in,
only something put it out of my head. I think
you said Rooshan Empire, sir?"
"It is Rooshan; ain't it, Wegg?"
"No, sir. Roman. Roman."
"What's the difference, Wegg?"
"The difference, sir?" Mr. Wegg was fal-
tering and in danger of breaking down, when
a bright thought flashed upon him. "The
difference, sir? There you place me in a diffi-
culty, Mr. Boffin. Suffice it to observe, that
the difference is best postponed to some other
occasion when Mrs. Boffin does not honour
us with her company. In Mrs. Boffin's pres-
ence, sir, we had better drop it."
Mr. Wegg thus came out of his disadvantage
with quite a chivalrous air, and not only that,
but by dint of repeating with a manly delicacy,
"In Mrs. Boffin's presence, sir, we had better
drop it!" turned the disadvantage on Boffin,
who felt that he had committed himself in a very
painful manner.
Then, Mr. Wegg, in a dry, unflinching way,
entered on his task; going straight across
country at everything that came before him;
taking all the hard words, biographical and
geographical; getting rather shaken by Ha-
drian, Trajan, and the Antonines; stumbling at
Polybius (pronounced Polly Beeious, and sup-
posed by Mr. Boffin to be a Roman virgin, and
by Mrs. Boffin to be responsible for that neces-
sity of dropping it) ; heavily unseated by Titus
Antoninus Pius; up again and galloping
smoothly with Augustus; finally, getting over
the ground well with Commodus: who, under
the appellation of Commodious, was held by
Mr. Boffin to have been quite unworthy of his
English origin, and "not to have acted up to his
name" in his government of the Roman people.
With the death of this personage, Mr. Wegg
terminated his first reading; long before which
consummation several total eclipses of Mrs.
Boffin's candle behind her black velvet disc,
would have been very alarming, but for being
regularly accompanied by a potent smell of
burnt pens when her feathers took fire,
which acted as a restorative and woke
her. Mr. Wegg, having read on by rote
and attached as few ideas as possible to the
text, came out of the encounter fresh; but
Mr. Boffin, who had soon laid down his
unfinished pipe, and had ever since sat
intently staring with his eyes and mind at
the confounding enormities of the Romans,
was so severely punished that he could hardly
wish his literary friend good-night, and articu-
late "To-morrow."
"Commodious," gasped Mr. Boffin, staring
at the moon, after letting Wegg out at the gate
and fastening it: "Commodious fights in that
wild-beast-show, seven hundred and thirty-five
times, in one character only ! As if that wasn't
stunning enough, a hundred lions is turned into
the same wild-beast-show all at once ! As if
that wasn't stunning enough, Commodious, in
another character, kills 'em all off in a hun-
dred goes ! As if that wasn't stunning enough,
Vittleus (and well named too) eats six millions'
worth, English money, in seven months !
Wegg takes it easy, but upon-my-soul to a old
bird like myself these are scarers. And even
now that Commodious is strangled, I don't
see a way to our bettering ourselves." Mr.
Boffin added as he turned his pensive steps
toward the Bower and shook his head, "I
didn't think this morning there was half so
many Scarers in Print. But I'm in for it
now !"
45°
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
(1818-1894)
CAESAR: A SKETCH
CHAPTER XIII
The consulship of Caesar was the last chance
for the Roman aristocracy. He was not a
revolutionist. Revolutions are the last des-
perate remedy when all else has failed. They
may create as many evils as they cure, and wise
men always hate them. But if revolution was to
be escaped, reform was inevitable, and it was
for the Senate to choose between the alternatives.
Could the noble lords have known, then, in
that their day, the things that belonged to their
peace — could they have forgotten their fish-
ponds and their game preserves, and have
remembered that, as the rulers of the civilised
world, they had duties which the eternal order
of nature would exact at their hands, the
shaken constitution might have regained its
stability, and the forms and even the reality
of the Republic might have continued for
another century. It was not to be. ' Had the
Senate been capable of using the opportunity,
they would long before have undertaken a
reformation for themselves. Even had their
eyes been opened, there were disintegrating
forces at work which the highest political wis-
dom could do no more than arrest; and little
good is really effected by prolonging artificially
the lives of either constitutions or individuals
beyond their natural period. From the time
when Rome became an Empire, mistress of
provinces to which she was unable to extend her
own liberties, the days of her self-government
were numbered. A homogeneous and vigorous
people may manage their own affairs under a
popular constitution so long as their personal
characters remain undegenerate. Parliaments
and Senates may represent the general will of
the community, and may pass laws and ad-
minister them as public sentiment approves.
But such bodies can preside successfully only
among subjects who are directly represented in
them. They are too ignorant, too selfish, too
divided, to govern others; and Imperial as-
pirations draw after them, by obvious neces-
sity, an Imperial rule. Caesar may have known
this in his heart, yet the most far-seeing states-
man will not so trust his own misgivings as
to refuse to hope for the regeneration of the
institutions into which he is born. He will
determine that justice shall be done. Justice
is the essence of government, and without jus-
tice all forms, democratic or monarchic, are
tyrannies alike. But he will work with the ex-
isting methods till the inadequacy of them has
been proved beyond dispute. Constitutions
are never overthrown till they have pronounced
sentence on themselves.
Caesar accordingly commenced office by an
endeavour to conciliate. The army and the
moneyed interests, represented by Pompey
and Crassus, were already with him; and he
used his endeavours, as has been seen, to gain
Cicero, who might bring with him such part of
the landed aristocracy as were not hopelessly
incorrigible. With Cicero he but partially suc-
ceeded. The great orator solved the problem
of the situation by going away into the country
and remaining there for the greater part of the
year, and Caesar had to do without an assistance
which, in the speaking department, would have
been invaluable to him. His first step was to
order the publication of the "Acta Diurna,"
a daily journal of the doings of the Senate.
The light of day being thrown in upon that
august body might prevent honourable mem-
bers from laying hands on each other as they
had lately done, and might enable the people
to know what was going on among them —
on a better authority than rumour. He then
introduced his Agrarian law, the rough draft
of which had been already discussed, and had
been supported by Cicero in the preceding year.
Had he meant to be defiant, like the Gracchi,
he might have offered it at once to the people.
Instead of doing so, he laid it before the Senate,
inviting them to amend his suggestions, and
promising any reasonable concessions if they
would cooperate. No wrong was to be done
to any existing occupiers. No right of property
was to be violated which was any real right at
all. Large tracts in Campania which belonged
to the State were now held on the usual easy
terms by great landed patricians. These
Caesar proposed to buy out, and to settle on
the ground twenty thousand of Pompey's
veterans. There was money enough and to
spare in the treasury, which they had themselves
brought home. Out of the large funds which
would still remain, land might be purchased
in other parts of Italy for the rest, and for a few
thousand of the unemployed population which
was crowded into Rome. The measure in it-
self was admitted to be a moderate one.
Every pains had been taken to spare the in-
terests and to avoid hurting the susceptibili-
ties of the aristocrats. But, as Cicero said, the
CLESAR: A SKETCH
45 1
very name of an Agrarian law was intolerable
to them. It meant in the end spoliation and
division of property, and the first step would
bring others after it. The public lands they had
shared conveniently among themselves from
immemorial time. The public treasure was
their treasure, to be laid out as they might think
proper. Cato headed the opposition. He
stormed for an entire day, and was so violent
that Caesar threatened him with arrest. The
Senate groaned and foamed; no progress was
made or was likely to be made ; and Caesar, as
much in earnest as they were, had to tell them
that if they would not help him, he must appeal
to the assembly. "I invited you to revise the
law," he said; "I was willing that if any clause
displeased you it should be expunged. You
will not touch it. Well, then, the people must
decide."
The Senate had made up their minds to
fight the battle. If Caesar went to the assembly,
Bibulus, their second consul, might stop the
proceedings. If this seemed too extreme a
step, custom provided other impediments, to
which recourse might be had. Bibulus might
survey the heavens, watch the birds, or the
clouds, or the direction of the wind, and
declare the aspects unfavourable; or he might
proclaim day after day to be holy, and on holy
days no legislation was permitted. Should
these religious cobwebs be brushed away, the
Senate had provided a further resource in
three of the tribunes whom they had bribed.
Thus they held themselves secure, and dared
Caesar to do his worst. Caesar on his side
was equally determined. The assembly was
convoked. The Forum was choked to over-
flowing. Caesar and Pompey stood on the
fc steps of the Temple of Castor, and Bibulus
and his tribunes were at hand ready with their
interpellations. Such passions had not been
roused in Rome since the days of Cinna and
Octavius, and many a young lord was doubt-
less hoping that the day would not close with-
out another lesson to ambitious demagogues
and howling mobs. In their eyes the one re-
form which Rome needed was another Sylla.
Caesar read his law from the tablet on which
it was inscribed; - and, still courteous to his
antagonist, he turned to Bibulus and asked
him if he had any fault to find. Bibulus said
sullenly that he wanted no revolutions, and that
while he was consul there should be none.
The people hissed; and he then added in a
rage, "You shall not have your law this year
though every man of you demand it." Caesar
answered nothing, but Pompey and Crassus
stood forward. They were not officials, but
they were real forces. Pompey was the idol
of every soldier in the State, and at Caesar's
invitation he addressed the assembly. He
spoke for his veterans. He spoke for the poor
citizens. He said that he approved the law to
the last letter of it.
"Will you, then," asked Caesar, "support
the law if it be illegally opposed?" "Since,"
replied Pompey, "you, consul, and you, my
fellow citizens, ask aid of me, a poor individual
without office and without authority, who nev-
ertheless has done some service to the State,
I say that I will bear the shield, if others draw
the sword." Applause rang out from a hun-
dred thousand throats. Crassus followed to the
same purpose, and was received with the same
wild delight. A few senators, who retained
their senses, saw the uselessness of opposition,
and retired. Bibulus was of duller and tougher
metal. As the vote was about to be taken he
and his tribunes rushed to the rostra. The
tribunes pronounced their veto. Bibulus said
that he had consulted the sky ; the gods forbade
further action being taken that day, and he
declared the assembly dissolved. Nay, as if a
man like Caesar could be stopped by a shadow,
he proposed to sanctify the whole remainder
of the year, that no further business might
be transacted in it. Yells drowned his voice.
The mob rushed upon the steps; Bibulus was
thrown down, and the rods of the lictors were
broken; the tribunes who had betrayed their
order were beaten; Cato held his ground, and
stormed at Caesar, till he was led off by the
police, raving and gesticulating. The law was
then passed, and a resolution besides, that every
senator should take an oath to obey it.
So in ignominy the Senate's resistance col-
lapsed: the Caesar whom they had thought to
put off with their "woods and forests" had
proved stronger than the whole of them; and,
prostrate at the first round of the battle, they
did not attempt another. They met the follow-
ing morning. Bibulus told his story, and ap-
pealed for support. Had the Senate complied,
they would probably have ceased to exist.
The oath was unpalatable, but they made the
best of it. Metellus Celer, Cato, and Favonius,
a senator whom men called Cato's ape, strug-
gled against their fate, but, "swearing they would
ne'er consent, consented." The unwelcome
formula was swallowed by the whole of them;
and Bibulus, who had done his part, and had
been beaten and kicked and trampled upon,
452
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
and now found his employers afraid to stand
by him, went off sulkily to his house, shut him-
self up there, and refused to act as consul
further during the remainder of the year.
There was no further active opposition. A
commission was appointed by Caesar to carry
out the Land Act, composed of twenty of the
best men that could be found, one of them
being Atius Balbus, the husband of Caesar's
only sister, and grandfather of a little child
now three years old, who was known after-
wards to the world as Augustus. Cicero was
offered a place, but declined. The land ques-
tion having been disposed of, Caesar then pro-
ceeded with the remaining measures by which
his consulship was immortalised. He had re-
deemed his promise to Pompey by providing
for his soldiers. He gratified Crassus by giving
the desired relief to the farmers of the taxes.
He confirmed Pompey's arrangements for the
government of Asia, which the Senate had left
in suspense. The Senate was now itself sus-
pended. The consul acted directly with the
assembly, without obstruction, and without
remonstrance, Bibulus only from time to time
sending out monotonous admonitions from
within doors that the season was consecrated,
and that Caesar's acts had no validity. Still
more remarkably, and as the distinguishing
feature of his term of office, Caesar carried,
with the help of the people, the body of ad-
mirable laws which are known to jurists as the
"Leges Juliae," and mark an epoch in Roman
history. They were laws as unwelcome to the
aristocracy as they were essential to the con-
tinued existence of the Roman State, laws which
had been talked of in the Senate, but which
could never pass through the preliminary stage
of resolutions, and were now enacted over the
Senate's head by the will of Caesar and the
sovereign power of the nation. A mere out-
line can alone be attempted here. There was
a law declaring the inviolability of the persons
of magistrates during their term of authority,
reflecting back on the murder of Saturninus,
and touching by implication the killing of
Lentulus and his companions. There was a
law for the punishment of adultery, most dis-
interestedly singular if the popular accounts of
Caesar's habits had any grain of truth in them.
There were laws for the protection of the sub-
ject from violence, public or private ; and laws
disabling persons who had laid hands illegally
on Roman citizens from holding office in the
Commonwealth. There was a law, intended
at last to be effective, to deal with judges who
allowed themselves to be bribed. There were
laws against defrauders of the revenue; laws
against debasing the coin; laws against sacri-
lege; laws against corrupt State contracts;
laws against bribery at elections. Finally,
there was a law, carefully framed, De repetundis,
to exact retribution from pro-consuls or pro-
praetors of the type of Verres, who had plun-
dered the provinces. All governors were re-
quired, on relinquishing office, to make a double
return of their accounts, one to remain for in-
spection among the archives of the province,
and one to be sent to Rome; and where pecu-
lation or injustice could be proved, the offender's
estate was made answerable to the last sesterce.
Such laws were words only, without the will
to execute them; but they affirmed the prin-
ciples on which Roman or any other society
could alone continue. It was for the officials
of the constitution to adopt them, and save
themselves and the Republic, or to ignore
them as they had ignored the laws which already
existed, and see it perish as it deserved. All
that man could do for the preservation of his
country from revolution Caesar had accom-
plished. Sylla had reestablished the rule of
the aristocracy, and it had failed grossly and
disgracefully. Cinna and Marius had tried
democracy, and that had failed. Caesar was
trying what law would do, and the result re-
mained to be seen. Bibulus, as each measure
was passed, croaked that it was null and void.
The leaders of the Senate threatened between
their teeth that all should be undone when
Caesar's term was over. Cato, when he men-
tioned the "Leges Juliae," spoke of them as
enactments, but refused them their author's
name. But the excellence of these laws was
so clearly recognised that they survived the
irregularity of their introduction; and the "Lex
de Repetundis" especially remained a terror
to evildoers, with a promise of better days
to the miserable and pillaged subjects of the
Roman Empire.
So the year of Caesar's consulship passed
away. What was to happen when it had ex-
pired? The Senate had provided "the woods
and forests" for him. But the Senate's pro-
vision in such a matter could not be expected
to hold. He asked for nothing, but he was
known to desire an opportunity of distinguished
service. Caesar was now forty-three. His
life was ebbing away, and, with the exception
of his two years in Spain, it had been spent in
struggling with the base elements of Roman
faction. Great men will bear such sordid work
CLESAR: A SKETCH
453
when it is laid on them, but they loathe it not-
withstanding, and for the present there was
nothing more to be done. A new point of
departure had been taken. Principles had
been laid down for the Senate and people to
act on, if they could and would. Caesar could
only wish for a long absence in some new sphere
of usefulness, where he could achieve some-
thing really great which his country would
remember.
And on one side only was such a sphere open
to him. The East was Roman to the Eu-
phrates. No second Mithridates could loosen
the grasp with which the legions now held the
civilised parts of Asia. Parthians might dis-
turb the frontier, but could not seriously
threaten the Eastern dominions; and no ad-
vantage was promised by following on the steps
of Alexander, and annexing countries too poor
to bear the cost of their maintenance. To
the west it was different. Beyond the Alps
there was still a territory of unknown extent,
stretching away to the undefined ocean, a
territory peopled with warlike races, some of
whom in ages long past had swept over Italy
and taken Rome, and had left their descendants
and their name in the northern province, which
was now called Cisalpine Gaul. With these
races the Romans had as yet no clear rela-
tions, and from them alone could any serious
danger threaten the State. The Gauls had
for some centuries ceased their wanderings,
had settled down in fixed localities. They had
built towns and bridges; they had cultivated
the soil, and had become wealthy and partly
civilised. With the tribes adjoining Provence
the Romans had alliances more or less precari-
ous, and had established a kind of protectorate
over them. But even here the inhabitants were
uneasy for their independence, and troubles
were continually arising with them ; while into
these districts and into the rest of Gaul a fresh
and stormy element was now being introduced.
In earlier times the Gauls had been stronger
than the Germans, and not only could they pro-
tect their own frontier, but they had formed
settlements beyond the Rhine. These rela-
tions were being changed. The Gauls, as
they grew in wealth, declined in vigour. The
Germans, still roving and migratory, were
throwing covetous eyes out of their forests
on the fields and vineyards of their neighbours,
and enormous numbers of them were crossing
the Rhine and Danube, looking for new homes.
How feeble a barrier either the Alps or the
Gauls themselves might prove against such
invaders had been but too recently experienced.
Men who were of middle age at the time of
Caesar's consulship could still remember the
terrors which had been caused by the invasion
of the Cimbri and Teutons. Marius had saved
Italy then from destruction, as it were, by the
hair of its head. The annihilation of those
hordes had given Rome a passing respite. But
fresh generations had grown up. Fresh multi-
tudes were streaming out of the North. Ger-
mans in hundreds of thousands were again
passing the Upper Rhine, rooting themselves
in Burgundy, and coming in collision with
tribes which Rome protected. There were
uneasy movements among the Gauls themselves,
whole nations of them breaking up from their
homes and again adrift upon the world. Gaul
and Germany were like a volcano giving signs
of approaching eruption; and, at any moment
and hardly with warning, another lava stream
might be pouring down into Venetia and Lom-
bardy.
To deal with this danger was the work
marked out for Caesar. It is the fashion to
say that he sought a military command that he
might have an army behind him to overthrow
the constitution. If this was his object, am-
bition never chose a more dangerous or less
promising route for itself. Men of genius who
accomplish great things in this world do not
trouble themselves with remote and visionary
aims. They encounter emergencies as they
rise, and leave the future to shape itself as it
may. It would seem that at first the defence
of Italy was all that was thought of. "The
woods and forests" were set aside, and Caesar,
by a vote of the people, was given the command
of Cisalpine Gaul and Illyria for five years;
but either he himself desired, or especial cir-
cumstances which were taking place beyond
the mountains recommended, that a wider
scope should be allowed him. The Senate,
finding that the people would act without them
if they hesitated, gave him in addition Gallia
Comata, the land of the Gauls with the long
hair, the governorship of the Roman province
beyond the Alps, with untrammelled liberty
to act as he might think good throughout the
country which is now known as France and
Switzerland and the Rhine provinces of Ger-
many.
He was to start early in the approaching year.
It was necessary before he went to make some
provision for the quiet government of the
capital. The alliance with Pompey and
Crassus gave temporary security. Pompey
454
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
had less stability of character than could have
been wished, but he became attached to Caesar's
daughter Julia; and a fresh link of marriage
was formed to hold them together. Caesar
himself married Calpurnia, the daughter of
Calpurnius Piso. The Senate having tem-
porarily abdicated, he was able to guide the
elections; and Piso and Pompey's friend
Gabinius, who had obtained the command of
the pirate war for him, were chosen consuls
for the year 58. Neither of them, if we can
believe a tithe of Cicero's invective, was good
for much; but they were staunch partisans,
and were to be relied on to resist any efforts
which might be made to repeal the "Leges
Juliae." These matters being arranged, and
his own term having expired, Caesar withdrew,
according to custom, to the suburbs beyond
the walls to collect troops and prepare for his
departure. Strange things, however, had yet
to happen before he was gone.
It is easy to conceive how the Senate felt
at these transactions, how ill they bore to find
themselves superseded, and the State managed
over their heads. Fashionable society was
equally furious, and the three allies went by
the name of Dynasts, or "Reges Superbi."
After resistance had been abandoned, Cicero
came back to Rome to make cynical remarks
from which all parties suffered equally. His
special grievance was the want of considera-
tion which he conceived to have been shown
for himself. He mocked at the Senate; he
mocked at Bibulus, whom he particularly
abominated; he mocked at Pompey and the
Agrarian law. Mockery turned to indignation
when he thought of the ingratitude of the
Senate, and his chief consolation in their dis-
comfiture was that it had fallen on them through
the neglect of their most distinguished member.
"I could have saved them, if they would have
let me," he said. "I could save them still,
if I were to try; but I will go study philosophy
in my own family." "Freedom is gone," he
wrote to Atticus; "and if we are to be worse
enslaved, we shall bear it. Our lives and
properties are more to us than liberty. We
sigh, and we do not even remonstrate."
Cato, in the desperation of passion, called
Pompey a Dictator in the assembly, and nearly
escaped being killed for his pains. The pa-
tricians revenged themselves in private by
savage speeches and plots and purposes.
Fashionable society gathered in the theatres
and hissed the popular leaders. Lines were
introduced into the plays reflecting on Pompey,
and were encored a thousand times. Bibulus
from his closet continued to issue venomous
placards, reporting scandals about Caesar's
life, and now for the first time bringing up the
story of Nicomedes. The streets were impas-
sable where these papers were pasted up, from
the crowds of loungers which were gathered to
read them, and Bibulus for the moment was
the hero of patrician saloons. Some malicious
comfort Cicero gathered out of these mani-
festations of feeling. He had no belief in the
noble lords, and small expectations from them.
Bibulus was, on the whole, a fit representa-
tive for the gentry of the fishponds. But the
Dynasts were at least heartily detested in
quarters which had once been powerful, and
might be powerful again ; and he flattered him-
self, though he affected to regret it, that the
animosity against them was spreading. To all
parties there is attached a draggled trail of
disreputables, who hold themselves entitled
to benefits when their side is in power, and are
angry when they are passed over.
"The State," Cicero wrote in the autumn
of 59 to Atticus, "is in a worse condition than
when you left us; then we thought that we had
fallen under a power which pleased the people,
t and which, though abhorrent to the good, yet
was not totally destructive to them. Now
all hate it equally, and we are in terror as to
where the exasperation may break out. We
had experienced the ill-temper and irritation
of those who in their anger with Cato had
brought ruin on us; but the poison worked so
slowly that it seemed we might die without
pain. — I hoped, as I often told you, that the
wheel of the constitution was so turning that
we should scarcely hear a sound or see any
visible track; and so it would have been could
men have waited for the tempest to pass over
them. But the secret sighs turned to groans,
and the groans to universal clamour; and thus
our friend Pompey, who so lately swam in
glory, and never heard an evil word of himself,
is broken-hearted, and knows not whither to
turn. A precipice is before him, and to retreat
is dangerous. . The good are against him —
the bad are not his friends. I could scarce
help weeping the other day when I heard him
complaining in the Forum of the publications
of Bibulus. He who but a short time since
bore himself so proudly there, with the people
in raptures with him, and with the world on
his side, was now so humble and abject as to
disgust even himself, not to say his hearers.
Crassus enjoyed the scene, but no one else.
C^SAR: A SKETCH
455
Pompey had fallen down out of the stars —
not by a gradual descent, but in a single plunge ;
and as Apelles if he had seen his Venus, or
Protogenes his lalysus, all daubed with mud,
would have been vexed and annoyed, so was I
grieved to the very heart to see one whom I had
painted out in the choicest colours of art thus
suddenly defaced. — Pompey is sick with irri-
tation at the placards of Bibulus. I am sorry
about them; they give such excessive annoy-
ance to a man whom I have always liked.
And Pompey is so prompt with his sword, and
so unaccustomed to insult, that I fear what he
may do. What the future may have in store
for Bibulus I know not. At present he is the
admired of all."
" Sampsiceramus," Cicero wrote a few days
later, "is greatly penitent. He would gladly
be restored to the eminence from which he
has fallen. Sometimes he imparts his griefs to
me, and asks me what he should do, which I
cannot tell him."
Unfortunate Cicero, who knew what was
right, but was too proud to do it ! Unfortunate
Pompey, who still did what was right, but was
too sensitive to bear the reproach of it, who
would so gladly not leave his duty unperformed,
and yet keep the "sweet voices" whose ap-
plause had grown so delicious to him ! Bibulus
was in no danger. Pompey was too good-na-
tured to hurt him; and Caesar let fools say
what they pleased, as long as they were fools
without teeth, who would bark but could not
bite. The risk was to Cicero himself, little as
he seemed to be aware of it. Caesar was to
be long absent from Rome, and he knew that
as soon as he was engaged in Gaul the extreme
oligarchic faction would make an effort to set
aside his Land Commission and undo his
legislation. When he had a clear purpose in
view, and was satisfied that it was a good
purpose, he was never scrupulous about his in-
struments. It was said of him, that when he
wanted any work done, he chose the persons
best able to do it, let their general character be
what it might. The rank and file of the pa-
tricians, proud, idle, vicious, and self-indulgent,
might be left to their mistresses and their
gaming-tables. They could do no mischief,
unless they had leaders at their head, who
could use their resources more effectively than
they could do themselves. There were two
men only in Rome with whose help they could
be really dangerous — Cato, because he was a
fanatic, impregnable to argument, and not to
be influenced by temptation of advantage to
himself; Cicero, on account of his extreme
ability, his personal ambition, and his want
of political principle. Cato he knew to be im-
practicable. Cicero he had tried to gain; but
Cicero, who had played a first part as consul,
could not bring himself to play a second, and,
if the chance offered, had both power and will
to be troublesome. Some means had to be
found to get rid of these two, or at least to tie
their hands and to keep them in order. There
would be Pompey and Crassus still at hand.
But Pompey was weak, and Crassus under-
stood nothing beyond the art of manipulating
money. Gabinius and Piso, the next consuls,
had an indifferent reputation and narrow
abilities, and at best they would have but
their one year of authority. Politics, like love,
makes strange bedfellows. In this difficulty
accident threw in Caesar's way a convenient
but most unexpected ally.
Young Clodius, after his escape from pro-
secution by the marvellous methods which
Crassus had provided for him, was more popu-
lar than ever. He had been the occasion of a
scandal which had brought infamy on the de-
tested Senate. His offence in itself seemed
venial in so loose an age, and was as nothing
compared with the enormity of his judges. He
had come out of his trial with a determination
to be revenged on the persons from whose
tongues he had suffered most severely in the
senatorial debates. Of these Cato had been
the most savage ; but Cicero had been the most
exasperating, from his sarcasms, his airs of
patronage, and perhaps his intimacy with his
sister. The noble youth had exhausted the
common forms of pleasure. He wanted a new
excitement, and politics and vengeance mighc
be combined. He was as clever as he was
dissolute, and, as clever men are fortunately
rare in the licentious part of society, they are
always idolised, because they make vice respect-
able by connecting it with intellect. Clodius
was a second, an abler Catiline, equally un-
principled, and far more dexterous and prudent.
In times of revolution there is always a disrepu-
table wing to the radical party, composed of men
who are the natural enemies of established
authority, and these all rallied about their new
leader with devout enthusiasm. Clodius was
not without political experience. His first
public appearance had been as leader of a
mutiny. He was already quaestor, and so a
senator; but he was too young to aspire to the
higher magistracies which were open to him
as a patrician. He declared his intention of
456
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
renouncing his order, becoming a plebeian, and
standing for the tribuneship of the people.
There were precedents for such a step, but they
were rare. The abdicating noble had to be
adopted into a plebeian family, and the consent
was required of the consuls and of the Pon-
tifical College. With the growth of political
equality the aristocracy had become more
insistent upon the privilege of birth, which
could not be taken from them; and for a
Claudius to descend among the commoners was
as if a Howard were to seek adoption from a
shopkeeper in the Strand.
At first there was universal amazement.
Cicero had used the intrigue with Pompeia
as a text for a sermon on the immoralities of the
age. The aspirations of Clodius to be a trib-
une he ridiculed as an illustration of its follies,
and after scourging him in the Senate, he
laughed at him and jested with him in private.
Cicero did not understand with how venomous
a snake he was playing. He even thought
Claudius likely to turn against the Dynasts,
and to become a serviceable member of the
conservative party. Gradually he was forced
to open his eyes. Speeches were reported to
him as coming from Clodius or his allies
threatening an inquiry into the death of the
Catilinarians. At first he pushed his alarms
aside, as unworthy of him. What had so great
a man as he to fear from a young reprobate
like "the pretty boy"? The "pretty boy,"
however, found favour where it was least looked
for. Pompey supported his adventure for the
tribuneship. Caesar, though it was Caesar's
house which he had violated, did not oppose.
Bibulus refused consent, but Bibulus had
virtually abdicated, and went for nothing.
The legal forms were complied with. Clodius
found a commoner younger than himself who
was willing to adopt him, and who, the day
after the ceremony, released him from the new
paternal authority. He was now a plebeian,
and free. He remained a senator in virtue
of his quaestorship, and he was chosen tribune
of the people for the year 58.
Cicero was at last startled out of his security.
So long as the consuls, or one of them, could be
depended on, a tribune's power was insignifi-
cant. When the consuls were of his own way
of thinking, a tribune was a very important
personage indeed. Atticus was alarmed for
his friend, and cautioned him to look to him-
self. Warnings came from all quarters that
mischief was in the wind. Still it was impos-
sible to believe the peril to be a real one.
Cicero, to whom Rome owed its existence, to
be struck at by a Clodius ! It could not be.
As little could a wasp hurt an elephant.
There can be little doubt that Caesar knew
what Clodius had in his mind; or that, if the
design was not his own, he had purposely
allowed it to go forward. Caesar did not wish
to hurt Cicero. He wished well to him, and
admired him; but he did not mean to leave
him free in Rome to lead a senatorial reaction.
A prosecution for the execution of the prison-
ers was now distinctly announced. Cicero as
consul had put to death Roman citizens with-
out a trial. Cicero was to be called to answer
for the illegality before the sovereign people.
The danger was unmistakable; and Caesar,
who was still in the suburbs making his
preparations, invited Cicero to avoid it, by ac-
companying him as second in command into
Gaul. The offer was made in unquestionable
sincerity. Caesar may himself have created the
situation to lay Cicero under a pressure, but
he desired nothing so much as to take him as
his companion, and to attach him to himself.
Cicero felt the compliment and hesitated to
refuse, but his pride again came in his way.
Pompey assured him that not a hair of his
head should be touched. Why Pompey gave
him this encouragement Cicero could never
afterwards understand. The scenes in the
theatres had also combined to mislead him, and
he misread the disposition of the great body
of citizens. He imagined that they would
all start up in his defence, Senate, aristocracy,
knights, commoners, and tradesmen. The
world, he thought, looked back upon his con-
sulship with as much admiration as he did
himself, and was always contrasting him with
his successors. Never was mistake more
profound. The Senate, who had envied his
talents and resented his assumption, now de-
spised him as a trimmer. His sarcasms had
made him enemies among those who acted with
him politically. He had held aloof at the crisis
of Caesar's election and in the debates which
followed, and therefore all sides distrusted him;
while throughout the body of the people there
was, as Caesar had foretold, a real and sustained
resentment at the conduct of the Catiline
affair. The final opinion of Rome was that
the prisoners ought to have been tried; and
that they were not tried was attributed not
unnaturally to a desire, on the part of the
Senate, to silence an inquiry which might have
proved inconvenient.
Thus suddenly out of a clear sky the thunder-
(LESAR: A SKETCH
457
clouds gathered over Cicero's head. "Clo-
dius," says Dion Cassius, "had discovered that
among the senators Cicero was more feared
than loved. There were few of them who had
not been hit by his irony, or irritated by his
presumption." Those who most agreed in
what he had done were not ashamed to shuffle
off upon him their responsibilities. Clodius,
now omnipotent with the assembly at his back,
cleared the way by a really useful step; he
carried a law abolishing the impious form of
declaring the heavens unfavourable when an
inconvenient measure was to be stopped or
delayed. Probably it formed a part of his
engagement with Caesar. The law may have
been meant to act retrospectively, to prevent
a question being raised on the interpellations
of Bibulus. This done, and without paying
the Senate the respect of first consulting it, he
gave notice that he would propose a vote to the
assembly, to the effect that any person who had
put to death a Roman citizen without trial,
and without allowing him an appeal to the
people, had violated the constitution of the
State. Cicero was not named directly; every
senator who had voted for the execution of
Cethegus and Lentulus and their companions
was as guilty as he; but it was known imme-
diately that Cicero was the mark that was being
aimed at, and Caesar at once renewed the offer,
which he made before, to take Cicero with him.
Cicero, now frightened in earnest, still could
not bring himself to owe his escape to Caesar.
The Senate, ungrateful as they had been, put
on mourning with an affectation of dismay.
The knights petitioned the consuls to interfere
for Cicero's protection. The consuls declined
to receive their request. Caesar outside the
city gave no further sign. A meeting of the
citizens was held in the camp. Caesar's opinion
was invited. He said that he had not changed
his sentiments. He had remonstrated at the
time against the execution. He disapproved
of it still, but he did not directly advise legisla-
tion upon acts that were past. Yet, though he
did not encourage Clodius, he did not interfere.
He left the matter to the consuls, and one of
them was his own father-in-law, and the other
was Gabinius, once Pompey's favourite officer.
Gabinius, Cicero thought, would respect Pom-
pey's promise to him. To Piso he made a
personal appeal. He found him, he said after-
wards, at eleven in the morning, in his slippers,
at a low tavern. Piso came out, reeking with
wine, and excused himself by saying that his
health required a morning draught. Cicero
affected to believe his apology; and he stood at
the tavern door as long as he could bear the
smell and the foul language and the expectora-
tions of the consul. Hope in that quarter there
was none. Two days later the assembly was
called to consider Clodius's proposal. Piso
was asked to say what he thought of the treat-
ment of the conspirators ; he answered gravely,
and, as Cicero described him, with one eye in
his forehead, that he disapproved of cruelty.
Neither Pompey nor his friends came to help.
What was Cicero to do? Resist by force?
The young knights rallied about him eager for
a fight, if he would but give the word. Some-
times, as he looked back in after years, he
blamed himself for declining their services,
sometimes he took credit to himself for refus-
ing to be the occasion of bloodshed.
"I was too timid," he said once; "I had the
country with me, and I should have stood firm.
I had to do with a band of villains only, with
two monsters of consuls, and with the male
harlot of rich buffoons, the seducer of his
sister, the high priest of adultery, a poisoner, a
forger, an assassin, a thief. The best and brav-
est citizens implored me to stand up to him.
But I reflected that this Fury asserted that he
was supported by Pompey and Crassus and
Caesar. Caesar had an army at the gates.
The other two could raise another army when
they pleased; and when they knew that their
names were thus made use of, they remained
silent. They were alarmed, perhaps, because
the laws which they had carried in the preceding
year were challenged by the new praetors, and
were held by the Senate to be invalid ; and they
were unwilling to alienate a popular tribune."
And again elsewhere: "When I saw that the
faction of Catiline was in power, that the party
which I had led, some from envy of myself,
some from fear for their own lives, had betrayed
and deserted me; when the two consuls had
been purchased by promises of provinces, and
had gone over to my enemies, and the condition
of the bargain was, that I was to be delivered
over, tied and bound, to my enemies; when the
Senate and knights were in mourning, but were
not allowed to bring my cause before the people ;
when my blood had been made the seal of the
arrangement under which the State had been
disposed of; when I saw all this, although 'the
good' were ready to fight for me, and were
willing to die for me, I would not consent, be-
cause I saw that victory or defeat would alike
bring ruin to the Commonwealth. The Senate
was powerless. The Forum was ruled by
458
GEORGE ELIOT
violence. In such a city there was no place
for me."
So Cicero, as he looked back afterwards,
described the struggle, in his own mind. His
friends had then rallied; Caesar was far away;
and he could tell his own story, and could pile
his invectives on those who had injured him.
His matchless literary power has given him
exclusive command over the history of his time.
His enemies' characters have been accepted
from his pen as correct portraits. If we allow
his description of Clodius and the two consuls
to be true to the facts, what harder condemna-
tion can be pronounced against a political con-
dition in which such men as these could be
raised to the first position in the State? Dion
says that Cicero's resolution to yield did not
wholly proceed from his own prudence, but was
assisted by advice from Cato and Hortensius
the orator. Anyway, the blow fell, and he
went down before it. His immortal consulship,
in praise of which he had written a poem,
brought after it the swift retribution which
Caesar had foretold. When the vote proposed
by Clodius was carried he fled to Sicily, with a
tacit confession that he dared not abide his
trial, which would immediately have followed.
Sentence was pronounced upon him in his
absence. His property was confiscated. His
houses in town and country were razed. The
site of his palace in Rome was dedicated to the
Goddess of Liberty, and he himself was exiled.
He was forbidden to reside within four hundred
miles of Rome, with a threat of death if he
returned; and he retired to Macedonia, to pour
out his sorrows and his resentments in lamenta-
tions unworthy of a woman.
"GEORGE ELIOT," MARY ANN
EVANS (CROSS) (1819-1880)
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS
BOOK VII. CHAPTER^ V
THE LAST CONFLICT
In the second week of September, Maggie
was again sitting in her lonely room, battling
with the old shadowy enemies that were for-
ever slain and rising again. It was past mid-
night, and the rain was beating heavily against
the window, driven with fitful force by the
rushing, loud-moaning wind. For, the day
after Lucy's visit, there had been a sudden
change in the weather: the heat and drought
had given way to cold variable winds, and heavy
falls of rain at intervals; and she had been
forbidden to risk the contemplated journey
until the weather should become more settled.
In the counties higher up the Floss, the rains
had been continuous, and the completion of
the harvest had been arrested. And now,
for the last two days, the rains on this lower
course of the river had been incessant, so that
the old men had shaken their heads and talked
of sixty years ago, when the same sort of
weather, happening about the equinox, brought
on the great floods, which swept the bridge
away, and reduced the town to great misery.
But the younger generation, who had seen
several small floods, thought lightly of these
sombre recollections and forebodings; and
Bob Jakin, naturally prone to take a hopeful
view of his own luck, laughed at his mother
when she regretted their having taken a house
by the riverside; observing that but for that
they would have had no boats, which were the
most lucky of possessions in case of a flood that
obliged them to go to a distance for food.
But the careless and the fearful were alike
sleeping in their beds now. There was hope
that the rain would abate by the morrow;
threatenings of a worse kind, from sudden
thaws after falls of snow, had often passed
off in the experience of the younger ones ; and
at the very worst, the banks would be sure to
break lower down the river when the tide came
in with violence, and so the waters would be
carried off, without causing more than tem-
porary inconvenience, and losses that would
be felt only by the poorer sort, whom charity
would relieve.
All were in their beds now, for it was past
midnight: all except some solitary watchers
such as Maggie. She was seated in her little
parlour towards the river with one candle, that
left everything dim in the room, except a letter
which lay before her on the table. That letter
which had come to her to-day, was one of the
causes that had kept her up far on into the
night — unconscious how the hours were going
— careless of seeking rest — with no image
of rest coming across her mind, except of that
far, far off rest, from which there would be no
more waking for her into this struggling earthly
life.
Two days before Maggie received that letter,
she had been to the Rectory for the last time.
The heavy rain would have prevented her from
going since; but there was another reason.
Dr. Kenn, at first enlightened only by a few
hints as to the new turn which gossip and
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS
459
slander had taken in relation to Maggie, had
recently been made more fully aware of it by
an earnest remonstrance from one of his male
parishioners against the indiscretion of per-
sisting in the attempt to overcome the prevalent
feeling in the parish by a course of resistance.
Dr. Kenn, having a conscience void of offence
in the matter, was still inclined to persevere —
was still averse to give way before a public
sentiment that was odious and contemptible;
but he was finally wrought upon by the con-
sideration of the peculiar responsibi'ity attached
to his office, of avoiding the appearance of
evil — an "appearance" that is always de-
pendent on the average quality of surrounding
minds. Where these minds are low and gross,
the area of that "appearance" is proportion-
ately widened. Perhaps he was in danger of
acting from obstinacy; perhaps it was his duty
to succumb: conscientious people are apt to
see their duty in that which is the most pain-
ful course; and to recede was always painful
to Dr. Kenn. He made up his mind that he
must advise Maggie to go away from St. Ogg's
for a time; and he performed that difficult
task with as much delicacy as he could, only
stating in vague terms that he found his attempt
to countenance her stay was a source of discord
between himself and his parishioners, that was
likely to obstruct his usefulness as a clergyman.
He begged her to allow him to write to a clerical
friend of his, who might possibly take her into
his own family as governess; and, if not, would
probably know of some other available position
for a young woman in whose welfare Dr. Kenn
felt a strong interest.
Poor Maggie listened with a trembling lip:
she could say nothing but a faint "thank you
— I shall be grateful"; and she walked back
to her lodgings, through the driving rain, with
a new sense of desolation. She must be a
lonely wanderer; she must go out among fresh
faces, that would look at her wonderingly,
because the days did not seem joyful to her;
she must begin a new life, in which she would
have to rouse herself to receive new impres-
sions — and she was so unspeakably, sicken-
ingly weary! There was no home, no help
for the erring: even those who pitied were
constrained to hardness. But ought she to
complain? Ought she to shrink in this way
from the long penance of life, which was all
the possibility she had of lightening the load
to some other sufferers, and so changing that
passionate error into a new force of unselfish
human love? All the next day she sat in her
lonely room, with a window darkened by the
cloud and the driving rain, thinking of that
future, and wrestling for patience : — for what
repose could poor Maggie ever win except by
wrestling ?
And on the third day — this day of which
she had just sat out the close — the letter had
come which was lying on the table before her.
The letter was from Stephen. He was come
back from Holland : he was at Mudport again,
unknown to any of his friends ; and had written
to her from that place, enclosing the letter to a
person whom he trusted in St. Ogg's. From
beginning to end it was a passionate cry of
reproach: an appeal against her useless sacri-
fice of him — of herself: against that perverted
notion of right which led her to crush all his
hopes, for the sake of a mere idea, and not any
substantial good — his hopes, whom she loved,
and who loved her with that single overpower-
ing passion, that worship, which a man never
gives to a woman more than once in his life.
"They have written to me that you are to
marry Kenn. As if I should believe that!
Perhaps they have told you some such fables
about me. Perhaps they tell you I've been
'travelling.' My body has been dragged about
somewhere; but / have never travelled from
the hideous place where you left me — where
I started up from a stupor of helpless rage to
find you gone.
"Maggie! whose pain can have been like
mine? Whose injury is like mine? Who be-
sides me has met that long look of love that
has burnt itself into my soul, so that no other
image can come there ? Maggie, call me back
to you ! — call me back to life and goodness !
I am banished from both now. I have no
motives: I am indifferent to everything. Two
months have only deepened the certainty that
I can never care for life without you. Write
me one word — say ' Come ! ' In two days
I should be with you. Maggie — have you
forgotten what it was to be together ? — to be
within reach of a look — to be within hearing
of each other's voice ? "
When Maggie first read this letter she felt
as if her real temptation had only just begun.
At the entrance of the chill dark cavern, we
turn with unworn courage from the warm
light; but how, when we have trodden far in
the damp darkness, and have begun to be faint
and weary — how, if there is a sudden opening
above us, and we are invited back again to the
life-nourishing day? The leap of natural
longing from under the pressure of pain is
460
GEORGE ELIOT"
so strong, that all less immediate motives are
likely to be forgotten — till the pain has been
escaped from.
For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had
been in vain. For hours every other thought
that she strove to summon was thrust aside
by the image of Stephen waiting for the single
word that would bring him to her. She did
not read the letter: she heard him uttering it,
and the voice shook her with its old strange
power. All the day before she had been filled
with the vision of a lonely future through which
she must carry the burden of regret, upheld
only by clinging faith. And here — close
within her reach — urging itself upon her
even as a claim — was another future, in which
hard endurance and effort were to be exchanged
for easy delicious leaning on another's loving
strength ! And yet that promise of joy in the
place of sadness did not make the dire force
of the temptation to Maggie. It was Stephen's
tone of misery, it was the doubt in the justice
of her own resolve, that made the balance
tremble, and made her once start from her
seat to reach the pen and paper, and write
"Come!"
But close upon that decisive act, her mind
recoiled; and the sense of contradiction with
her past self in her moments of strength and
clearness, came upon her like a pang of con-
scious degradation. No — she must wait; she
must pray; the light that had forsaken her
would come again : she should feel again what
she had felt, when she had fled away, under
an inspiration strong enough to conquer agony
— to conquer love : she should feel again what
she had felt when Lucy stood by her, when
Philip's letter had stirred all the fibres that
bound her to the calmer past.
She sat quite still, far on into the night:
with no impulse to change her attitude, with-
out active force enough even for the mental
act of prayer: only waiting for the light that
would surely come again. It came with the
memories that no passion could long quench:
the long past came back to her, and with it the
fountains of self-renouncing pity and affection,
of faithfulness and resolve. The words that
were marked by the quiet hand in the little old
book that she had long ago learned by heart,
rushed even to her lips, and found a vent for
themselves in a low murmur that was quite
lost in the loud driving of the rain against the
window and the loud moan and roar of the
wind: "I have received the Cross, I have
received it from Thy hand; I will bear it, and
bear it till death, as Thou hast laid it upon
me."
But soon other words rose that could find
no utterance but in a sob: "Forgive me,
Stephen ! It will pass away. You will come
back to her."
She took up the letter, held it to the candle,
and let it burn slowly on the hearth. To-
morrow she would write to him the last word
of parting.
"I will bear it, and bear it till death. . . .
But how long it will be before death comes!
I am so young, so healthy. How shall I have
patience and strength? Am I to struggle and
fall and repent again? — has life other trials
as hard for me still?"
With that cry of self-despair, Maggie fell
on her knees against the table, and buried her
sorrow -stricken face. Her soul went out to the
Unseen Pity that would be with her to the end.
Surely there was something being taught her
by this experience of great need ; and she must
be learning a secret of human tenderness and
long-suffering, that the less erring could hardly
know? "O God, if my life is to be long, let
me live to bless and comfort —
At that moment Maggie felt a startling sen-
sation of sudden cold about her knees and feet :
it was water flowing under her. She started
up: the stream was flowing under the door
that led into the passage. She was not be-
wildered for an instant — she knew it was the
flood!
The tumult of emotion she had been enduring
for the last twelve hours seemed to have left
a great calm in her: without screaming, she
hurried with the candle up-stairs to Bob Jakin's
bedroom. The door was ajar; she went in
and shook him by the shoulder.
"Bob, the flood is come ! it is in the house !
let us see if we can make the boats safe."
She lighted his candle, while the poor wife,
snatching up her baby, burst into screams;
and then she hurried down again to see if the
waters were rising fast. There was a step
down into the room at the door leading from
the staircase; she saw that the water was
already on a level with the step. While she
was looking, something came with a tremendous
crash against the window, and sent the leaded
panes and the old wooden framework inwards
in shivers, — the water pouring in after it.
"It is the boat!" cried Maggie. "Bob,
come down to get the boats!"
And without a moment's shudder of fear,
she plunged through the water, which was
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS
461
rising fast to her knees, and by the glimmering
light of the candle she had left on the stairs,
she mounted on to the window-sill, and crept
into the boat, which was left with the prow
lodging and protruding through the window.
Bob was not long after her, hurrying without
shoes or stockings, but with the lanthorn in his
hand.
"Why, they're both here — both the boats,"
said Bob, as he got into the one where Mag-
gie was. "It's wonderful this fastening isn't
broke too, as well as the mooring."
In the excitement of getting into the other
boat, unfastening it, and mastering an oar,
Bob was not struck with the danger Maggie
incurred. We are not apt to fear for the fear-
less, when we are companions in their danger,
and Bob's mind was absorbed in possible ex-
pedients for the safety of the helpless indoors.
The fact that Maggie had been up, had waked
him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave
Bob a vague impression of her as one who
would help to protect, not need to be protected.
She too had got possession of an oar, and had
pushed off, so as to release the boat from the
overhanging window-frame.
"The water's rising so fast," said Bob, "I
doubt it'll be in at the chambers before long
— th' house is so low. I've more mind to get
Prissy and the child and the mother into the
boat, if I could, and trusten to the water —
for th' old house is none so safe. And if I
let go the boat . . . but you," he exclaimed,
suddenly lifting the light of his lanthorn on
Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar
in her hand and her black hair streaming.
Maggie had no time to answer, for a new
tidal current swept along the line of the houses,
and drove both the boats out on to the wide
water, with a force that carried them far past
the meeting current of the river.
In the first moments Maggie felt nothing,
thought of nothing, but that she had suddenly
passed away from that life which she had been
dreading: it was the transition of death, with-
out its agony — and she was alone in the
darkness with God.
The whole thing had been so rapid — so
dream-like — that' the threads of ordinary
association were broken: she. sank down on
the seat clutching the oar mechanically, and
for a long while had no distinct conception of
her position. The first thing that waked her
to fuller consciousness was the cessation of the
rain, and a perception that the darkness was
divided b>the faintest light, which parted the
overhanging gloom from the immeasurable
watery level below. She was driven out upon
the flood : — that awful visitation of God
which her father used to talk of — which had
made the nightmare of her childish dreams.
And with that thought there rushed in the vision
of the old home — and Tom — and her mother
— they had all listened together.
"O God, where am I? Which is the way
home?" she cried out, in the dim loneliness.
What was happening to them at the Mill?
The flood had once nearly destroyed it. They
might be in danger — in distress : her mother
and her brother, alone there, beyond reach of
help! Her whole soul was strained now on
that thought ; and she saw the long-loved faces
looking for help into the darkness, and finding
none.
She was floating in smooth water now — •
perhaps far on the overflooded fields. There
was no sense of present danger to check the
outgoing of her mind to the old home ; and she
strained her eyes against the curtain of gloom
that she might seize the first sight of her where-
about — that she might catch some faint sug-
gestion of the spot towards which all her anxi-
eties tended.
Oh how welcome, the widening of that dis-
mal watery level — the gradual uplifting of the
cloudy firmament — the slowly defining black-
ness of objects above the glassy dark ! Yes
— she must be out on the fields — those were
the tops of hedgerow trees. Which way did
the river lie? Looking behind her, she saw
the lines of black trees: looking before her,
there were none : then, the river lay before her.
She seized an oar and began to paddle the boat
forward with the energy of wakening hope:
the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly,
now she was in action ; and she could soon see
the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on
a mound where they had taken refuge. On-
ward she paddled and rowed by turns in the
growing twilight: her wet clothes clung round
her, and her streaming hair was dashed about
by the wind, but she was hardly conscious of
any bodily sensations — except a sensation of
strength, inspired by mighty emotion. Along
with the sense of danger and possible rescue
for those long-remembered beings at the old
home, there was an undefined sense of recon-
cilement with her brother: what quarrel, what
harshness, what unbelief in each other can
subsist in the presence of a great calamity,
when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone,
and we are all one with each other in primitive
462
GEORGE ELIOT
mortal needs ? Vaguely, Maggie felt this;
— in the strong resurgent love towards her
brother that swept away all the later impres-
sions of hard, cruel offence and misunderstand-
ing, and left only the deep, underlying, un-
shakable memories of early union.
But now there was a large dark mass in the
distance, and near to her Maggie could discern
the current of the river. The dark mass must
be — yes, it was — St. Ogg's. Ah, now she
knew which way to look for the first glimpse of
the well-known trees — the gray willows, the
now yellowing chestnuts — and above them
the old roof! But there was no colour, no
shape yet: all was faint and dim. More and
more strongly the energies seemed to come and
put themselves forth, as if her life were a stored-
up force that was being spent in this hour,
unneeded for any future.
She must get her boat into the current of the
Floss, else she would never be able to pass the
Ripple and approach the house: this was the
thought that occurred to her, as she imagined
with more and more vividness the state of
things round the old home. But then she
might be carried very far down, and be unable
to guide^her boat out of the current again.
For the first time distinct ideas of danger began
to press upon her; but there was no choice
of courses, no room for hesitation, and she
floated into the current. Swiftly she went now,
without effort; more and more clearly in the
lessening distance and the growing light she
began to discern the objects that she knew must
be the well-known trees and roofs; nay, she
saw not far off a rushing muddy current that
must be the strangely altered Ripple.
Great God ! there were floating masses in
it, that might dash against her boat as she
passed, and cause her to perish too soon.
What were those masses?
For the first time Maggie's heart began to
beat in an agony of dread. She sat helpless
— dimly conscious that she was being floated
along — more intensely conscious of the antici-
pated clash. But the horror was transient:
it passed away before the oncoming warehouses
of St. Ogg's: she had passed the mouth of the
Ripple, then: now, she must use all her skill
and power to manage the boat and get it if
possible out of the current. She could see now
that the bridge was broken down: she could
see the masts of a stranded vessel far out over
the watery field. But no boats were to be seen
moving on the river — such as had been laid
hands on were employed in the flooded streets.
With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar,
and stood up again to paddle; but the now
ebbing tide added to the swiftness of the river,
and she was carried along beyond the bridge.
She could hear shouts from the windows over-
looking the river, as if the people there were
calling to her. It was not till she had passed
on nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat
clear of the current. Then with one yearning
look towards her uncle Deane's house that lay
farther down the river, she took to both her
oars, and rowed with all her might across the
watery fields, back towards the Mill. Colour
was beginning to awake now, and as she
approached the Dorlcote fields, she could dis-
cern the tints of the trees — could see the old
Scotch firs far to the right, and the home chest-
nuts — oh, how deep they lay in the water !
deeper than the trees on this side the hill.
And the roof of the Mill — where was it ?
Those heavy fragments hurrying down the
Ripple — what had they meant? But it was
not the house — the house stood firm : drowned
up to the first storey, but still firm — or was it
broken in at the end towards the Mill ?
With panting joy that she was there at last
— joy that overcame all distress — Maggie
neared the front of the house. At first she
heard no sound: she saw no object moving.
Her boat was on a level with the up-stairs
window. She called out in a loud piercing
voice :
"Tom, where are you? Mother, where are
you? Here is Maggie!"
Soon, from the window of the attic in the
central gable, she heard Tom's voice:
"Who is it? Have you brought a boat?"
" It is I, Tom — Maggie. Where is mother ? "
"She is not here: she went to Garum, the
day before yesterday. I'll come down to the
lower window."
"Alone, Maggie?" said Tom, in a voice of
deep astonishment, as he opened the middle
window on a level with the boat.
"Yes, Tom: God has taken care of me, to
bring me to you. Get in quickly. Is there
no one else?"
"No," said Tom, stepping into the boat,
"I fear the man is drowned: he was carried
down the Ripple, I think, when part of the
Mill fell with the crash of trees and stones
against it: I've shouted again and again, and
there has been no answer. Give me the oars,
Maggie."
It was not till Tom had pushed off and
they were on the wide water — he fjjce to face
JOHN RUSKIN
463
with Maggie — that the full meaning of what
had happened rushed upon his mind. It
came with so overpowering a force — it was
such a new revelation to his spirit, of the
depths in life, that had lain beyond his vision
which he had fancied so keen and clear — •
that he was unable to ask a question. They
sat mutely gazing at each other: Maggie with
eyes of intense life looking out from a weary,
beaten face — Tom pale with a certain awe
and humiliation. Thought was busy though
the lips were silent: and though he could ask
no question, he guessed a story of almost
miraculous divinely-protected effort. But at
last a mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes,
and the lips found a word they could utter:
the old childish — " Magsie ! "
Maggie could make no answer but a long
deep sob of that mysterious wondrous happi-
ness that is one with pain.
As soon as she could speak, she said, "We
will go to Lucy, Tom: we'll go and see if she
is safe, and then we can help the rest."
Tom rowed with untired vigour, and with
a different speed from poor Maggie's. The
boat was soon in the current of the river again,
and soon they would be at Tofton.
"Park House stands high up out of the
flood," said Maggie. "Perhaps they have got
Lucy there."
Nothing else was said; a new danger was
being carried towards them by the river.
Some wooden machinery had just given way
on one of the wharves, and huge fragments
were being floated along. The sun was rising
now, and the wide area of watery desolation
was spread out in dreadful clearness around
them — in dreadful clearness floated onwards
the hurrying, threatening masses. A large
company in a boat that was working its way
along under the Tofton houses observed their
danger, and shouted, "Get out of the current !"
But that could not be done at once, and
Tom, looking before him, saw death rushing
on them. Huge fragments, clinging together
in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across
the stream.
"It is coming, Maggie!" Tom said, in a
deep hoarse voice, loosing the oars, and clasp-
ing her.
The next instant the boat was no longer
seen upon the water — and the huge mass
was hurrying on in hideous triumph.
But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a
black speck on the golden water.
The boat reappeared — but brother and
sister had gone down in an embrace never to
be parted: living through again in one su-
preme moment the days when they had clasped
their little hands in love, and roamed the
daisied fields together.
JOHN RUSKIN (1819-1900)
THE STONES OF VENICE
VOL. II. CHAP. I.
THE THRONE
§ I. In the olden days of travelling, now
to return no more, in which distance could
not be vanquished without toil, but in which
that toil was rewarded, partly by the power
of deliberate survey of the countries through
which the journey lay, and partly by the
happiness of 'the evening hours, when, from
the top of the last hill he had surmounted, the
traveller beheld the quiet village where he was
to rest, scattered among the meadows beside
its valley stream; or, from the long hoped for
turn in the dusty perspective of the causeway,
saw, for the first time, the towers of some
famed city, faint in the rays of sunset — hours
of peaceful and thoughtful pleasure, for which
the rush of the arrival in the railway station is
perhaps not always, or to all men, an equiva-
lent: in those days, I say, when there was
something more to be anticipated and remem-
bered in the first aspect of each successive
halting-place, than a new arrangement of glass
roofing and iron girder, there were few moments
of which the recollection was more fondly
cherished by the traveller, than that which, as
I endeavoured to describe in the close of the
last chapter, brought him within sight of
Venice, as his gondola shot into the open
lagoon from the canal of Mestre. Not but
that the aspect of the city itself was generally
the source of some slight disappointment, for,
seen in this direction, its buildings are far
less characteristic than those of the other great
towns of Italy; but this inferiority was partly
disguised by distance, and more than atoned
for by the strange rising of its walls and towers
out of the midst, as it seemed, of the deep sea,
for it was impossible that the mind or the eye
could at once comprehend the shallowness of
the vast sheet of water which stretched away
in leagues of rippling lustre to the north and
south, or trace the narrow line of islets bound-
ing it to the east. The salt breeze, the white
464
JOHN RUSKIN
moaning sea-birds, the masses of black weed
separating and disappearing gradually, in knots
of heaving shoal, under the advance of the
steady tide, all proclaimed it to be indeed the
ocean on whose bosom the great city rested
so calmly; not such blue, soft, lake-like ocean
as bathes the Neapolitan promontories, or
sleeps beneath the marble rocks of Genoa, but
a sea with the bleak power of our own northern
waves, yet subdued into a strange spacious
rest, and changed from its angry pallor into a
field of burnished gold, as the sun declined
behind the belfry tower of the lonely island
church, fitly named "St. George of the Sea-
weed." As the boat drew nearer to the city
the coast which the traveller had just left
sank behind him into one long, low, sad-
coloured line, tufted irregularly with brush-
wood and willows: but, at what seemed its
northern extremity, the hills of Arqua rose in
a dark cluster of purple pyramids, balanced
on the bright mirage of the lagoon; two or
three smooth surges of inferior hill extended
themselves about their roots, and beyond
these, beginning with the craggy peaks above
Vicenza, the chain of the Alps girded the whole
horizon to the north — a wall of jagged blue,
here and there showing through its clefts a
wilderness of misty precipices, fading far back
into the recesses of Cadore, and itself rising
and breaking away eastward, where the sun
struck opposite upon its snow, into mighty
fragments of peaked light, standing up behind
the barred clouds of evening, one after an-
other, countless, the crown of the Adrian Sea,
until the eye turned back from pursuing them,
to rest upon the nearer burning of the cam-
paniles of Murano, and on the great city,
where it magnified itself along the waves, as
the quick silent pacing of the gondola drew
nearer and nearer. And at last, when its
walls were reached, and the outmost of its
untrodden streets was entered, not through
towered gate or guarded rampart, but as a
deep inlet between two rocks of coral in the
Indian sea; when first upon the traveller's
sight opened the long ranges of columned
palaces — each with its black boat moored at
the portal, each with its image cast down, be-
neath its feet, upon that green pavement which
every breeze broke into new fantasies of rich
tessellation; when first, at the extremity of
the bright vista, the shadowy Rialto threw its
colossal curve slowly forth from behind the
palace of the Camerlenghi ; that strange curve,
so delicate, so adamantine, strong as a moun-
tain cavern, graceful as a bow just bent; when
first, before its moonlike circumference was all
risen, the gondolier's cry, "Ah! Stali," struck
sharp upon the ear, and the prow turned aside
under the mighty cornices that half met over
the narrow canal, where the plash of the
water followed close and loud, ringing along
the marble by the boat's side; and when at
last that boat darted forth upon the breadth
of silver sea, across which the front of the
Ducal palace, flushed with its sanguine veins,
looks to the snowy dome of Our Lady of
Salvation, it was no marvel that the mind
should be so deeply entranced by the visionary
charm of a scene so beautiful and so strange,
as to forget the darker truths of its history
and its being. Well might it seem that such a
city had owed her existence rather to the rod
of the enchanter, than the fear of the fugitive ;
that the waters which encircled her had been
chosen for the mirror of her state, rather than
the shelter of her nakedness; and that all
which in nature was wild or merciless — Time
and Decay, as well as the waves and tempests
— had been won to adorn her instead of to
destroy, and might still spare, for ages to
come, that beauty which seemed to have fixed
for its throne the sands of the hour-glass as
well as of the sea.
§ II. And although the last few eventful
years, fraught with change to the face of the
whole earth, have been more fatal in their
influence on Venice than the five hundred that
preceded them; though the noble landscape
of approach to her can now be seen no more,
or seen only by a glance, as the engine slackens
its rushing on the iron line; and though many
of her palaces are forever defaced, and many
in desecrated ruins, there is still so much of
magic in her aspect, that the hurried traveller,
who must leave her before the wonder of that
first aspect has been worn away, may still be
led to forget the humility of her origin, and to
shut his eyes to the depth of her desolation.
They, at least, are little to be envied, in whose
hearts the great charities of the imagination
lie dead, and for whom the fancy has no
power to repress the importunity of painful
impressions, or to raise what is ignoble, and
disguise what is discordant, in a scene so rich
in its remembrances, so surpassing in its beauty.
But for this work of the imagination there
must be no permission during the task which
is before us. The impotent feelings of ro-
mance, so singularly characteristic of this cen-
tury, may indeed gild, but never save, the
THE STONES OF VENICE
465
remains of those mightier ages to which they
are attached like climbing flowers; and they
must be torn away from the magnificent frag-
ments, if we would see them as they stood in
their own strength. Those feelings, always as
fruitless as they are fond, are in Venice not
only incapable of protecting, but even of dis-
cerning, the objects to which they ought to
have been attached. The Venice of modern
fiction and drama is a thing of yesterday, a
mere efflorescence of decay, a stage dream
which the first ray of daylight must dissipate
into dust. No prisoner, whose name is worth
remembering, or whose sorrow deserved sym-
pathy, ever crossed that "Bridge of Sighs,"
which is the centre of the Byronic ideal of
Venice; no great merchant of Venice ever
saw that Rialto under which the traveller
now passes with breathless interest : the statue
which Byron makes Faliero address as of one
of his great ancestors was erected to a soldier
of fortune a hundred and fifty years after
Faliero's death; and the most conspicuous
parts of the city have been so entirely altered
in the course of the last three centuries, that
if Henry Dandolo or Francis Foscari could be
summoned from their tombs, and stood each
on the deck of his galley at the entrance of
the Grand Canal, that renowned entrance,
the painter's favourite subject, the novelist's
favourite scene, where the water first narrows
by the steps of the Church of La Salute —
the mighty Doges would not know in what
spot of the world they stood, would literally
not recognise one stone of the great city, for
whose sake, and by whose ingratitude, their
gray hairs had been brought down with bit-
terness to the grave. The remains of their
Venice lie hidden behind the cumbrous masses
which were the delight of the nation in its
dotage; hidden in many a grass-grown court,
and silent pathway, and lightless canal, where
the slow waves have sapped their foundations
for five hundred years, and must soon prevail
over them forever. It must be our task to
glean and gather them forth, and restore out
of them some faint image of the lost city;
more gorgeous a thousandfold than that which
now exists, yet not created in the day-dream
of the prince, nor by the ostentation of the
noble, but built by iron hands and patient
hearts, contending against the adversity of
nature and the fury of man, so that its wonder-
fulness cannot be grasped by the indolence of
imagination, but only after frank inquiry into
the true nature of that wild and solitary scene,
whose restless tides and trembling sands did
indeed shelter the birth of the city, but long
denied her dominion.
§ III. When the eye falls casually on a
map of Europe, there is no feature by which
it is more likely to be arrested than the strange
sweeping loop formed by the junction of the
Alps and Apennines, and enclosing the great
basin of Lombardy. This return of the moun-
tain chain upon itself causes a vast difference
in the character of the distribution of its debris
of its opposite sides. The rock fragments and
sediments which the torrents on the north side
of the Alps bear into the plains are distributed
over a vast extent of country, and, though
here and there lodged in beds of enormous
thickness, soon permit the firm substrata to
appear from underneath them; but all the
torrents which descend from the southern side
of the High Alps, and from the northern slope
of the Apennines, meet concentrically in the
recess or mountain bay which the two ridges
enclose; every fragment which thunder breaks
out of their battlements, and every grain of
dust which the summer rain washes from their
pastures, is at last laid at rest in the blue
sweep of the Lombardic plain ; and that plain
must have risen within its rocky barriers as
a cup fills with wine, but for two contrary
influences which continually depress, or dis-
perse from its surface, the accumulation of the
ruins of ages.
§ IV. I will not tax the reader's faith in
modern science by insisting on the singular
depression of the surface of Lombardy, which
appears for many centuries to have taken place
steadily and continually; the main fact with
which we have to do is the gradual transport,
by the Po and its great collateral rivers, of
vast masses of the finer sediment to the sea.
The character of the Lombardic plains is
most strikingly expressed by the ancient walls
of its cities, composed for the most part of
large rounded Alpine pebbles alternating with
narrow courses of brick; and was curiously
illustrated in 1848, by the ramparts of these
same pebbles thrown up four or five feet high
round every field, to check the Austrian cav-
alry in the battle under the walls of Verona.
The finer dust among which these pebbles are
dispersed is taken up by the rivers, fed into
continual strength by the Alpine snow, so that,
however pure their waters may be when they
issue from the lakes at the foot of the great
chain, they become of the colour and opacity
of clay before they reach the Adriatic; the
466
JOHN RUSKIN
sediment which they bear is at once thrown
down as they enter the sea, forming a vast
belt of low land along the eastern coast of
Italy. The powerful stream of the Po of
course builds forward the fastest; on each side
of it, north and south, there is a tract of marsh,
fed by more feeble streams, and less liable to
rapid change than the delta of the central
river. In one of these tracts is built Ravenna,
and in the other Venice.
§ V. What circumstances directed the pecul-
iar arrangement of this great belt of sediment
in the earliest times, it is not here the place to
inquire. It is enough for us to know that
from the mouths of the Adige to those of the
Piave there stretches, at a variable distance
of from three to five miles from the actual
shore, a bank of sand, divided into long islands
by narrow channels of sea. The space between
this bank and the true shore consists of the sedi-
mentary deposits from these and other rivers,
a great plain of calcareous mud, covered, in
the neighbourhood of Venice, by the sea at
high water, to the depth in most places of a
foot or a foot and a half, and nearly everywhere
exposed at low tide, but divided by an intricate
net -work of narrow and winding channels, from
which the sea never retires. In some places,
according to the run of the currents, the land
has risen into marshy islets, consolidated,
some by art, and some by time, into ground
firm enough to be built upon, or fruitful
enough to be cultivated : in others, on the con-
trary, it has not reached the sea level; so
that, at the average low water, shallow lakelets
glitter among its irregularly exposed fields of
seaweed. In the midst of the largest of these,
increased in importance by the confluence of
several large river channels towards one of the
openings in the sea bank, the city of Venice
itself is built, on a crowded cluster of islands;
the various plots of higher ground which ap-
pear to the north and south of this central
cluster, have at different periods been also
thickly inhabited, and now bear, according to
their size, the remains of cities, villages, or iso-
lated convents and churches, scattered among
spaces of open ground, partly waste and en-
cumbered by ruins, partly under cultivation for
the supply of the metropolis.
§ VI. The average rise and fall of the tide
is about three feet (varying considerably with
the seasons) : but this fall, on so flat a shore,
is enough to cause continual movement in the
waters, and in the main canals to produce a
reflux which frequently runs like a mill stream.
At high water no land is visible for many
miles to the north or south of Venice, except
in the form of small islands crowned with
towers or gleaming with villages: there is a
channel, some three miles wide, between the
city and the mainland, and some mile and a
half wide between it and the sandy break-
water called the Lido, which divides the lagoon
from the Adriatic, but which is so low as
hardly to disturb the impression of the city's
having been built in the midst of the ocean,
although the secret of its true position is partly,
yet not painfully, betrayed by the clusters of
piles set to mark the deep-water channels,
which undulate far away in spotty chains like
the studded backs of huge sea-snakes, and by
the quick glittering of the crisped and crowded
waves that flicker and dance before the strong
winds upon the unlifted level of the shallow
sea. But the scene is widely different at low
tide. A fall of eighteen or twenty inches is
enough to show ground over the greater part
of the lagoon; and at the complete ebb the
city is seen standing in the midst of a dark
plain of seaweed, of gloomy green, except
only where the larger branches of the Brenta
and its associated streams converge towards
the port of the Lido. Through this salt and
sombre plain the gondola and the fishing-boat
advance by tortuous channels, seldom more
than four or five feet deep, and often so choked
with slime that the heavier keels furrow the
bottom till their crossing tracks are seen
through the clear sea water like the ruts upon
a wintry road, and the oar leaves blue gashes
upon the ground at every stroke, or is en-
tangled among the thick weed that fringes the
banks with the weight of its sullen waves,
leaning to and fro upon the uncertain sway of
the exhausted tide. The scene is often pro-
foundly oppressive, even at this day, when
every plot of higher ground bears some frag-
ment of fair building: but, in order to know
what it was once, let the traveller follow in his
boat at evening the windings of some unfre-
quented channel far into the midst of the
melancholy plain; let him remove, in his
imagination, the brightness of the great city,
that still extends itself in the distance, and the
walls and towers from the islands that are
near; and so wait, until the bright investiture
and sweet warmth of the sunset are withdrawn
from the waters, and the black desert of their
shore lies in its nakedness beneath the night,
pathless, comfortless, infirm, lost in dark
languor and fearful silence, except where the
THE STONES OF VENICE
467
salt runlets plash into the tideless pools, or
the sea-birds flit from their margins with a
questioning cry; and he will be enabled to
enter in some sort into the horror of heart with
which this solitude was anciently chosen by
man for his habitation. They little thought,
who first drove the stakes into the sand, and
strewed the ocean reeds for their rest, that
their children were to be the princes of that
ocean, and their palaces its pride; and yet, in
the great natural laws that rule that sorrowful
wilderness, let it be remembered what strange
preparation had been made for the things
which no human imagination could have fore-
told, and how the whole existence and fortune
of the Venetian nation were anticipated or
compelled, by the setting of those bars and
doors to the rivers and the sea. Had deeper
currents divided their islands, hostile navies
would again and again have reduced the rising
city into servitude ; had stronger surges beaten
their shores, all the richness and refinement of
the Venetian architecture must have been ex-
changed for the walls and bulwarks of an
ordinary sea-port. Had there been no tide,
as in other parts of the Mediterranean, the
narrow canals of the city would have become
noisome, and the marsh in which it was built
pestiferous. Had the tide been only a foot or
eighteen inches higher in its rise, the water-
access to the doors of the palaces would have
been impossible: even as it is, there is some-
times a little difficulty, at the ebb, in landing
without setting foot upon the lower and slippery
steps; and the highest tides sometimes enter
the courtyards, and overflow the entrance
halls. Eighteen inches more of difference
between the level of the flood and ebb would
have rendered the doorsteps of every palace,
at low water, a treacherous mass of weeds and
limpets, and the entire system of water-car-
riage for the higher classes, in their easy and
daily intercourse, must have been done away
with. The streets of the city would have been
widened, its network of canals filled up, and
all the peculiar character of the place and the
people destroyed.
§ VII. The reader may perhaps have felt
some pain in the, contrast between this faithful
view of the site of the Venetian Throne, and
the romantic conception of ft which we ordi-
narily form; but this pain, if he have felt it,
ought to be more than counterbalanced by the
value of the instance thus afforded to us at
once of the inscrutableness and the wisdom of
the ways of God. If, two thousand years ago,
we had been permitted to watch the slow
settling of the slime of those turbid rivers into
the polluted sea, and the gaining upon its
deep and fresh waters of the lifeless, impas-
sable, unvoyageable plain, how little could we
have understood the purpose with which those
islands were shaped out of the void, and the
torpid waters enclosed with their desolate
walls of sand! How little could we have
known, any more than of what now seems to
us most distressful, dark, and objectless, the
glorious aim which was then in the mind of
Him in whose hands are all the corners of the
earth! how little imagined that in the laws
which were stretching forth the gloomy mar-
gins of those fruitless banks, and feeding the
bitter grass among their shallows, there was
indeed a preparation, and the only preparation
possible, for the founding of a city which was
to be set like a golden clasp on the girdle of
the earth, to write her history on the white
scrolls of the sea-surges, and to word it in their
thunder, and to gather and give forth, in world-
wide pulsation, the glory of the We-st and of
the East, from the burning heart of her Forti-
tude and Splendour.
CHAP. IV
ST. MARK'S
§ X. And now I wish that the reader, be-
fore I bring him into St. Mark's Place, would
imagine himself for a little time in a quiet
English cathedral town, and walk with me to
the west front of its cathedral. Let us go
together up the more retired street, at the end
of which we can see the pinnacles of one of
the towers, and then through the low gray
gateway, with its battlemented top and small
latticed window in the centre, into the inner
private-looking road or close, where nothing
goes in but the carts of the tradesmen who
supply the bishop and the chapter, and where
there are little shaven grass-plots, fenced in
by neat rails, before old-fashioned groups of
somewhat diminutive and excessively trim
houses, with little oriel and bay windows
jutting out here and there, and deep wooden
cornices and eaves painted cream colour and
white, and small porches to their doors in the
shape of cockle-shells, or little, crooked, thick,
indescribable wooden gables warped a little
on one side; and so forward till we come to
larger houses, also old-fashioned, but of red
brick, and with gardens behind them, and
468
JOHN RUSKIN
fruit walls, which show here and there, among
the nectarines, the vestiges of an old cloister
arch or shaft, and looking in front on the
cathedral square itself, laid out in rigid divi-
sions of smooth grass and gravel walk, yet not
uncheerful, especially on the sunny side where
the canons' children are walking with their
nurserymaids. And so, taking care not to
tread on the grass, we will go along the straight
walk to the west front, and there stand for a
time, looking up at its deep-pointed porches
and the dark places between their pillars
where there were statues once, and where the
fragments, here and there, of a stately figure
are still left, which has in it the likeness of a
king, perhaps indeed a king on earth, perhaps
a saintly king long ago in heaven; and so,
higher and higher up to the great mouldering
wall of rugged sculpture and confused arcades,
shattered, and gray, and grisly with heads of
dragons and mocking fiends, worn by the rain
and swirling winds into yet unseemlier shape,
and coloured on their stony scales by the deep
russet-orange lichen, melancholy gold; and
so, higher still, to the bleak towers, so far
above that the eye loses itself among the
bosses of their traceries, though they are rude
and strong, and only sees, like a drift of eddy-
ing black points, now closing, now scattering,
and now settling suddenly into invisible places
among the bosses and flowers, the crowd of
restless birds that fill the whole square with
that strange clangour of theirs, so harsh and
yet so soothing, like the cries of birds on a
solitary coast between the cliffs and sea.
§ XI. Think for a little while of that scene,
and the meaning of all its small formalisms,
mixed with its serene sublimity. Estimate its
secluded, continuous, drowsy felicities, and
its evidence of the sense and steady perform-
ance of such kind of duties as can be regu-
lated by the cathedral clock; and weigh the
influence of those ark towers on all who have
passed through the lonely square at their feet
for centuries, and on all who have seen them
rising far away over the wooded plain, or
catching on their square masses the last rays
of the sunset, when the city at their feet was
indicated only by the mist at the bend of the
river. And then let us quickly recollect that
we are in Venice, and land at the extremity of
the Calle Lunga San Moise, which may be
considered as there answering to the secluded
street that led us to our English cathedral
gateway.
§ XII. We find ourselves in a paved alley,
some seven feet wide where it is widest, full
of people, and resonant with cries of itinerant
salesmen — a shriek in their beginning, and
dying away into a kind of brazen ringing, all
the worse for its confinement between the high
houses of the passage along which we have
to make our way. Over-head an inextricable
confusion of rugged shutters, and iron balconies
and chimney flues pushed out on brackets to
save room, and arched windows with project-
ing sills of Istrian stone, and gleams of green
leaves here and there where a fig-tree branch
escapes over a lower wall from some inner
cortile, leading the eye up to the narrow
stream of blue sky high over all. On each
side, a row of shops, as densely set as may
be, occupying, in fact, intervals between the
square stone shafts, about eight feet high,
which carry the first floors: intervals of which
one is narrow and serves as a door; the other
is, in the more respectable shops, wainscotted
to the height of the counter and glazed above,
but in those of the poorer tradesmen left open
to the ground, and the wares laid on benches
and tables in the open air, the light in all
cases entering at the front only, and fading
away in a few feet from the threshold into a
gloom which the eye from without cannot
penetrate, but which is generally broken by a
ray or two from a feeble lamp at the back
of the shop, suspended before a print of the
Virgin. The less pious shopkeeper sometimes
leaves his lamp unlighted, and is contented
with a penny print ; the more religious one has
his print coloured and set in a little shrine with
a gilded or figured fringe, with perhaps a
faded flower or two on each side, and his
lamp burning brilliantly. Here at the fruiterer's,
where the dark-green water-melons are heaped
upon the counter like cannon balls, the Ma-
donna has a tabernacle of fresh laurel leaves;
but the pewterer next door has let his lamp
out, and there is nothing to be seen in his shop
but the dull gleam of the studded patterns on
the copper pans, hanging from his roof in the
darkness. Next comes a "Vendita Frittole e
Liquori," where the Virgin, enthroned in a
very humble manner beside a tallow candle
on a back shelf, presides over certain ambro-
sial morsels of a nature too ambiguous to
be defined or enumerated. But a few steps
farther on, at the regular wine-shop of the
calle, where we are offered "Vino Nostrani a
Soldi 28.32," the Madonna is in great glory,
enthroned above ten or a dozen large red
casks of three-year-old vintage, and flanked
THE STONES OF VENICE
469
by goodly ranks of bottles of Maraschino,
and two crimson lamps; and for the evening,
when the gondoliers will come to drink out,
under her auspices, the money they have
gained during the day, she will have a whole
chandelier.
§ XIII. A yard or two farther, we pass the
hostelry of the Black Eagle, and, glancing as
we pass through the square door of marble,
deeply moulded, in the outer wall, we see the
shadows of its pergola of vines resting on an
ancient well, with a pointed shield carved on
its side ; and so presently emerge on the bridge
and Campo San Moise, whence to the en-
trance into St. Mark's Place, called the Bocca
di Piazza (mouth of the square), the Vene-
tian character is nearly destroyed, first by the
frightful facade of San Moise, which we will
pause at another time to examine, and then
by the modernising of the shops as they near
the piazza, and the mingling with the lower
Venetian populace of lounging groups of Eng-
lish and Austrians. We will push fast through
them into the shadow of the pillars at the end
of the "Bocca di Piazza," and then we forget
them all ; for between those pillars there opens
a great light, and, in the midst of it, as we
advance slowly, the vast tower of St. Mark
seems to lift itself visibly forth from the level
field of chequered stones; and, on each side,
the countless arches prolong themselves into
ranged symmetry, as if the rugged and irregular
houses that pressed together above us in the
dark alley had been struck back into sudden
obedience and lovely order, and all their rude
casements and broken walls had been trans-
formed into arches charged with goodly sculp-
ture, and fluted shafts of delicate stone.
§ XIV. And well may they fall back, for
beyond those troops of ordered arches there
rises a vision out of the earth, and all the great
square seems to have opened from it in a
kind of awe, that we may see it far away — a
multitude of pillars and white domes, clustered
into a long low pyramid of coloured light; a
treasure-heap, it seems, partly of gold, and
partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed
beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled
with fair mosaic, and beset with sculpture of
alabaster, clear as amber and delicate as
ivory — sculpture fantastic and involved, of
palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pome-
granates, and birds clinging and fluttering
among the branches, all twined together into
an endless network of buds and plumes; and,
in the midst of it, the solemn forms of angels,
sceptred, and robed to the feet, and leaning to
each other across the gates, their figures in-
distinct among the gleaming of the golden
ground through the leaves beside them, inter-
rupted and dim, like the morning light as it
faded back among the branches of Eden,
when first its gates were angel-guarded long
ago. And round the walls of the porches
there are set pillars of variegated stones,
jasper and porphyry, and deep-green serpen-
tine spotted with flakes of snow, and marbles,
that half refuse and half yield to the sunshine,
Cleopatra-like, "their bluest veins to kiss"-
the shadow, as it steals back from them, re-
vealing line after line of azure undulation, as
a receding tide leaves the waved sand; their
capitals rich with interwoven tracery, rooted
knots of herbage, and drifting leaves of acan-
thus and vine, and mystical signs, all beginning
and ending in the Cross; and above them, in
the broad archivolts, a continuous chain of
language and of life — angels, and the signs of
heaven, and the labours of men, each in its
appointed season upon the earth; and above
these, another range 'of glittering pinnacles,
mixed with white arches edged with scarlet
flowers — a confusion of delight, amidst which
the breasts of the Greek horses are seen blaz-
ing in their breadth of golden strength, and
the St. Mark's Lion, lifted on a blue field cov-
ered with stars, until at last, as if in ecstasy,
the crests of the arches break into a marble
foam, and toss themselves far into the blue
sky in flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray,
as if the breakers on the Lido shore had been
frost-bound before they fell, and the sea-
nymphs had inlaid" them with coral and
amethyst.
Between that grim cathedral of England
and this, what an interval! There is a type
of it in the very birds that haunt them; for,
instead of the restless crowd, hoarse-voiced
and sable-winged, drifting on the bleak upper
air, the St. Mark's porches are full of doves,
that nestle among the marble foliage, and
mingle the soft iridescence of their living
plumes, changing at every motion, with the
tints, hardly less lovely, that have stood un
changed for seven hundred years.
§ XV. And what effect has this splendour
on those who pass beneath it? You may
walk from sunrise to sunset, to and fro, before
the gateway of St. Mark's, and you will not
see an eye lifted to it, nor a countenance
brightened by it. Priest and layman, soldier
and civilian, rich and poor, pass by it alike
470
JOHN RUSKIN
regardlessly. Up to the very recesses of the
porches, the meanest tradesmen of the city
push their counters; nay, the foundations of
its pillars are themselves the seats — not "of
them that sell doves" for sacrifice, but of the
vendors of toys and caricatures. Round the
whole square in front of the church there is
almost a continuous line of cafes, where the
idle Venetians of the middle classes lounge,
and read empty journals; in its centre the
Austrian bands play during the time of vespers,
their martial music jarring with the organ
notes — the march drowning the miserere,
and the sullen crowd thickening round them —
a crowd, which, if it had its will, would stiletto
every soldier that pipes to it. And in the
recesses of the porches, all day long, knots of
men of the lowest classes, unemployed and
listless, lie basking in the sun like lizards;
and unregarded children — every heavy glance
of their young eyes full of desperation and
stony depravity, and their throats hoarse with
cursing — gamble, and fight, and snarl, and
sleep, hour after hour, clashing their bruised
centesimi upon the marble ledges of the
church porch. And the images of Christ and
His angels look down upon it continually.
CHAP. V
BYZANTINE PALACES
§ XXX. Such, then, was that first and
fairest Venice which rose out of the barren-
ness of the lagoon, and the sorrow of her
people; a city of graceful arcades and gleam-
ing walls, veined with azure and warm with
gold, and fretted with white sculpture like
frost upon forest branches turned to marble.
And yet, in this beauty of her youth, she was
no city of thoughtless pleasure. There was
still a sadness of heart upon her, and a depth
of devotion, in which lay all her strength. I
do not insist upon the probable religious sig-
nification of many of the sculptures which are
now difficult of interpretation; but the temper
which made the cross the principal ornament
of every building is not to be misunderstood,
nor can we fail to perceive, in many of the
minor sculptural subjects, meanings perfectly
familiar to the mind of early Christianity.
The peacock, used in preference to every
other bird, is the well-known symbol of the
resurrection; and, when drinking from a
fountain or from a font, is, I doubt not, also a
type of the new life received in faithful bap-
tism. The vine, used in preference to all
other trees, was equally recognised as, in all
cases, a type either of Christ Himself or of
those who were in a state of visible or pro-
fessed union with Him. The dove, at its foot,
represents the coming of the Comforter; and
even the groups of contending animals had,
probably, a distinct and universally appre-
hended reference to the powers of evil. But I
lay no stress on these more occult meanings.
The principal circumstance which marks the
seriousness of the early Venetian mind is per-
haps the last in which the reader would sup-
pose it was traceable — that love of bright
and pure colour which, in a modified form,
was afterwards the root of all the triumph of
the Venetian schools of painting, but which,
in its utmost simplicity, was characteristic of
the Byzantine period only; and of which,
therefore, in the close of our review of that
period, it will be well that we should truly
estimate the significance. The fact is, we
none of us enough appreciate the nobleness
and sacredness of colour. Nothing is more
common than to hear it spoken of as a sub-
ordinate beauty — nay, even as the mere
source of a sensual pleasure; and we might
almost believe that we were daily among men
who
Could strip, for aught the prospect yields
To them, their verdure from the fields ;
And take the radiance from the clouds
With which the sun his setting shrouds.
But it is not so. Such expressions are used
for the most part in thoughtlessness; and if
the speakers would only take the pains to
imagine what the world and their own exist-
ence would become, if the blue were taken
from the sky, and the gold from the sunshine,
and the verdure from the leaves, and the
crimson from the blood which is the life of
man, the flush from the cheek, the darkness
from the eye, the radiance from the hair — if
they could but see, for an instant, white human
creatures living in a white world — they would
soon feel what they owe to colour. The fact
is, that, of all God's gifts to the sight of man,
colour is the holiest, the most divine, the most
solemn. We speak rashly of gay colour and
sad colour, for colour cannot at once be good
and gay. All good colour is in some degree
pensive, the loveliest is melancholy, and the
purest and most thoughtful minds are those
which love colour the most.
THE STONES OF VENICE
471
§ XXXI. I know that this will sound
strange in many ears, and will be especially
startling to those who have considered the
subject chiefly with reference to painting;
for the great Venetian schools of colour are
not usually understood to be either pure or
pensive, and the idea of its preeminence is
associated in nearly every mind with the
coarseness of Rubens, and the sensualities of
Correggio and Titian. But a more compre-
hensive view of art will soon correct this im-
pression. It will be discovered, in the first
place, that the more faithful and earnest the
religion of the painter, the more pure and prev-
alent is the system of his colour. It will be
found, in the second place, that where colour
becomes a primal intention with a painter
otherwise mean or sensual, it instantly elevates
him, and becomes the one sacred and saving
element in his work. The very depth of the
stoop to which the Venetian painters and
Rubens sometimes condescend, is a conse-
quence of their feeling confidence in the power
of their colour to keep them from falling.
They hold on by it, as by a chain let down
from heaven, with one hand, though they may
sometimes seem to gather dust and ashes
with the other. And, in the last place, it
will be found that so surely as a painter is irre-
ligious, thoughtless, or obscene in disposition,
so surely is his colouring cold, gloomy, and
valueless. The opposite poles of art in this
respect are Fra Angelico and Salvator Rosa;
of whom the one was a man who smiled
seldom, wept often, prayed constantly, and
never harboured an impure thought. His pic-
tures are simply so many pieces of jewellery,
the colours of the draperies being perfectly
pure, as various as those of a painted window,
chastened only by paleness and relieved upon
a gold ground. Salvator was a dissipated
jester and satirist, a man who spent his life
in masquing and revelry. But his pictures are
full of horror, and their colour is for the most
part gloomy gray. Truly it would seem as if art
had so much of eternity in it, that it must take
its dye from the close rather than the course of
life: "In such laughter the heart of man is sor-
rowful, and the end of that mirth is heaviness."
§ XXXII. These are no singular instances.
I know no law more severely without excep-
tion than this of the connection of pure colour
with profound and noble thought. The late
Flemish pictures, shallow in conception and
obscene in subject, are always sober in colour.
But the early religious painting of the Flemings
is as brilliant in hue as it is holy in thought.
The Bellinis, Francias, Peruginos painted in
crimson, and blue, and gold. The Caraccis,
Guides, and Rembrandts in brown and gray.
The builders of our great cathedrals veiled
their casements and wrapped their pillars with
one robe of purple splendour. The builders
of the luxurious Renaissance left their palaces
filled only with cold white light, and in the
paleness of their native stone.
§ XXXIII. Nor does it seem difficult to
discern a noble reason for this universal law.
In that heavenly circle which binds the statutes
of colour upon the front of the sky, when it
became the sign of the covenant of peace, the
pure hues of divided light were sanctified to
the human heart forever; nor this, it would
seem, by mere arbitrary appointment, but in
consequence of the fore-ordained and mar-
vellous constitution of those hues into a seven-
fold, or, more strictly still, a threefold order,
typical of the Divine nature itself. Observe
also, the name Shem, or Splendour, given to
that son of Noah in whom this covenant with
mankind was to be fulfilled, and see how that
name was justified by every one of the Asiatic
races which descended from him. Not with-
out meaning was the love of Israel to his
chosen son expressed by the coat "of many
colours"; not without deep sense of the
sacredness of that symbol of purity, did the
lost daughter of David tear it from her breast:
"With such robes were the king's daughters
that were virgins apparelled" (2 Samuel, xiii,
1 8). We know it to have been by Divine
command that the Israelite, rescued from
servitude, veiled the tabernacle with its rain of
purple and scarlet, while the under sunshine
flashed through the fall of the colour from its
tenons of gold: but was it less by Divine
guidance that the Mede, as he struggled out
of anarchy, encompassed his king with the
sevenfold burning of the battlements of Ecbat-
ana ? — of which one circle was golden like
the sun, and another silver like the moon;
and then came the great sacred chord of
colour, blue, purple, and scarlet; and then a
circle white like the day, and another dark,
like night; so that the city rose like a great
mural rainbow, a sign of peace amidst the
contending of lawless races, and guarded, with
colour and shadow, that seemed to symbolise
the great order which rules over Day, and
Night, and Time, the first organisation of the
mighty statutes — the law of the Medes and
Persians, that altereth not.
47 2
JOHN RUSKIN
§ XXXIV. Let us not dream that it is ow-
ing to the accidents of tradition or educa-
tion that those races possess the supremacy
over colour which has always been felt, though
but lately acknowledged among men. How-
ever their dominion might be broken, their
virtue extinguished, or their religion defiled,
they retained alike the instinct and the power;
the instinct which made even their idolatry
more glorious than that of others, bursting
forth in fire-worship from pyramid, cave, and
mountain, taking the stars for the rulers of its
fortune, and the sun for the God of its life;
the power which so dazzled and subdued the
rough crusader into forgetfulness of sorrow and
of shame, that Europe put on the splendour
which she had learnt of the Saracen, as her
sackcloth of mourning for what she suffered
from his sword — the power which she con-
fesses to this day, in the utmost thoughtless-
ness of her pride, or her beauty, as it treads
the costly carpet, or veils itself with the varie-
gated Cachemire; and in the emulation of the
concourse of her workmen, who but a few
months back, perceived, or at least admitted,
for the first time, the preeminence 'which has
been determined from the birth of mankind,
and on whose charter Nature herself has set
a mysterious seal, granting to the Western
races, descended from that son of Noah whose
name was Extension, the treasures of the
sullen rock, and stubborn ore, and gnarled
forest, which were to accomplish their destiny
across all distance of earth and depth of sea,
while she matured the jewel in the sand, and
rounded the pearl in the shell, to adorn the
diadem of him whose name was Splendour.
§ XXXV. And observe, farther, how in the
Oriental mind a peculiar seriousness is asso-
ciated with this attribute of the love of colour;
a seriousness rising out of repose, and out of
the depth and breadth of the imagination, as
contrasted with the activity, and consequent
capability of surprise, and of laughter, char-
acteristic of the Western mind: as a man on
a journey must look to his steps always, and
view things narrowly and quickly; while one
at rest may command a wider view, though
an unchanging one, from which the pleasure
he receives must be one of contemplation,
rather than of amusement or surprise. Wher-
ever the pure Oriental spirit manifests itself
definitely, I believe its work is serious; and
the meeting of the influences of the Eastern
and Western races is perhaps marked in
Europe more by the dying away of the gro-
tesque laughter of the Goth than by any other
sign. I have more to say on this head in
other places of this volume; but the point I
wish at present to impress upon the reader is,
that the bright hues of the early architecture
of Venice were no sign of gaiety of heart, and
that the investiture with the mantle of many
colours by which she is known above all other
cities of Italy and of Europe, was not granted
to her in the fever of her festivity, but in the
solemnity of her early and earnest religion.
She became in after times the revel of the
earth, the masque of Italy; and therefore is
she now desolate: but her glorious robe of
gold and purple was given her when she rose
a vestal from the sea, not when she became
drunk with the wine of her fornication.
§ XXXVI. And we have never yet looked
with enough reverence upon the separate gift
which was thus bestowed upon her; we have
never enough considered what an inheritance
she has left us, in the works of those mighty
painters who were the chief of her children.
That inheritance is indeed less than it ought
to have been, and other than it ought to have
been ; but before Titian and Tintoret arose —
the men in whom her work and her glory
should have been together consummated — •
she had already ceased to lead her sons in the
way of truth and life, and they erred much,
and fell short of that which was appointed for
them. There is no subject of thought more
melancholy, more wonderful, than the way in
which God permits so often His best gifts to
be trodden under foot of men, His richest
treasures to be wasted by the moth, and the
mightiest influences of His Spirit, given but once
in the world's history, to be quenched and
shortened by miseries of chance and guilt. I
do not wonder at what men Suffer, but I won-
der often at what they Lose. We may see
how good rises out of pain and evil; but the
dead, naked, eyeless loss, what good comes of
that? The fruit struck to the earth before its
ripeness; the glowing life and goodly purpose
dissolved away in sudden death; the words,
half-spoken, choked upon the lips with clay
forever; or, stranger than all, the whole
majesty of humanity to its fulness, and every
gift and power necessary for a given purpose,
at a given moment, centred in one main, and
all this perfected blessing permitted to be
refused, perverted, crushed, cast aside by
those who need it most — the city which is
Not set on a hill, the candle that giveth light
to None that are in the house — these are the
THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE
473
heaviest mysteries of this strange world, and,
it seems to me, those which mark its curse
the most. And it is true that the power with
which this Venice had been entrusted, was per-
verted, when at its highest, in a thousand
miserable ways: still, it was possessed by her
alone; to her all hearts have turned which
could be moved by its manifestation, and none
without being made stronger and nobler by
what her hand had wrought. That mighty
Landscape, of dark mountains that guard the
horizon with their purple towers, and solemn
forests, that gather their weight of leaves,
bronzed with sunshine, not with age, into those
gloomy masses fixed in heaven, which storm
and frost have power no more to shake, or
shed — that mighty Humanity, so perfect and
so proud, that hides no weakness beneath the
mantle, and gains no greatness from the
diadem; the majesty of thoughtful form, on
which the dust of gold and flame of jewels
are dashed as the sea-spray upon the rock,
and still the great Manhood seems to stand
bare against the blue sky — that mighty
Mythology, which fills the daily walks of men
with spiritual companionship and beholds the
protecting angels break with their burning
presence through the arrow-flights of battle:
measure the compass of that field of creation,
weigh the value of the inheritance that Venice
thus left to the nations of Europe, and then
judge if so vast, so beneficent a power could
indeed have been rooted in dissipation or
decay. It was when she wore the ephod of
the priest, not the motley of the masquer, that
the fire fell upon her from heaven; and she
saw the first rays of it through the rain of her
own tears, when, as the barbaric deluge ebbed
1 from the hills of Italy, the circuit of her palaces,
and the orb of her fortunes, rose together, like
the Iris, painted upon the Cloud.
FROM THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE
PREFACE
Twenty years ago, there was no lovelier
piece of lowland scenery in South England, nor
any more pathetic in the world, by its expression
of sweet human character and life, than that
immediately bordering on the sources of the
Wandle, and including the lower moors of
Addington, and the villages of Beddington and
Carshalton, with all their pools and streams.
No clearer or diviner waters ever sang with
constant lips of the hand which "giveth rain
from heaven"; no pastures ever lightened
in spring time with more passionate blossoming;
no sweeter homes ever hallowed the heart of the
passer-by with their pride of peaceful gladness
— fain -hidden — yet full-confessed. The place
remains, or, until a few months ago, remained,
nearly unchanged in its larger features; but,
with deliberate mind I say, that I have never
seen anything so ghastly in its inner tragic
meaning, — not in Pisan Maremma, — not by
Campagna tomb, — not by the sand-isles of
the Torcellan shore, — as the slow stealing of
aspects of reckless, indolent, animal neglect, over
the delicate sweetness of that English scene : nor
is any blasphemy or impiety — any frantic
saying or godless thought — more appalling to
me, using the best power of judgment I have to
discern its sense and scope, than the insolent
defilings of those springs by the human herds
that drink of them. Just where the welling
of stainless water, trembling and pure, like a
body of light, enters the pool of Carshalton,
cutting itself a radiant channel down to the
gravel, through warp of feathery weeds, all
waving, which it traverses with its deep threads
of clearness, like the chalcedony in moss-agate,
starred here and there with white grenouillette ;
just in the very rush and murmur of the first
spreading currents, the human wretches of the
place cast their street and house foulness;
heaps of dust and slime, and broken shreds of
lold metal, and rags of putrid clothes; they
having neither energy to cart it away, nor
decency enough to dig it into the ground, thus
shed into the stream, to diffuse what venom of
it will float and melt, far away, in all places
where God meant those waters to bring joy
and health. And, in a little pool, behind some
houses farther in the village, where another
spring rises, the shattered stones of the well,
and of the little fretted channel which was long
ago built and traced for it by gentler hands,
lie scattered, each from each, under a ragged
bank of mortar, and scoria; and bricklayers'
refuse, on one side, which the clean water
nevertheless chastises to purity; but it cannot
conquer the dead earth beyond; and there,
circled and coiled under festering scum, the
stagnant edge of the pool effaces itself into a
slope of black slime, the accumulation of
indolent years. Half-a-dozen men, with one
day's work, could cleanse those pools, and trim
the flowers about their banks, and make every
breath of summer air above them rich with cool
balm; and every glittering wave medicinal, as
if it ran, troubled of angels, from the porch of
474
JOHN RUSKIN
Bethesda. But that day's work is never given,
nor will be; nor will any joy be possible to
heart of man, for evermore, about those wells
of English waters.
When I last left them, I walked up slowly
through the back streets of Croydon, from the
old church to the hospital; and, just on the
left, before coming up to the crossing of the
High Street, there was a new public-house
built. And the front of it was built in so wise
manner, that a recess of two feet was left be-
low its front windows, between them and the
street -pavement — a recess too narrow for any
possible use (for even if it had been occupied
by a seat, as in old time it might have been,
everybody walking along the street would have
fallen over the legs of the reposing wayfarers).
But, by way of making this two feet depth of
freehold land more expressive of the dignity
of an establishment for the sale of spirituous
liquors, it was fenced from the pavement by an
imposing iron railing, having four or five spear-
heads to the yard of it, and six feet high ; con-
taining as much iron and iron-work, indeed, as
could well be put into the space; and by this
stately arrangement, the little piece of dead
ground within, between wall and street, became
a protective receptacle of refuse ; cigar ends,
and oyster shells, and the like, such as an open-
handed English street-populace, habitually
scatters from its presence, and was thus left,
unsweepable by any ordinary methods. Now
the iron bars which, uselessly (or in great
degree worse than uselessly), enclosed this bit
of ground, and made it pestilent, represented
a quantity of work which would have cleansed
the Carshalton pools three rimes over; — of
work partly cramped and deadly, in the mine;
partly fierce and exhaustive, at the furnace,
partly foolish and sedentary, of ill-taught stu-
dents making bad designs: work from the
beginning to the last fruits of it, and in all the
branches of it, venomous, deathful, and miser-
able. Now, how did it come to pass that this
work was done instead of the other; that the
strength and life of the English operative were
spent in defiling ground, instead of redeeming
it; and in producing an entirely (in that place)
valueless piece of metal, which can neither be
eaten nor breathed, instead of medicinal fresh
air, .and pure water?
There is but one reason for it, and at pres-
ent a conclusive one, - — that the capitalist can
charge percentage on the work in the one case,
and cannot in the other. If, having certain
funds for supporting labour at my disposal, I
pay men merely to keep my ground in order,
my money is, in that function, spent once for
all; but if I pay them to dig iron out of my
ground, and work it, and sell it, I can charge
rent for the ground, and percentage both on the
manufacture and the sale, and make my capital
profitable in these three by-ways. The greater
part of the profitable investment of capital, in
the present day, is in operations of this kind, in
which the public is persuaded to buy something
of no use to it, on production, or sale, of which,
the capitalist may charge percentage; the said
public remaining all the while under the per-
suasion that the percentage thus obtained are
real national gains, whereas, they are merely
filchings out of partially light pockets, to swell
heavy ones.
Thus, the Croydon publican buys the iron
railing, to make himself more conspicuous to
drunkards. The public-housekeeper on the
other side of the way presently buys another
railing, to out-rail him with. Both are, as to
their relative attractiveness to customers of
taste, just where they were before; but they
have lost the price of the railings; which they
must either themselves finally lose, or make their
aforesaid customers of taste pay, by raising
the price [of their beer, or adulterating it.
Either the publicans, or their customers, are
thus poorer by precisely what the capitalist
has gained; and the value of the work itself,
meantime, has been lost, to the nation; the
iron bars in that form and place being wholly
useless. It is this mode of taxation of the poor
by the rich which is referred to in the text, in
comparing the modern acquisitive power of
capital with that of the lance and sword; the
only difference being that the levy of black-
mail in old times was by force, and is now by
cozening. The old rider and reiver frankly
quartered himself on the publican for the night,
the modern one merely makes his lance into an
iron spike, and persuades his host to buy it.
One comes as an open robber, the other as a
cheating peddler; but the result, to the injured
person's pocket, is absolutely the same. Of
course many useful industries mingle with, and
disguise the useless ones; and in the habits
of energy aroused by the struggle, there is a cer-
tain direct good. It is far better to spend four
thousand pounds in making a good gun, and
then to blow it to pieces, than to pass life in
idleness. Only do not let it be called "political
economy." There is also a confused notion in
the minds of many persons, that the gathering
of the property of the poor into the hands
THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE
475
of the rich does no ultimate harm; since, in
whosesoever hands it may be, it must be spent
at last, and thus, they think, return to the poor
again. This fallacy has been again and again
exposed ; but grant the plea true, and the same
apology may, of course, be made for black-
mail, or any other form of robbery. It might
be (though practically it never is) as advanta-
geous for the nation that the robber should have
the spending of the money he extorts, as that
the person robbed should have spent it. But
this is no excuse for the theft. If I were to put
a turnpike on the road where it passes my own
gate, and endeavour to exact a shilling from every
passenger, the public would soon do away with
my gate, without listening to any plea on my
part that "it was as advantageous to them, in
the end, that I should spend their shillings, as
that they themselves should." But if, instead
of outfacing them with a turnpike, I can only
persuade them to come in and buy stones, or
old iron, or any other useless thing, out of my
ground, I may rob them to the same extent, and
be, moreover, thanked as a public benefactor,
and promoter of commercial prosperity. And
this main question for the poor of England —
for the poor of all countries — is wholly omitted
in every common treatise on the subject of
wealth. Even by the labourers themselves,
the operation of capital is regarded only in its
effect on their immediate interests; never in
the far more terrific power of its appointment
of the kind and the object of labour. It matters
little, ultimately, how much a labourer is paid
for'making anything; but it matters fearfully
what the thing is, which he is compelled to
make. If his labour is so ordered as to produce
food, and fresh air, and fresh water, no matter
that his wages are low ; — the food and fresh
air and water will be at last there ; and he will
at last get them. But if he is paid to destroy
food and fresh air, or to produce iron bars
instead of them, — the food and air will finally
not be there, and he will not get them, to his
great and final inconvenience. So that, con-
clusively, in political as in household economy
the great question is, not so much what money
you have in your pocket, as what you will buy
with it, and do with it.
I have been long accustomed, as all men
engaged in work of investigation must be, to
hear my statements laughed at for years, before
they are examined or believed; and I am
generally content to wait the public's time.
But it has not been without displeased surprise
that I have found myself totally unable, as yet,
by any repetition, or illustration, to force this
plain thought into my readers' heads, — that
the wealth of nations, as of men, consists in
substance, not in ciphers; and that the real
good of all work, and of all commerce, depends
on the final worth of the thing you make, or get
by it. This is a practical enough statement,
one would think: but the English public has
been so possessed by its modern school of
economists with the notion that Business is
always good, whether it be busy in mischief
or in benefit; and that buying and selling are
always salutary, whatever the intrinsic worth
of what you buy or sell, — that it seems im-
possible to gain so much as a patient hearing
for any inquiry respecting the substantial re-
sult of our eager modern labours. I have never
felt more checked by the sense of this impossi-
bility than in arranging the heads of the follow-
ing three lectures, which, though delivered at
considerable intervals of time, and in different
places, were not prepared without reference
to each other. Their connection would, how-
ever, have been made far more distinct, if I had
not been prevented, by what I feel to be an-
other great difficulty in addressing English
audiences, from enforcing, with any decision,
the common, and to me, the most important,
part of their subjects. I chiefly desired (as
I have just said) to question my hearers —
operatives, merchants, and soldiers, as to the
ultimate meaning of the business they had in
hand; and to know from them what they ex-
pected or intended their manufacture to come
to, their selling to come to, and their killing to
come to. That appeared the first point needing
determination before I could speak to them with
any real utility or effect. "You craftsmen —
salesmen — swordsmen, — do but tell me clearly
what you want ; then, if I can say anything to
help you, I will; and if not, I will account
to you as I best may for my inability." But
in order to put this question into any terms,
one had first of all to face the difficulty just
spoken of — to me for the present insuper-
able, — the difficulty of knowing whether to
address one's audience as believing, or not
believing, in any other world than this. For
if you address any average modern English
company as believing in an Eternal life, and
endeavour to draw any conclusions, from this
assumed belief, as to their present business,
they will forthwith tell you that what you say is
very beautiful, but it is not practical. If, on
the contrary, you frankly address them as un-
believers in Eternal life, and try to draw any
JOHN RUSKIN
consequences from that unbelief, — they im-
mediately hold you for an accursed person,
and shake off the dust from their feet at you.
And the more I thought over what I had got to
say, the less I found I could say it, without some
reference to this intangible or intractable part
of the subject. It made all the difference, in
asserting any principle of war, whether one
assumed that a discharge. of artillery would
merely knead down a certain quantity of red
clay into a level line, as in a brick field; or
whether, out of every separately Christian-
named portion of the ruinous heap, there went
out, into the smoke and dead-fallen air of
battle, some astonished condition of soul, un-
willingly released. It made all the difference,
in speaking of the possible range of commerce,
whether one assumed that all bargains related
only to visible property — or whether property,
for the present invisible, but nevertheless real,
was elsewhere purchasable on other terms.
It made all the difference, in addressing a body
of men subject to considerable hardship, and
having to find some way out of it — whether
one could confidently say to them, "My friends,
— you have only to die, and all will be right ; "
or whether one had any secret misgiving that
such advice was more blessed to him that gave,
than to him that took it. And therefore the
deliberate reader will find, throughout these
lectures, a hesitation in driving points home,
and a pausing short of conclusions which he
will feel I would fain have come to; hesitation
which arises wholly from this uncertainty of
my hearers' temper. For I do not now speak,
nor have I ever spoken, since the time of first
forward youth, in any proselyting temper, as
desiring to persuade any one of what, in such
matters, I thought myself; but, whomsoever
I venture to address, I take for the time his
creed as I find it ; and endeavour to push it into
such vital fruit as it seems capable of. Thus,
it is a creed with a great part of the existing
English people, that they are in possession of a
book which tells them, straight from the lips
of God, all they ought to do, and need to know.
I have read that book, with as much care as most
of them, for some forty years ; and am thankful
that, on those who trust it, I can press its plead-
ings. My endeavour has been uniformly to
make them trust it more deeply than they do;
trust it, not in their own favourite verses only,
but in the sum of all ; trust it not as a fetich or
talisman, which they are to be saved by daily
repetitions of; but as a Captain's order, to be
heard and obeyed at their peril. I was always
encouraged by supposing my hearers to hold
such belief. To these, if to any, I once had hope
of addressing, with acceptance, words which
insisted on the guilt of pride, and the futility
of avarice; from these, if from any, I once
expected ratification of a political economy,
which asserted that the life was more than the
meat, and the body than raiment; and these,
it once seemed to me, I might ask, without ac-
cusation of fanaticism, not merely in doctrine
of the lips, but in the bestowal of their heart's
treasure, to separate themselves from the crowd
of whom it is written, "After all these things do
the Gentiles seek."
It cannot, however, be assumed, with any
semblance of reason, that a general audience
is now wholly, or even in majority, composed of
these religious persons. A large portion must
always consist of men who admit no such creed ;
or who, at least, are inaccessible to appeals
founded on it. And as, with the so-called
Christian, I desired to plead for honest dec-
laration and fulfilment of his belief in life, —
with the so-called infidel, I desired to plead for
an honest declaration and fulfilment of his
belief in death. The dilemma is inevitable. '
Men must either hereafter live, or hereafter die ;
fate may be bravely met, and conduct wisely
ordered, on either expectation; but never in
hesitation between ungrasped hope, and un-
confronted fear. We usually believe in im-
mortality, so far as to avoid preparation for
death; and in mortality, so far as to avoid
preparation for anything after death. Whereas,
a wise man will at least hold himself prepared
for one or other of two events, of which one or
other is inevitable; and will have all things
in order, for his sleep, or in readiness, for his
awakening.
Nor have we any right to call it an ignoble
judgment, if he determine to put them in order,
as for sleep. A brave belief in life is indeed an
enviable state of mind, but, as far as I can dis-
cern, an unusual one. I know few Christians
so convinced of the splendour of the rooms in
their Father's house, as to be happier when their
friends are called to those mansions, than they
would have been if the Queen had sent for them
to live at court: nor has the Church's most
ardent "desire to depart, and be with Christ,"
ever cured it of the singular habit of putting
on mourning for every person summoned to
such departure. On the contrary, a brave
belief in death has been assuredly held by
many not ignoble persons, and it is a sign of
the last depravity in the Church itself, when it
THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE
477
assumes that such a belief is inconsistent with
either purity of character, or energy of hand.
The shortness of life is not, to any rational
person, a conclusive reason for wasting the
space of it which may be granted him; nor
does the anticipation of death to-morrow
suggest, to any one but a drunkard, the ex-
pediency of drunkenness to-day. To teach
that there is no device in the grave, may indeed
make the deviceless person more contented in
his dulness; but it will make the deviser only
more earnest in devising: nor is human con-
duct likely, in every case, to be purer, under the
conviction that all its evil may in a moment be
pardoned, and all its wrong-doing in a moment
redeemed; and that the sigh of repentance,
which purges the guilt of the past, will waft
the soul into a felicity which forgets its pain, —
than it may be under the sterner, and to many
not unwise minds, more probable, apprehension,
that "what a man soweth that shall he also
reap," — or others reap, — when he, the living
seed of pestilence, walketh no more in dark-
ness, but lies down therein.
But to men whose feebleness of sight, or
bitterness of soul, or the offence given by the
conduct of those who claim higher hope, may
have rendered this painful creed the only
possible one, there is an appeal to be made,
more secure in its ground than any which can
be addressed to happier persons. I would
fain, if I might offencelessly, have spoken to
them as if none others heard; and have said
thus: Hear me, you dying men, who will soon
be deaf forever. For these others, at your
right hand and your left, who look forward to
a state of infinite existence, in which all their
errors will be overruled, and all their faults
forgiven ; for these, who, stained and blackened
in the battle-smoke of mortality, have but to dip
themselves for an instant in the font of death,
and to rise renewed of plumage, as a dove that
is covered with silver, and her feathers like
gold; for these, indeed, it may be permissible
to waste their numbered moments, through
faith in a future of innumerable hours; to
these, in their weakness, it may be conceded
that they should tamper with sin which can
only bring forth -fruit of righteousness, and
profit by the iniquity which, one day, will be
remembered no more. In them, it may be no
sign of hardness of heart to neglect the poor,
over whom they know their Master is watching ;
and to leave those to perish temporarily, who
cannot perish eternally. But, for you, there is
no such hope, and therefore no such excuse.
This fate, which you ordain for the wretched,
you believe to be all their inheritance; you
may crush them, before the moth, and they will
never rise to rebuke you ; — their breath, which
fails for lack of food, once expiring, will never
be recalled to whisper against you a word of
accusing; — they and you, as you think, shall
lie down together in the dust, and the worms
cover you ; — and for them there shall be no
consolation, and on you no vengeance, — only
the question murmured above your grave:
"Who shall repay him what he hath done?"
Is it therefore easier for you in your heart to
inflict the sorrow for which there is no remedy?
Will you take, wantonly, this little all of his
life from your poor brother, and make his brief
hours long to him with pain? Will you be
readier to the injustice which can never be re-
dressed; and niggardly of mercy which you
can bestow but once, and which, refusing, you
refuse forever? I think better of you, even of
the most selfish, than that you would do this,
well understood. And for yourselves, it seems
to me, the question becomes not less grave,
in these curt limits. If your life were but a
fever fit, — the madness of a night, whose
follies were all to be forgotten in the dawn, it
might matter little how you fretted away the
sickly hours, — what toys you snatched at, or let
fall, — • what visions you followed wistfully with
the deceived eyes of sleepless phrenzy. Is the
earth only an hospital? Play, if you care to
play, on the floor of the hospital dens. Knit
its straw into what crowns please you; gather
the dust of it for treasure, and die rich in that,
clutching at the black motes in the air with your
dying hands; — and yet, it may be well with
you. But if this life be no dream, and the world
no hospital; if all the peace and power and joy
you can ever win, must be won now; and all
fruit of victory gathered here, or never; — will
you still, throughout the puny totality of your
life, weary yourselves in the fire for vanity?
If there is no rest which remaineth for you, is
there none you might presently take ? was this
grass of the earth made green for your shroud
only, not for your bed? and can you never
lie down upon it, and but only under it? The
heathen, to whose creed you have returned,
thought not so. They knew that life brought
its contest, but they expected from it also the
crown of all contest : No proud one ! no jewelled
circlet flaming through Heaven above the height
of the unmerited throne; only some few leaves
of wild olive, cool to the tired brow, through a
few years of peace. It should have been of
478
MATTHEW ARNOLD
gold, they thought; but Jupiter was poor; this
was the best the god could give them. Seeking
a greater than this, they had known it a mockery.
Not in war, not in wealth, not in tyranny, was
there any happiness to be found for them —
only in kindly peace, fruitful and free. The
wreath was to be of wild olive, mark you : —
the tree that grows carelessly ; tufting the rocks
with no vivid bloom, no verdure of branch;
only with soft snow of blossom, and scarcely
fulfilled fruit, mixed with gray leaf and thorn-
set stem; no fastening of diadem for you but
with such sharp embroidery ! But this, such
as it is, you may win while yet you live; type
of gray honour and sweet rest. Free-hearted-
ness, and graciousness, and undisturbed trust,
and requited love, and the sight of the peace of
others, and the ministry to their pain ; — these,
and the blue sky above you, and the sweet
waters and flowers of the earth beneath; and
mysteries and presences, innumerable, of living
things, — these may yet be here your riches;
untormenting and divine; serviceable for the
life that now is; nor, it may be, without prom-
ise of that which is to come.
MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1
FROM CULTURE AND ANARCHY
SWEETNESS AND LIGHT
The disparagers of culture make its motive
curiosity; sometimes, indeed, they make its
motive mere exclusiveness and vanity. The
culture which is supposed to plume itself on a
smattering of Greek and Latin is a culture which
is begotten by nothing so intellectual as cu-
riosity; it is valued either out of sheer vanity
and ignorance or else as an engine of social
and class distinction, separating its holder, like
a badge or title, from other people who have
not got it. No serious man would call this
culture, or attach any value to it, as culture, at
all. To find the real ground for the very
different estimate which serious people will
set upon culture, we must find some motive for
culture in the terms of which may lie a real
ambiguity; and such a motive the word curi-
osity gives us.
I have before now pointed out that we Eng-
lish do not, like the foreigners, use this word
in a good sense as well as in a bad sense. With
us the word is always used in a somewhat dis-
approving sense. A liberal and intelligent
eagerness about the things of the mind may be
meant by a foreigner when he speaks of cu-
riosity, but with us the word always conveys
a certain notion of frivolous and unedifying
activity. In the Quarterly Review, some little
time ago, was an estimate of the celebrated
French critic, M. Sainte-Beuve, and a very
inadequate estimate it in my judgment was.
And its inadequacy consisted chiefly in this:
that in our English way it left out of sight
the double sense really involved in the word
curiosity, thinking enough was said to stamp
M. Sainte-Beuve with blame if it was said that
he was impelled in his operations as a critic
by curiosity, and omitting either to perceive
that M. Sainte-Beuve himself, and many other
people with him, would consider that this was
praiseworthy and not blameworthy, or to point
out why it ought really to be accounted worthy
of blame and not of praise. For as there is a
curiosity about intellectual matters which is fu-
tile, and merely a disease, so there is certainly
a curiosity, — a desire after the things of the
mind simply for their own sakes and for the
pleasure of seeing them as they are, — which is,
in an intelligent being, natural and laudable.
Nay, and the very desire to see things as they
are implies a balance and regulation of mind
which is not often attained without fruitful
effort, and which is the very opposite of the
blind and diseased impulse of mind which
is what we mean to blame when we blame cu-
riosity. Montesquieu says: "The first motive
which ought to impel us to study is the desire to
augment the excellence of our nature, and to
render an intelligent being yet more intelli-
gent." This is the true ground to assign for
the genuine scientific passion, however mani-
fested, and for culture, viewed simply as a
fruit of this passion ; and it is a worthy ground,
even though we let the term curiosity stand to
describe it.
But there is of culture another view, in which
not solely the scientific passion, the sheer
desire to see things as they are, natural and
proper in an intelligent being, appears as the
ground of it. There is a view in which all the
love of our neighbour, the impulses toward
action, help, and beneficence, the desire for
removing human error, clearing human con-
fusion, and diminishing human misery, the
noble aspiration to leave the world better and
happier than we found it, — motives eminently
such as are called social, — come in as part
of the grounds of culture, and the main and
preeminent part. Culture is then properly de-
scribed not as having its origin in curiosity, but
CULTURE AND ANARCHY
479
as having its origin in the love of perfection ; it
is a study of perfection. It moves by the force,
not merely or primarily of the scientific passion
for pure knowledge, but also of the moral and
social passion for doing good. As, in the first
view of it, we took for its worthy motto Mon-
tesquieu's words: "To render an intelligent
being yet more intelligent!" so, in the second
view of it, there is no better motto which it can
have than these words of Bishop Wilson: "To
make reason and the will of God prevail ! "
Only, whereas the passion for doing good is
apt to be overhasty in determining what reason
and the will of God say, because its turn is for
acting rather than thinking and it wants to be
beginning to act; and whereas it is apt to take
its own conceptions, which proceed from its
own state of development and share in all the
imperfections and immaturities of this, for a
basis of action; what distinguishes culture is,
that it is possessed by the scientific passion as well
as by the passion of doing good ; that it demands
worthy notions of reason and the will of God,
and does not readily suffer its own crude
conceptions to substitute themselves for them.
And knowing that no action or institution can
be salutary and stable which is not based on
reason and the will of God, it is not so bent on
acting and instituting, even with the great aim
of diminishing human error and misery ever
before its thoughts, but that it can remember that
acting and instituting are of little use, unless we
know how and what we ought to act and to
institute.
This culture is more interesting and more
far-reaching than that other, which is founded
solely on the scientific passion for knowing.
But it needs times of faith and ardour, times
when the intellectual horizon is opening and
widening all round us, to flourish in. And is
not the close and bounded intellectual horizon
within which we have long lived and moved
now lifting up, and are not new lights finding
free passage to shine in upon us? For a long
time there was no passage for them to make
their way in upon us, and then it was of no use
to think of adapting the world's action to them.
Where was the hope of making reason and the
will of God prevail among people who had a
routine which they had christened reason and
the will of God, in which they were inextricably
bound, and beyond which they had no power
of looking? But now the iron force of adhesion
to the old routine, — social, political, religious
— has wonderfully yielded ; the iron force of
exclusion of all which is new has wonderfully
yielded. The danger now is, not that people
should obstinately refuse to allow anything but
their old routine to pass for reason and the will
of God^but either that they should allow some
novelty or other to pass for these too easily, or
else that they should underrate the importance
of them altogether, and think it enc ..gh to follow
action for its own sake, without troubling them-
selves to make reason and the will of God pre-
vail therein. Now, then, is the moment for
culture to be of service, culture which believes
in making reason and the will of God prevail,
believes in perfection, is the study and pursuit
of perfection, and is no longer debarred, by a
rigid invincible exclusion of whatever is new,
from getting acceptance for its ideas, simply
because they are new.
The moment this view of culture is seized,
the moment it is regarded not solely as the
endeavour to see things as they are, to draw
towards a knowledge of the universal order
which seems to be intended and aimed at in
the world, and which it is a man's happiness
to go along with or his misery to go counter to,
— to learn, in short, the will of God, — the
moment, I say, culture is considered not
merely as the endeavour to see and learn this,
but as the endeavour, also, to make it prevail,
the moral, social, and beneficent character of
culture becomes manifest. The mere endeav-
our to see and learn the truth for our own
personal satisfaction is indeed a commence-
ment for making it prevail, a preparing the
way for this, which always serves this, and is
wrongly, therefore, stamped with blame ab-
solutely in itself and not only in its caricature
and degeneration. But perhaps it has got
stamped with blame, and disparaged with the
dubious title of curiosity, because in comparison
with this wider endeavour of such great and
plain utility it looks selfish, petty, and unprofit-
able.
And religion, the greatest and most important
of the efforts by which the human race has
manifested its impulse to perfect itself, — re-
ligion, that voice of the deepest human ex-
perience, — does not only enjoin and sanction
the aim which is the great aim of culture, the
aim of setting ourselves to ascertain what per-
fection is and to make it prevail; but also, in
determining generally in what human per-
fection consists, religion comes to a conclusion
identical with that which culture, — culture
seeking the determination of this question
through all 'the voices of human experience
which have been heard upon it, of art, science,
MATTHEW ARNOLD
poetry, philosophy, history, as well as of re-
ligion, in order to give a greater fulness and
certainty to its solution, — likewise reaches.
Religion says: The kingdom of God is within
you; and culture, in like manner, places human
perfection in an internal condition, in the
growth and predominance of our humanity
proper, as distinguished from our animality.
It places it in the ever-increasing efficacy and
in the general harmonious expansion of those
gifts of thought and feeling, which make the
peculiar dignity, wealth, and happiness of
human nature. As I have said on a former
occasion: "It is in making endless additions
to itself, in the endless expansion of its powers,
in endless growth in wisdom and beauty, that
the spirit of the human race finds its ideal.
To reach this ideal, culture is an indispensable
aid, and that is the true value of culture."
Not a having and a resting, but a growing
and a becoming, is the character of perfection
as culture conceives it; and here, too, it coin-
cides with religion.
And because men are all members of one
great whole, and the sympathy which is in
human nature will not allow one member to
be indifferent to the rest or to have a perfect
welfare independent of the rest, the expansion
of our humanity, to suit the idea of perfection
which culture forms, must be a general expan-
sion. Perfection, as culture conceives it, is
not possible while the individual remains iso-
lated. The incrvidual is required, under pain
of being stunted and enfeebled in his own
development if he disobeys, to carry others
along with him in his march towards perfection,
to be continually doing all he can to enlarge
and increase the volume of the human stream
sweeping thitherward. And here, once more,
culture lays on us the same obligation as reli-
gion, which says, as Bishop Wilson has admi-
rably put it, that "to promote the kingdom of
God is to increase and hasten one's own hap-
piness."
But, finally, perfection, — as culture from
a thorough disinterested study of human nature
and human experience learns to conceive it,
— is a harmonious expansion of all the powers
which make the beauty and worth of human
nature, and is not consistent with the over-
development of any one power at the expense
of the rest. Here culture goes beyond religion,
as religion is generally conceived by us.
If culture, then, is a study of perfection, and
of harmonious perfection, general perfection,
and perfection which consists in becoming
something rather than in having something, in
an inward condition of the mind and spirit,,
not in an outward set of circumstances, — it is
clear that culture, instead of being the frivolous
and useless thing which Mr. Bright, and Mr.
Frederic Harrison, and many other Liberals
are apt to call it, has a very important function
to fulfil for mankind. And this function is
particularly important in our modern world,
of which the whole civilisation is, to a much
greater degree than the civilisation of Greece
and Rome, mechanical and external, and tends
constantly to become more so. But above all
in our own country has culture a weighty part
to perform, because here that mechanical char-
acter, which civilisation tends to take every-
where, is shown in the most eminent degree.
Indeed nearly all the characters of perfection,
as culture teaches us to fix them, meet in this
country with some powerful tendency which
thwarts them and sets them at defiance. The
idea of perfection as an inward condition of the
mind and spirit is at variance with the mechan-
ical and material civilisation in esteem with us,
and nowhere, as I have said, so much in esteem
as with us. The idea of perfection as a general
expansion of the human family is at variance
with our strong individualism, our hatred of all
limits to the unrestrained swing of the indi-
vidual's personality, our maxim of "every man
for himself." Above all, the idea of perfection
as a harmonious expansion of human nature
is at variance with our want of flexibility, with
our inaptitude for seeing more than one side
of a thing, with our intense energetic absorption
in the particular pursuit we happen to be fol-
lowing. So culture has a rough task to achieve
in this country. Its preachers have, and are
likely long to have, a hard time of it, and they
will much oftener be regarded, for a great while
to come, as elegant or spurious Jeremiahs than
as friends and benefactors. That, however,
will not prevent their doing in the end good
service if they persevere. And, meanwhile, the
mode of action they have to pursue, and the sort
of habits they must fight against, ought to
be made quite clear for every one to see, who
may be willing to look at the matter attentively
and dispassionately.
Faith in machinery is, I said, our besetting
danger; often in machinery most absurdly dis-
proportioned to the end which this machin-
ery, if it is to do any good at all, is to serve;
but always in machinery, as if it had a value
in and for itself. What is freedom but ma-
chinery? what is population but machinery?
CULTURE AND ANARCHY
481
what is coal but machinery? what are rail-
roads but machinery? what is wealth but
machinery? what are, even, religious organi-
sations but machinery? Now almost every
voice in England is accustomed to speak of
these things as if they were precious ends in
themselves, and therefore had some of the char-
acters of perfection indisputably joined to them.
I have before now noticed Mr. Roebuck's
stock argument for proving the greatness and
happiness of England as she is, and for quite
stopping the mouths of all gainsayers. Mr.
Roebuck is never weary of reiterating this argu-
ment of his, so I do not know why I should be
weary of noticing it. "May not every man in
England say what he likes?" — Mr. Roebuck
perpetually asks; and that, he thinks, is quite
sufficient, and when every man may say what
he likes, our aspirations ought to be satisfied.
But the aspirations of culture, which is the
study of perfection, are not satisfied, unless
what men say, when they may say what they
like, is worth saying, — has good in it, and
more good than bad. In the same way the
Times, replying to some foreign strictures on
the dress, looks, and behaviour of the English
abroad, urges that the English ideal is that
every one should be free to do and to look just
as he likes. But culture indefatigably tries,
not to make what each raw person may like
the rule by which he fashions himself; but to
draw ever nearer to a sense of what is indeed
beautiful, graceful, and becoming, and to get
the raw person to like that.
And in the same way with respect to rail-
roads and coal. Every one must have observed
the strange language current during the late
discussions as to the possible failure of our
supplies of coal. Our coal, thousands of people
were saying, is the real basis of our national
greatness; if our coal runs short, there is an
end of the greatness of England. But what
is greatness ? — culture makes us ask. Great-
ness is a spiritual condition worthy to excite
love, interest, and admiration; and the out-
ward proof of possessing greatness is that
we excite love, interest, and admiration. If
England were swallowed up by the sea to-
morrow, which of the two, a hundred years
hence, would most excite the love, interest, and
admiration of mankind, — would most, there-
fore, show the evidences of having possessed
greatness, — the England of the last twenty
years, or the England of Elizabeth, of a time
of splendid spiritual effort, but when our coal,
and our industrial operations depending on coal,
were very little developed? Well, then, what
an unsound habit of mind it must be which
makes us talk of things like coal or iron as con-
stituting the greatness of England, and how
salutary a friend is culture, bent on seeing
things as they are, and thus dissipating delusions
of this kind and fixing standards of perfection
that are real !
Wealth, again, that end to which our pro-
digious works for material advantage are di-
rected, — the commonest of commonplaces
tells us how men are always apt to regard
wealth as a precious end in itself; and cer-
tainly they have never been so apt thus to regard
it as they are in England at the present time.
Never did people believe anything more firmly
than nine Englishmen out of ten at the present
day believe that our greatness and welfare are
proved by our being so very rich. Now, the
use of culture is that it helps us, by means of
its spiritual standard of perfection, to regard
wealth as but machinery, and not only to say
as a matter of words that we regard wealth as
but machinery, but really to perceive and feel
that it is so. If it were not for this purging
effect wrought upon our minds by culture, the
whole world, the future as well as the present,
would inevitably belong to the Philistines.
The people who believe most that our great-
ness and welfare are proved by our being very
rich, and who most give their lives and thoughts
to becoming rich, are just the very people whom
we call Philistines. Culture says: "Consider
these people, then, their way of life, their habits,
their manners, the very tones of their voice;
look at them attentively; observe the litera-
ture they read, the things which give them
pleasure, the words which come forth out of
their mouths, the thoughts which make the
furniture of their minds: would any amount
of wealth be worth having with the condition
that one was to become just like these people
by having it?" And thus culture begets a dis-
satisfaction which is of the highest possible
value in stemming the common tide of men's
thoughts in a wealthy and industrial commu-
nity, and which saves the future, as one may
hope, from being vulgarised, even if it cannot
save the present.
Population, again, and bodily health and
vigour, are things which are nowhere treated
in such an unintelligent, misleading, exagger-
ated way as in England. Both are really ma-
chinery; yet how many people all around us do
we see rest in them and fail to look beyond
them ! Why, one has heard people, fresh from
482
MATTHEW ARNOLD
reading certain articles of the Times on the
Registrar-General's returns of marriages and
births in this country, who would talk of our
large English families in quite a solemn strain,
as if they had something in itself beautiful,
elevating, and meritorious in them; as if the
British Philistine would have only to present
himself before the Great Judge with his twelve
children, in order to be received among the
sheep as a matter of right !
But bodily health and vigour, it may be
said, are not to be classed with wealth and
population as mere machinery; they have
a more real and essential value. True; but
only as they are more intimately connected
with a perfect spiritual condition than wealth
or population are. The moment we disjoin
them from the idea of a perfect spiritual con-
dition, and pursue them, as we do pursue them,
for their own sake and as ends in themselves,
our worship of them becomes as mere worship
of machinery, as our worship of wealth or pop-
ulation, and as unintelligent and vulgarising
a worship as that is. Every one with anything
like an adequate idea of human perfection has
distinctly marked this subordination' to higher
and spiritual ends of the cultivation of bodily
vigour and activity. "Bodily exercise profit-
eth little; but godliness is profitable unto all
things," says the author of the Epistle to Tim-
othy. And the utilitarian Franklin says just
as explicitly: — "Eat and drink such an exact
quantity as suits the constitution of thy body,
in reference to the services of the mind." But
the point of view of culture, keeping the mark
of human perfection simply and broadly in
view, and not assigning to this perfection, as
religion or utilitarianism assigns to it, a special
and limited character, this point of view, I say,
of culture is best given by these words of
Epictetus: — "It is a sign of d<£wa," says he,
— that is, of a nature not finely tempered, —
"to give yourselves up to things which relate
to the body; to make, for instance, a great fuss
about exercise, a great fuss about eating, a great
fuss about drinking, a great fuss about walk-
ing, a great fuss about riding. All these things
ought to be done merely by the way: the for-
mation of the spirit and character must be our
real concern." This is admirable; and, in-
deed, the Greek word ev<£wa, a finely tempered
nature, gives exactly the notion of perfection
as culture brings us to conceive it: a har-
monious perfection, a perfection in which the
characters of beauty and intelligence are both
present, which unites "the two noblest of
things," — as Swift, who of one of the two,
at any rate, had himself all too little, most
happily calls them in his Battle of the Books, —
"the two noblest of things, sweetness and light."
The eu^vjfs is the man who tends towards
sweetness and light; the d<£u»?s, on the other
hand, is our Philistine. The immense spiritual
significance of the Greeks is due to their having
been inspired with this central and happy idea
of the essential character of human perfection ;
and Mr. Bright's misconception of culture, as
a smattering of Greek and Latin, comes itself,
after all, from this wonderful significance of the
Greeks having affected the very machinery of
our education, and is in itself a kind of homage
to it.
In thus making sweetness and light to be
characters of perfection, culture is of like spirit
with poetry, follows one law with poetry.
Far more than on our freedom, our population,
and our industrialism, many amongst us rely
upon our religious organisations to save us.
I have called religion a yet more important
manifestation of human nature than poetry,
because it has worked on a broader scale for
perfection, and with greater masses of men.
But the idea of beauty and of a human nature
perfect on all its sides, which is the dominant
idea of poetry, is a true and invaluable idea,
though it has not yet had the success that the
idea of conquering the obvious faults of our
animality, and of a human nature perfect on
the moral side, — which is the dominant idea
of religion, — has been enabled to have ; and
it is destined, adding to itself the religious idea
of a devout energy, to transform and govern
the other.
The best art and poetry of the Greeks, in
which religion and poetry are one, in which the
idea of beauty and of a human nature perfect
on all sides adds to itself a religious and devout
energy, and works in the strength of that, is on
this account of such surpassing interest and
instructiveness for us, though it was, — as,
having regard to the Greeks themselves, we
must own, — a premature attempt, an attempt
which for success needed the moral and reli-
gious fibre in humanity to be more braced and
developed than it had yet been. But Greece
did not err in having the idea of beauty, har-
mony, and complete human perfection, so
present and paramount. It is impossible to
have this idea too present and paramount;
only, the moral fibre must be braced too. And
we, because we have braced the moral fibre,
are not on that account in the right way, if
CULTURE AND ANARCHY
483
at the same time the idea of beauty, harmony,
and complete human perfection, is wanting or
misapprehended amongst us; and evidently
it is wanting or misapprehended at present.
And when we rely as we do on our religious
organisations, which in themselves do not and
cannot give us this idea, and think we have
done enough if we make them spread and pre-
vail, then, I say, we fall into our common fault
of overvaluing machinery.
Nothing is more common than for people
to confound the inward peace and satisfaction
which follows the subduing of the obvious
faults of our animality with what I may call
absolute inward peace and satisfaction, — the
peace and satisfaction which are reached as
we draw near to complete spiritual perfection,
and not merely to moral perfection, or rather
to relative moral perfection. No people in the
world have done more and struggled more to
attain this relative moral perfection than our
English race has. For no people in the world
has the command to resist the devil, to over-
come the wicked one, in the nearest and most
obvious sense of those words, had such a press-
ing force and reality. And we have had our
reward, not only in the great worldly prosperity
which our obedience to this command has
brought us, but also, and far more, in great
inward peace and satisfaction. But to me few
things are more pathetic than to see people',
on the strength of the inward peace and sat-
isfaction which their rudimentary efforts tow-
ards perfection have brought them, employ,
concerning their incomplete perfection and the
religious organisations within which they have
found it, language which properly applies only
to complete perfection, and is a far-off echo
of the human soul's prophecy of it. Religion
itself, I need hardly say, supplies them in
abundance with this grand language. And
very freely do they use it; yet it is really the
severest possible criticism of such an incom-
plete perfection as alone we have yet reached
through our religious organisations.
The impulse of the English race towards
moral development and self-conquest has no-
where so powerfully manifested itself as in
Puritanism. Nowhere has Puritanism found
so adequate an expression as in the religious
organisation of the Independents. The mod-
ern Independents have a newspaper, the Non-
conformist, written with great sincerity and
ability. The motto, the standard, the pro-
fession of faith which this organ of theirs
carries aloft, is: "The Dissidence of Dissent
and the Protestantism of the Protestant reli-
gion." There is sweetness and light, and an
ideal of complete harmonious human perfec-
tion ! One need not go to culture and poetry
to find language to judge it. Religion, with
its instinct for perfection, supplies language to
judge it, language, too, which is in our mouths
every day. "Finally, be of one mind, united
in feeling," says St. Peter. There is an ideal
which judges the Puritan ideal: "The Dissi-
dence of Dissent and the Protestantism of the
Protestant religion ! " And religious organi-
sations like this are what people believe in,
rest in, would give their lives for ! Such, I say,
is the wonderful virtue of even the beginnings
of perfection, of having conquered even the
plain faults of our animality, that the religious
organisation which has helped us to do it can
seem to us something precious, salutary, and
to be propagated, even when it wears such a
brand of imperfection on its forehead as this.
And men have got such a habit of giving to the
language of religion a special application, of
making it a mere jargon, that for the condem-
nation which religion itself passes on the short-
comings of their religious organisations they
have no ear; they are sure to cheat themselves
and to explain this condemnation away. They
can only be reached by the criticism which
culture, like poetry, speaking a language not
to be sophisticated, and resolutely testing these
organisations by the ideal of a human perfection
complete on all sides, applies to them.
But men of culture and poetry, it will be
said, are again and again failing, and failing
conspicuously, in the necessary first stage to a
harmonious perfection, in the subduing of the
great obvious faults of our animality, which it
is the glory of these religious organisations to
have helped us to subdue. True, they do often
so fail. They have often been without the
virtues as well as the faults of the Puritan;
it has been one of their dangers that they
so felt the Puritan's faults that they too much
neglected the practice of his. virtues. I will
not, however, exculpate them at the Puritan's
expense. They have often failed in morality,
and morality is indispensable. And they have
been punished for their failure, as the Puritan
has been rewarded for his performance. They
have been punished wherein they erred; but
their ideal of beauty, of sweetness and light,
and a human nature complete on all its sides,
remains the true ideal of perfection still; just
as the Puritan's ideal of perfection remains
narrow and inadequate, although for what he
484
MATTHEW ARNOLD
did well he has been richly rewarded. Not-
withstanding the mighty results of the Pilgrim
Fathers' voyage, they and their standard of
perfection are rightly judged when we figure
to ourselves Shakspeare or Virgil, — souls in
whom sweetness and light, and all that in hu-
man nature is most humane, were eminent, —
accompanying them on their voyage, and think
what intolerable company Shakspeare and
Virgil would have found them ! In the same
way let us judge the religious organisations
which we see all around us. Do not let us
deny the good and the happiness which they
have accomplished; but do not let us fail to
see clearly that their idea of human perfection
is narrow and inadequate, and that the Dissi-
dence of Dissent and the Protestantism of the
Protestant religion will never bring humanity
to its true goal. As I said with regard to
wealth: Let us look at the life of those who
live in and for it, — so I say with regard to
the religious organisations. Look at the life
imaged in such a newspaper as the Noncon-
formist, — a life of jealousy of the Establish-
ment, disputes, tea-meetings, openings of
chapels, sermons; and then think of it as an
ideal of a human life completing itself on all
sides, and aspiring with all its organs after
sweetness, light, and perfection!
Another newspaper, representing, like the
Nonconformist, one of the religious organisa-
tions of this country, was a short time ago
giving an account of the crowd at Epsom on
the Derby day, and of all the vice and hideous-
ness which was to be seen in that crowd; and
then the writer turned suddenly round upon
Professor Huxley, and asked him how he pro-
posed to cure all this vice and hideousness
without religion. I confess I felt disposed to
ask the asker this question: and how do you
propose to cure it with such a religion as yours?
How is the ideal of a life so unlovely, so un-
attractive, so incomplete, so narrow, so far
removed from a true and satisfying ideal of
human perfection, as is the life of your religious
organisation as you yourself reflect it, to con-
quer and transform all this vice and hideous-
ness? Indeed, the strongest plea for the study
of perfection as pursued by culture, the clearest
proof of the actual inadequacy of the idea of
perfection held by the religious organisations,
— expressing, as I have said, the most wide-
spread effort which the human race has yet
made after perfection, — is to be found in the
state of our life and society with these in pos-
session of it, and having been in possession of
it I know not how many hundred years. We
are all of us included in some religious organi-
sation or other; we all call ourselves, in the
sublime and aspiring language of religion
which I have before noticed, children of God.
Children of God ; — it is an immense pretension !
• — and how are we to justify it? By the works
which we do, and the words which we speak.
And the work which we collective children of
God do, our grand centre of life, our city which
we have builded for us to dwell in, is London !
London, with its unutterable external hideous-
ness, and with its internal canker of publice
egestas, privatim opitlentia, — to use the words
which Sallust puts into Cato's mouth about
Rome, — unequalled in the world ! The word,
again, which we children of God speak, the
voice which most hits our collective thought,
the newspaper with the largest circulation in
England, nay, with the largest circulation in
the whole world, is the Daily Telegraph! I
say that when our religious organisations, —
which I admit to express the most considerable
effort after perfection that our race has yet
made, — land us in no better result than this,
it is high time to examine carefully their idea
of perfection, and to see whether it does not
leave out of account sides and forces of human
nature which we might turn to great use;
whether it would not be more operative if it
Were more complete. And I say that the Eng-
lish reliance on our religious organisations and
on their ideas of human perfection just as they
stand, is like our reliance on freedom, on mus-
cular Christianity, on population, on coal, on
wealth, — mere belief in machinery, and un-
fruitful; and that it is wholesomely counter-
acted by culture, bent on seeing things as they
are, and on drawing the human race onwards
to a more complete, a harmonious perfection.
Culture, however, shows its single-minded
love of perfection, its desire simply to make
reason and the will of God prevail, its freedom
from fanaticism, by its attitude towards all
this machinery, even while it insists that it is
machinery. Fanatics, seeing the mischief men
do themselves by their blind belief in some
machinery or other, — w"hether it is wealth
and industrialism, or whether it is the culti-
vation of bodily strength and activity, or
whether it is a religious organisation, — oppose
with might and main the tendency to this
or that political and religious organisation, or to
games and athletic exercises, or to wealth and
industrialism, and try violently to stop it.
But the flexibility which sweetness and lighi
CULTURE AND ANARCHY
485
give, and which is one of the rewards of culture
pursued in good faith, enables a man to see
that a tendency may be necessary, and even,
as a preparation for something in the future,
salutary, and yet that the generations or indi-
viduals who obey this tendency are sacrificed
to it, that they fall short of the hope of per-
fection by following it; and that its mischiefs
are to be criticised, lest it should take too firm
a hold and last after it has served its purpose.
Mr. Gladstone well pointed out, in a speech
at Paris, — and others have pointed out the
same thing, — how necessary is the present
great movement towards wealth and industrial-
ism, in order to lay broad foundations of ma-
terial well-being for the society of the future.
The worst of these justifications is, that they are
generally addressed to the very people engaged,
body and soul, in the movement in question;
at all events, that they are always seized with
the greatest avidity by these people, and taken
by them as quite justifying their life; and that
thus they tend to harden them in their sins.
Now, culture admits the necessity of the move-
ment towards fortune-making and exaggerated
industrialism, readily allows that the future
may derive benefit from it; but insists, at the
same time, that the passing generations of in-
dustrialists, — forming, for the most part, the
stout main body of Philistinism, — are sacri-
ficed to it. In the same way, the result of all
the games and sports which occupy the passing
generation of boys and young men may be the
establishment of a better and sounder physical
type for the future to work with. Culture does
not set itself against the games and sports;
it congratulates the future, and hopes it will
make a good use of its improved physical basis;
but it points out that our passing generation
of boys and young men is, meantime, sacrificed.
Puritanism was perhaps necessary to develop
the moral fibre of the English race, Noncon-
formity to break the yoke of ecclesiastical
domination over men's minds and to prepare
the way for freedom of thought in the distant
future; still, culture points out that the har-
monious perfection of generations of Puritans
and Nonconformists has been, in consequence,
sacrificed. Freedom of speech may be neces-
sary for the society of the future, but the young
lions of the Daily Telegraph in the meanwhile
are sacrificed. A voice for every man in his
country's government may be necessary for
the society of the future, but meanwhile Mr.
Beales and Mr. Bradlaugh are sacrificed.
Oxford, the Oxford of the past, has many
faults; and she has heavily paid for them in
defeat, in isolation, in want of hold upon the
modern world. Yet we in Oxford, brought up
amidst the beauty and sweetness of that beauti-
ful place, have not failed to seize one truth, —
the truth that beauty and sweetness are essen-
tial characters of a complete human perfection.
When I insist on this, I am all in the faith and
tradition of Oxford. I say boldly that this our
sentiment for beauty and sweetness, our senti-
ment against hideousness and rawness, has
been at the bottom of our attachment to so
many beaten causes, of our opposition to so
many triumphant movements. And the senti-
ment is true, and has never been wholly de-
feated, and has shown its power even in its
defeat. We have not won our political battles,
we have not carried our main points, we have
not stopped our adversaries' advance, we have
not marched victoriously with the modern
world; but we have told silently upon the mind
of the country, we have prepared currents
of feeling which sap our adversaries' position
when it seems gained, we have kept up our own
communications with the future. Look at the
course of the great movement which shook
Oxford to its centre some thirty years ago !
It was directed, as any one who reads Dr.
Newman's Apology may see, against what in
one word may be called "Liberalism." Liber-
alism prevailed; it was the appointed force
to do the work of the hour; it was necessary,
it was inevitable that it should prevail. The
Oxford movement was broken, it failed; our
wrecks are scattered on every shore : —
Quae regie in terns nostri non plena laboris?
But what was it, this liberalism, as Dr. Newman
saw it, and as it really broke the Oxford move-
ment ? It was the great middle-class liberalism,
which had for the cardinal points of its belief
the Reform Bill of 1832, and local self-govern-
ment, in politics; in the social sphere, free-
trade, unrestricted competition, and the mak-
ing of large industrial fortunes; in the religious
sphere, the Dissidence of Dissent and the
Protestantism of the Protestant religion. I do
not say that other and more intelligent forces
than this were not opposed to the Oxford
movement : but this was the force which really
beat it; this was the force which Dr. Newman
felt himself fighting with; this was the force
which till only the other day seemed to be the
paramount force in this country, and to be in
possession of the future; this was the force
486
MATTHEW ARNOLD
whose achievements fill Mr. Lowe with such
inexpressible admiration, and whose rule he
was so horror-struck to see threatened. And
where is this great force of Philistinism now?
It is thrust into the second rank, it is become
a power of yesterday, it has lost the future. A
new power 'has suddenly appeared, a power
which it is impossible yet to judge fully, but
which is certainly a wholly different force from
middle-class liberalism ; different in its cardinal
points of belief, different in its tendencies in
every sphere. It loves and admires neither
the legislation of middle-class Parliaments,
nor the local self-government of middle-class
vestries, nor the unrestricted competition of
middle-class industrialists, nor the dissidence
of middle-class Dissent and the Protestantism
of middle-class Protestant religion. I am not
now praising this new force, or saying that its
own ideals are better; all I say is, that they are
wholly different. And who will estimate how
much the currents of feeling created by Dr.
Newman's movement, the keen desire for
beauty and sweetness which it nourished, the
deep aversion it manifested to the hardness and
vulgarity of middle-class liberalism, the strong
light it turned on the hideous and grotesque
illusions of middle-class Protestantism, — who
will estimate how much all these contributed
to swell the tide of secret dissatisfaction which
has mined the ground under self-confident
liberalism of the last thirty years, and has pre-
pared the way for its sudden collapse and super-
session ? It is in this manner that the sentiment
of Oxford for beauty and sweetness conquers,
and in this manner long may it continue to
conquer !
In this manner it works to the same end as
culture, and there is plenty of work for it yet
to do. I have said that the new and more
democratic force which is now superseding
our old middle-class liberalism cannot yet be
rightly judged. It has its main tendencies
still to form. We hear promises of its giving
us administrative reform, law reform, reform
of education, and I know not what; but those
promises come rather from its advocates, wish-
ing to make a good plea for it and to justify
it for superseding middle-class liberalism, than
from clear tendencies which it has itself yet
developed. But meanwhile it has plenty of
well-intentioned friends against whom culture
may with advantage continue to uphold steadily
its ideal of human perfection; that this is an
inward spiritual activity, having for its char-
acters increased sweetness, increased light, in-
creased life, increased sympathy. Mr. Bright,
who has a foot in both worlds, the world of
middle-class liberalism and the world of
democracy, but who brings most of his ideas
from the world of middle-class liberalism in
which he was bred, always inclines to inculcate
that faith in machinery to which, as we have
seen, Englishmen are so prone, and which has
been the bane of middle-class liberalism. He
complains with a sorrowful indignation of
people who "appear to have no proper estimate
of the value of the franchise"; he leads his dis-
ciples to believe, — what the Englishman is
always too ready to believe, — that the having
a vote, like the having a large family, or a large
business, or large muscles, has in itself some
edifying and . perfecting effect upon human
nature. Or else he cries out to the democ-
racy,— "the men," as he calls them, "upon
whose shoulders the greatness of England
rests," — he cries out to them: "See what you
have done ! I look over this country and see
the cities you have built, the railroads you have
made, the manufactures you have produced,
the cargoes which freight the ships of the great-
est mercantile navy the world has ever seen!
I see that you have converted by your labours
what was once a wilderness, these islands, into
a fruitful garden; I know that you have created
this wealth, and are a Nation whose name is
a word of power throughout all the world."
Why, this is just the very style of laudation with
which Mr. Roebuck or Mr. Lowe debauches
the minds of the middle classes, and makes
such Philistines of them. It is the same fash-
ion of teaching a man to value himself not on
what he is, not on his progress in sweetness and
light, but on the number of the railroads he has
constructed, or the bigness of the tabernacles
he has built. Only the middle classes are
told they have done it all with their energy,
self-reliance, and capital, and the democracy
are told they have done it all with their hands
and sinews. But teaching the democracy to
put its trust in achievements of this kind is
merely training them to be Philistines to take
the place of the Philistines whom they are
superseding; and they too, like the middle
class, will be encouraged to sit down at the
banquet of the future without having on a
wedding garment, and nothing excellent can
then come from them. Those who know their
besetting fault3, those who have watched them
and listened to them, or those who will read the
instructive account recently given of them by
one of themselves, the Journeyman Engineer,
CULTURE AND ANARCHY
487
will agree that the idea which culture sets be-
fore us of perfection, — an increased spiritual
activity, having for its characters increased
sweetness, increased light, increased life, in-
creased sympathy, — is an idea which the new
democracy needs far more than the idea of the
blessedness of the franchise, or the wonderful-
ness of its own industrial performances.
Other well-meaning friends of this new
power are for leading it, not in the old ruts of
middle-class Philistinism, but in ways which
are naturally alluring to the feet of democracy,
though in this country they are novel and
untried ways. I may call them the ways of
Jacobinism. Violent indignation with the past,
abstract systems of renovation applied whole-
sale, a new doctrine drawn up in black and
white for elaborating down to the very smallest
details a rational society for the future, — these
are the ways of Jacobinism. Mr. Frederic
Harrison and other disciples of Comte, — one
of them, Mr. Congreve, is an old friend of mine,
and I am glad to have an opportunity of pub-
licly expressing my respect for his talents and
character, — are among the friends of democ-
racy who are for leading it in paths of this
kind. Mr. Frederic Harrison is very hostile to
culture, and from a natural enough motive;
for culture is the eternal opponent of the two
things which are the signal marks of Jacobin-
ism, — its fierceness, and its addiction to an
abstract system. Culture is always assigning
to system-makers and systems a smaller share
in the bent of human destiny than their friends
like. A current in people's minds sets towards
new ideas; people are dissatisfied with their old
narrow stock of Philistine ideas, Anglo-Saxon
ideas, or any other; and some man, some
~ Bentham or Comte, who has the real merit of
having early and strongly felt and helped the
new current, but who brings plenty of narrow-
ness and mistakes of his own into his feeling
and help of it, is credited with being the author
I of the whole current, the fit person to be en-
trusted with its regulation and to guide the
human race.
The excellent German historian of the my-
thology of Rome, Preller, relating the introduc-
tion at Rome under the Tarquins of the wor-
ship of Apollo, the god of light, healing, and
reconciliation, will have us observe that it was
not so much the Tarquins who brought to Rome
the new worship of Apollo, as a current in the
mind of the Roman people which set power-
fully at that time towards a new worship of this
kind, and away from the old run of Latin and
Sabine religious ideas. In a similar way,
culture directs our attention to the natural
current there is in human affairs, and to its
continual working, and will not let us rivet our
faith upon any one man and his doings. It
makes us see not only his good side, but also
how much in him was of necessity limited
and transient; nay, it even feels a pleasure, a
sense of an increased freedom and of an ampler
future, in so doing.
I remember, when I was under the influence
of a mind to which I feel the greatest obliga-
tions, the mind of a man who was the very
incarnation of sanity and clear sense, a man
the most considerable, it seems to me, whom
America has yet produced, — Benjamin Frank-
lin, — I remember the relief with which, after
long feeling the sway of Franklin's imperturb-
able common-sense, I came upon a project of
his for a new version of the Book of Job, to
replace the old version, the style of which, says
Franklin, has become obsolete, and thence less
agreeable. "I give," he continues, "a few
verses, which may serve as a sample of the
kind of version I would recommend." We all
recollect the famous verse in our translation:
"Then Satan answered the Lord and said:
' Doth Job fear God for nought?' " Franklin
makes this: "Does your Majesty imagine that
Job's good conduct is the effect of mere personal
attachment and affection?" I well remember
how, when first I read that, I drew a deep
breath of relief, and said to myself: "After
all, there is a stretch of humanity beyond
Franklin's victorious good sense ! " So, after
hearing Bentham cried loudly up as the
renovator of modern society, and Bentham's
mind and ideas proposed as the rulers of our
future, I open the Deontology. There I read :
"While Xenophon was writing his history and
Euclid teaching geometry, Socrates and Plato
were talking nonsense under pretence of talking
wisdom and morality. This morality of theirs
consisted in words; this wisdom of theirs was
the denial of matters known to every man's
experience." From the moment of reading
that, I am delivered from the bondage of-
Bentham ! the fanaticism of his adherents can
touch me no longer. I feel the inadequacy
of his mind and ideas for supplying the rule of
human society, for perfection.
Culture tends always thus to deal with the
men of a system, of disciples, of a school ; with
men like Comte, or the late Mr. Buckle, or Mr.
Mill. However much it may find to admire
in these personages, or in some of them, it
488
MATTHEW ARNOLD
nevertheless remembers the text: "Be not ye
called Rabbi!" and it soon passes on from
any Rabbi. But Jacobinism loves a Rabbi ; it
does not want to pass on from its Rabbi in
pursuit of a future and still unreached perfec-
tion ; it wants its Rabbi and his ideas to stand
for perfection, that they may with the more
authority recast the world; and for Jacobin-
ism, therefore, culture, — eternally passing on-
wards and seeking, — is an impertinence and
an offence. But culture, just because it resists
this tendency of Jacobinism to impose on us a
man with limitations and errors of his own
along with the true ideas of which he is the
organ, really does the world and Jacobinism
itself a service.
So, too, Jacobinism, in its fierce hatred of the
past and of those whom it makes liable for
the sins of the past, cannot away with the in-
exhaustible indulgence proper to culture, the
consideration of circumstances, the severe
judgment of actions joined to the merciful
judgment of persons. "The man of culture
is in politics," cries Mr. Frederic Harrison,
"one of the poorest mortals alive!" Mr.
Frederic Harrison wants to be doing business,
and he complains that the man of culture stops
him with a "turn for small fault-finding, love
of selfish ease, and indecision in action." Of
what use is culture, he asks, except for "a critic
of new books or a professor of belles lettres" ?
Why, it is of use because, in presence of the
fierce exasperation which breathes, or rather,
I may say, hisses through the whole produc-
tion in which Mr. Frederic Harrison asks that
question, it reminds us that the perfection of
human nature is sweetness and light. It is
of use because, like religion, — that other
effort after perfection, — it testifies that, where
bitter envying and strife are, there is confusion
and every evil work.
The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pur-
suit of sweetness and light. He who works
for sweetness and light, works to make reason
and the will of God prevail. He who works
for machinery, he who works for hatred, works
only for confusion. Culture looks beyond
machinery, culture hates hatred; culture has
one great passion, the passion for sweetness
and light. It has one even yet greater ! —
the passion for making them prevail. It is
not satisfied till we all come to a perfect man ;
it knows that the sweetness and light of the
few must be imperfect until the raw and un-
kindled masses of humanity are touched with
sweetness and light. If I have not shrunk
from saying that we must work for sweetness
and light, so neither have I shrunk from saying
that we must have a broad basis, must have
sweetness and light for as many as possible.
Again and again I have insisted how those are
the happy moments of "humanity, how those are
the marking epochs of a people's life, how those
are the flowering times for literature and art and
all the creative power of genius, when there is
a national glow of life and thought, when the
whole of society is in the fullest measure per-
meated by thought, sensible to beauty, intelli-
gent and alive. Only it must be real thought
and real beauty; real sweetness and real light.
Plenty of people will try to give the masses, as
they call them, an intellectual food prepared and
adapted in the way they think proper for the
actual condition of the masses. The ordinary
popular literature is an example of this way of
working on the masses. Plenty of people will
try to indoctrinate the masses with the set of
ideas and judgments constituting the creed
of their own profession or party. Our reli-
gious and political organisations give an ex-
ample of this way of working on the masses.
I condemn neither way; but culture works
differently. It does not try to teach down to
the level of inferior classes; it does not try to
win them for this or that sect of its own, with
ready-made judgments and watchwords. It
seeks to do away with classes ; to make the best
that has been thought and known in the world
current everywhere ; to make all men live in an
atmosphere of sweetness and light, where they
may use ideas, as it uses them itself, freely,
— nourished, and not bound by them.
This is the social idea; and the men of cul-
ture are the true apostles of equality. The
great men of culture are those who have had
a passion for diffusing, for making prevail,
for carrying from one end of society to the
other, the best knowledge, the best ideas of
their time ; who have laboured to divest know-
ledge of all that was harsh, uncouth, difficult,
abstract, professional, exclusive; to humanise
it, to make it efficient outside the clique of the
cultivated and learned, yet still remaining the
best knowledge and thought of the time, and a
true source, therefore, of sweetness and light.
Such a man was Abelard in the Middle Ages,
in spite of all his imperfections; and thence
the boundless emotion and enthusiasm which
Abelard excited. Such were Lessing and Her
der in Germany, at the end of the last cen-
tury; and their services to Germany were in
this way inestimably precious. Generations
LESLIE STEPHEN
489
will pass, and literary monuments will accu-
mulate, and works far more perfect than the
works of Lessing and Herder will be produced
in Germany; and yet the names of these two
men will fill a German with a reverence and
enthusiasm such as the names of the most
gifted masters will hardly awaken. And why?
Because they humanised knowledge; because
they broadened the basis of life and intelli-
gence; because they worked powerfully to dif-
fuse sweetness and light, to make reason and
the will of God prevail. With Saint Augustine
they said: "Let us not leave thee alone to
make in the secret of thy knowledge, as thou
didst before the creation of the firmament, the
division of light from darkness; let the children
of thy spirit, placed in their firmament, make
their light shine upon the earth, mark the
division of night and day, and announce the
revolution of the times; for the old order is
passed, and the new arises ; the night is spent,
the day is come forth; and thou shalt crown
the year with thy blessing, when thou shalt
send forth labourers into thy harvest sown by
other hands than theirs; when thou shalt send
forth new labourers to new seedtimes, whereof
the harvest shall be not yet."
•
LESLIE STEPHEN (1832-1904)
FROM NEWMAN'S THEORY OF BELIEF
Some persons, it is said, still cherish the
pleasant illusion that to write a history of
thought is not, on the face of it, a chimerical
undertaking. Their opinion implies the as-
sumption that all contemporary thought has
certain common characteristics, and that the
various prophets, inspired by the spirit of this
' or any other age, utter complementary rather
than contradictory doctrines. Could we attain
the vantage-ground which will be occupied
by our posterity, we might, of course, detect
an underlying unity of purpose in the perplex-
ing labyrinth of divergent intellectual parts.
And yet, making all allowance for the distortions
due to mental perspective when the objects of
vision are too close to our eyes, it is difficult to
see how two of the -most conspicuous teachers
of modern Englishmen are to be forced into
neighbouring compartments of the same logi-
cal framework. Newman and J. S. Mill were
nearly contemporaries; they were probably
the two greatest masters of philosophical
English in recent times, and the mind of the
same generation will bear the impress of their
speculation. And yet they move in spheres
of thought so different that a critic, judging
purely from internal evidence, might be in-
clined to assign them to entirely different
periods. The distance from Oxford to West-
minster would seem to be measurable rather
in centuries than in miles. Oxford, as New-
man says, was, in his time, a "mediaeval uni-
versity." The roar of modern controversies
was heard dimly, as in a dream. Only the
vague rumours of portentous phantoms of
German or English origin — Pantheism and
neologies and rationalism — might occasionally
reach the quiet cloisters where Aristotelian
logic still reigned supreme. To turn from
Newman's "Apologia" to Mill's "Autobiog-
raphy" is, in the slang of modern science, to
plunge the organism in a totally different en-
vironment. With Newman we are knee-deep
in the dust of the ancient fathers, poring over
the histories of Eutychians, Monophysites,
or Arians, comparing the teaching of Luther
and Melanchthon with that of Augustine;
and from such dry bones extracting — not the
materials of antiquarian discussions or philo-
sophical histories — but living and effective
light for our own guidance. The terminal
limit of our inquiries is fixed by Butler's
"Analogy." Newman ends where Mill began.
It was precisely the study of Butler's book
which was the turning-point in the mental
development of the elder Mill, and the cause
of his son's education in entire ignorance of
all that is generally called religion. The
foundation-stone of Mill's creed is to New-
man the great rock of offence ; the atmosphere
habitually breathed by the free-thinker was to
the theologian as a mephitic vapour in which a'l
that is pure and holy mentally droops and dies.
But, for the most part, Newman would rather
ignore than directly encounter this insidious
evil. He will not reason with such, but pass
them by with an averted glance. "Why,"
he asks, "should we vex ourselves to find out
whether our own deductions are philosophical
or no, provided they are religious?"
That free play of the pure intellect, which
with Mill is the necessary and sufficient guar-
antee of all improvement of the race, forms,
according to Newman, the inlet for an "all-
corroding and all-dissolving" scepticism, the
very poison of the soul ; for the intellect, when
not subordinated to the conscience and en-
lightened by authority, is doomed to a perpetuity
of fruitless wandering. The shibboleths of
Mill's creed are mentioned by Newman —
490
LESLIE STEPHEN
if mentioned at all — with unmixed aversion.
Liberalism, foreshadowed by the apostate
Julian, "is now Satan's chief instrument in
deluding the nations;" and even toleration —
though one fancies that here Newman is glad
to find an expedient for reconciling his feelings
to the logic which had once prompted him to
less tolerant utterances — is a principle "con-
ceived in the spirit of unbelief," though "provi-
dentially overruled" for the advantage of
Catholicism.
For the most part, as I have said, the two
writers are too far apart to have even the rela-
tion of direct antagonism. But as both are
profoundly interested in the bearing of their
teaching upon conduct, they necessarily come
into collision upon some vital questions. The
contrast is instructive. Mill tells us that the
study of Dumont's redaction of Bentham made
him a different being. It was the dropping
of the keystone into the arch of previously
fragmentary belief. It gave him "a creed, a
doctrine, a philosophy; in one among the best
senses of the word, a religion ; the inculcation
and diffusion of which would be made the prin-
cipal outward purpose of a life." 'The pro-
gress of the race would be henceforward his
aim; and the belief that such progress was a
law of Nature could supply him with hope and
animation. Here we have the characteristic
divergence between the modes of thought na-
tive to science and theology. Utilitarianism,
when Newman happens to mention it, is, of
course, mentioned as equivalent to Material-
ism — the preference of temporal comfort to
spiritual welfare. It prescribes as the ultimate
end of all legislation the pursuit of "whatever
tends to produce wealth." From Newman's
point of view, it is less "a religion" than the
antithesis of a religion, for the end which it
proposes to men is, briefly, the sum-total of all
the seductions by which the world attracts
men from their allegiance to the Church. To
emphasise and enforce this distinction, to show
that the Christian morality tramples under foot
and rejects as worthless all that the secular
philosopher values as most precious, is the pur-
pose of his subtlest logic and keenest rhetoric.
The contrast between the prosperous self-sat-
isfied denizen of this world and the genuine
Christianity set forth in the types of the
"humble monk, and the holy nun," is ever
before him. In their "calm faces, and sweet
plaintive voices, and spare frames, and gentle
manners, and hearts weaned from the world,"
he sees the embodiment of the one true ideal.
What common ground can there be between
such Christianity and the religion of progress?
"Our race's progress and perfectibility," he
says, "is a dream, because revelation contra-
dicts it." And even if there were no explicit
contradiction, how could the two ideas coalesce ?
The "foundation of all true doctrine as to the
way of salvation" is the "great truth" of the
corruption of man. His present nature is evil,
not good, and produces evil things, not good
things. His improvement, then, if he improves,
must be supernatural and miraculous, not the
spontaneous working of his natural tendencies.
The very basis of rational hope of progress is
therefore struck away. The enthusiasm which
that hope generates in such a mind as Mill's
is therefore mere folly — it is an empty exul-
tation over a process which, when it really ex-
ists, involves the more effectual weaning of the
world from God. In his sermons, Newman
aims his sharpest taunts at the superficial opti-
mism of the disciples of progress. The popular
religion of the day forgets the "darker, deeper
views" (darker as deeper) "of man's condition
and prospects." Conscience, the fundamental
religious faculty, is a "stern, gloomy principle,"
and therefore systematically ignored by worldly
and shallow souls. A phrase, quoted in the
"Apologia" with some implied apology for its
vehemence, is but a vivid expression of this
sentiment. It is his "firm conviction that it
would be a gain to this country were it vastly
more superstitious, more bigoted, more gloomy,
more fierce in its religion, than at present it
shows itself to be." The great instrument of
his opponents is as objectionable as their end
is futile and their temper shallow. The lovers
of progress found their hopes on the influ-
ence of illumination in dispelling superstition.
"Superstition," replies Newman, "is better
than your so-called illumination." Supersti-
tion, in fact, differs from religion, not in the
temper and disposition of mind which it in-
dicates, but in the authority which it accepts;
it is the blind man groping after the guiding
hand vouchsafed to him in revelation. The
world, when trying to turn to its Maker, has
"ever professed a gloomy religion in spite of
itself." Its sacrifices, its bodily tortures, its
fierce delight in self-tormenting, testify to its
sense of guilt and corruption. These "dark
and desperate struggles" are superstition when
set beside Christianity; but such superstition
"is man's purest and best religion before the
Gospel shines on him." To be gloomy, to
see ourselves with horror, "to wait naked and
NEWMAN'S THEORY OF BELIEF
491
shivering among the trees of the garden" . . .
"in a word, to be superstitious is Nature's
best offering, her most acceptable service, her
most matured and enlarged wisdom, in pres-
ence of a holy and offended God."
The contrast is drawn out most systematically
in two of the most powerful of the lectures on
"Anglican Difficulties" (Nos. VIII and IX).
They contain some of the passages which most
vexed the soul of poor Kingsley, to whom the
theory was but partly intelligible, and alto-
gether abhorrent. They are answers to the
ordinary objections that Catholicism is hostile
to progress and favourable to superstition.
Newman meets the objections — not by trav-
ersing the statements, but by denying their
relevancy. Catholic countries are, let us grant,
less civilised than Protestant; what then?
The office of the Church is to save souls, not
to promote civilisation. As he had said whilst
still a Protestant (for this is no theory framed
under pressure of arguments, but a primitive
and settled conviction), the Church does not
seek to make men good subjects, good citizens,
good members of society, not, in short, to secure
any of the advantages which the Utilitarian
would place in the first rank, but to make them
members of the New Jerusalem. The two ob-
jects are so far from identical that they may
be incompatible; nay, it is doubtful whether
"Christianity has at any time been of any great
spiritual advantage to the world at large."
It has saved individuals, not reformed society.
Intellectual enlightenment is beyond its scope,
and often hurtful to its influence. So says the
Protestant, and fancies that he has aimed a
blow at its authority. Newman again accepts
his statement without hesitation. In truth,
Catholicism often generates mere superstition,
and allies itself with falsehood, vice, and pro-
fanity. What if it does? It addresses the
conscience first, and the reason through the
conscience. Superstition proves that the con-
science is still alive. If divine faith is found in
alliance, not merely with gross conceptions, but
with fraud and cruelty, that proves not, as the
Protestant would urge, that good Catholicism
may sanction vice, but that even vice cannot
destroy Catholicism. Faith lays so powerful
a grasp upon the soul, that it survives even
in the midst of moral and mental degradation,
where the less rigorous creed of the Protestant
would be asphyxiated. If the power of saving
souls be the true test of the utility of a religion,
that is not the genuine creed which makes men
most decorous, but that which stimulates the
keenest sensibility to the influences of the un-
seen world. The hope of ultimate pardon
may make murder more frequent, but it gives
a better chance of saving the murderer's soul
at the very foot of the gallows.
Applying so different a standard, Newman
comes to results shocking to those who would
deny the possibility of thus separating natural
virtue from religion. Such, for example, is
the contrast between the pattern statesman,
honourable, generous, and conscious by nature,
and the lazy, slatternly, lying beggarwoman
who has got a better chance of heaven, because
in her may dwell a seed of supernatural faith;
or the admiring picture of the poor nun who
"points to God's wounds as imprinted on her
hands and feet and side, though she herself
has been instrumental in their formation."
She is a liar or a hysterical patient, says blunt
English common-sense, echoed by Kingsley;
but Newman condones her offence in considera-
tion of the lively faith from which it sprang.
On his version, the contrast is one between
the world and the Church, between care for the
external and the transitory, and care for the
enclosed and eternal. "We," he says, "come
to poor human nature as the angels of God;
you as policemen." Nature "lies, like Lazarus,
at your gate, full of sores. You see it gasping
and panting with privations and penalties ; and
you sing to it, you dance to it, you show it your
picture-books, you let off your fireworks, you
open your menageries. Shallow philosophers !
Is this mode of going on so winning and persua-
sive that we should imitate it?" We, in short,
are the physicians of the soul; you, at best,
the nurses of the body.
Newman, so far, is the antithesis of Mill.
He accepts that version of Christianity which
is most diametrically opposed to the tendency
of what is called modern thought. The Zeit-
geist is a deluding spirit ; he is an incarnation of
the world, the flesh, and the devil. That two
eminent thinkers should differ radically in their
estimate of the world and its value, that the
Church of one man's worship should be the
prison of another man's reason, is not sur-
prising. Temperament and circumstance, not
logic, make the difference between a pessimist
and an optimist, and social conditions have a
more powerful influence than speculation in
giving colour to the creeds of the day. Yet
we may fairly ask for an explanation of the
fact that one leader of men should express his
conceptions by symbols which have lost all
meaning for his contemporary. The doctrine
492
WALTER PATER
which, to Mill, seemed hopelessly obsolete, had
still enough vitality in the mind of Newman to
throw out fresh shoots of extraordinary vigour
of growth. To account for such phenomena
by calling one system reactionary is to make the
facts explain themselves. The -stream is now
flowing east because it was before flowing west :
— Such a reason can only satisfy those who
regard all speculation as consisting in a help-
less and endless oscillation between antagonist
creeds. To attempt any adequate explanation,
however, would be nothing less than to write
the mental history of the last half-century.
A more limited problem may be briefly dis-
cussed. What, we may ask, is the logic by
which, in the last resort, Newman would justify
his conclusions? The reasoning upon which
he relies may be cause or effect; it may have
prompted or been prompted by the ostensible
conclusions; but, in any case, it may show us
upon what points he comes into contact with
other teachers. No one can quite cut himself
loose from the conditions of the time; and it
must be possible to find some point of inter-
section between the two lines of thought, how-
ever widely they may diverge.
Since all progress of mind consists for the
most part in differentiation, in the resolution
of an obscure and complex object into its com-
ponent aspects, it is surely the stupidest of
losses to confuse things which right reason has
put asunder, to lose the sense of achieved dis-
tinctions, the distinction between poetry and
prose, for instance, or, to speak more exactly,
between the laws and characteristic excellences
of verse and prose composition. On the other
hand, those who have dwelt most emphatically
on the distinction between prose and verse,
prose and poetry, may sometimes have been
tempted to limit the proper functions of prose
too narrowly; and this again is at least false
economy, as being, in effect, the renunciation of
a certain means or faculty, in a world where
after all we must needs make the most of things.
Critical efforts to limit art a priori, by anticipa-
tions regarding the natural incapacity of the
material with which this or that artist works,
as the sculptor with solid form, or the prose-
writer with the ordinary language of men, are
always liable to be discredited by the facts of
artistic production ; and while prose is actually
found to be a coloured thing with Bacon,
picturesque with Livy and Carlyle, musical
with Cicero and Newman, mystical and inti-
mate with Plato and Michelet and Sir Thomas
Browne, exalted or florid, it may be, with Mil-
ton and Taylor, it will be useless to protest
that it can be nothing at all, except something
very tamely and narrowly confined to mainly
practical ends — a kind of "good round-hand" ;
as useless as the protest that poetry might not
touch prosaic subjects as with Wordsworth,
or an abstruse matter as with Browning, or
treat contemporary life nobly as with Tenny-
son. In subordination to one essential beauty
in all good literary style, in all literature as a fine
art, as there are many beauties of poetry so the
beauties of prose are many, and it is the busi-
ness of criticism to estimate them as such ; as
it is good in the criticism of verse to look for
those hard, logical, and quasi-prosaic excel-
lences which that too has, or needs. To find
in the poem, amid the flowers, the allusions,
the mixed perspectives, of Lycidas for instance,
the thought, the logical structure : — how
wholesome ! how delightful ! as to identify
in prose what we call the poetry, the imagina-
tive power, not treating it as out of place and
a kind of vagrant intruder, but by way of an
estimate of its rights, that is, of its achieved
powers, there.
Dryden, with the characteristic instinct
of his age, loved to emphasise the distinction
between poetry and prose, the protest against
their confusion with each other, coming with
somewhat diminished effect from one whose
poetry was so prosaic. In truth, his sense of
prosaic excellence affected his verse rather
than his prose, which is not only fervid, richly
figured, poetic, as we say, but vitiated, all un-
consciously, by many a scanning line. Setting
up correctness, that humble merit of prose, as
the central literary excellence, he is really a less
correct writer than he may seem, still with
an imperfect mastery of the relative pronoun.
It might have been foreseen that, in the rota-
tions of mind, the province of poetry in prose
would find its assertor; and, a century after
Dryden, amid very different intellectual needs,
and with the need therefore of great modifica- '
tions in literary form, the range of the poetic
force in literature was effectively enlarged by
Wordsworth. The true distinction between
prose and poetry he regarded as the almost
technical or accidental one of the absence or
presence of metrical beauty, or, say! metrical
STYLE
493
restraint; and for him the opposition came to
be between verse and prose of course; but, as
the essential dichotomy in this matter, between
imaginative and unimaginative writing, parallel
to De Quincey's distinction between "the liter-
ature of power and the literature of knowledge,"
in the former of which the composer gives us
not fact, but his peculiar sense of fact, whether
past or present.
Dismissing then, under sanction of Words-
worth, that harsher opposition of poetry to
prose, as savouring in fact of the arbitrary
psychology of the last century, and with it the
prejudice that there can be but one only beauty
of prose style, I propose here to point out cer-
tain qualities of all literature as a fine art, which,
if they apply to the literature of fact, apply still
more to the literature of the imaginative sense
of fact, while they apply indifferently to verse
and prose, so far as either is really imagina-
tive — certain conditions of true art in both alike,
which conditions may also contain in them the
secret of the proper discrimination and guard-
ianship of the peculiar excellences of either.
The line between fact and something quite
different from external fact is, indeed, hard to
draw. In Pascal, for instance, in the persua-
sive writers generally, how difficult to define
the point where, from time to time, argument
which, if it is to be worth anything at all, must
consist of facts or groups of facts, becomes a
pleading — a theorem no longer, but essentially
an appeal to the reader to catch the writer's
spirit, to think with him, if one can or will —
an expression no longer of fact but of his
sense of it, his peculiar intuition of a world,
prospective, or discerned below the faulty con-
ditions of the present, in either case changed
somewhat from the actual world. In science,
on the other hand, in history so far as it con-
forms to scientific rule, we have a literary do-
main where the imagination may be thought to
be always an intruder. And as, in all science,
the functions of literature reduce themselves
eventually to the transcribing of fact, so all the
excellences of literary form in regard to science
are reducible to various kinds of painstaking;
this good quality being involved in all "skilled
work" whatever, in the drafting of an act of
parliament, as in sewing. Yet here again, the
writer's sense of fact, in history especially, and
in all those complex subjects which do but lie
on the borders of science, will still take the
place of fact, in various degrees. Your his-
torian, for instance, with absolutely truthful
intention, amid the multitude of facts pre-
sented to him must needs select, and in select-
ing assert something of his own humour, some-
thing that comes not of the world without but
of a vision within. So Gibbon moulds his
unwieldy material to a preconceived view.
Livy, Tacitus, Michelet, moving full of poig-
nant sensibility amid the records of the past,
each, after his own sense, modifies — who can
tell where and to what degree ? — and becomes
something else than a transcriber; each, as he
thus modifies, passing into the domain of art
proper. For just in proportion as the writer's
aim, consciously or unconsciously, comes to
be the transcribing, not of the world, not of
mere fact, but of his sense of it, he becomes an
artist, his work fine art; and good art (as I
hope ultimately to show) in proportion to the
truth of his presentment of that sense; as in
those humbler or plainer functions of literature
also, truth — truth to bare fact, there — is the
essence of such artistic quality as they may
have. Truth ! there can be no merit, no craft
at all, without that. And further, all beauty is
in the long run only fineness of truth, or what
we call expression, the finer accommodation of
speech to that vision within.
— The transcript of his sense of fact rather
than the fact, as being preferable, pleasanter,
more beautiful to the writer himself. In lit-
erature, as in every other product of human
skill, in the moulding of a bell or a platter for
instance, wherever this sense asserts itself,
wherever the producer so modifies his work
as, over and above its primary use or inten-
tion, to make it pleasing (to himself, of course,
in the first instance) there, "fine" as opposed
to merely serviceable art, exists. Literary art,
that is, like all art which is in any way imitative
or reproductive of fact — form, or colour, or
incident — is the representation of such fact as
connected with soul, of a specific personality,
in its preferences, its volition and power.
Such is the matter of imaginative or artistic
literature — this transcript, not of mere fact,
but of fact in its infinite variety, as modified
by human preference in all its infinitely varied
forms. It will be good literary art not because
it is brilliant or sober, or rich, or impulsive, or
severe, but just in proportion as its representa-
tion of that sense, that soul-fact, is true, verse
being only one department of such literature,
and imaginative prose, it may be thought,
being the special art of the modern world.
That imaginative prose should be the special
and opportune art of the modern world results
from two important facts about the latter:
494
WALTER PATER
first, the chaotic variety and complexity of its
interests, making the intellectual issue, the
really master currents of the present time
incalculable — a condition of mind little sus-
ceptible of the restraint proper to verse form,
so that the most characteristic verse of the
nineteenth century has been lawless verse ; and
secondly, an all-pervading naturalism, a curi-
osity about everything whatever as it really is,
involving a certain humility of attitude, cognate
to what must, after all, be the less ambitious
form of literature. And prose thus asserting
itself as the special and privileged artistic faculty
of the present day, will be, however critics rnay
try to narrow its scope, as varied in its excellence
as humanity itself reflecting on the facts of its
latest experience — an instrument of many
stops, meditative, observant, descriptive, elo-
quent, analytic, plaintive, fervid. Its beauties
will be not exclusively "pedestrian": it will
exert, in due measure, all the varied charms of
poetry, down to the rhythm which, as in Cicero,
or Michelet, or Newman, at their best, gives its
musical value to every syllable.
The literary artist is of necessity a scholar,
and in what he proposes to do will have in
mind, first of all, the scholar and the scholarly
conscience — the male conscience in this
matter, as we must think it, under a system
of education which still to so large an extent
limits real scholarship to men. In his self-
criticism, he supposes always that sort of reader
who will go (full of eyes) warily, considerately,
though without consideration for him, over
the ground which the female conscience trav-
erses so lightly, so amiably. For the mate-
rial in which he works is no more a creation
of his own than the sculptor's marble. Product
of a myriad various minds and contend-
ing tongues, compact of obscure and minute
association, a language has its own abundant
and often recondite laws, in the habitual and
summary recognition of which scholarship
consists. A writer, full of a matter he is be-
fore all things anxious to express, may think
of those laws, the limitations of vocabulary,
structure, and the like, as a restriction, but if
a real artist will find in them an opportunity.
His punctilious observance of the proprieties
of his medium will diffuse through all he writes
a general air of sensibility, of refined usage.
Exclusiones debitae naturae — the exclusions,
or rejections, which nature demands — we
know how large a part these play, according to
Bacon, in the science of nature. In a some-
what changed sense, we might say that the art
of the scholar is summed up in the observ-
ance of those rejections demanded by the
nature of his medium, the material he
must use. Alive to the value of an atmos-
phere in which every term finds its utmost
degree of expression, and with all the jealousy
of a lover of words, he will resist a constant
tendency on the part of the majority of those
who use them to efface the distinctions of
language, the facility of writers often rein-
forcing in this respect the work of the vulgar.
He will feel the obligation not of the laws only,
but of those affinities, avoidances, those mere
preferences, of his language, which through the
associations of literary history have become
a part of its nature, prescribing the rejection
of many a neology, many a license, many a
gipsy phrase which might present itself as
actually expressive. His appeal, again, is to
the scholar, who has great experience in litera-
ture, and will show no favour to short-cuts, or
hackneyed illustration, or an affectation of
learning designed for the unlearned. Hence
a contention, a sense of self-restraint and re-
nunciation, having for the susceptible reader
the effect of a challenge for minute considera-
tion ; the attention of the writer, in every minut-
est detail, being a pledge that it is worth the
reader's while to be attentive too, that the writer
is dealing scrupulously with his instrument,
and therefore, indirectly, with the reader him-
self also, that he has the science of the instru-
ment he plays on, perhaps, after all, with a
freedom which in such case will be the freedom
of a master.
For meanwhile, braced only by those re-
straints, he is really vindicating his liberty in
the making of a vocabulary, an entire system
of composition, for himself, his own true man-
ner; and when we speak of the manner of a
true master we mean what is essential in his art.
Pedantry being only the scholarship of le
cuistre (we have no English equivalent) he is
no pedant, and does but show his intelligence
of the rules of language in his freedoms with
it, addition or expansion, which like the spon-
taneities of manner in a well-bred person will
still further illustrate good taste. — The right
vocabulary. Translators have not invariably
seen how all-important that is in the work of
translation, driving for the most part at idiom
or construction; whereas, if the original be
first-rate, one's first care should be with its
elementary particles, Plato, for instance, being
often reproducible by an exact following, with
no variation in structure, of word after word,
STYLE
495
as the pencil follows a drawing under tracing-
paper, so only each word or syllable be not of
false colour, to change my illustration a little.
Well ! that is because any writer worth trans-
lating at all has winnowed and searched through
his vocabulary, is conscious of the words he
would select in systematic reading of a dic-
tionary, and still more of the words he would
reject were the dictionary other than Johnson's;
and doing this with his peculiar sense of the
world ever in view, in search of an instrument
for the adequate expression of that, he begets
a vocabulary faithful to the colouring of his
own spirit, and in the strictest sense original.
That living authority which language needs
lies, in truth, in its scholars, who recognising
always that every language possesses a genius,
a very fastidious genius, of its own, expand at
once and purify its very elements, which must
needs change along with the changing thoughts
of living people. Ninety years ago, for in-
stance, great mental force, certainly, was
needed by Wordsworth, to break through the
consecrated poetic associations of a century, and
speak the language that was his, that was to
become in a measure the language of the next
generation. But he did it with the tact of a
scholar also. English, for a quarter of a century
past, has been assimilating the phraseology of
pictorial art; for half a century, the phrase-
ology of the great German metaphysical move-
ment of eighty years ago; in part also the
language of mystical theology: and none but
pedants will regret a great consequent increase
of its resources. For many years to come its
enterprise may well lie in the naturalisation of
the vocabulary of science, so only it be under
the eye of sensitive scholarship — in a liberal
•naturalisation of the ideas of science too, for
after all the chief stimulus of good style is to
possess a full, rich, complex matter to grapple
with. The literary artist, therefore, will be
well aware of physical science; science also
attaining, in its turn, its true literary ideal.
And then, as the scholar is nothing without the
historic sense, he will be apt to restore not really
obsolete or really worn-out words, but the finer
edge of words still in use : ascertain, communi-
cate, discover — words like these it has been
part of our "business" to misuse. And still,
as language was made for man, he will be
no authority for correctnesses which, limiting
freedom of utterance, were yet but accidents in
their origin; as if one vowed not to say "its,"
which ought to have been in Shakespeare;
"his" and "hers," for inanimate objects,
being but a barbarous and really inexpressive
survival. Yet we have known many things
like this. Racy Saxon monosyllables, close
to us as touch and sight, he will intermix
readily with those long, savoursome, Latin
words, rich in " second intention." In this
late day certainly, no critical process can
be conducted reasonably without eclecticism.
Of such eclecticism we have a justifying ex-
ample in one of the first poets of our time.
How illustrative of monosyllabic effect, of
sonorous Latin, of the phraseology of science,
of metaphysic, of colloquialism even, are the
writings of Tennyson; yet with what a fine,
fastidious scholarship throughout !
A scholar writing for the scholarly, he will
of course leave something to the willing intelli-
gence of his reader. "To go preach to the first
passer-by," says Montaigne, "to become tutor
to the ignorance of the first I meet, is a thing I
abhor;" a thing, in fact, naturally distressing
to the scholar, who will therefore ever be shy
of offering uncomplimentary assistance to the
reader's wit. To really strenuous minds there
is a pleasurable stimulus in the challenge for a
continuous effort on their part, to be rewarded
by securer and more intimate grasp of the
author's sense. Self-restraint, a skilful economy
of means, ascesis, that too has a beauty of its
own; and for the reader supposed there will be
an aesthetic satisfaction in that frugal close-
ness of style which makes the most of a word,
in the exaction from every sentence of a pre-
cise relief, in the just spacing out of word to
thought, in the logically filled space connected
always with the delightful sense of difficulty
overcome.
Different classes of persons, at different
times, make, of course, very various demands
upon literature. Still, scholars, I suppose, and
not only scholars, but all disinterested lovers
of books, will always look to it, as to all other
fine art, for a refuge, a sort of cloistral refuge,
from a certain vulgarity in the actual world.
A perfect poem like Lycidas, a perfect fiction
like Esmond, the perfect handling of a theory
like Newman's Idea of a University, has for
them something of the uses of a religious
"retreat." Here, then, with a view to the
central need of a select few, those "men of a
finer thread" who have formed and maintained
the literary ideal, everything, every component
element, will have undergone exact trial, and,
above all, there will be no uncharacteristic
or tarnished or vulgar decoration, permissible
ornament being for the most part structural,
496
WALTER PATER
or necessary. As the painter in his picture,
so the artist in his book, aims at the production
by honourable artifice of a peculiar atmosphere.
"The artist," says Schiller, "may be known
rather by what he omits;" and in literature, too,
the true artist may be best recognised by his
tact of omission. For to the grave reader
words too are grave ; and the ornamental word,
the figure, the accessory form or colour or ref-
erence, is rarely content to die to thought pre-
cisely at the right moment, but will inevita-
bly linger awhile, stirring a long "brain-wave"
behind it of perhaps quite alien associations.
Just there, it may be, is the detrimental
tendency of the sort of scholarly attentiveness
of mind I am recommending. But the true
artist allows for it. He will remember that, as
the very word ornament indicates what is in
itself non-essential, so the "one beauty" of all
literary style is of its very essence, and indepen-
dent, in prose and verse alike, of all removable
decoration; that it may exist in its fullest
lustre, as in Flaubert's Madame Bavary, for
instance, or in Stendhal's Le Rouge et Le Noir,
in a composition utterly unadorned, with hardly
a single suggestion of visibly beautiful things.
Parallel, allusion, the allusive way generally, the
flowers in the garden : — he knows the narcotic
force of these upon the negligent intelligence to
which any diversion, literally, is welcome, any
vagrant intruder, because one can go wander-
ing away with it from the immediate subject.
Jealous, if he have a really quickening motive
within, of all that does not hold directly to
that, of the facile, the otiose, he will never
depart from the strictly pedestrian process, un-
less he gains a ponderable something thereby.
Even assured of its congruity, he will still
question its serviceableness. Is it worth while,
can we afford, to attend to just that, to just
that figure or literary reference, just then? —
Surplusage ! he will dread that, as the runner on
his muscles. For in truth all art does but
consist in the removal of surplusage, from the
last finish of the gem-engraver blowing away
the last particle of invisible dust, back to the
earliest divination of the finished work to be,
lying somewhere, according to Michelangelo's
fancy, in the rough -hewn block of stone.
And what applies to figure or flower must be
understood of all other accidental or removable
ornaments of writing whatever; and not of
specific ornament only, but of all that latent
colour and imagery which language as such
carries in it. A lover of words for their own
sake, to whom nothing about them is unimpor-
tant, a minute and constant observer of their
physiognomy, he will be on the alert not only
for obviously mixed metaphors of course, but
for the metaphor that is mixed in all our speech,
though a rapid use may involve no cognition
of it. Currently recognising the incident, the
colour, the physical elements or particles in
words like absorb, consider, extract, to take the
first that occur, he will avail himself of them,
as further adding to the resources of expression.
The elementary particles of language will be
realised as colour and light and shade through
his scholarly living in the full sense of them.
Still opposing the constant degradation of lan-
guage by those who use it carelessly, he will
not treat coloured glass as if it were clear;
and while half the world is using figure uncon-
sciously, will be fully aware not only of all that
latent figurative texture in speech, but of the
vague, lazy, half -formed personification — a
rhetoric, depressing, and worse than nothing,
because it has no really rhetorical motive —
which plays so large a part there, and, as in
the case of more ostentatious ornament, scru-
pulously exact of it, from syllable to syllable,
its precise value.
So far I have been speaking of certain con-
ditions of the literary art arising out of the me-
dium or material in or upon which it works,
the essential qualities of language and its
aptitudes for contingent ornamentation, mat-
ters which define scholarship as science and
good taste respectively. They are both subser-
vient to a more intimate quality of good style:
more intimate, as coming nearer to the artist
himself. The otiose, the facile, surplusage:
why are these abhorrent to the true literary
artist, except because, in literary as in all
other art, structure is all-important, felt, or
painfully missed, everywhere ? — that archi-
tectural conception of work, which foresees the
end in the beginning and never loses sight of
it, and in every part is conscious of all the rest,
till the last sentence does but, with undimin-
ished vigour, unfold and justify the first —
a condition of literary art, which, in contra-
distinction to another quality of the artist him-
self, to be spoken of later, I shall call the
necessity of mind in style.
An acute philosophical writer, the late Dean
Mansel (a writer whose works illustrate the
literary beauty there may be in closeness,
and with obvious repression or economy of a
fine rhetorical gift) wrote a book, of fascinating
precision in a very obscure subject, to show that
all the technical laws of logic are but means of
STYLE
497
securing, in each and all of its apprehensions,
the unity, the strict identity with itself, of the
apprehending mind. All the laws of good
writing aim at a similar unity or identity of the
mind in all the processes by which the word is
associated to its import. The term is right,
and has its essential beauty, when it becomes,
in a manner, what it signifies, as with the names
of simple sensations. To give the phrase, the
sentence, the structural member, the entire
composition, song, or essay, a similar unity
with its subject and with itself: — style is in
the right way when it tends towards that. All
depends upon the original unity, the vital
wholeness and identity, of the initiatory ap-
prehension or view. So much is true of all
art, which therefore requires always its logic,
its comprehensive reason — insight, foresight,
retrospect, in simultaneous action — true, most
of all, of the literary art, as being of all the arts
most closely cognate to the abstract intelli-
gence. Such logical coherency may be evi-
denced not merely in the lines of composition as
a whole, but in the choice of a single word,
while it by no means interferes with, but may
even prescribe, much variety, in the building of
the sentence for instance, or in the manner, ar-
•gumentative, descriptive, discursive, of this or
that part or member of the entire design.
The blithe, crisp sentence, decisive as a child's
expression of its needs, may alternate with the
long-contending, victoriously intricate sentence ;
the sentence, born with the integrity of a single
word, relieving the sort of sentence in which,
if you look closely, you can see much con-
trivance, much adjustment, to bring a highly
qualified matter into compass at one view.
For the literary architecture, if it is to be rich
and expressive, involves not only foresight of
the end in the beginning, but also development
or growth of design, in the process of execution,
with many irregularities, surprises, and after-
thoughts; the contingent as well as the neces
sary being subsumed under the unity of the
whole. As truly, to the lack of such architect-
ural design, of a single, almost visual, image,
vigorously informing an entire, perhaps very
intricate, composition, which shall be austere,
ornate, argumentative, fanciful, yet true from
first to last to that vision within, may be at-
tributed those weaknesses of conscious or un-
conscious repetition of word, phrase, motive,
or member of the whole matter, indicating, as
Flaubert was aware, an original structure in
thought not organically complete. With such
foresight, the actual conclusion will most often
get itself written out of hand, before, in the
more obvious sense, the work is finished. With
some strong and leading sense of the world,
the tight hold of which secures true composi-
tion and not mere loose accretion, the literary
artist, I suppose, goes on considerately, setting
joint to joint, sustained by yet restraining the
productive ardour, retracing the negligences of
his first sketch, repeating his steps only that
he may give the reader a sense of secure and
restful progress, readjusting mere assonances
even, that they may soothe the reader, or at
least not interrupt him on his way; and then,
somewhere before the end comes, is burdened,
inspired, with his conclusion, and betimes de-
livered of it, leaving off, not in weariness and
because he finds himself at an end, but in all the
freshness of volition. His work now structurally
complete, with all the accumulating effect of
secondary shades of meaning, he finishes the
whole up to the just proportion of that ante-
penultimate conclusion, and all becomes ex-
pressive. The house he has built is rather a
body he has informed. And so it happens, to
its greater credit, that the better interest even
of a narrative to be recounted, a story to be
told, will often be in its second reading. And
though there are instances of great writers who
have been no artists, an unconscious tact some-
times directing work in which we may detect,
very pleasurably, many of the effects of con-
scious art, yet one of the greatest pleasures
of really good prose literature is in the critical
tracing out of that conscious artistic structure,
and the pervading sense of it as we read. Yet
of poetic literature too; for, in truth, the kind
of constructive intelligence here supposed is one
of the forms of the imagination.
That is the special function of mind, in style.
Mind and soul, — hard to ascertain philo-
sophically, the distinction is real enough prac-
tically, for they often interfere, are sometimes
in conflict, with each other. Blake, in the last
century, is an instance of preponderating soul,
embarrassed, at a loss, in an era of preponderat-
ing mind. As a quality of style, at all events,
soul is a fact, in certain writers — the way they
have of absorbing language, of attracting it into
the peculiar spirit they are of, with a subtlety
which makes the actual result seem like some
inexplicable inspiration. By mind, the liter-
ary artist reaches us, through static and ob-
jective indications of design in his work, legi-
ble to all. By soul, he reaches us, somewhat
capriciously perhaps, one and not another,
through vagrant sympathy and a kind of
498
WALTER PATER
immediate contact. Mind we cannot choose but
approve where we recognise it; soul may repel
us, not because we misunderstand it. The way
in which theological interests sometimes avail
themselves of language is perhaps the best
illustration of the force I mean to indicate gen-
erally in literature, by the word soul. Ardent
religious persuasion may exist, may make its
way, without finding any equivalent heat in
language: or, again, it may enkindle words to
various degrees, and when it really takes hold
of them doubles its force. Religious history
presents many remarkable instances in which,
through no mere phrase-worship, an uncon-
scious literary tact has, for the sensitive, laid
open a privileged pathway from one to another.
"The altar-fire," people say, "has touched
those lips!" The Vulgate, the English Bible,
the English Prayer-Book, the writings of Swe-
denborg, the Tracts for the Times: — there, we
have instances of widely different and largely
diffused phases of religious feeling in operation
as soul in style. But something of the same
kind acts with similar power in certain writers
of quite other than theological literature, on
behalf of some wholly personal and peculiar
sense of theirs. Most easily illustrated by
theological literature, this quality lends to
profane writers a kind of religious influence.
At their best, these writers become, as we say
sometimes, "prophets"; such character de-
pending on the effect not merely of their matter,
but of their matter as allied to, in "electric
affinity" with, peculiar form, and working in
all cases by an immediate sympathetic contact,
on which account it is that it may be called
soul, as opposed to mind, in style. And this
too is a faculty of choosing and rejecting what is
congruous or otherwise, with a drift towards
unity — unity of atmosphere here, as there of
design — soul securing colour (or perfume,
might we say ?) as mind secures form, the latter
being essentially finite, the former vague or
infinite, as the influence of a living person is
practically infinite. There are some to whom
nothing has any real interest, or real meaning,
except as operative in a given person; and it
is they who best appreciate the quality of soul
in literary art. They seem to know a person,
in a book, and make way by intuition: yet,
although they thus enjoy the completeness of
a personal information, it is still a character-
istic of soul, in this sense of the word, that it
does but suggest what can never be uttered,
not as being different from, or more obscure
than, what actually gets said, but as containing
that plenary substance of which there is only
one phase or facet in what is there expressed.
If all high things have their martyrs, Gustave
Flaubert might perhaps rank as the martyr of
literary style. In his printed correspondence,
a curious series of letters, written in his twenty-
fifth year, records what seems to have been his
one other passion — a series of letters which,
with its fine casuistries, its firmly repressed
anguish, its tone of harmonious gray, and the
sense of disillusion in which the whole matter
ends, might have been, a few slight changes sup-
posed, one of his own fictions. Writing to
Madame X. certainly he does display, by
"taking thought" mainly, by constant and
delicate pondering, as in his love for literature,
a heart really moved, but still more, and as the
pledge of that emotion, a loyalty to his work.
Madame X., too, is a literary artist, and the
best gifts he can send her are precepts of per-
fection in art, counsels for the effectual pursuit
of that better love. In his love-letters it is
the pains and pleasures of art he insists on, its
solaces: he communicates secrets, reproves,
encourages, with a view to that. Whether the
lady was dissatisfied with such divided or
indirect service, the reader is not enabled to
see; but sees that, on Flaubert's part at least,
a living person could be no rival of what was,
from first to last, his leading passion, a some-
what solitary and exclusive one.
"I must scold you," he writes, "for one thing,
which shocks, scandalises me, the small con-
cern, namely, you show for art just now.
As regards glory be it so: there, I approve.
But for art ! — the one thing in life that is good
and real — can you compare with it an earthly
love? — prefer the adoration of a relative beauty
to the cultus of the true beauty ? Well ! I tell
you the truth. That is the one thing good in
me: the one thing I have, to me estimable.
For yourself, you blend with the beautiful
a heap of alien things, the useful, the agree-
able, what not? —
"The only way not to be unhappy is to shut
yourself up in art, and count everything else as
nothing. Pride takes the place of all beside
when it is established on a large basis. Work !
God wills it. That, it seems to me, is clear. —
"I am reading over again the sEneid, certain
verses of which I repeat to myself to satiety.
There are phrases there which stay in one's
head, by which I find myself beset, as with
those musical airs which are forever returning,
and cause you pain, you love them so much.
I observe that I no longer laugh much, and
STYLE
499
am no longer depressed. I am ripe. You talk
of my serenity, and envy me. It may well
surprise you. Sick, irritated, the prey a thou-
sand times a day of cruel pain, I continue my
labour like a true working-man, who, with
sleeves turned up, in the sweat of his brow,
beats away at his anvil, never troubling him-
self whether it rains or blows, for hail or thunder.
I was not like that formerly. The change has
taken place naturally, though my will has
counted for something in the matter. —
"Those who write in good style are some-
times accused of a neglect of ideas, and of the
moral end, as if the end of the physician were
something else than healing, of the painter
than painting — as if the end of art were not,
before all else, the beautiful."
What, then, did Flaubert understand by
beauty, in the art he pursued with so much
fervour, with so much self-command? Let us
hear a sympathetic commentator: —
"Possessed of an absolute belief that there
exists but one way of expressing one thing, one
word to call it by, one adjective to qualify,
one verb to animate it, he gave himself to super-
human labour for the discovery, in every phrase,
of that word, that verb, that epithet. In this
way, he believed in some mysterious harmony
of expression, and when a true word seemed
to him to lack euphony still went on seeking
another, with invincible patience, certain that
he had not yet got hold of the unique word. . . .
A thousand preoccupations would beset him at-
the same moment, always with this desperate
certitude fixed in his spirit: Among all the
expressions in the world, all forms and turns
of expression, there is but one — one form,
one mode — to express what I want to
say."
The one word for the one thing, the one
thought, amid the multitude of words, terms,
that might just do: the problem of style was
there ! — the unique word, phrase, sentence,
paragraph, essay, or song, absolutely proper
to the single mental presentation or vision
within. In that perfect justice, over and above
the many contingent and removable beauties
with which beautiful style may charm us, but
which it can exist without, independent of them
yet dexterously availing itself of them, omni-
present in good work, in function at every
point, from single epithets to the rhythm of a
whole book, lay the specific, indispensable,
very intellectual, beauty of literature, the pos-
sibility of which constitutes it a fine art.
One seems to detect the influence of a philo-
sophic idea there, the idea of a natural economy,
of some preexistent adaptation, between a rel-
ative, somewhere in the world of thought, and
its correlative, somewhere in the world of
language — both alike, rather, somewhere in
the mind of the artist, desiderative, expectant,
inventive — meeting each other with the readi-
ness of "soul and body reunited," in Blake's
rapturous design; and, in fact, Flaubert was
fond of giving his theory philosophical expres-
sion.
"There are no beautiful thoughts," he would
say, "without beautiful forms, and conversely.
As it is impossible to extract from a physical
body the qualities which really constitute it
— colour, extension, and the like — without
reducing it to a hollow abstraction, in a word,
without destroying it; just so it is impossible
to detach the form from the idea, for the idea
only exists by virtue of the form."
All the recognised flowers, the removable
ornaments of literature (including harmony
and ease in reading aloud, very carefully con-
sidered by him) counted certainly; for these too
are part of the actual value of what one says.
But still, after all, with Flaubert, the search, the
unwearied research, was not for the smooth,
or winsome, or forcible word, as such, as with
false Ciceronians, but quite simply and honestly
for the word's adjustment to its meaning. The
first condition of this must be, of course, to
know yourself, to have ascertained your own
sense exactly. Then, if we suppose an artist,
he says to the reader, — I want you to see
precisely what I see. Into the mind sensitive
to " form," a flood of random sounds, colours,
incidents, is ever penetrating from the world
without, to become, by sympathetic selection,
a part of its very structure, and, in turn, the
visible vesture and expression of that other
world it sees so steadily within, nay, already
with a partial conformity thereto, to be refined,
enlarged, corrected, at a hundred points; and
it is just there, just at those doubtful points
that the function of style, as tact or taste,
intervenes. The unique term will come more
quickly to one than another, at one time than
another, according also to the kind of matter
in question. Quickness and slowness, ease and
closeness alike, have nothing to do with the
artistic character of the true word found at last.
As there is a charm of ease, so there is also a
special charm in the signs of discovery, of effort
and contention towards a due end, as so often
with Flaubert himself — in the style which
has been pliant, as only obstinate, durable
500
WALTER PATER
metal can be, to the inherent perplexities and
recusancy of a certain difficult thought.
If Flaubert had not told us, perhaps we should
never have guessed how tardy and painful his
own procedure really was, and after reading
his confession may think that his almost endless
hesitation had much to do with diseased nerves.
Often, perhaps, the felicity supposed will be the
product of a happier, a more exuberant nature
than Flaubert's. Aggravated, certainly, by a
morbid physical condition, that anxiety in
"seeking the phrase," which gathered all the
other small ennuis of a really quiet existence
into a kind of battle, was connected with his
lifelong contention against facile poetry, facile
art — art, facile and flimsy; and what con-
stitutes the true artist is not the slowness or
quickness of the process, but the absolute
success of the result. As with those labourers
in the parable, the prize is independent of the
mere length of the actual day's work. "You
talk," he writes, odd, trying lover, to Madame
X.—
"You talk of the exclusiveness of my literary
tastes. That might have enabled you to divine
what kind of a person I am in the matter of
love. I grow so hard to please as a literary
artist, that I am driven to despair. I shall end
by not writing another line."
"Happy," he cries, in a moment of discourage-
ment at that patient labour, which for him, cer-
tainly, was the condition of a great success —
"Happy those who have no doubts of them-
selves ! who lengthen out, as the pen runs on,
all that flows forth from their brains. As
for me, I hesitate, I disappoint myself, turn
round upon myself in despite: my taste is
augmented in proportion as my natural vigour
decreases, and I afflict my soul over some dubi-
ous word out of all proportion to the pleasure
I get from a whole page of good writing. One
would have to live two centuries to attain a true
idea of any matter whatever. What Buffon
said is a big blasphemy: genius is not long-
continued patience. Still, there is some
truth in the statement, and more than people
think, especially as regards our own day.
Art ! art ! art ! bitter deception ! phantom
that glows with light, only to lead one on to
destruction."
Again —
"I am growing so peevish about my writing.
I am like a man whose ear is true but who plays
falsely on the violin: his fingers refuse to re-
produce precisely those sounds of which he has
the inward sense. Then the tears come rolling
down from the poor scraper's eyes and the
bow falls from his hand."
Coming slowly or quickly, when it comes, as
it came with so much labour of mind, but also
with so much lustre, to Gustave Flaubert,
this discovery of the word will be, like all
artistic success and felicity, incapable of strict
analysis: effect of an intuitive condition of mind,
it must be recognised by like intuition on the
part of the reader, and a sort of immediate
sense. In every one of those masterly sentences
of Flaubert there was, below all mere contriv-
ance, shaping and afterthought, by some
happy instantaneous concourse of the various
faculties of the mind with each other, the exact
apprehension of what was needed to carry the
meaning. And that it fits with absolute justice
will be a judgment of immediate sense in the
appreciative reader. We all feel this in what
may be called inspired translation. Well!
all language involves translation from inward
to outward. In literature, as in all forms of
art, there are the absolute and the merely rel-
ative or accessory beauties; and precisely in
that exact proportion of the term to its purpose
is the absolute beauty of style, prose or verse.
All the good qualities, the beauties, of verse
also, are such, only as precise expression.
In the highest as in the lowliest literature,
then, the one indispensable beauty is, after all,
truth: — truth to bare fact in the latter, as to
some personal sense of fact, diverted somewhat
.from men's ordinary sense of it, in the former;
truth there as accuracy, truth here as expres-
sion, that finest and most intimate form of
truth, the male •verite. And what an eclectic
principle this really is ! employing for its one
sole purpose — that absolute accordance of
expression to idea — all other literary beauties
and excellences whatever: how many kinds of
style it covers, explains, justifies, and at the
same time safeguards! Scott's facility, Flau-
bert's deeply pondered evocation of "the
phrase," are equally good art. • Say what you
have to say, what you have a will to say, in the
simplest, the most direct and exact manner
possible, with no surplusage : — there, is the
justification of the sentence so fortunately
born, "entire, smooth, and round," that it
needs no punctuation, and also (that is the
point !) of the most elaborate period, if it be
right in its elaboration. Here is the office of
ornament: here also the purpose of restraint
in ornament. As the exponent of truth, that
austerity (the beauty, the function, of which in
literature Flaubert understood so well) becomes
STYLE
501
not the correctness or purism of the mere
scholar, but a security against the otiose, a
jealous exclusion of what does not really tell
towards the pursuit of relief, of life and vigour
in the portraiture of one's sense. License again,
the making free with rule, if it be indeed, as
people fancy, a habit of genius, flinging aside
or transforming all that opposes the liberty of
beautiful production, will be but faith to one's
own meaning. The seeming baldness of
Le Rouge et Le Noir is nothing in itself; the
wild ornament of Les Miserables is nothing
in itself; and the restraint of Flaubert, amid a
real natural opulence, only redoubled beauty —
the phrase so large and so precise at the same
time, hard as bronze, in service to the more
perfect adaptation of words to their matter.
Afterthoughts, retouchings, finish, will be of
profit only so far as they too really serve to
bring out the original, initiative, generative,
sense in them.
In this way, according to the well-known
saying, "The style is the man," complex or
simple, in his individuality, his plenary sense of
what he really has to say, his sense of the world ;
all cautions regarding style arising out of so
many natural scruples as to the medium through
which alone he can expose that inward sense of
things, the purity of this medium, its laws or
tricks of refraction: nothing is to be left there
which might give conveyance to any matter
save that. Style in all its varieties, reserved
or opulent, terse, abundant, musical, stimulant,
academic, so long as each is really character-
istic or expressive, finds thus its justification,
the sumptuous good taste of Cicero being as
truly the man himself, and not another, justi-
fied, yet insured inalienably to him, thereby,
as would have been his portrait by Raffaelle,
in full consular splendour, on his ivory
chair.
A relegation, you may say perhaps — a rele-
gation of style to the subjectivity, the mere
caprice, of the individual, which must soon
transform it into mannerism. Not so ! since
there is, under the conditions supposed, for
those elements of the man, for every lineament
of the vision within, the one word, the one
acceptable word, 'recognisable by the sensitive,
by others "who have intelligence" in the
matter, as absolutely as ever anything can be
in the evanescent and delicate region of human
language. The style, the manner, would be the
man, not in his unreasoned and really unchar-
acteristic caprices, involuntary or affected, but
in absolutely sincere apprehension of what
is most real to him. But let us hear our French
guide again. —
"Styles," says Flaubert's commentator,
"Styles, as so many peculiar moulds, each of
which bears the mark of a particular writer,
who is to pour into it the whole content of his
ideas, were no part of his theory. What he
believed in was Style: that is to say, a certain
absolute and unique manner of expressing a
thing, in all its intensity and colour. For him
the form was the work itself. As in living
creatures, the blood, nourishing the body,
determines its very contour and external
aspect, just so, to his mind, the matter, the ba-
sis, in a work of art, imposed, necessarily, the
unique, the just expression, the measure, the
rhythm — the form in all its characteristics."
If the style be the man, in all the colour and
intensity of a veritable apprehension, it will be
in a real sense "impersonal."
I said, thinking of books like Victor Hugo's
Les Miserables, that prose literature was the
characteristic art of the nineteenth century,
as others, thinking of its triumphs since the
youth of Bach, have assigned that place to
music. Music and prose literature are, in one
sense, the opposite terms of art ; the art of lit-
erature presenting to the imagination, through
the intelligence, a range of interests, as free
and various as those which music presents to
it through sense. And certainly the tendency
of what has been here said is to bring literature
too under those conditions, by conformity to
which music takes rank as the typically perfect
art. If music be the ideal of all art whatever,
precisely because in music it is impossible to
distinguish the form from the substance or
matter, the subject from the expression, then,
literature, by finding its- specific excellence in
the absolute correspondence of the term to its
import, will be but fulfilling the condition of
all artistic quality in things everywhere, of all
good art.
Good art, but not necessarily great art ; the
distinction between great art and good art
depending immediately, as regards literature at
all events, not on its form, but on the matter.
Thackeray's Esmond, surely, is greater art
than Vanity Fair, bv the greater dignity of its
interests. It is on the quality of the matter
it informs or controls, its compass, its variety,
its alliance to great ends, or the depth of the
note of revolt, or the largeness of hope in it,
that the greatness of literary art depends, as
The Divine Comedy, Paradise Lost, Les Mise-
rables, The English Bible, are great art. Given
502
WALTER PATER
the conditions I have tried to explain as con-
stituting good art ; — then, if it be devoted
further to the increase of men's happiness, to
the redemption of the oppressed, or the en-
largement of our sympathies with each other,
or to such presentment of new or old truth
about ourselves and our relation to the world
as may ennoble and fortify us in our sojourn
here, or immediately, as with Dante, to the
glory of God, it will be also great art ; if, over
and above those qualities I summed up as
mind and soul — that colour and mystic per-
fume, and that reasonable structure, it has
something of the soul of humanity in it, and
finds its logical, its architectural place, in the
great structure of human life.
THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE
As Florian Deleal walked, one hot after-
noon, he overtook by the wayside a poor aged
man, and, as he seemed weary with the road,
helped him on with the burden which he
carried, a certain distance. And as the man
told his story, it chanced that he named the
place, a little place in the neighbourhood of a
great city, where Florian had passed his earliest
years, but which he had never since seen, and,
the story told, went forward on his journey
comforted. And that night, like a reward for
his pity, a dream of that place came to Florian,
a dream which did for him the office of the
finer sort of memory, bringing its object to
mind with a great clearness, yet, as sometimes
happens in dreams, raised a little above itself,
and above ordinary retrospect. The true as-
pect of the place, especially of the house there
in which he had lived as a child, the fashion
of its doors, its hearths, its windows, the very
scent upon the air of it, was with him in sleep
for a season; only, with tints more musically
blent on wall and floor, and some finer light
and shadow running in and out along its
curves and angles, and with all its little carv-
ings daintier. He awoke with a sigh at the
thought of almost thirty years which lay be-
tween him and that place, yet with a flutter
of pleasure still within him at the fair light, as
if it were a smile, upon it. And it happened
that this accident of his dream was just the
thing needed for the beginning of a certain
design he then had in view, the noting, namely,
of some things in the story of his spirit — in
that process of brain -building by which we
are, each one of us, what we are. With the
image of the place so clear and favourable
upon him, he fell to thinking of himself therein,
and how his thoughts had grown up to him.
In that half-spiritualised house he could
watch the better, over again, the gradual
expansion of the soul which had come to be
there — of which indeed, through the law
which makes the material objects about them
so large an element in children's lives, it had
actually become a part; inward and outward
being woven through and through each other
into one inextricable texture — half, tint and
trace and accident of homely colour and form,
from the wood and the bricks; half, mere
soul-stuff, floated thither from who knows how
far. In the house and garden of his dream
he saw a child moving, and could divide the
main streams at least of the winds that had
played on him, and study so the first stage in
that mental journey.
The old house, as when Florian talked of it
afterwards he always called it (as all children
do, who can recollect a change of home, soon
enough but not too soon to mark a period in
their lives), really was an old house; and an
element of French descent in its inmates —
descent from Watteau, the old court-painter,
one of whose gallant pieces still hung in one
of the rooms — might explain, together with
some other things, a noticeable trimness and
comely whiteness about everything there — the
curtains, the couches, the paint on the walls
with which the light and shadow played so
delicately; might explain also the tolerance of
the great poplar in the garden, a tree most
often despised by English people, but which
French people love, having observed a certain
fresh way its leaves have of dealing with the
wind, making it sound, in never so slight a
stirring of the air, like running water.
The old-fashioned, low wainscoting went
round the rdoms, and up the staircase with
carved balusters and shadowy angles, landing
half-way up at a broad window, with a swallow's
nest below the sill, and the blossom of an old
pear-tree showing across it in late April, against
the blue, below which the perfumed juice of
the find of fallen fruit in autumn was so fresh.
At the next turning came the closet which
held on its deep shelves the best china. Little
angel faces and reedy flutings stood out round
the fireplace of the children's room. And on
the top of the house, above the large attic,
where the white mice ran in the twilight — an
infinite, unexplored wonderland of childish
treasures, glass beads, empty scent-bottles still
sweet, thrums of coloured silks, among its
THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE
503
•umber — a flat space of roof, railed round,
gave a view of the neighbouring steeples; for
the house, as I said, stood near a great city,
which sent up heavenwards, over the twisting
weather-vanes, not seldom, its beds of rolling
cloud and smoke, touched with storm or sun-
shine. But the child of whom I am writing
did not hate the fog because of the crimson
lights which fell from it sometimes upon the
chimneys, and the whites which gleamed
through its openings, on summer mornings,
on turret or pavement. For it is false to
suppose that a child's sense of beauty is de-
pendent on any choiceness or special fineness,
in the objects which present themselves to it,
though this indeed comes to be the rule with
most of us in later life; earlier, in some de-
gree, we see inwardly; and the child finds
for itself, and with unstinted delight, a differ-
ence for the sense, in those whites and reds
through the smoke on very homely buildings,
and in the gold of the dandelions at the road-
side, just beyond the houses, where not a
handful of earth is virgin and untouched, in
the lack of better ministries to its desire of
beauty.
This house then stood not far beyond the
gloom and rumours of the town, among high
garden -walls, bright all summer-time with
Golden-rod, and brown-and-golden Wall-
flower — Flos Parietis, as the children's Latin-
reading father taught them to call it, while he
was with them. Tracing back the threads of
his complex spiritual habit, as he was used in
after years to do, Florian found that he owed
to the place many tones of sentiment after-
wards customary with him, certain inward
lights under which things most naturally pre-
sented themselves to him. The coming and
going of travellers to the town along the way,
the shadow of the streets, the sudden breath
of the neighbouring gardens, the singular
brightness of bright weather there, its singu-
lar darknesses which linked themselves in his
mind to certain engraved illustrations in the
old big Bible at home, the coolness of the
dark, cavernous shops round the great church,
with its giddy winding stair up to the pigeons
and the bells — a citadel of peace in the heart
of the trouble — all this acted on his childish
fancy, so that ever afterwards the like aspects
and incidents never failed1 to throw him into
a well -recognised imaginative mood, seeming
actually to have become a part of the texture
of his mind. Also, Florian could trace home
to this point a pervading preference in him-
self for a kind of comeliness and dignity, an
urbanity literally, in modes of life, which he
connected with the pale people of towns, and
which made him susceptible to a kind of ex-
quisite satisfaction in the trimness and well-
considered grace of certain things and per-
sons he afterwards met with, here and there,
in his way through the world.
So the child of whom I am writing lived on
there quietly; things without thus ministering
to him, as he sat daily at the window with
the birdcage hanging below it, and his mother
taught him to read, wondering at the ease
with which he learned, and at the quickness
of his memory. The perfume of the little
flowers of the lime-tree fell through the air
upon them like rain; while time seemed to
move ever more slowly to the murmur of the
bees in it, till it almost stood still on June
afternoons. How insignificant, at the moment,
seem the influences of the sensible things which
are tossed and fall and lie about us, so, or so,
in the environment of early childhood. How
indelibly, as we afterwards discover, they
affect us; with what capricious attractions
and associations they figure themselves on the
white paper, the smooth wax, of our ingenuous
souls, as "with lead in the rock forever," giv-
ing form and feature, and as it were assigned
house-room in our memory, to early experi-
ences of feeling and thought, which abide with
us ever afterwards, thus, and not otherwise.
The realities and passions, the rumours of the
greater world without, steal in upon us, each
by its own special little passage-way, through
the wall of custom about us; and never after-
wards quite detach themselves from this or
that accident, or trick, in the mode of their
first entrance to us. Our susceptibilities, the
discovery of our powers, manifold experiences
— our various experiences of the coming and
going of bodily pain, for instance — belong to
this or the other well-remembered place in the
material habitation — that little white room
with the window across which the heavy
blossoms could beat so peevishly in the wind,
with just that particular catch or throb, such
a sense of teasing in it, on gusty mornings;
and the early habitation thus gradually be-
comes a sort of material shrine or sanctuary
of sentiment; a system of visible symbolism
interweaves itself through all our thoughts and
passions; and irresistibly, little shapes, voices,
accidents — the angle at which the sun in the
morning fell on the pillow — become parts of
the great chain wherewith we are bound.
5°4
WALTER PATER
Thus far, for Florian, what all this had
determined was a peculiarly strong sense of
home — so forcible a motive with all of us —
prompting to us our customary love of the
earth, and the larger part of our fear of death,
that revulsion we have from it, as from some-
thing strange, untried, unfriendly; though
lifelong imprisonment, they tell you, and final
banishment from home is a thing bitterer still ;
the looking forward to but a short space, a
mere childish gotiter and dessert of it, before
the end, being so great a resource of effort
to pilgrims and wayfarers, and the soldier in
distant quarters, and lending, in lack of that,
some power of solace to the thought of sleep
in the home churchyard, at least — dead
cheek by dead cheek, and with the rain soak-
ing in upon one from above.
So powerful is this instinct, and yet acci-
dents like those I have been speaking of so
mechanically determine it; its essence being
indeed the early familiar, as constituting our
ideal, or typical conception, of rest and security.
Out of so many possible conditions, just this
for you and that for me, brings ever the un-
mistakable realisation of the delightful chez
soi; this for the Englishman, for me and you,
with the closely-drawn white curtain and the
shaded lamp; that, quite other, for the wan-
dering Arab, who folds his tent every morning,
and makes his sleeping-place among haunted
ruins, or in old tombs.
With Florian then the sense of home be-
came singularly intense, his good fortune being
that the special character of his home was in
itself so essentially home-like. As after many
wanderings I have come to fancy that some
parts of Surrey and Kent are, for Englishmen,
the true landscape, true home-countries, by
right, partly, of a certain earthy warmth in the
yellow of the sand below their gorse-bushes,
and of a certain gray-blue mist after rain, in
the hollows of the hills there, welcome to
fatigued eyes, and never seen farther south;
so I think that the sort of house I have de-
scribed, with precisely those proportions of
red-brick and green, and with a just per-
ceptible monotony in the subdued order of it,
for its distinguishing note, is for Englishmen
at least typically home-like. And so for
Florian that general human instinct was rein-
forced by this special home-likeness in the
place his wandering soul had happened to
light on, as, in the second degree, its body
and earthly tabernacle; the sense of harmony
between his soul and its physical environment
became, for a time at least, like perfectly
played music, and the life led there singularly
tranquil and filled with a curious sense of
self-possession. The love of security, of an"
habitually undisputed standing -ground or sleep-
ing-place, came to count for much in the
generation and correcting of his thoughts, and
afterwards as a salutary principle of restraint
in all his wanderings of spirit. The wistful
yearning towards home, in absence from it,
as the shadows of evening deepened, and he
followed in thought what was doing there
from hour to hour, interpreted to him much
of a yearning and regret he experienced af-
terwards, towards he knew not what, out of
strange ways of feeling and thought in which,
from time to time, his spirit found itself alone ;
and in the tears shed in such absences there
seemed always to be some soul-subduing fore-
taste of what his last tears might be.
And the sense of security could hardly have
been deeper, the quiet of the child's soul being
one with the quiet of its home, a place "en-
closed" and "sealed." But upon this assured
place, upon the child's assured soul which
resembled it, there came floating in from the
larger world without, as at windows left ajar
unknowingly, or over the high garden walls,
two streams of impressions, the sentiments of
beauty and pain — recognitions of the visible,
tangible, audible loveliness of things, as a very
real and somewhat tyrannous element in them
— and of the sorrow of the world, of grown
people and children and animals, as a thing
not to be put by in them. From this point
he could trace two predominant processes of
mental change in him — the growth of an
almost diseased sensibility to the spectacle of
suffering, and, parallel with this, the rapid
growth of a certain capacity of fascination by
bright colour and choice form — the sweet
curvings, for instance, of the lips of those
who seemed to him comely persons, modu-
lated in such delicate unison to the things
they said or sang, — marking early the activity
in him of a more than customary sensuousness,
"the lust of the eye," as the Preacher says,
which might lead him, one day, how far!
Could he have foreseen the weariness of the
way! In music sometimes the two sorts of
impressions came together, and he would
weep, to the surprise of older people. Tears
of joy too the child knew, also to older people's
surprise; real tears, once, of relief from long-
strung, childish expectation, when he found
returned at evening, with new roses in her
THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE
505
cheeks, the little sister who had been to a
place where there was a wood, and brought
back for him a treasure of fallen acorns, and
black crow's feathers, and his peace at find-
ing her again near him mingled all night with
some intimate sense of the distant forest, the
rumour of its breezes, with the glossy black-
birds aslant and the branches lifted in them,
and of the perfect nicety of the little cups
that fell. So those two elementary appre-
hensions of the tenderness and of the colour
in things grew apace in him, and were seen
by him afterwards to send their roots back
into the beginnings of life.
Let me note first some of the occasions of
his recognition of the element of pain in
things — incidents, now and again, which
seemed suddenly to awake in him the whole
force of that sentiment which Goethe has
called the Weltschmerz, and in which the con-
centrated sorrow of the world seemed suddenly
to lie heavy upon him. A book lay in an old
book-case, of which he cared to remember one
picture — a woman sitting, with hands bound
behind her, the dress, the cap, the hair, folded
with a simplicity which touched him strangely,
as if not by her own hands, but with some
ambiguous care at the hands of others —
Queen Marie Antoinette, on her way to exe-
cution — we all remember David's drawing,
meant merely to make her ridiculous. The
face that had been so high had learned to be
mute and resistless; but out of its very resist -
lessness, seemed now to call on men to have
pity, and forbear; and he took note of that,
as he closed the book, as a thing to look at
again, if he should at any time find himself
tempted to be cruel. Again he would never
quite forget the appeal in the small sister's
face, in the garden under the lilacs, terrified at
a spider lighted on her sleeve. He could trace
back to the look then noted a certain mercy
conceived always for people in fear, even
of little things, which seemed to make him,
though but for a moment, capable of almost
any sacrifice of himself. Impressible, sus-
ceptible persons, indeed, who had had their
sorrows, lived about him; and this sensibility
was due in part to the tacit influence of their
presence, enforcing upon him habitually the
fact that there are those who pass their days,
as a matter of course, in a sort of "going
quietly." Most poignantly of all he could re-
call, in unfading minutest circumstance, the
cry on the stair, sounding bitterly through the
house, and struck into his soul forever, of an
aged woman, his father's sister, come now to
announce his death in distant India; how it
seemed to make the aged woman like a child
again; and, he knew not why, but this fancy
was full of pity to him. There were the little
sorrows of the dumb animals too — of the
white angora, with a dark tail like an ermine's,
and a face like a flower, who fell into a linger-
ing sickness, and became quite delicately hu-
man in its valetudinarianism, and came to
have a hundred different expressions of voice
— how it grew worse and worse, till it began
to feel the light too much for it, and at last,
after one wild morning of pain, the little soul
flickered away from the body, quite worn to
death already, and now but feebly retaining it.
So he wanted another pet; and as there
were starlings about the place, which could be
taught to speak, one of them was caught, and
he meant to treat it kindly; but in the night
its young ones could be heard crying after
it, and the responsive cry of the mother-bird
towards them; and at last, with the first
light, though not till after some debate with
himself, he went down and opened the cage,
and saw a sharp bound of the prisoner up to
her nestlings ; and therewith came the sense of
remorse, — that he too was become an accom-
plice in moving, to the limit of his small power,
the springs and handles of that great machine
in things, constructed so ingeniously to play
pain -fugues on the delicate nerve-work of
living creatures.
I have remarked how, in the process of our
brain-building, as the house of thought in
which we live gets itself together, like some
airy bird's-nest of floating thistle-down and
chance straws, compact at last, little accidents
have their consequence; and thus it happened
that, as he walked one evening, a garden gate,
usually closed, stood open ; and lo ! within, a
great red hawthorn in full flower, embossing
heavily the bleached and twisted trunk and
branches, so aged that there were but few
green leaves thereon — a plumage of tender,
crimson fire out of the heart of the dry wood.
The perfume of the tree had now and again
reached him, in the currents of the wind, over
the wall, and he had wondered what might be
behind it, and was now allowed to fill his arms
with the flowers — flowers enough for all the
old blue-china pots along the chimney-piece,
making fete in the children's room. Was it
some periodic moment in the expansion of soul
within him, or mere trick of heat in the heavily-
laden summer air? But the beauty of the
506
thing struck home to him feverishly; and in
dreams all night he loitered along a magic
roadway of crimson flowers, which seemed to
open ruddily in thick, fresh masses about his
feet, and fill softly all the little hollows in the
banks on either side. Always afterwards,
summer by summer, as the flowers came on,
the blossom of the red hawthorn still seemed
to him absolutely the reddest of all things;
and the goodly crimson, still alive in the works
of old Venetian masters or old Flemish tapes-
tries, called out always from afar the recollec-
tion of the flame in those perishing little petals,
as it pulsed gradually out of them, kept long
in the drawers of an old cabinet. Also then,
for the first time, he seemed to experience a
passionateness in his relation to fair outward
objects, an inexplicable excitement in their
presence, which disturbed him, and from which
he half longed to be free. A touch of regret
or desire mingled all night with the remem-
bered presence of the red flowers, and their
perfume in the darkness about him; and the
longing for some undivined, entire possession
of them was the beginning of a revelation to
him, growing ever clearer, with the coming of
the gracious summer guise of fields and trees
and persons in each succeeding year, of a cer-
tain, at times seemingly exclusive, predominance
in his interests, of beautiful physical things, a
kind of tyranny of the senses over him.
In later years he came upon philosophies
which occupied him much in the estimate of
the proportion of the sensuous and the ideal
elements in human knowledge, the relative
parts they bear in it; and, in his intellectual
scheme, was led to assign very little to the
abstract thought, and much to its sensible
vehicle or occasion. Such metaphysical specu-
lation did but reinforce what was instinctive
in his way of receiving the world, and for him,
everywhere, that sensible vehicle or occasion
became, perhaps only too surely, the necessary
concomitant of any perception of things, real
enough to be of any weight or reckoning, in
his house of thought. There were times when
he could think of the necessity he was under
of associating all thoughts to touch and sight,
as a sympathetic link between himself and
actual, feeling, living objects; a protest in
favour of real men and women against mere
gray, unreal abstractions; and he remembered
gratefully how the Christian religion, hardly
less than the religion of the ancient Greeks,
translating so much of its spiritual verity into
things that may be seen, condescends in part
to sanction this infirmity, if so it be, of our
human existence, wherein the world of sense
is so much with us, and welcomed this thought
as a kind of keeper and sentinel over his soul
therein. But certainly, he came more and
more to be unable to care for, or think of
soul but as in an actual body, or of any world
but that wherein are water and trees, and
where men and women look, so or so, and
press actual hands. It was the trick even
his pity learned, fastening those who suffered
in anywise to his affections by a kind of sensible
attachments. He would think of Julian, fallen
into incurable sickness, as spoiled in the sweet
blossom of his skin like pale amber, and his
honey-like hair; of Cecil, early dead, as cut
off from the lilies, from golden summer days,
from women's voices; and then what com-
forted him a little was the thought of the turn-
ing of the child's flesh to violets in the turf
above him. And thinking of the very poor,
it was not the things which most men care
most for that he yearned to give them; but
fairer roses, perhaps, and power to taste quite
as they will, at their ease and not task -burdened,
a certain desirable, clear light in the new
morning, through which sometimes he had
noticed them, quite unconscious of it, on their
way to their early toil.
So he yielded himself to these things, to be
played upon by them like a musical instru-
ment, and began to note with deepening watch-
fulness, but always with some puzzled, un-
' utterable longing in his enjoyment, the phases
of the seasons and of the growing or waning
day, down even to the shadowy changes wrought
on bare wall or ceiling — the light cast up
from the snow, bringing out their darkest
angles; the brown light in the cloud, which
meant rain; that almost too austere clearness,
in the protracted light of the lengthening day,
before warm weather began, as if it lingered
but to make a severer workday, with the
school-books opened earlier and later; that
beam of June sunshine, at last, as he lay
awake before the time, a way of gold-dust
across the darkness; all the humming, the
freshness, the perfume of the garden seemed
to lie upon it • — and coming in one afternoon
in September, along the red gravel walk, to
look for a basket of yellow crab-apples left in
the cool, old parlour, he remembered it the
more, and how the colours struck upon him,
because a wasp on one bitten apple stung
him, and he felt the passion of sudden, se-
vere pain. For this too brought its curious
THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE
507
reflections; and, in relief from it, he would
wonder over it — how it had then been with
him — puzzled at the depth of the charm or
spell over him, which lay, for a little while
at least, in the mere absence of pain; once,
especially, when an older boy taught him to
make flowers of sealing-wax, and he had burnt
his hand badly at the lighted taper, and been
unable to sleep. He remembered that also
afterwards, as a sort of typical thing — a white
vision of heat about him, clinging closely,
through the languid scent of the ointments
put upon the place to- make it well.
Also, as he felt this pressure upon him of
the sensible world, then, as often afterwards,
there would come another sort of curious
questioning how the last impressions of eye
and ear might happen to him, how they would
find him — the scent of the last flower, the
soft yellowness of the last morning, the last
recognition of some object of affection, hand
or voice; it could not be but that the latest
look of the eyes, before their final closing,
would be strangely vivid; one would go with
the hot tears, the cry, the touch of the wistful
bystander, impressed how deeply on one ! or
would it be, perhaps, a mere frail retiring of
all things, great or little, away from one, into
a level distance?
For with this desire of physical beauty
mingled itself early the fear of death — the
fear of death intensified by the desire of beauty.
Hitherto he had never gazed upon dead faces,
as sometimes, afterwards, at the Morgue in
Paris, or in that fair cemetery at Munich,
where all the dead must go and lie in state
before burial, behind glass windows, among
the flowers and incense and holy candles —
the aged clergy with their sacred ornaments,
the young men in their dancing-shoes and
spotless white linen — after which visits, those
waxen, resistless faces would always live with
him for many days, making the broadest sun-
shine sickly. The child had heard indeed of
the death of his father, and how, in the Indian
station, a fever had taken him, so that though
not in action he had yet died as a soldier;
and hearing of the "resurrection of the just,"
he could think of him as still abroad in the
world, somehow, for his protection — a grand,
though perhaps rather terrible figure, in beauti-
ful soldier's things, like the figure in the picture
of Joshua's Vision in the Bible — and of that,
round which the mourners moved so softly,
and afterwards with such solemn singing, as
but a worn-out garment left at a deserted
lodging. So it was, until on a summer day
he walked with his mother through a fair
churchyard. In a bright dress he rambled
among the graves, in the gay weather, and so
came, in one corner, upon an open grave for
a child — a dark space on the brilliant grass
— the black mould lying heaped up round it,
weighing down the little jewelled branches of
the dwarf rose-bushes in flower. And there-
with came, full-grown, never wholly to leave
him, with the certainty that even children do
sometimes die, the physical horror of death,
with its wholly selfish recoil from the associa-
tion of lower forms of life, and the suffocating
weight above. No benign, grave figure in
beautiful soldier's things any longer abroad in
the world for his protection ! only a few poor,
piteous bones; and above them, possibly, a
certain sort of figure he hoped not to see.
For sitting one day in the garden below an
open window, he heard people talking, and
could not but listen, how, in a sleepless hour,
a sick woman had seen one of the dead sitting
beside her, come to call her hence; and from
the broken talk evolved with much clearness
the notion that not all those dead people had
really departed to the churchyard, nor were
quite so motionless as they looked, but led a
secret, half-fugitive life in their old homes,
quite free by night, though sometimes visible
in the day, dodging from room to room, with
no great goodwill towards those who shared
the place with them. All night the figure sat
beside him in the reveries of his broken sleep,
and was not quite gone in the morning — an
odd, irreconcilable new member of the house-
hold, making the sweet familiar chambers un-
friendly and suspect by its uncertain presence.
He could have hated the dead he had pitied
so, for being thus. Afterwards he came to
think of those poor, home-returning ghosts,
which all men have fancied to themselves —
the revenants — pathetically, as crying, or
beating with vain hands at the doors, as the
wind came, their cries distinguishable in it as
a wilder inner note. But, always making
death more unfamiliar still, that old experi-
ence would ever, from time to time, return to
him; even in the living he sometimes caught
its likeness; at any time or place, in a moment,
the faint atmosphere of the chamber of death
would be breathed around him, and the image
with the bound chin, the quaint smile, the
straight, stiff feet, shed itself across the air
upon the bright carpet, amid the gayest com-
pany, or happiest communing with himself.
5o8
WALTER PATER
To most children the sombre questionings
to which impressions like these attach them-
selves, if they come at all, are actually sug-
gested by religious books, which therefore they
often regard with much secret distaste, and
dismiss, as far as possible, from their habitual
thoughts as a too depressing element in life.
To Florian such impressions, these misgivings
as to the ultimate tendency of the years, of the
relationship between life and death, had been
suggested spontaneously in the natural course
of his mental growth by a strong innate sense
for the soberer tones in things, further strength-
ened by actual circumstances; and religious
sentiment, that system of biblical ideas in
which he had been brought up, presented itself
to him as a thing that might soften and dignify,
and light up as with a "lively hope," a melan-
choly already deeply settled in him. So he
yielded himself easily to religious impressions,
and with a kind of mystical appetite for sacred
things; the more as they came to him through
a saintly person who loved him tenderly, and
believed that this early pre-occupation with
them already marked the child out for a saint.
He began to love, for their own sakes, church
lights, holy days, all that belonged to the
comely order of the sanctuary, the secrets of
its white linen, and holy vessels, and fonts of
pure water; and its hieratic purity and sim-
plicity became the type of something he
desired always to have about him in actual
life. He pored over the pictures in religious
books, and knew by heart the exact mode in
which the wrestling angel grasped Jacob, how
Jacob looked in his mysterious sleep, how the
bells and pomegranates were attached to the
hem of Aaron's vestment, sounding sweetly as
he glided over the turf of the holy place. His
way of conceiving religion came then to be in
effect what it ever afterwards remained — a
sacred history indeed, but still more a sacred
ideal, a transcendent version or representation,
under intenser and more expressive light and
shade, of human life and its familiar or excep-
tional incidents, birth, death, marriage, youth,
age, tears, joy, rest, sleep, waking — a mirror,
towards which men might turn away their
eyes from vanity and dulness, and see them-
selves therein as angels, with their daily meat
and drink, even, become a kind of sacred
transaction — a complementary strain or bur-
den, applied to our everyday existence, whereby
the stray snatches of music in it reset them-
selves, and fall into the scheme of some
higher and more consistent harmony. A place
adumbrated itself in his thoughts, wherein
those sacred personalities, which are at once
the reflex and the pattern of our nobler phases
of life, housed themselves; and this region in
his intellectual scheme all subsequent experi-
ence did but tend still further to realise and
define. Some ideal, hieratic persons he would
always need to occupy it and keep a warmth
there. And he could hardly understand those
who felt no such need at all, finding themselves
quite happy without such heavenly companion-
ship, and sacred double of their life, beside
them.
Thus a constant substitution of the typical
for the actual took place in his thoughts.
Angels might be met by the way, under
English elm or beech-tree; mere messengers
seemed like angels, bound on celestial errands;
a deep mysticity brooded over real meetings
and partings ; marriages were made in heaven ;
and deaths also, with hands of angels there-
upon, to bear soul and body quietly asunder,
each to its appointed rest. All the acts and
accidents of daily life borrowed a sacred
colour and significance; the very colours of
things became themselves weighty with mean-
ings like the sacred stuffs of Moses' tabernacle,
full of penitence or peace. Sentiment, con-
gruous in the first instance only with those
divine transactions, the deep, effusive unction
of the House of Bethany, was assumed as the
due attitude for the reception of our every-
day existence; and for a time he walked
through the world in a sustained, not un-
pleasurable awe, generated by the habitual
recognition, beside every circumstance and
event of life, of its celestial correspondent.
Sensibility — the desire of physical beauty —
a strange biblical awe, which made any refer-
ence to the unseen act on him like solemn
music — these qualities the child took away
with him, when, at about the age of twelve
years, he left the old house, and was taken
to live in another place. He had never left
home before, and, anticipating much from
this change, had long dreamed over it, jealously
counting the days till the time fixed for de-
parture should come; had been a little careless
about others even, in his strong desire for it
— when Lewis fell sick, for instance, and they
must wait still two days longer. At last the
morning came, very fine ; and all things —
the very pavement with its dust, at the road-
side — seemed to have a white, pearl-like
lustre in them. They were to travel by a
favourite road on which he had often walked
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
509
a certain distance, and on one of those two
prisoner days, when Lewis was sick, had
walked farther than ever before, in his great
desire to reach the new place. They had
started and gone a little way when a pet bird
was found to have been left behind, and must
even now — so it presented itself to him —
have already all the appealing fierceness and
wild self-pity at heart of one left by others to
perish of hunger in a closed house; and he
returned to fetch it, himself in hardly less
stormy distress. But as he passed in search
of it from room to room, lying so pale, with a
look of meekness in their denudation, and at
last through that little, stripped white room,
the aspect of the place touched him like the
face of one dead; and a clinging back towards
it came over him, so intense that he knew it
would last long, and spoiling all his pleasure
in the realisation of a thing so eagerly antici-
pated. And so, with the bird found, but him-
self in an agony of home-sickness, thus capri-
ciously sprung up within him, he was driven
quickly away, far into the rural distance, so
fondly speculated on, of that favourite country-
road.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
(1850-1894)
FRANCOIS VILLON, STUDENT, POET,
AND HOUSEBREAKER
Perhaps one of the most curious revolutions
in literary history is the sudden bull's-eye light
cast by M. Longnon on the obscure existence
of Francois Villon. His book is not remark-
able merely as a chapter of biography exhumed
after four centuries. To readers of the poet it
will recall, with a flavour of satire, that char-
acteristic passage in which he bequeaths his
spectacles — with a humorous reservation of
the case — to the hospital for blind paupers
known as the Fifteen-Score. Thus equipped,
let the blind paupers go and separate the good
from the bad in the cemetery of the Innocents !
For his own part the poet can see no distinc-
tion. Much have the dead people made of
their advantages. What does it matter now
that they have lain in state beds and nourished
portly bodies upon cakes and cream ! Here
they all lie, to be trodden in the mud ; the large
estate and the small, sounding virtue and
adroit or powerful vice, in very much the
same condition; and a bishop not to be dis-
tinguished from a lamplighter with even the
strongest spectacles.
Such was Villon's cynical philosophy. Four
hundred years after his death, when surely all
danger might be considered at an end, a pair
of critical spectacles have been applied to his
own remains; and though he left behind him
a sufficiently ragged reputation from the first,
it is only after these four hundred years that
his delinquencies have been finally tracked
home, and we can assign him to his proper
place among the good or wicked. It is a
staggering thought, and one that affords a fine
figure of the imperishability of men's acts, that
the stealth of the private inquiry office can be
carried so far back into the dead and dusty
past. We are not so soon quit of our con-
cerns as Villon fancied. In the extreme of
dissolution, when not so much as a man's
name is remembered, when his dust is scattered
to the four winds, and perhaps the very grave
and the very graveyard where he was laid to
rest have been forgotten, desecrated, and buried
under populous towns, — even in this extreme
let an antiquary fall across a sheet of manu-
script, and the name will be recalled, the old
infamy will pop out into daylight like a toad
out of a fissure in the rock, and the shadow
of the shade of what was once a man will be
heartily pilloried by his descendants. A little
while ago and Villon was almost totally for-
gotten; then he was revived for the sake of
his verses; and now he is being revived with a
vengeance in the detection of his misdemeanours.
How unsubstantial is this projection of a man's
existence, which can lie in abeyance for cen-
turies and then be brushed up again and set
forth for the consideration of posterity by a
few dips in an antiquary's inkpot ! This pre-
carious tenure of fame goes a long way to
justify those (and they are not few) who prefer
cakes and cream in the immediate present.
A WILD YOUTH
Francois de Montcorbier, alias Francois des
Loges, alias Francois Villon, alias Michel
Mouton, Master of Arts in the University of
Paris, was born in that city in the summer of
1431. It was a memorable year for France
on other and higher considerations. A great-
hearted girl and a poor-hearted boy made,
the one her last, the other his first appearance
on the public stage of that unhappy country.
On the 3oth of May the ashes of Joan of Arc
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
were thrown into the Seine, and on the 2d of
December our Henry Sixth made his Joyous
Entry dismally enough into disaffected and
depopulating Paris. Sword and fire still
ravaged the open country. On a single April
Saturday twelve hundred persons, besides
children, made their escape out of the starv-
ing capital. The hangman, as is not unin-
teresting to note in connection with Master
Francis, was kept hard at work in 1431; on
the last of April and on the 4th of May alone,
sixty-two bandits swung from Paris gibbets.
A more confused or troublous time it would
have been difficult to select for a start in life.
Not even a man's nationality was certain; for
the people of Paris there was no such thing
as a Frenchman. The English were the Eng-
lish indeed, but the French were only the
Armagnacs, whom, with Joan of Arc at their
head, they had beaten back from under their
ramparts not two years before. Such public
sentiment as they had centred about their dear
Duke of Burgundy, and the dear Duke had
no more urgent business than to keep out
of their neighbourhood. ... At least, and
whether he liked it or not, our disreputable
troubadour was tubbed and swaddled as a sub-
ject of the English crown.
We hear nothing of Villon's father except
that he was poor and of mean extraction. His
mother was given piously, which does not
imply very much in an old Frenchwoman,
and quite uneducated. He had an uncle, a
monk in an abbey at Angers, who must have
prospered beyond the family average, and was
reported to be worth five or six hundred
crowns. Of this uncle and his money-box
the reader will hear once more. In 1448
Francis became a student of the University of
Paris; in 1450 he took the degree of Bachelor,
and in 1452 that of Master of Arts. His
bourse, or the sum paid weekly for his board,
was of the amount of two sous. Now two
sous was about the price of a pound of salt
butter in the bad times of 1417; it was the
price of half-a-pound in the worse times of
1419; and in 1444, just four years before Vil-
lon joined the University, it seems to have been
taken as the average wage for a day's manual
labour. In short, it cannot have been a very
profuse allowance to keep a sharp-set lad in
breakfast and supper for seven mortal days;
and Villon's share of the cakes and pastry
and general good cheer, to which he is never
weary of referring, must have been slender
from the first.
The educational arrangements of the Uni-
versity of Paris were, to our way of thinking,
somewhat incomplete. Worldly and monkish
elements were presented in a curious confusion,
which the youth might disentangle for him-
self. If he had an opportunity, on the one
hand, of acquiring much hair -drawn divinity
and a taste for formal disputation, he was put
in the way of much gross and flaunting vice
upon the other. The lecture room of a
scholastic doctor was sometimes under the
same roof with establishments of a very dif-
ferent and peculiarly unedifying order. The
students had extraordinary privileges, which
by all accounts they abused extraordinarily.
And while some condemned themselves to an
almost sepulchral regularity and seclusion,
others fled the schools, swaggered in the street
"with their thumbs in their girdle," passed
the night in riot, and behaved themselves as
the worthy forerunners of Jehan Frollo in the
romance of Notre Dame de Paris. Villon tells
us himself that he was among the truants,
but we hardly needed his avowal. The bur-
lesque erudition in which he sometimes in-
dulged implies no more than the merest
smattering of knowledge; whereas his ac-
quaintance with blackguard haunts and in-
dustries could only have been acquired by early
and consistent impiety and idleness. He
passed his degrees, it is true; but some of
us who have been to modern universities will
make their own reflections on the value of the
test. As for his three pupils, Colin Laurent,
Girard Gossouyn, and Jehan Marceau — if
they were really his pupils in any serious
sense — what can we say but God help them !
And sure enough, by his own description,
they turned out as ragged, rowdy, and ignorant
as was to be looked for from the views and
manners of their rare preceptor.
At some time or other, before or during his
university career, the poet was adopted by
Master Guillaume de Villon, chaplain of Saint
Benoit-le-Be*tourne near the Sorbonne. From
him he borrowed the surname by which he is
known to posterity. It was most likely from
his house, called the Porte Rouge, and situated
in a garden in the cloister of Saint Benoit,
that Master Francis heard the bell of the Sor-
bonne ring out the Angelus while he was fin-
ishing his Small Testament at Christmastide
in 1446. Toward this benefactor he usually
gets credit for a respectable display of grati-
tude. But with his trap and pitfall style of
writing, it is easy to make too sure. His
FRANCOIS VILLON
sentiments are about as much to be relied on
as those of a professional beggar; and in this,
as in so many other matters, he comes toward
us whining and piping the eye, and goes off
again with a whoop and his finger to his nose.
Thus, he calls Guillaume de Villon his "more
than father," thanks him with a great show of
sincerity for having helped him out of many
scrapes, and bequeaths him his portion of
renown. But the portion of renown which
belonged to a young thief, distinguished (if, at
the period when he wrote this legacy, he was
distinguished at all) for having written some
more or less obscene and scurrilous ballads,
must have been little fitted to gratify the self-
respect or increase the reputation of a benevo-
lent ecclesiastic. The same remark applies to
a subsequent legacy of the poet's library, with
specification of one work which was plainly
neither decent nor devout. We are thus left
on the horns of a dilemma. If the chaplain
was a godly, philanthropic personage, who had
tried to graft good principles and good be-
haviour on this wild slip of an adopted son,
these jesting legacies would obviously cut him
to the heart. The position of an adopted son
toward his adoptive father is one full of delicacy;
where a man lends his name he looks for great
consideration. And this legacy of Villon's
portion of renown may be taken as the mere
fling of an unregenerate scapegrace who has
wit enough to recognise in his own shame the
readiest weapon of offence against a prosy
benefactor's feelings. The gratitude of Master
Francis figures, on this reading, as a frightful
minus quantity. If, on the other hand, those
jests were given and taken in good humour,
the whole relation between the pair degenerates
into the unedifying complicity of a debauched
old chaplain and a witty and dissolute young
scholar. At this rate the house with the red
door may have rung with the most mundane
minstrelsy; and it may have been below its
roof that Villon, through a hole in the plaster,
studied, as he tells us, the leisures of a rich
ecclesiastic.
It was, perhaps, of some moment in the
poet's life that he should have inhabited the
cloister of Saint Benoit. Three of the most
remarkable among his early acquaintances
are Catherine de Vauselles, for whom he enter-
tained a short-lived affection and an endur-
ing and most unmanly resentment; Regnier de
Montigny, a young blackguard of good birth;
and Colin de Cayeux, a fellow with a marked
aptitude for picking locks. Now we are on
a foundation of mere conjecture, but it is at
least curious to find that two of the canons
of Saint Benoit answered respectively to the
names of Pierre de Vaucel and Etienne de
Montigny, and that there was a householder
called Nicolas de Cayeux in a street — the
Rue des Poire"es — in the immediate neigh-
bourhood of the cloister. M. Longnon is
almost ready to identify Catherine as the
niece of Pierre; Regnier as the nephew of
Etienne, and Colin as the son of Nicolas.
Without going so far, it must be owned that
the approximation of names is significant. As
we go on to see the part played by each of
these persons in the sordid melodrama of the
poet's life, we shall come to regard it as even
more notable. Is it not Clough who has re-
marked that, after all, everything lies in jux-
taposition? Many a man's destiny has been
settled by nothing apparently more grave than
a pretty face on the opposite side of the street
and a couple of bad companions round the
corner.
Catherine de Vauselles (or de Vaucel — the
change is within the limits of Villon's license)
had plainly delighted in the poet's conversa-
tion; near neighbours or not, they were much
together; and Villon made no secret of his
court, and suffered himself to believe that his
feeling was repaid in kind. This may have
been an error from the first, or he may have
estranged her by subsequent misconduct or
temerity. One can easily imagine Villon an
impatient wooer. One thing, at least, is sure:
that the affair terminated in a manner bitterly
humiliating to Master Francis. In presence
of his lady-love, perhaps under her window
and certainly with her connivance, he was un-
mercifully thrashed by one Noe le Joly —
beaten, as he says himself, like dirty linen
on the washing-board. It is characteristic that
his malice had notably increased between the
time when he wrote the Small Testament im-
mediately on the back of the occurrence, and
the time when he wrote the Large Testament
five years after. On the latter occasion noth-
ing is too bad for his "damsel with the twisted
nose," as he calls her. She is spared neither
hint nor accusation, and he tells his messenger
to accost her with the vilest insults. Villon,
it is thought, was out of Paris when these
amenities escaped his pen; or perhaps the
strong arm of Noe le Joly would have been
again in requisition. So ends the love story,
if love story it may properly be called. Poets
are not necessarily fortunate in love; but they
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
usually fall among more romantic circum-
stances and bear their disappointment with a
better grace.
The neighbourhood of Regnier de Montigny
and Colin de Cayeux was probably more in-
fluential on his after life than the contempt of
Catherine. For a man who is greedy of all
pleasures, and provided with little money and
less dignity of character, we may prophesy a
safe and speedy voyage downward. Humble
or even truckling virtue may walk unspotted
in this life. But only those who despise the
pleasures can afford to despise the opinion of
the world. A man of a strong, heady tem-
perament, like Villon, is very differently
tempted. His eyes lay hold on all provoca-
tions greedily, and his heart flames up at a
look into imperious desire; he is snared and
broached to by anything and everything, from
a pretty face to a piece of pastry in a cook-
shop window; he will drink the rinsing of the
wine cup, stay the latest at the tavern party;
tap at the lit windows, follow the sound of
singing, and beat the whole neighbourhood for
another reveller, as he goes reluctantly home-
ward; and grudge himself every hour of sleep
as a black empty period in which he cannot
follow after pleasure. Such a person is lost
if he have not dignity, or, failing that, at least
pride, which is its shadow and in many ways
its substitute. Master Francis, I fancy, would
follow his own eager instincts without much
spiritual struggle. And we soon find him
fallen among thieves in sober, literal earnest,
and counting as acquaintances the most dis-
reputable people he could lay his hands on:
fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat; ser-
geants of the criminal court, and archers of
the watch; blackguards who slept at night
under the butchers' stalls, and for whom the
aforesaid archers peered about carefully with
lanterns; Regnier de Montigny, Colin de
Cayeux, and their crew, all bound on a favour-
ing breeze toward the gallows; the disorderly
abbess of Port Royal, who went about at fair
time with soldiers and thieves, and conducted
her abbey on the queerest principles; and
most likely Perette Mauger, the great Paris
receiver of stolen goods, not yet dreaming,
poor woman ! of the last scene of her career
when Henry Cousin, executor of the high
justice, shall bury her, alive and most reluctant,
in front of the new Montigny gibbet. Nay,
our friend soon began to take a foremost rank
in this' society. He could string off verses,
which is always an agreeable talent; and he
could make himself useful in many other ways.
The whole ragged army of Bohemia, and who-
soever loved good cheer without at all loving
to work and pay for it, are addressed in con-
temporary verses as the "Subjects of Franpois
Villon." He was a good genius to all hungry
and unscrupulous persons; and became the
hero of a whole legendary cycle of tavern
tricks and cheateries. At best, these were
doubtful levities, rathor too thievish for a
schoolboy, rather too gamesome for a thief.
But he would not linger long in this equivocal
border land. He must soon have complied
with his surroundings. He was one who
would go where the cannikin clinked, not car-
ing who should pay; and from supping in the
wolves' den, there is but a step to hunting
with the pack. And here, as I am on the
chapter of his degradation, I shall say all I
mean to say about its darkest expression, and
be done with it for good. Some charitable
critics see no more than a jeu d? esprit, a graceful
and trifling exercise of the imagination, in the
grimy ballad of Fat Peg (Grosse Mar got). I
am not able to follow these gentlemen to this
polite extreme. Out of all Villon's works that
ballad stands forth in flaring reality, gross and
ghastly, as a thing written in a contraction of
disgust. M. Longnon shows us more and
more clearly at every page that we are to read
our poet literally, that his names are the names
of real persons, and the events he chronicles
were actual events. But even if the tendency
of criticism had run the other way, this ballad
would have gone far to prove itself. I can
well understand the reluctance of worthy per-
sons in this matter; for of course it is un-
pleasant to think of a man of genius as one
who held, in the words of Marina to Boult —
"A place, for which the pained'st fiend
Of hell would not in reputation change."
But beyond this natural unwillingness, the
whole difficulty of the case springs from a
highly virtuous ignorance of life. Paris now
is not so different from the Paris of then;
and the whole of the doings of Bohemia are
not written in the sugar-candy pastorals of
Murger. It is really not at all surprising that
a young man of the fifteenth century, with a
knack of making verses, should accept his
bread upon disgraceful terms. The race of
those who do is not extinct ; and some of them
to this day write the prettiest verses imagi-
nable. . . . After this, it were impossible for
FRANCOIS VILLON
513
Master Francis to fall lower: to go and steal
for himself would be an admirable advance
from every point of view, divine or human.
And yet it is not as a thief, but as a homi-
cide, that he makes his first appearance before
angry justice. On June 5, 1455, when he was
about twenty-four, and had been Master of
Arts for a matter of three years, we behold
him for the first time quite definitely. Angry
justice had, as it were, photographed him in
the act of his homicide; and M. Longnon,
rummaging among old deeds, has turned up
the negative and printed it off for our instruc-
tion. Villon had been supping — copiously
we may believe — and sat on a stone bench
in front of the Church of Saint Benoit, in com-
pany with a priest called Gilles and a woman
of the name of Isabeau. It was nine o'clock,
a mighty late hour for the period, and evi-
dently a fine summer's night. Master Francis
carried a mantle, like a prudent man, to keep
him from the dews (serairi), and had a sword
below it dangling from his girdle. So these
three dallied in front of St. Benoit, taking their
pleasure (pour soy esbatre). Suddenly there
arrived upon the scene a priest, Philippe
Chermoye or Sermaise, also with sword and
cloak, and accompanied by one Master Jehan
le Mardi. Sermaise, according to Villon's
account, which is all we have to go upon,
came up blustering and denying God; as
Villon rose to make room for him upon the
bench, thrust him rudely back into his place;
and finally drew his sword and cut open his
lower lip, by what I should imagine was a very
clumsy stroke. Up to this point, Villon pro-
fesses to have been a model of courtesy, even
of feebleness; and the brawl, in his version,
reads like the fable of the wolf and the lamb.
But now the lamb was roused; he drew his
sword, stabbed Sermaise in the groin, knocked
him on the head with a big stone, and then,
leaving him to his fate, went away to have his
own lip doctored by a barber of the name of
Fouquet. In one version, he says that Gilles,
Isabeau, and Le Mardi ran away at the first
high words, and that he and Sermaise had it
out alone ; in another, Le Mardi is represented
as returning and wresting Villon's sword from
him: the reader may please himself. Ser-
maise was picked up, lay all that night in the
prison of Saint Benoit, where he was examined
by an official of the Chatelet and expressly
pardoned Villon, and died on the following
Saturday in the Hotel Dieu.
This, as I have said, was in June. Not be-
fore January of the next year could Villon
extract a pardon from the king; but while his
hand was in, he got two. One is for "Francois
des Loges, alias (autrement dif) de Villon";
and the other runs in the name of Francois
de Montcorbier. Nay, it appears there was a
further complication; for in the narrative of
the first of these documents, it is mentioned
that he passed himself off upon Fouquet, the
barber-surgeon, as one Michel Mouton. M.
Longnon has a theory that this unhappy acci-
dent with Sermaise was the cause of Villon's
subsequent irregularities; and that up to that
moment he had been the pink of good be-
haviour. But the matter has to my eyes a
more dubious air. A pardon necessary for
Des Loges and another for Montcorbier? and
these two the same person? and one or both
of them known by the alias of Villon, how-
ever honestly come by ? and lastly, in the heat
of the moment, a fourth name thrown out
with an assured countenance? A ship is not
to be trusted that sails under so many colours.
This is not the simple bearing of innocence.
No — the young master was already treading
crooked paths; already, he would start and
blench at a hand upon his shoulder, with the
look we know so well in the face of Hogarth's
Idle Apprentice; already, in the blue devils,
he would see Henry Cousin, the executor of
high justice, going in dolorous procession
toward Montfaucon, and hear the wind and
the birds crying around Paris gibbet.
A GANG OF THIEVES
In spite of the prodigious number of peo-
ple who managed to get hanged, the fifteenth
century was by no means a bad time for crim-
inals. A great confusion of parties and great
dust of fighting favoured the escape of private
housebreakers and quiet fellows who stole ducks
in Paris Moat. Prisons were leaky; and as
we shall see, a man with a few crowns in his
pocket and perhaps some acquaintance among
the officials, could easily slip out and become
once more a free marauder. There was no
want of a sanctuary where he might harbour
until troubles blew by; and accomplices helped
each other with more or less good faith. Clerks,
above all, had remarkable facilities for a crimi-
nal way of life ; for they were privileged, except
in cases of notorious incorrigibility, to be
plucked from the hands of rude secular justice
and tried by a tribunal of their own. In' 1402, a
couple of thieves, both clerks of the University,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
sity, were condemned to death by the Provost
of Paris. As they were taken to Montfaucon,
they kept crying "high and clearly" for their
benefit of clergy, but were none the less piti-
lessly hanged and gibbeted. Indignant Alma
Mater interfered before the king; and the
Provost was deprived of all royal offices, and
condemned to return the bodies and erect a
great stone cross, on the road from Paris to the
gibbet, graven with the effigies of these two holy
martyrs. We shall hear more of the benefit
of clergy ; for after this the reader will not be
surprised to meet with thieves in the shape of
tonsured clerks, or even priests and monks.
To a knot of such learned pilferers our poet
certainly belonged; and by turning over a few
more of M. Longnon's negatives, we shall get a
clear idea of their character and doings. Mon-
tigny and De Cayeux are names already known ;
Guy Tabary, Petit- Jehan, Dom Nicolas, little
Thibault, who was both clerk and goldsmith,
and who made picklocks and melted plate for
himself and his^ companions — with these the
reader has still to become acquainted. Petit-
Jehan and De Cayeux were handy fellows and
enjoyed a useful preeminence in honour.of their
doings with the picklock. " Dictus des Cahyeus
est fortis operator crochetorum," says Tabary 's
interrogation, "sed dictus Petit-Jehan, ejus so-
cius, esi iorcius operator." But the flower of
the flock was little Thibault; it was reported
that no lock could stand before him ; he had a
persuasive hand; let us salute capacity wher-
ever \V3 may find it. Perhaps the term gang is
not quite properly applied to the persons whose
fortunes we are now about to follow; rather
they were independent malefactors, socially
intimate, and occasionally joining together for
some serious operation, just as modern stock-
jobbers form a syndicate for an important loan.
Nor were they at all particular to any branch of
misdoing. They did not scrupulously confine
themselves to a single sort of theft, as I hear is
common among modern thieves. They were
ready for anything, from pitch-and-toss to
manslaughter. Montigny, for instance, had
neglected neither of these extremes, and we
find him accused of cheating at games of haz-
ard on the one hand, and on the other of the
murder of one Thevenin Pensete in a house by
the Cemetery of St. John. If time had only
spared us some particulars, might not this last
have furnished us with the matter of a grisly
winter's tale?
At Christmas-time in 1446, readers of Villon
will remember that he was engaged on the
Small Testament. About the same period,
circa festum nativitatis Domini, he took part
in a memorable supper at the Mule Tavern,
in front of the Church of St. Mathurin.
Tabary, who seems to have been very much
Villon's creature, had ordered the supper in the
course of the afternoon. He was a man who
had had troubles in his time and languished in
the Bishop of Paris's prisons on a suspicion of
picking locks; confiding, convivial, not very
astute — who had copied out a whole im-
proper romance with his own right hand.
This supper-party was to be his first intro-
duction to De Cayeux and Petit-Jehan, which
was probably a matter of some concern to the
poor man's muddy wits; in the sequel, at
least, he speaks of both with an undisguised
respect, based on professional inferiority in the
matter of picklocks. Dom Nicolas, a Picardy
monk, was the fifth and last at table. When
supper had been despatched and fairly washed
down, we may suppose, with white Baigneux or
red Beaune, which were favourite wines among
the fellowship, Tabary was solemnly sworn
over to secrecy on the night's performances;
and the party left the Mule and proceeded to an
unoccupied house belonging to Robert de Saint-
Simon. This, over a low wall, they entered
without difficulty. All but Tabary took off their
upper garments; a ladder was found and ap-
plied to the high wall which separated Saint-
Simon's house from the court of the College
of Navarre; the four fellows in their shirt-
sleeves (as we might say) clambered over in a
twinkling; and Master Guy Tabary remained
alone beside the overcoats. From the court the
burglars made their way into the vestry of the
chapel, where they found a large chest, strength-
ened with iron bands and closed with four
locks. One of these locks they picked, and
then, by levering up the corner, forced the
other three. Inside was a small coffer, of
walnut wood, also barred with iron, but fastened
with only three locks, which were all com-
fortably picked by way of the keyhole. In the
walnut coffer — a joyous sight by our thieves'
lantern — were five hundred crowns of gold.
There was some talk of opening the aumries,
where, if they had only known, a booty eight
or nine times greater lay ready to their hand;
but one of the party (I have a humorous sus-
picion it was Dom Nicolas, the Picardy monk)
hurried them away. It was ten o'clock when
they mounted the ladder; it was about mid-
night before Tabary beheld them coming back.
To him they gave ten crowns, and promised a
FRANgOIS VILLON
share of a two-crown dinner on the morrow;
whereat we may suppose his mouth watered.
In course of time, he got wind of the real amount
of their booty and understood how scurvily he
had been used; but he seems to have borne no
malice. How could he, against such superb
operators as Petit-Jehan and De Cayeux; or
a person like Villon, who could have made a
new improper romance out of his own head,
instead of merely copying an old one with
mechanical right hand?
The rest of the winter was not uneventful
for the gang. First they made a demon-
stration against the Church of St. Mathurin
after chalices, and were ignominiously chased
away by barking dogs. Then Tabary fell out
with Casin Chollet, one of the fellows who
stole ducks in Paris Moat, who subsequently
became a sergeant of the Chatelet and dis-
tinguished himself by misconduct, followed by
imprisonment and public castigation, during
the wars of Louis Eleventh. The quarrel was
not conducted with a proper regard to the king's
peace, and the pair publicly belaboured each
other until the police stepped in, and Master
Tabary was cast once more into the prisons of
the Bishop. While he still lay in durance, another
job was cleverly executed by the band in broad
daylight, at the Augustine Monastery. Brother
Guillaume Coiffier was ^beguiled by an accom-
plice to St. Mathurin to say mass; and during
his absence, his chamber was entered and five or
six hundred crowns in money and some silver-
plate successfully abstracted. A melancholy
man was Coiffier on his return ! Eight crowns
from this adventure were forwarded by little
Thibault to the incarcerated Tabary; and with
these he bribed the jailer and reappeared in
Paris taverns. Some time before or shortly
after this, Villon set out for Angers, as he had
promised in the Small Testament. The object
of this excursion was not merely to avoid the
presence of his cruel mistress or the strong arm
of Noe le Joly, but to plan a deliberate robbery
on his uncle the monk. As soon as he had
properly studied the ground, the others were
to go over in force from Paris — picklocks and
all — and away with my uncle's strongbox !
This throws a comical sidelight on his own
accusation against his relatives, that they had
"forgotten natural duty" and disowned him
because he was poor. A poor relation is a dis-
tasteful circumstance at the best, but a poor
relation who plans deliberate robberies against
those of his blood, and trudges hundreds of
weary leagues to put them into execution, is
surely a little on the wrong side of toleration.
The uncle at Angers may have been monstrously
undutiful; but the nephew from Paris was
upsides with him.
On the 23d April, that venerable and dis-
creet person, Master Pierre Marchand, Curate
and Prior of Paray-le-Monial, in the diocese
of Chartres, arrived in Paris and put up at the
sign of the Three Chandeliers, in the Rue de la
Huchette. Next day, or the day after, as he
was breakfasting at the sign of the Ann-chair,
he fell into talk with two customers, one of
whom was a priest and the other our friend
Tabary. The idiotic Tabary became mighty
confidential as to his past life. Pierre Mar-
chand, who was an acquaintance of Guillaume
Coiffier's and had sympathised with him over
his loss, pricked up his ears at the mention of
picklocks, and led on the transcriber of im-
proper romances from one thing to another,
until they were fast friends. For picklocks
the Prior of Paray professed a keen curiosity;
but Tabary, upon some late alarm, had thrown
all his into the Seine. Let that be no difficulty,
however, for was there not little Thibault,
who could make them of all shapes and sizes,
and to whom Tabary, smelling an accomplice,
would be only too glad to introduce his new
acquaintance? On the morrow, accordingly,
they met; and Tabary, after having first wet
his whistle at the Prior's expense, led him
to Notre Dame and presented him to four or
five "young companions," who were keeping
sanctuary in the church. They were all clerks,
recently escaped, like Tabary himself, from the
episcopal prisons. Among these we may notice
Thibault, the operator, a little fellow of twenty-
six, wearing long hair behind. The Prior ex-
pressed, through Tabary, his anxiety to be-
come their accomplice and altogether such as
they were (de leur sorte et de leurs complices).
Mighty polite they showed themselves, and made
him many fine speeches in return. But for all
that, perhaps because they had longer heads
than Tabary, perhaps because it is less easy to
wheedle men in a body, they kept obstinately
to generalities and gave him no information
as to their exploits, past, present, or to come.
I suppose Tabary groaned under this reserve ;
for no sooner were he and the Prior out of the
church than he fairly emptied his heart to him,
gave him full details of many hanging matters
in the past, and explained the future intentions
of the band. The scheme of the hour was to
rob another Augustine monk, Robert de la
Porte, and in this the Prior agreed to take a hand
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
with simulated greed. Thus, in the course of
two days, he had turned this wineskin of a
Tabary inside out. For a while longer the
farce was carried on ; the Prior was introduced
to Petit- Jehan, whom he describes as a little,
very smart man of thirty, with a black beard
and a short jacket; an appointment was made
and broken in the de la Porte affair; Tabary
had some breakfast at the Prior's charge and
leaked out more secrets under the influence of
wine and friendship; and then all of a sudden,
on the 1 7th of May, an alarm sprang up, the
Prior picked up his skirts and walked quietly
over to the Chatelet to make a deposition, and
the whole band took to their heels and vanished
out of Paris and the sight of the police.
Vanish as they like, they all go with a clog
about their feet. Sooner or later, here or there,
they will be caught in the fact, and ignomini-
ously sent home. From our vantage of four
centuries afterward, it is odd and pitiful to
watch the order in which the fugitives are
captured and dragged in.
Montigny was the first. In August of that
same year, he was laid by the heels on many
grievous counts ; sacrilegious robberies, frauds,
incorrigibility, and that bad business about
Thevenin Pensete in the house by the Cemetery
of St. John. He was reclaimed by the eccle-
siastical authorities as a clerk; but the claim
was rebutted on the score of incorrigibility,
and ultimately fell to the ground; and he was
condemned to death by the Provost of Paris.
It was a very rude hour for Montigny, but hope
was not yet over. He was a fellow of some
birth; his father had been king's pantler; his
sister, probably married to some one about the
Court, was in the family way, and her health
would be endangered if the execution was
proceeded with. So down comes Charles the
Seventh with letters of mercy, commuting the
penalty to a year in a dungeon on bread and
water, and a pilgrimage to the shrine of St.
James in Galicia. Alas ! the document was
incomplete; it did not contain the full tale of
Montigny's enormities; it did not recite that he
had been denied benefit of clergy, and it said
nothing about Thevenin Pensete. Montigny's
hour was at hand. Benefit of clergy, honourable
descent from king's pantler, sister in the family
way, royal letters of commutation — all were of
no avail. He had been in prison in Rouen, in
Tours, in Bordeaux, and four times already in
Paris; and out of all these he had come scath-
less; but now he must make a little excursion
as far as Montfaucon with Henry Cousin,
executor of high justice. There let him swing
among the carrion crows.
About a year later, in July, 1458, the police
laid hands on Tabary. Before the ecclesiasti-
cal commissary he was twice examined, and, on
the latter occasion, put to the question ordinary
and extraordinary. What a dismal change from
pleasant suppers at the Mule, where he sat in
triumph with expert operators and great wits!
He is at the lees of life, poor rogue ; and those
fingers which once transcribed improper
romances are now agonisingly stretched upon
the rack. We have no sure knowledge, but
we may have a shrewd guess of the conclusion.
Tabary, the admirer, would go the same way
as those whom he admired.
The last we hear of is Colin de Cayeux.
He was caught in autumn 1460, in the great
Church of St. Leu d'Esserens, which makes so
fine a figure in the pleasant Oise valley between
Creil and Beaumont. He was reclaimed by no
less than two bishops; but the Procureur for
the Provost held fast by incorrigible Colin.
1460 was an ill-starred year: for justice was
making a clean sweep of "poor and indigent
persons, thieves, cheats, and lockpickers,"
in the neighbourhood of Paris; and Colin de
Cayeux, with many others, was condemned to
death and hanged.
VILLON AND THE GALLOWS
Villon was still absent on the Angers expedi-
tion when the Prior of Paray sent such a bomb-
shell among his accomplices; and the dates of
his return and arrest remain undiscoverable.
M. Campaux plausibly enough opined for the
autumn of 1457, which would make him closely
follow on Montigny, and the first of those de-
nounced by the Prior to fall into the toils. We
may suppose, at least, that it was not long
thereafter; we may suppose him competed for
between lay and clerical Courts; and we may
suppose him alternately pert and impudent,
humble and fawning, in his defence. But at
the end of all supposing, we come upon some
nuggets of fact. For first, he was put to the
question by water. He who had tossed off so
many cups of white Baigneux or red Beaune,
now drank water through linen folds, until his
bowels were flooded and his heart stood still.
After so much raising of the elbow, so much
outcry of fictitious thirst, here at last was
enough drinking for a lifetime. Truly, of our
pleasant vices, the gods make whips to scourge
us. And secondly he was condemned to be
FRANCOIS VILLON
hanged. A man may have been expecting a
catastrophe for years, and yet find himself un-
prepared when it arrives. Certainly, Villon
found, in this legitimate issue of his career,
a very staggering and grave consideration.
Every beast, as he says, clings bitterly to a whole
skin. If everything is lost, and even honour,
life still remains ; nay, and it becomes, like the
ewe lamb in Nathan's parable, as dear as all
the rest. "Do you fancy," he asks, in a lively
ballad, "that I had not enough philosophy un-
der my hood to cry out : ' I appeal ' ? If I had
made any bones about the matter, I should have
been planted upright in the fields, by the St.
Denis Road" — Montfaucon being on the way
to St. Denis. An appeal to Parliament, as we
saw in the case of Colin de Cayeux, did not
necessarily lead to an acquittal or a commuta-
tion; and while the matter was pending, our
poet had ample opportunity to reflect on his
position. Hanging is a sharp argument, and
to swing with many others on the gibbet adds
a horrible corollary for the imagination. With
the aspect of Montfaucon he was well acquainted ;
indeed, as the neighbourhood appears to have
been sacred to junketing and nocturnal picnics
of wild young men and women, he had proba-
bly studied it under all varieties of hour and
weather. And now, as he lay in prison waiting
the mortal push, these different aspects crowded
back on his imagination with a new and startling
significance; and he wrote a ballad, by way of
epitaph for himself and his companions, which
remains unique in the annals of mankind. It is,
in the highest sense, a piece of his biography : —
" La pluye nous a debuez et lavez,
Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz;
Pies, corbeaulx, nous ont les yeux cavez,
Et arrachez la barbe et les sourcilz.
Jamais, nul temps, nous ne sommes rassis;
Puis fa, puis la, comme le vent varie,
A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie,
Plus becquetez d'oiseaulx que dez a couldre.
Ne soyez done de nostre confrairie,
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre."
Here is some genuine thieves' literature
after so much that was spurious; sharp as an
etching, written with a shuddering soul. There
is an intensity of consideration in the piece that
shows it to be the transcript of familiar thoughts.
It is the quintessence of many a doleful night-
mare on the straw, when he felt himself swing
helpless in the wind, and saw the birds turn
about him, screaming and menacing his eyes.
And, after all, the Parliament changed his
sentence into one of banishment; and to
Roussillon, in Dauphiny, our poet must carry
his woes without delay. Travellers between
Lyons and Marseilles may remember a station
on the line, some way below Vienne, where the
Rhone fleets seaward between vine-clad hills.
This was Villon's Siberia. It would be a little
warm in summer perhaps, and a little cold in
winter in that draughty valley between two
great mountain fields; but what with the hills,
and the racing river, and the fiery Rhone
wines, he was little to be pitied on the conditions
of his exile. Villon, in a remarkably bad ballad,
written in a breath, heartily thanked and ful-
somely belauded the Parliament; the envoi,
like the proverbial postscript of a lady's letter,
containing the pith of his performance in a
request for three days' delay to settle his affairs
and bid his friends farewell. He was probably
not followed out of Paris, like Antoine Fradin,
the popular preacher, another exile of a few
years later, by weeping multitudes; but I dare
say one or two rogues of his acquaintance would
keep him company for a mile or so on the south
road, and drink a bottle with him before they
turned. For banished people, in those days,
seem to have set out on their own responsibility,
in their own guard, and at their own expense.
It was no joke to make one's way from Paris to
Roussillon alone and penniless in the fifteenth
century. Villon says he left a rag of his tails
on every bush. Indeed, he must have had
many a weary tramp, many a slender meal,
and many a to-do with blustering captains of
the Ordonnance. But with one of his light fin-
gers, we may fancy that he took as good as he
gave; for every rag of his tail, he would manage
to indemnify himself upon the population in the
shape of food, or wine, or ringing money ; and
his route would be traceable across France
and Burgundy by housewives and inn-keepers
lamenting over petty thefts, like the track of a
single human locust. A strange figure he must
have cut in the eyes of the good country people:
this ragged, blackguard city poet, with a smack
of the Paris student, and a smack of the Paris
street arab, posting along the highways, in
rain or sun, among the green fields and vine-
yards. For himself, he had no taste for rural
loveliness; green fields and vineyards would
be mighty indifferent to Master Francis; but
he would often have his tongue in his cheek at
the simplicity of rustic dupes, and often, at
city gates, he might stop to contemplate the
gibbet with its swinging bodies, and hug him-
self on his escape.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
How long he stayed at Roussillon, how far he
became the prote'ge' of the Bourbons, to whom
that town belonged, or when it was that he
took part, under the auspices of Charles of
Orleans, in a rhyming tournament to be referred
to once again in the pages of the present volume,
are matters that still remain in darkness,
in spite of M. Longnon's diligent rummaging
among archives. When we next find him, in
summer 1461, alas! he is once more in
durance: this time at Me*un-sur-Loire, in the
prisons of Thibault d'Aussigny, Bishop of
Orleans. He had been lowered in a basket
into a noisome pit, where he lay, all summer,
gnawing hard crusts and railing upon fate.
His teeth, he says, were like the teeth of a
rake: a touch of haggard portraiture all the
more real for being excessive and burlesque,
and all the more proper to the man for being a
caricature of his own misery. His eyes were
"bandaged with thick walls." It might blow
hurricanes overhead; the lightning might leap
in high heaven ; but no word of all this reached
him in his noisome pit. "II n'entre, ou gist,
n'escler ni tourbillon." Above all, he was
fevered with envy and anger at the freedom
of others; and his heart flowed over into
curses as he thought of Thibault d'Aussigny,
walking the streets in God's sunlight, and bless-
ing people with extended fingers. So much we
find sharply lined in his own poems. Why he
was cast again into prison — how he had again
managed to shave the gallows — this we know
not, nor, from the destruction of authorities,
are we ever likely to learn. But on October
zd, 1461, or some day immediately preceding,
the new King, Louis Eleventh, made his joyous
entry into Me\m. Now it was a part of the
formality on such occasions for the new King
to liberate certain prisoners; and so the basket
was let down into Villon's pit, and hastily did
Master Francis scramble in, and was most
joyfully hauled up, and shot out, blinking and
tottering, but once more a free man, into the
blessed sun and wind. Now or never is the
time for verses! Such a happy revolution
would turn the head of a stocking-weaver,
and set him jingling rhymes. And so —
after a voyage to Paris, where he finds Mon-
tigny and De Cayeux clattering their bones
upon the gibbet, and his three pupils royster-
ing in Paris streets, "with their thumbs
under their girdles," — down sits Master Fran-
cis to write his Large Testament, and per-
petuate his name in a sort of glorious
ignominy.
THE LARGE TESTAMENT
Of this capital achievement and, with it,
of Villon's style in general, it is here the place
to speak. The Large Testament is a hurly-
burly of cynical and sentimental reflections
about life, jesting legacies to friends and en-
emies, and, interspersed among these many
admirable ballades, both serious and absurd.
With so free a design, no thought that occurred
to him would need to be dismissed without
expression; and he could draw at full length
the portrait of his own bedevilled soul, and of
the bleak and blackguardly world which was
the theatre of his exploits and sufferings. If the
reader can conceive something between the
slap-dash inconsequence of Byron's Don Juan
and the racy humorous gravity and brief noble
touches that distinguish the vernacular poems
of Burns, he will have formed some idea of
Villon's style. To the latter writer — except
in the ballades, which are quite his own, and
can be paralleled from no other language
known to me — he bears a particular resem-
blance. In common with Burns he has a certain
rugged compression, a brutal vivacity of epithet,
a homely vigour, a delight in local personalities,
and an interest in many sides of life, that are
often despised and passed over by more effete
and cultured poets. Both also, in their strong,
easy, colloquial way, tend to become difficult
and obscure; the obscurity in the case of
Villon passing at times into the absolute dark-
ness of cant language. They are perhaps the
only two great masters of expression who keep
sending their readers to a glossary.
"Shall we not dare to say of a thief," asks
Montaigne, "that he has a handsome leg"?
It is a far more serious claim that we have to
put forward in behalf of Villon. Beside that
of his contemporaries, his writing, so full of
colour, so eloquent, so picturesque, stands out
in an almost miraculous isolation. If only one
or two of the chroniclers could have taken a
leaf out of his book, history would have been a
pastime, and the fifteenth century as present
to our minds as the age of Charles Second.
This gallows-bird was the one great writer of
his age and country, and initiated modern
literature for France. Boileau, long ago,
in the period of perukes and snuff-boxes, rec-
ognised him as the first articulate poet in the
language; and if we measure him, not by pri-
ority of merit, but living duration of influence,
not on a comparison with obscure forerunners,
but with great and famous successors, we shall
FRANCOIS VILLON
5*9
install this ragged and disreputable figure in a
far higher niche in glory's temple than was ever
dreamed of by the critic. It is, in itself, a
memorable fact that, before 1542, in the very
dawn of printing, and while modern France was
in the making, the works of Villon ran through
seven different editions. Out of him flows much
of Rabelais; and through Rabelais, directly and
indirectly, a deep, permanent, and growing in-
spiration. Not only his style, but his callous
pertinent way of looking upon the sordid and
ugly sides of life, becomes every day a more
specific feature in the literature of France.
And only the other year, a work of some power
appeared in Paris, and appeared with infinite
scandal, which owed its whole inner significance
and much of its outward form to the study of
our rhyming thief.
The world to which he introduces us is,
as before said, blackguardly and bleak. Paris
swarms before us, full of famine, shame, and
death; monks and the servants of great lords
hold high wassail upon cakes and pastry; the
poor man licks his lips before the baker's win-
dow ; people with patched eyes sprawl all night
under the stall; chuckling Tabary transcribes
an improper romance ; bare-bosomed lasses and
ruffling students swagger in the streets; the
drunkard goes stumbling homeward ; the grave-
yard is full of bones; and away on Mont-
faucon, Colin de Cayeux and Montigny hang
draggled in the rain. Is there nothing better
to be seen than sordid misery and worthless
joys? Only where the poor old mother of the
poet kneels in church below painted windows,
and makes tremulous supplication to the
Mother of God.
In our mixed world, full of green fields and
happy lovers, where not long before, Joan of
Arc had led one of the highest and noblest lives
in the whole story of mankind, this was all
worth chronicling that our poet could perceive.
His eyes were indeed sealed with his own
filth. He dwelt all his life in a pit more noi-
some than the dungeon at Meun. In the moral
world, also, there are large phenomena not
recognisable out of holes and corners. Loud
winds blow, speeding home deep-laden ships
and sweeping rubbish from the earth; the
lightning leaps and cleans the face of heaven;
high purposes and brave passions shake and
sublimate men's spirits; and meanwhile, in the
narrow dungeon of his soul, Villon is mumbling
crusts and picking vermin.
Along with this deadly gloom of outlook, we
must take another characteristic of his work:
its unrivalled insincerity. I can give no better
similitude of this quality than I have given
already: that he comes up with a whine, and
runs away with a whoop and his finger to his
nose. His pathos is that of a professional
mendicant who should happen to be a man of
genius; his levity that of a bitter street arab,
full of bread. On a first reading, the pathetic
passages preoccupy the reader, and he is cheated
out of an alms in the shape of sympathy.
But when the thing is studied the illusion fades
away: in the transitions, above all, we can de-
tect the evil, ironical temper of the man ; and
instead of a flighty work, where many crude
but genuine feelings tumble together for the
mastery as in the lists of tournament, we are
tempted to think of the Large Testament as
of one long-drawn epical grimace, pulled by
a merry-andrew, who has found a certain
despicable eminence over human respect and
human affections by perching himself astride
upon the gallows. Between these two views,
at best, all temperate judgments will be found
to fall; and rather, as I imagine, toward the
last.
There were two things on which he felt with
perfect and, in one case, even threatening
sincerity.
The first of these was an undisguised envy
of those richer than himself. He was forever
drawing a parallel, already exemplified from
his own words, between the happy life of the
well-to-do and the miseries of the poor. Burns,
too proud and honest not to work, continued
through all reverses to sing of poverty with
a light, defiant note. Be*ranger waited till he
was himself beyond the reach of want, before
writing the Old Vagabond or Jacques. Samuel
Johnson, although he was very sorry to be
poor, "was a great arguer for the advantages of
poverty" in his ill days. Thus it is that brave
men carry their crosses, and smile with the fox
burrowing in their vitals. But Villon, who had
not the courage to be poor with honesty, now
whiningly implores our sympathy, now shows
his teeth upon the dung-heap with an ugly
snarl. He envies bitterly, envies passionately.
Poverty, he protests, drives .men to steal, as
hunger makes the wolf sally from the forest.
The poor, he goes on, will always have a carp-
ing word to say, or, if that outlet be denied,
nourish rebellious thoughts. It is a calumny
on the noble army of the poor. Thousands in
a small way of life, ay, and even in the smallest,
go through life with tenfold as much honour and
dignity and peace of mind, as the rich gluttons
520
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
whose dainties and state-beds awakened Villon's
covetous temper. And every morning's sun
sees thousands who pass whistling to their toil.
But Villon was the "mauvais pauvre ": denned
by Victor Hugo, and, in its English expression,
so admirably stereotyped by Dickens. He was
the first wicked sans-culotte. He is the man of
genius with the mole-skin cap. He is mighty
pathetic and beseeching here in the street, but I
would not go down a dark road with him for a
large consideration.
The second of the points on which he was
genuine and emphatic was common to the
middle ages; a deep and somewhat snivelling
conviction of the transitory nature of this life
and the pity and horror of death. Old age
and the grave, with some dark and yet half-
sceptical terror of an after-world — these
were ideas that clung about his bones like a
disease. An old ape, as he says, may play all
the tricks in its repertory, and none of them
will tickle an audience into good humour.
"Tousjours vieil synge est desplaisant." It is
not the old jester who receives most recognition
at a tavern party, but the young fellow, fresh
and handsome, who knows the new slang, and
carries off his vice with a certain air. Of this,
as a tavern jester himself, he would be pointedly
conscious. As for the women with whom he
was best acquainted, his reflections on their old
age, in all their harrowing pathos, shall remain
in the original for me. Horace has disgraced
himself to something the same tune; but what
Horace throws out with an ill-favoured laugh,
Villon dwells on with an almost maudlin whim-
per.
It is in death that he finds his truest inspira-
tion; in the swift and sorrowful change that
overtakes beauty; in the strange revolution by
which great fortunes and renowns are dimin-
ished to a handful of churchyard dust; and in
the utter passing away of what was once lovable
and mighty. It is in this that the mixed texture
of his thought enables him to reach such poig-
nant and terrible effects, and to enhance pity
with ridicule, like a man cutting capers to a
funeral march. It is in this, also, that he rises
out of himself into the higher spheres of art.
So, in the ballade by which he is best known, he
rings the changes on names that once stood for
beautiful and queenly women, and are now no
more than letters and a legend. "Where are
the snows of yester year?" runs the burden.
And so, in another not so famous, he passes
in review the different degrees of bygone men,
from the holy Apostles and the golden Emperor
of the East, down to the heralds, pursuivants,
and trumpeters, who also bore their part in the
world's pageantries and ate greedily at great
folks' tables: all this to the refrain of "So much
carry the winds away!" Probably, there was
some melancholy in his mind for a yet lower
grade, and Montigny and Colin de Cayeux
clattering their bones on Paris gibbet. Alas,
and with so pitiful an experience of life, Villon
can offer us nothing but terror and lamentation
about death ! No one has ever more skilfully
communicated his own disenchantment; no
one ever blown a more ear-piercing note of sad-
ness. This unrepentant thief can attain neither
to Christian confidence, nor to the spirit of the
bright Greek saying, that whom the gods love
die early. It is a poor heart, and a poorer
age, that cannot accept the conditions of life
with some heroic readiness.
ifc 4> £ $ 4> 4> if
The date of the Large Testament is the last
date in the poet's biography. After having
achieved that admirable and despicable per-
formance, he disappears into the night from
whence he came. How or when he died,
whether decently in bed or trussed up to a
gallows, remains a riddle for foolhardy com-
mentators. It appears his health had suffered
in the pit at Meun ; he was thirty years of age
and quite bald ; with the notch in his under lip
where Sermaise had struck him with the sword,
and what wrinkles the reader may imagine.
In default of portraits, this is all I have been able
to piece together, and perhaps even the bald-
ness should be taken as a figure of his destitu-
tion. A sinister dog, in all likelihood, but with
a look in his eye, and the loose flexile mouth
that goes with wit and an overweening sensual
temperament. Certainly the sorriest figure on
the rolls of fame.
APPENDIX
FROM THE MABINOGION
TRANSLATED FROM THE WELSH BY LADY
CHARLOTTE GUEST (SCHREIBER)
(1812-1895)
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
Earl Evrawc owned the Earldom of the
North. And he had seven sons. And Evrawc
maintained himself not so much by his own
possessions as by attending tournaments, and
wars, and combats. And, as it often befalls
those who join in encounters and wars, he was
slain, and six of his sons likewise. Now the
name of his seventh son was Peredur, and he
was the youngest of them. And he was not of
an age to go to wars and encounters, otherwise
he might have been slain as well as his father
and brothers. His mother was a scheming
and thoughtful woman, and she was very
solicitous concerning this her only son and his
possessions. So she took counsel with herself
to leave the inhabited country, and to flee to the
deserts and unfrequented wildernesses. And
she permitted none to bear her company thither
but women and boys, and spiritless men, who
were both unaccustomed and unequal to war
and fighting. And none dared to bring either
horses or arms where her son was, lest he should
set his mind upon them. And the youth went
daily to divert himself in the forest, by flinging
sticks and staves. And one day he saw his
mother's flock of goats, and near the goats
two hinds were standing. And he marvelled
greatly that these two should be without horns,
while the others had them. And he thought
they had long run wild, and on that account
they had lost their horns. And by activity and
swiftness of foot,' he drove the hinds and the
goats together into the house which there was
for the goats at the extremity of the forest.
Then Peredur returned to his mother. "Ah,
mother," said he, "a marvellous thing have I
seen in the wood; two of thy goats have run
wild, and lost their horns, through their having
been so long missing in the wood. And no
man had ever more trouble than I had to drive
them in." Then they all arose and went to
see. And when they beheld the hinds they
were greatly astonished.
And one day they saw three knights com-
ing along the horse-road on the borders of the
forest. And the three knights were Gwalchmai
the son of Gwyar, and Geneir Gwystyl, and
Owain the son of Urien. And Owain kept
on the track of the knight who had divided the
apples in Arthur's Court, whom they were in
pursuit of. "Mother," said Peredur, "what
are those yonder?" "They are angels, my
son," said she. "By my faith," said Peredur,
"I will go and become an angel with them."
And Peredur went to the road, and met them.
"Tell me, good soul," said Owain, "sawest thou
a knight pass this way, either to-day or yester-
day?" "I know not," answered he, "what a
knight is." "Such an one as I am," said
Owain. "If thou wilt tell me what I ask thee,
I will tell thee that which thou askest me."
"Gladly will I do so," replied Owain. "What
is this?" demanded Peredur, concerning the
saddle. "It is a saddle," said Owain. Then
he asked about all the accoutrements which he
saw upon the men, and the horses, and the
arms, and what they were for, and how they
were used. And Owain showed him all these
things fully, and told him what use was made
of them. "Go forward," said Peredur, " for I
saw such an one as thou inquirest for, and I
will follow thee."
Then Peredur returned to his mother and
her company, and he said to her, "Mother,
those were not angels, but honourable knights."
Then his mother swooned away. And Peredur
went to the place where they kept the horses
that carried firewood, and that brought meat
and drink from the inhabited country to the
desert. And he took a bony piebald horse,
which seemed to him the strongest of them
And he pressed a pack into the form of a saddle,
and with twisted twigs he imitated the trap-
pings which he had seen upon the horses.
And when Peredur came again to his mother,
521
522
THE MABINOGION
the Countess had recovered from her swoon.
"My son," said she, "desirest thou to ride
forth?" "Yes, with thy leave," said he.
"Wait, then, that I may counsel thee before
thou goest." "Willingly," he answered;
"speak quickly." "Go forward, then," she
said, "to the Court of Arthur, where there are
the best, and the boldest, and the most bountiful
of men. And wherever thou seest a church,
repeat there thy Paternoster unto it. And if thou
see meat and drink, and have need of them,
and none have the kindness or the courtesy
to give them to thee, take them thyself. If
thou hear an outcry, proceed towards it, espe-
cially if it be the outcry of a woman. If thou
see a fair jewel, possess thyself of it, and give
it to another, for thus thou shalt obtain praise.
If thou see a fair woman, pay thy court to her,
whether she will or no; for thus thou wilt
render thyself a better and more esteemed
man than thou wast before."
After this discourse, Peredur mounted the
horse, and taking a handful of sharp-pointed
forks in his hand, he rode forth. And he
journeyed two days and two nights in the woody
wildernesses, and in desert places, without
food and without drink. And then he came to
a vast wild wood, and far within the wood he
saw a fair even glade, and in the glade he saw
a tent, and the tent seeming to him to be a
church, he repeated his Paternoster to it. And
he went towards it, and the door of the tent
was open. And a golden chair was near the
door. And on the chair sat a lovely auburn-
haired maiden, with a golden frontlet on her
forehead, and sparkling stones in the frontlet,
and with a large gold ring on her hand. And
Peredur dismounted, and entered the tent.
And the maiden was glad at his coming, and
bade him welcome. At the entrance of the
tent he saw food, and two flasks full of wine,
and two loaves of fine wheaten flour, and collops
of the flesh of the wild boar. " My mother
told me," said Peredur, "wheresoever I saw
meat and drink, to take it." "Take the meat
and welcome, chieftain," said she. So Pere-
dur took half of the meat and of the liquor
himself, and left the rest to the maiden. And
when Peredur had finished eating, he bent upon
his knee before the maiden. "My mother,"
said he, "told me, wheresoever I saw a fair
jewel, to take it." "Do so, my soul," said she.
So Peredur took the ring. And he mounted
his horse, and proceeded on his journey.
After this, behold the knight came, to whom
the tent belonged ; and he was the Lord of the
Glade. And he saw the track of the horse,
and he said to the maiden, "Tell me who has
been here since I departed." "A man," said
she, "of wonderful demeanour." And she
described t5 him what Peredur's appearance
and conduct had been. "Tell me," said he,
"did he offer thee any wrong?" "No,"
answered the maiden, "by my faith, he harmed
me not." "By my faith, I do not believe thee;
and until I can meet with him, and revenge the
insult he has done me, and wreak my vengeance
upon him, thou shalt not remain two nights in
the same house." And the knight arose, and
set forth to seek Peredur.
Meanwhile Peredur journeyed on towards
Arthur's Court. And before he reached it,
another knight had been there, who gave a
ring of thick gold at the door of the gate for
holding his horse, and went into the Hall where
Arthur and his household, and Gwenhwyvar
and her maidens, were assembled. And the
page of the chamber was serving Gwenhwyvar
with a golden goblet. Then the knight dashed
the liquor that was therein upon her face, and
upon her stomacher, and gave her a violent
blow on the face, and said, "If any have the
boldness to dispute this goblet with me, and to
revenge the insult to Gwenhwyvar, let him
follow me to the meadow, and there I will
await him." So the knight took his horse, and
rode to the meadow. And all the household
hung down their heads, lest any of them should
be requested to go and avenge the insult to
Gwenhwyvar. For it seemed to them, that no
one would have ventured on so daring an out-
rage, unless he possessed such powers, through
magic or charms, that none could be able to take
vengeance upon him. Then, behold, Peredur
entered the Hall, upon the bony piebald horse,
with the uncouth trappings upon it; and in
this way he traversed the whole length of the
Hall. In the centre of the Hall stood Kai.
"Tell me, tall man," said Peredur, "is that
Arthur yonder?" "What wouldest thou with
Arthur?" asked Kai. "My mother told me
to go to Arthur, and receive the honour of
knighthood." %"By my faith," said he, "thou
art all too meanly equipped with horse and with
arms." Thereupon he was perceived by all
the household, and they threw sticks at him.
Then, behold, a dwarf came forward. He had
already been a year at Arthur's Court, both he
and a female dwarf. They had craved har-
bourage of Arthur, and had obtained it; and
during the whole year, neither of them had
spoken a single word to any one. When the
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
523
dwarf beheld Peredur, "Haha!" said he, "the
welcome of Heaven be unto thee, goodly
Peredur, son of Evrawc, the chief of warriors,
and flower of knighthood." "Truly," said
Kai, "thou art ill-taught to remain a year mute
at Arthur's Court, with choice of society; and
now, before the face of Arthur and all his
household, to call out, and declare such a man
as this the chief of warriors, and the flower of
knighthood." And he gave, him such a box
on the ear that he fell senseless to the ground.
Then exclaimed the female dwarf, "Haha!
goodly Peredur, son of Evrawc; the welcome
of Heaven be unto thee, flower of knights,
and light of chivalry." "Of a truth, maiden,"
said Kai, "thou art ill-bred to remain mute
for a year at the Court of Arthur, and then to
speak as thou dost of such a man as this."
And Kai kicked her with his foot, so that she
fell to the ground senseless. "Tall man,"
said Peredur, "show me which is Arthur."
"Hold thy peace," said Kai, "and go after the
knight who went hence to the meadow, and
take from him the goblet, and overthrow him,
and possess thyself of his horse and arms, and
then thou shalt receive the order of knight-
hood." "I will do so, tall man," said Peredur.
So he turned his horse's head towards the
meadow. And when he came there, the knight
was riding up and down, proud of his strength,
and valour, and noble mien. "Tell me,"
said the knight, "didst thou see anyone com-
ing after me from the Court ?" "The tall man
that was there," said he, "desired me to come,
and overthrow thee, and to take from thee the
goblet, and thy horse and thy armour for my-
self." "Silence!" said the knight; "go back
to the Court, and tell Arthur, from me, either
to come himself, or to send some other to fight
with me; and unless he do so quickly, I will
not wait for him." "By my faith," said Pere-
dur, "choose thou whether it shall be willingly
or unwillingly, but I will have the horse, and
the arms, and the goblet." And upon this the
knight ran at him furiously, and struck him
a violent blow with the shaft of his spear, be-
tween the neck and the shoulder. "Haha!
lad," said Peredur, "my mother's servants
were not used to play with me in this wise;
therefore, thus will I .play with thee." And
thereupon he struck him with a sharp-pointed
fork, and it hit him in the eye, and came out
at the back of his neck, so that he instantly
fell down lifeless.
"Verily," said Owain the son of Urien to Kai,
"thou wert ill-advised, when thou didst send
that madman after the knight. For one of
two things must befall him. He must either
be overthrown, or slain. If he is overthrown
by the knight, he will be counted by him to be
an honourable person of the Court, and an
eternal disgrace will it be to Arthur and his
warriors. And if he is slain, the disgrace will
be the same, and moreover, his sin will be upon
him; therefore will I go to see what has be-
fallen him." So Owain went to the meadow,
and he found Peredur dragging the man about.
"What art thou doing thus?" said Owain.
"This iron coat," said Peredur, "will never come
from off him; not by my efforts," at any rate."
And Owain unfastened his armour and his
clothes. "Here, my good soul," said he, "is
a horse and armour better than thine. Take
them joyfully, and come with me to Arthur, to
receive the order of knighthood, for thou dost
merit it." "May I never show my face again
if I go," said Peredur; "but take thou the
goblet to Gwenhwyvar, and tell Arthur, that
wherever I am, I will be his vassal, and will do
him what profit and service I am able. And
say that I will not come to his Court, until I
have encountered the tall man that is there,
to revenge the injury he did to the dwarf and
dwarfess." And Owain went back to the
Court, and related all these things to Arthur
and Gwenhwyvar, and to all the household.
And Peredur rode forward. And as he pro-
ceeded, behold a knight met him. "Whence
comest thou?" said the knight. "I come from
Arthur's Court," said Peredur. . "Art thou one
of his men?" asked he. "Yes, by my faith,"
he answered. "A good service, truly, is that
of Arthur.^' "Wherefore sayest thou so?"
said Peredur. "I will tell thee," said he;
"I have always been Arthur's enemy, and all
such of his men as I have ever encountered I
have slain." And without further parlance
they fought, and it was not long before Peredur
brought him to the ground, over his horse's
crupper. Then the knight besought his mercy.
"Mercy thou shalt have," said Peredur, "if
thou wilt make oath to me, that thou wilt go
to Arthur's Court, and tell him that it was I
that overthrew thee, for the honour of his
service; and say, that I will never come to the
Court until I have avenged the insult offered
to the dwarf and dwarfess." The knight
pledged him his faith of this, and proceeded to
the Court of Arthur, and said as he had prom-
ised, and conveyed the threat to Kai.
And Peredur rode forward. And within that
week he encountered sixteen knights, and over-
524
THE MABINOGION
threw them all shamefully. And they all went
to Arthur's Court, taking with them the same
message which the first knight had conveyed
from Peredur, and the same threat which he
had sent to Kai. And thereupon Kai was
reproved by Arthur; and Kai was greatly
grieved thereat.
And Peredur rode forward. And he came to
a vast and desert wood, on the confines of which
was a lake. And on the other side was a fair
castle. And on the border of the lake he saw
a venerable, hoary-headed man, sitting upon a
velvet cushion, and having a garment of velvet
upon him. And his attendants were fishing
in the lake. When the hoary-headed man
beheld Peredur approaching, he arose and
went towards the castle. And the old man was
lame. Peredur rode to the palace, and the door
was open, and he entered the hall. And there
was the hoary-headed man sitting on a cushion,
and a large blazing fire burning before him.
And the household and the company arose to
meet Peredur, and disarrayed him. And the
man asked the youth to sit on the cushion;
and they sat down, and conversed together.
When it was time, the tables were laid, and they
went to meat. And when they had finished
their meal, the man inquired of Peredur if
he knew well how to fight with the sword.
"I know not," said Peredur, "but were I to
be taught, doubtless I should." "Whoever
can play well with the cudgel and shield, will
also be able to fight with a sword." Arid the
man had two sons; the one had yellow hair,
and the other auburn. "Arise, youths,"
said he, "and play with the cudgel and the
shield." And so did they. "Tell me, my
soul," said the man, "which of the youths
thinkest thou plays best." "I think," said
Peredur, "that the yellow -haired youth could
draw blood from the other, if he chose."
"Arise thou, my life, and take the cudgel and
the shield from the hand of the youth with
the auburn hair, and draw blood from the
yellow -haired youth if thou canst." So Pere-
dur arose, and went to play with the yellow-
haired youth; and he lifted up his arm, and
struck him such a mighty blow, that his brow
fell over his eye, and the blood flowed forth.
"Ah, my life," said the man, "come now, and
sit down, for thou wilt become the best fighter
with the sword of any in this island ; and I am
thy uncle, thy mother's brother. And with me
shalt thou remain a space, in order to learn the
manners and customs of different countries, and
courtesy, and gentleness, and noble bearing.
Leave, then, the habits and the discourse of
thy mother, and I will be thy teacher; and I
will raise thee to the rank of knight from this
time forward. And thus do thou. If thou
seest aught to cause thee wonder, ask not the
meaning of it; if no one has the courtesy to
inform thee, the reproach will not fall upon
thee, but upon me that am thy teacher." And
they had abundance of honour and service.
And when it was time they went to sleep.
At the break of day, Peredur arose, and took
his horse, and with his uncle's permission he
rode forth. And he came to a vast desert
wood, and at the further end of the wood was a
meadow, and on the other side of the meadow
he saw a large castle. And thitherward Pere-
dur bent his way, and he found the gate open,
and he proceeded to the hall. And he beheld
a stately hoary-headed man sitting on one side
of the hall, and many pages around him,
who arose to receive and to honour Peredur.
And they placed him by the side of the owner
of the palace. Then they discoursed together;
and when it was time to eat, they caused Pere-
dur to sit beside the nobleman during the repast.
And when they had eaten and drunk as much
as they desired, the nobleman asked Peredur
whether he could fight with a sword? "Were
I to receive instruction," said Peredur, "I
think I could." Now, there was on the floor
of the hall a huge staple, as large as a warrior
could grasp. "Take yonder sword," said the
man to Peredur, "and strike the iron staple."
So Peredur arose and struck the staple, so that
he cut it in two ; and the sword broke into two
parts also. "Place the two parts together, and
reunite them," and Peredur placed them to-
gether, and they became entire as they were
before. And a second time he struck upon the
staple, so that both it and the sword broke in
two, and as before they reunited. And the
third time he gave a like blow, and placed the
broken parts together, and neither the staple
nor the sword would unite as before. " Youth,"
said the nobleman, "come now, and sit down,
and my blessing be upon thee. Thou fightest
best with the sword of any man in the kingdom.
Thou hast arrived at two-thirds of thy strength,
and the other third thou hast not yet obtained ;
and when thou attained to thy full power, none
will be able to contend with thee. I am thy
uncle, thy mother's brother, and I am brother
to the man in whose house thou wast last night."
Then Peredur and his uncle discoursed to-
gether, and he beheld two youths enter the hall,
and proceed up to the chamber, bearing a spear
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
525
of mighty size, with three streams of blood
flowing from the point to the ground. And
when all the company saw this, they began
.vailing and lamenting. But for all that, the
man did not break off his discourse with
Peredur. And as he did not tell Peredur the
meaning of what he saw, he forbore to ask
him concerning it. And when the clamour
had a little subsided, behold two maidens
entered, with a large salver between them, in
which was a man's head, surrounded by a pro-
fusion of blood. And thereupon the company
of the court made so great an outcry, that it
was irksome to be in the same hall with them.
But at length they were silent. And when time
was that they should sleep, Peredur was brought
into a fair chamber.
And the next day, with his uncle's permission,
he rode forth. And he came to a wood, and
far within the wood he heard a loud cry, and
he saw a beautiful woman with auburn hair,
and a horse with a saddle upon it, standing
near her, and a corpse by her side. And as
she strove to place the corpse upon the horse,
it fell to the ground, and thereupon she made
a great lamentation. "Tell me, sister/' said
Peredur, "wherefore art thou bewailing?"
" Oh ! accursed Peredur, little pity has my ill-
fortune ever met with from thee."
"Wherefore," said Peredur, "am I ac-
cursed?" "Because thou wast the cause of
thy mother's death; for when thou didst ride
forth against her will, anguish seized upon her
heart, so that she died ; and therefore art thou
accursed. And the dwarf and the dwarfess
that thou sawest at Arthur's Court were the
dwarfs of thy father and mother; and I am thy
foster-sister, and this was my wedded husband,
and he was slain by the knight that is in the
glade in the wood; and do not thou go near
him, lest thou shouldest be slain by him like-
wise." "My sister, thou dost reproach me
wrongfully; through my having so long re-
mained amongst you, I shall scarcely vanquish
him; and had I continued longer, it would,
indeed, be difficult for me to succeed. Cease,
therefore, thy lamenting, for it is of no avail,
and I will bury the body, and then I will go
in quest of the knight, and see if I can do ven-
geance upon him." And when he had buried
the body, they went to the place where the
knight was, and found him riding proudly
along the glade; and he inquired of Peredur
whence he came. "I come from Arthur's
Court." "And art thou one of Arthur's men?"
"Yes, by my faith." "A profitable alliance,
truly, is that of Arthur." And without further
parlance, they encountered one another, and
immediately Peredur overthrew the knight,
and he besought mercy of Peredur. "Mercy
shalt thou have," said he, "upon these terms,
that thou take this woman in marriage, and
do her all the honour and reverence in thy
power, seeing thou hast, without cause, slain
her wedded husband; and that thou go to
Arthur's Court, and show him that it was I
that overthrew thee, to do him honour and
service; and that thou tell him that I will
never come to his Court again until I have met
with the tall man that is there, to take ven-
geance upon him for his insult to the dwarf
and dwarfess." And he took the knight's
assurance, that he would perform all this.
Then the knight provided the lady with a horse
and garments that were suitable for her, and
took her with him to Arthur's Court. And he
told Arthur all that had occurred, and gave
the defiance to Kai. And Arthur and all his
household reproved Kai, for having driven such
a youth as Peredur from his Court.
Said Owain the son of Urien, "This youth
will never come into the Court until Kai has
gone forth from it." "By my faith," said
Arthur, "I will search all the deserts in the
Island of Britain, until I find Peredur, and then
let him and his adversary do their utmost to
each other."
Then Peredur rode forward. And he came
to a desert wood, where he saw not the track
either of men or animals, and where there was
nothing but bushes and weeds. And at the
upper end of the wood he saw a vast castle,
wherein were many strong towers; and when
he came near the gate, he found the weeds talier
than he had seen them elsewhere. And he
struck the gate with the shaft of his lance, and
thereupon behold a lean, auburn-haired youth
came to an opening in the battlements.
"Choose thou, chieftain," said he, "whether
shall I open the gate unto thee, or shall I an-
nounce unto those that are chief, that thou
art at the gateway?" "Say that I am here,"
said Peredur, "and if it is desired that I should
enter, I will go in." And the youth came back,
and opened the gate for Peredur. And when
he went into the hall, he beheld eighteen
youths, lean and red-headed, of the same height,
and of the same aspect, and of the same dress,
and of the same age as the one who had opened
the gate for him. And they were well skilled
in courtesy and in service. And they disar-
rayed him. Then they sat down to discourse.
526
THE MABINOGION
Thereupon, behold five maidens came from
the chamber into the hall. And Peredur was
certain that he had never seen another of so
fair an aspect as the chief of the maidens.
And she had an old garment of satin upon her,
which had once been handsome, but was then
so tattered, that her skin could be seen through
it. And whiter was her skin than the bloom
of crystal, and her hair and her two eyebrows
were blacker than jet, and on her cheeks were
two red spots, redder than whatever is reddest.
And the maiden welcomed Peredur, and put her
arms about his neck, and made him sit down
beside her. Not long after this he saw two
nuns enter, and a flask full of wine was borne
by one, and six loaves of white bread by the
other. "Lady," said they, "Heaven is witness,
that there is not so much of food and liquor
as this left in yonder Convent this night."
Then they went to meat, and Peredur observed
that the maiden wished to give more of the food
and of the liquor to him than to any of
the others. "My sister," said Peredur,
"I will share out the food and the liquor."
"Not so, my soul," said she. "By my faith
but I will." So Peredur took the bread, and
he gave an equal portion of it to each alike,
as well as a cup full of the liquor. And when
it was time for them to sleep, a chamber
was prepared for Peredur, and he went to
rest.
"Behold, sister," said the youths to the
fairest and most exalted of the maidens, "we
have counsel for thee." "What may it be?"
she inquired. "Go to the youth that is in the
upper chamber, and offer to become his wife,
or the lady of his love, if it seem well to him."
"That were indeed unfitting," said she.
"Hitherto I have not been the lady-love of any
knight, and to make him such an offer before I am
wooed by him, that, truly, can I not do." "By
our confession to Heaven, unless thou actest
thus, we will leave thee here to thy enemies,
to do as they will with thee." And through
fear of this, the maiden went forth ; and shed-
ding tears, she proceeded to the chamber. And
with the noise of the door opening, Peredur
awoke; and the maiden was weeping and
lamenting. "Tell me, my sister," said Pere-
dur, "wherefore dost thou weep?" "I will
tell thee, lord," said she. "My father pos-
sessed these dominions as their chief, and this
palace was his, and with it he held the best
earldom in the kingdom; then the son of
another earl sought me of my father, and I was
not willing to be given unto him, and my father
would not give me against my will, either to
him or any earl in the world. And my father
had no child except myself. And after my
father's death, these dominions came into my
own hands, and then was I less willing to accept
him than before. So he made war upon me,
and conquered all my possessions, except this
one house. And through the valour of the
men whom thou hast seen, who are my foster-
brothers, and the strength of the house, it can
never be taken while food and drink remain.
And now our provisions are exhausted ; but, as
thou hast seen, we have been fed by the nuns,
to whom the country is free. And at length they
also are without supply of food or liquor. And
at no later date than to-morrow, the earl will
come against this place with all his forces;
and if I fall into his power, my fate will be no
better than to be given over to the grooms
of his horses. Therefore, lord, I am come to
offer to place myself in thy hands, that thou
mayest succour me, either by taking me hence,
or by defending me here, whichever may seem
best unto thee." "Go, my sister," said he,
"and sleep; nor will I depart from thee until
I do that which thou requirest, or prove whether
I can assist thee or not." The maiden went
again to rest; and the next morning she came
to Peredur, and saluted him. "Heaven prosper
thee, my soul, and what tidings dost thou
bring?" " None other, than that the earl and
all his forces have alighted at the gate, and I
never beheld any place so covered with tents,
and thronged with knights challenging others
to the combat." "Truly," said Peredur, "let
my horse be made ready." So his horse was
accoutred, and he arose and sallied forth to
the meadow. And there was a knight riding
proudly along the meadow, having raised the
signal for battle. And they encountered, and
Peredur threw the knight over his horse's
crupper to the ground. And at the close of the
day, one of the chief knights came to fight with
him, and he overthrew him also, so that he
besought his mercy. "Who art thou?" said
Peredur. "Verily," said he, "I am Master of
the Household to the earl." "And how much
of the countess's possessions is there in thy
power?" "The third part, verily," answered
he. "Then," said Peredur, "restore to her
the third of her possessions in full, and all the
profit thou hast made by them, and bring meat
and drink for a hundred men, with their horses
and arms, to her court this night. And thou
shalt remain her captive, unless she wish to
take thy life." And this he did forthwith.
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
527
And that night the maiden was right joyful,
and they fared plenteously.
And the next day Peredur rode forth to the
meadow ; and that day he vanquished a multi-
tude of the host. And at the close of the day,
there came a proud and stately knight, and
Peredur overthrew him, and he besought his
mercy. "Who art thou?" said Peredur. "I
am Steward of the Palace," said he. "And
how much of the maiden's possessions are un-
der thy control?" "One-third part," answered
he. "Verily," said Peredur, "thou shalt fully
restore to the maiden her possessions, and,
moreover, thou shalt give her meat and drink
for two hundred men, and their horses and
their arms. And for thyself, thou shalt be
her captive." And immediately it was so
done.
And the third day Peredur rode forth to the
meadow; and he vanquished more that day
than on either of the preceding. And at the
close of the day, an earl came to encounter him,
and he overthrew him, and he besought his
mercy. "Who art thou?" said Peredur. "I
am the earl," said he. "I will not conceal
it from thee." "Verily," said Peredur, "thou
shalt restore the whole of the maiden's earldom,
and shalt give her thine own earldom in addi-
tion thereto, and meat and drink for three
hundred men, and their horses and arms, and
thou thyself shalt remain in her power." And
thus it was fulfilled. And Peredur tarried
three weeks in the country, causing tribute and
obedience to be paid to the maiden, and the
government to be placed in her hands. "With
thy leave," said Peredur, "I will go hence."
"Verily, my brother, desirest thou this?"
"Yes, by my faith; and had it not been for
love of thee, I should not have been here thus
long." "My soul," said she, "who art thou?"
"I am Peredur the son of Evrawc from the
North; and if ever thou art in trouble or in
danger, acquaint me therewith, and if I can, I
will protect thee."
So Peredur rode forth. And far thence there
met him a lady, mounted on a horse that was
lean, and covered with sweat ; and she saluted
the youth. "Whence comest thou, my sister?"
Then she told him the cause of her journey.
Now she was the wife of the Lord of the Glade.
"Behold," said he, "I am the knight through
whom thou art in trouble, and he shall repent it,
who has treated thee thus." Thereupon, be-
hold a knight rode up, and he inquired of
Peredur, if he had seen a knight such as he
was seeking. "Hold thy peace," said Peredur,
"I am he whom thou seekest ; and by my faith,
thou deservest ill of thy household for thy
treatment of the maiden, for she is innocent
concerning me." So they encountered, and
they were not long in combat ere Peredur over-
threw the knight, and he besought his mercy.
"Mercy thou shalt have," said Peredur, "so
thou wilt return by the way thou earnest, and
declare that thou boldest the maiden innocent,
and so that thou wilt acknowledge unto her the
reverse thou hast sustained at my hands."
And the knight plighted him his faith thereto.
Then Peredur rode forward. And above
him he beheld a castle, and thitherward he
went. And he struck upon the gate with his
lance, and then, behold, a comely auburn-
haired youth opened the gate, and he had the
stature of a warrior, and the years of a boy.
And when Peredur came into the hall,
there was a tall and stately lady sitting in a
chair, and many handmaidens around her;
and the lady rejoiced at his coming. And
when it was time, they went to meat. And
after their repast was finished, "It were well
for thee, chieftain," said she, "to go elsewhere
to sleep." "Wherefore can I not sleep here?"
said Peredur. "Nine sorceresses are here,
my soul, of the sorceresses of Gloucester, and
their father and their mother are with them;
and unless we can make our escape before
daybreak, we shall be slain; and already they
have conquered and laid waste all the country,
except this one dwelling." "Behold," said
Peredur, "I will remain here to-night, and if
you are in trouble, I will do you what service
I can; but harm shall you not receive from
me." So they went to rest. And with the
break of day, Peredur heard a dreadful outcry.
And he hastily arose, and went forth in his vest
and his doublet, with his sword about his neck,
and he saw a sorceress overtake one of the
watch, who cried out violently. Peredur at-
tacked the sorceress, and struck her upon the
head with his sword, so that he flattened her
helmet and her headpiece like a dish upon her
head. "Thy mercy, goodly Peredur, son of
Evrawc, and the mercy of Heaven." "How
knowest thou, hag, that I am Peredur?" "By
destiny, and the foreknowledge that I should
suffer harm from thee. And thou shalt take
a horse and armour of me; and with me thou
shalt go to learn chivalry and the use of thy
arms." Said Peredur, "Thou shalt have
mercy, if thou pledge thy faith thou wilt never
more injure the dominions of the Countess."
And Peredur took surety of this, and with
528
THE MABINOGION
permission of the Countess, he set forth with the
sorceress to the palace of the sorceresses. And
there he remained for three weeks, and then
he made choice of a horse and arms, and went
his way.
And in the evening he entered a valley, and
at the head of the valley he came to a hermit's
cell, and the hermit welcomed him gladly,
and there he spent the night. And in the morn-
ing he arose, and when he went forth, behold
a shower of snow had fallen the night before,
and a hawk had killed a wild fowl in front of
the cell. And the noise of the horse scared" the
hawk away, and a raven alighted upon the bird.
And Peredur stood, and compared the black-
ness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow,
and the redness of the blood, to the hair of the
lady that best he loved, which was blacker than
jet, and to her skin, which was whiter than the
snow, and to the two red spots upon her cheeks,
which were redder than the blood upon the
snow appeared to be.
Now Arthur and his household were in search
of Peredur. "Know ye," said Arthur, "who is
the knight with the long spear that stands by
the brook up yonder?" "Lord," said one of
them, "I will go and learn who he is." So the
youth came to the place where Peredur was,
and asked him what he did thus, and who he
was. And from the intensity with which he
thought upon the lady whom best he loved,
he gave him no answer. Then the youth thrust
at Peredur with his lance, and Peredur turned
upon him, and struck him over his horse's
crupper to the ground. And after this, four-
and-twenty youths came to him, and he did
not answer one more than another, but gave
the same reception to all, bringing them with
one single thrust to the ground. And then came
Kai, and spoke to Peredur rudely and angrily;
and Peredur took him with his lance under the
jaw, and cast him from him with a thrust, so
that he broke his arm and his shoulder-blade,
and he rode over him one-and-twenty times.
And while he lay thus, stunned with the vio-
lence of the pain that he had suffered, his horse
returned back at a wild and prancing pace.
And when the household saw the horse come
back without his rider, they rode forth in haste
to the place where the encounter had been.
And when they first came there, they thought
that Kai was slain; but they found that if he
had a skilful physician, he yet might live.
And Peredur moved not from his meditation,
on seeing the concourse that was around Kai.
And Kai was brought to Arthur's tent, and
Arthur caused skilful physicians to come to
him. And Arthur was grieved that Kai had
met with this reverse, for he loved him greatly.
"Then," said Gwalchmai, "it is not fitting
that any should disturb an honourable knight
from his thought unadvisedly; for either he is
pondering some damage that he has sustained,
or he is thinking of the lady whom best he loves.
And through such ill-advised proceeding, per-
chance this misadventure has befallen him
who last met with him. And if it seem well to
thee, lord, I will go and see if this knight has
changed from his thought; and if he has, I
will ask him courteously to come and visit
thee." Then Kai was wroth, and he spoke
angry and spiteful words. "Gwalchmai,"
said he, "I know that thou wilt bring him
because he is fatigued. Little praise and hon-
our, nevertheless, wilt thou have from van-
quishing a weary knight, who is tired with
fighting. Yet thus hast thou gained the ad-
vantage over many. And while thy speech and
thy soft words last, a coat of thin linen were
armour sufficient for thee, and thou wilt not
need to break either lance or sword in fighting
with the knight in the state he is in." Then
said Gwalchmai to Kai, "Thou mightest use
more pleasant words, wert thou so minded;
and it behoves thee not upon me to wreak thy
wrath and thy displeasure. Methinks I shall
bring the knight hither with me without break-
ing either my arm or my shoulder." Then
said Arthur to Gwalchmai, "Thou speakest
like a wise and prudent man; go, and take
enough of armour about thee, and choose thy
horse." And Gwalchmai accoutred himself,
and rode forward hastily to the place where
Peredur was.
And Peredur was resting on the shaft of his
spear, pondering the same thought, and Gwalch-
mai came to him without any signs of hos-
tility, and said to him, "If I thought that it
would be as agreeable to thee as it would be to
me, I would converse with thee. I have also
a message from Arthur unto thee, to pray thee
to come and visit him. And two men have
been before on this errand." "That is true,"
said Peredur, "and un courteously they came.
They attacked me, and I was annoyed thereat,
for it was not pleasing to me to be drawn from
the thought that I was in, for I was thinking of
the lady whom best I love, and thus was she
brought to my mind: — I was looking upon
the snow, and upon the raven, and upon the
drops of the blood of the bird that the hawk
had killed upon the snow. And I bethought
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
529
me that her whiteness was like that of the snow,
and that the blackness of her hair and her eye-
brows like that of the raven, and that the two
red spots upon her cheek were like the two
drops of blood." Said Gwalchmai, "This was
not an ungentle thought, and I should marvel
if it were pleasant to thee to be drawn from it."
"Tell me," said Peredur, "is Kai in Arthur's
Court?" "He is," said he, "and behold he
is the knight that fought with thee last; and it
would have been better for him had he not
come, for his arm and his shoulder-blade were
broken with the fall which he had from thy
spear." "Verily," said Peredur, "I am not
sorry to have thus begun to avenge the in-
sult to the dwarf and dwarf ess." Then
Gwalchmai marvelled to hear him speak of the
dwarf and the dwarfess; and he approached
him, and threw his arms around his neck, and
asked him what was his name. "Peredur the
son of Evrawc am I called," said he; "and
thou, who art thou ? " "I am called Gwalch-
mai," he replied. "I am right glad to meet
with thee," said Peredur, "for in every country
where I have been I have heard of thy fame
for prowess and uprightness, and I solicit thy
fellowship." "Thou shalt have it, by my
faith, and grant me thine," said he. "Gladly
will I do so," answered Peredur.
So they rode forth together joyfully towards
the place where Arthur was, and when Kai
saw them coming, he said," I knew that Gwalch-
mai needed not to fight the knight. And it
is no wonder that he should gain fame; more
can he do by his fair words than I by the
strength of my arm." And Peredur went with
Gwalchmai to his tent, and they took off their
armour. And Peredur put on garments like
those that Gwalchmai wore, and they went
together unto Arthur, and saluted him. " Be-
hold, lord," said Gwalchmai, " him whom thou
hast sought so long." "Welcome unto thee,
chieftain," said Arthur. "With me thou shalt
remain; and had I known thy valour had been
such, thou shouldst not have left me as thou
didst; nevertheless, this was predicted of thee
'by the dwarf and the dwarfess, whom Kai ill-
treated and whom thou hast avenged." And
hereupon, behold there came the Queen and
her handmaidens, and Peredur saluted them.
And they were rejoiced to see him, and bade him
welcome. And Arthur did him great honour
and respect, and they returned towards Caer-
lleon.
And the first night Peredur came to Caerlleon
to Arthur's Court, and as he walked in the city
after his repast, behold, there met him An-
gharad Law Eurawc. " By my faith, sister,"
said Peredur, "thou art a beauteous and lovely
maiden; and, were it pleasing to thee, I could
love thee above all women." "I pledge my
faith," said she, "that I do not love thee, nor
will I ever do so." "I also pledge my faith,"
said Peredur, "that I will never speak a word
to any Christian again, until thou come to love
me above all men."
The next day Peredur went forth by the high
road, along a mountain -ridge, and he saw a
valley of a circular form, the confines of which
were rocky and wooded. And the flat part of
the valley was in meadows, and there were
fields betwixt the meadows and the wood.
And in the bosom of the wood he saw large
black houses of uncouth workmanship. And
he dismounted, and led his horse towards the
wood. And a little way within the wood he
saw a rocky ledge, along which the road lay.
And upon the ledge was a lion bound by a chain,
and sleeping. And beneath the lion he saw
a deep pit of immense size, full of the bones
of men and animals. And Peredur drew his
sword and struck the lion, so that he fell into
the mouth of the pit and hung there by the
chain; and with a second blow he struck the
chain and broke it, and the lion fell into the
pit; and Peredur led his horse over the rocky
ledge, until he came into the valley. And in
the centre of the valley he saw a fair castle, and
he went towards it. And in the meadow by
the castle he beheld a huge gray man sitting,
who was larger than any man he had ever be-
fore seen. And two young pages were shooting
the hilts of their daggers, of the bone of the sea-
horse. And one of the pages had red hair, and
the other auburn. And they went before him
to the place where the gray man was, and
Peredur saluted him. And the gray man said,
"Disgrace to the beard of my porter." Then
Peredur understood that the porter was the
lion. — And the gray man and the pages went
together into the castle, and Peredur accom-
panied them; and he found it a fair and noble
place. And they proceeded to the hall, and
the tables were already laid, and upon them
was abundance of food and liquor. And there-
upon he saw an aged woman and a young wo-
man come from the chamber; and they were
the most stately women he had ever seen.
Then they washed and went to meat, and the
gray man sat in the upper seat at the head of the
table, and the aged woman next to him. And
Peredur and the maiden were placed together,
53°
THE MABINOGION
and the two young pages served them. And
the maiden gazed sorrowfully upon Peredur,
and Peredur asked the maiden wherefore she
was sad. " For thee, my soul ; for, from when
I first beheld thee, I have loved thee above all
men. And it pains me to know that so gentle
a youth as thou should have such a doom
as awaits thee to-morrow. Sawest thou the
numerous black houses in the bosom of the
wood? All these belong to the vassals of the
gray man yonder, who is my father. And they
are all giants. And to-morrow they will rise
up against thee, and will slay thee. And the
Round Valley is this valley called." "Listen,
fair maiden, wilt thou contrive that my horse
and arms be in the same lodging with me to-
night?" "Gladly will I cause it so to be, by
Heaven, if I can."
And when it was time for them to sleep rather
than to carouse, they went to rest. Arid the
maiden caused Peredur's horse and arms to be
in the same lodging with him. And the next
morning Peredur heard a great tumult of men
and horses around the castle. And Peredur
arose, and armed himself and his horse, and
went to the meadow. Then the aged woman
and the maiden came to the gray man : " Lord,"
said they, " take the word of the youth, that he
will never disclose what he has seen in this
place, and we will be his sureties that he keep
it." "I will not do so, by my faith," said the
gray man. So Peredur fought with the host,
and towards evening he had slain the one-third
of them without receiving any hurt himself.
Then said the aged woman, "Behold, many
of thy host have been slain by the youth; do
thou, therefore, grant him mercy." "I will
not grant it, by my faith," said he. And the
aged woman and the fair maiden were upon the
battlements of the castle, looking forth. And
at that juncture, Peredur encountered the
yellow -haired youth and slew him. "Lord,"
said the maiden, "grant the young man
mercy." "That will I not do, by Heaven," he
replied; and thereupon Peredur attacked the
auburn-haired youth, and slew him likewise.
"It were better thou hadst accorded mercy
to the youth before he had slain thy two sons;
for now scarcely wilt thou thyself escape from
him." "Go, maiden, and beseech the youth
to grant mercy unto us, for we yield ourselves
into his hands." So the maiden came to the
place where Peredur was, and besought mercy
for her father, and for all such of his vassals
as had escaped alive. "Thou shalt have it,
on condition that thy father and all that are
under him go and render homage to Arthur,
and tell him that it was his vassal Peredur
that did him this service." "This will we do
willingly, by Heaven." "And you shall also
receive baptism; and I will send to Arthur,
and beseech him to bestow this valley upon thee
and upon thy heirs after thee forever." Then
they went in, and the gray man and the tall
woman saluted Peredur. And the gray man
said unto him, "Since I have possessed this
valley I have not seen any Christian depart
with his life, save thyself. And we will go to
do homage to Arthur, and to embrace the faith
and be baptized." Then said Peredur, "To
Heaven I render thanks that I have not broken
my vow to the lady that best I love, which was,
that I would not speak one word unto any
Christian."
That night they tarried there. And the next
day, in the morning, the gray man, with his
company, set forth to Arthur's Court; and
they did homage unto Arthur, and he caused
them to be baptized. And the gray man told
Arthur that it was Peredur that had vanquished
them. And Arthur gave the valley to the gray
man and his company, to hold it of him as
Peredur had besought. And with Arthur's
permission, the gray man went back to the
Round Valley.
Peredur rode forward next day, and he trav-
ersed a vast tract of desert, in which no dwell-
ings were. And at length he came to a habi-
tation, mean and small. And there he heard
that there was a serpent that lay upon a gold
ring, and suffered none to inhabit the country
for seven miles around. And Peredur came
to the place where he heard the serpent was.
And angrily, furiously, and desperately fought
he with the serpent; and at last he killed it,
and took away the ring. And thus he was
for a long time without speaking a word to any
Christian. And therefrom he lost his colour
and his aspect, through extreme longing after
the Court of Arthur, and the society of the
lady whom best he loved, and of his compan-
ions. Then he proceeded forward to Arthur's
Court, and on the road there met him Arthur's
household going on a particular errand, with
Kai at their head. And Peredur knew them
all, but none of the household recognised him.
"Whence comest thou, chieftain?" said Kai.
And this he asked him twice and three times,
and he answered him not. And Kai thrust
him through the thigh with his lance. And
lest he should be compelled to speak, and to
break his vow, he went on without stopping.
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
"Then," said Gwalchmai, "I declare to
Heaven, Kai, that thou hast acted ill in com-
mitting such an outrage on a youth like this,
who cannot speak." And Gwalchmai returned
back to Arthur's Court. "Lady," said he
to Gwenhwyvar, "seest thou how wicked an
outrage Kai has committed upon this youth
who cannot speak ; for Heaven's sake, and for
mine, cause him to have medical care before I
come back, and I will repay thee the charge."
And before the men returned from their
errand, a knight came to the meadow beside
Arthur's Palace, to dare some one to the en-
counter. And his challenge was accepted;
and Peredur fought with him, and overthrew
him. And for a week he overthrew one knight
every day.
And one day, Arthur and his household were
going to Church, and they beheld a knight who
had raised the signal for combat. "Verily,"
said Arthur, "by the valour of men, I will not
go hence until I have my horse and my arms
to overthrow yonder boor." Then went the
attendants to fetch Arthur's horse and arms.
And Peredur met the attendants as they were
going back, and he took the horse and arms
from them, and proceeded to the meadow;
and all those who saw him arise and go to do
battle with the knight, went upon the tops
of the houses,, and the mounds, and the high
places, to behold the combat. And Peredur
beckoned with his hand to the knight to com-
mence the fight. And the knight thrust at him,
but he was not thereby moved from where he
stood. And Peredur spurred his horse, and ran
at him wrathfully, furiously, fiercely, desper-
ately, and with mighty rage, and he gave him a
thrust, deadly-wounding, severe, furious, adroit,
and strong, under his jaw, and raised him out
of his saddle, and cast him a long way from
him. And Peredur went back, and left the
horse and the arms with the attendant as be-
fore, and he went on foot to the Palace.
Then Peredur went by the name of the
Dumb Youth. And behold, Angharad Law
Eurawc met him. "I declare to Heaven,
chieftain," said she, "woeful is it that thou
canst not speak; for couldst thou speak, I
would love thee best of all men; and by my
faith, although thou canst not, I do love thee
above all." "Heaven reward thee, my sister,"
said Peredur, "by my faith I also do love thee."
Thereupon it was known that he was Peredur.
And then he held fellowship with Gwalchmai,
and Owain the son of Urien, and all the house-
hold, and he remained in Arthur's Court.
Arthur was in Caerlleon upon Usk ; and he
went to hunt, and Peredur went with him.
And Peredur let loose his dog upon a hart,
and the dog killed the hart in a desert place.
And a short space from him he saw signs of a
dwelling, and towards the dwelling he went,
and he beheld a hall, and at the door of the
hall he found bald swarthy youths playing at
chess. And when he entered, he beheld three
maidens sitting on a bench, and they were all
clothed alike, as became persons of high rank.
And he came, and sat by them upon the bench ;
and one of the maidens looked steadfastly
upon Peredur, and wept. And Peredur asked
her wherefore she was weeping. "Through
grief, that I should see so fair a youth as thou
art, slain." "Who will slay me?" inquired
Peredur. " If thou art so daring as to remain
here to-night, I will tell thee." "How great
soever my danger may be from remaining here, I
will listen unto thee." "This Palace is owned
by him who is my father," said the maiden,
"and he slays every one who comes hither
without his leave." "What sort of a man is
thy father, that he is able to slay every one
thus ? " "A man who does violence and wrong
unto his neighbours, and who renders justice
unto none." And hereupon he saw the youths
arise and clear the chessmen from the board.
And he heard a great tumult; and after the
tumult there came in a huge black one-eyed
man, and the maidens arose to meet him.
And they disarrayed him, and he went and sat
down; and after he had rested and pondered
awhile, he looked at Peredur, and asked who
the knight was. "Lord," said one of the maid-
ens, "he is the fairest and gentlest youth that
ever thou didst see. And for the sake of
Heaven, and of thine own dignity, have patience
with him." "For thy sake I will have patience,
and I will grant him his life this night." Then
Peredur came towards them to the fire, and
partook of food and liquor, and entered into
discourse with the ladies. And being elated
with the liquor, he said to the black man, "It
is a marvel to me, so mighty as thou sayest
thou art, who could have put out thine eye."
"It is one of my habits," said the black man,
"that whosoever puts to me the question which
thou hast asked, shall not escape with his life,
either as a free gift or for a price." "Lord,"
said the maiden, "whatsoever he may say to
thee in jest, and through the excitement of
liquor, make good that which thou saidst and
didst promise me just now." " I will do so,
gladly, for thy sake," said he. "Willingly
532
THE MABINOGION
will I grant him his life this night." And that
night thus they remained.
And the next day the black man got up, and
put on his armour, and said to Peredur, "Arise,
man, and suffer death." And Peredur said
unto him, "Do one of two things, black man;
if thou wilt fight with me, either throw off thy
own armour, or give arms to me, that I may
encounter thee." "Ha, man," said he,
" couldst thou fight, if thou hadst arms ? Take,
then, what arms thou dost choose." And
thereupon the maiden came to Peredur with
such arms as pleased him; and he fought with
the black man, and forced him to crave his
mercy. "Black man, thou shalt have mercy,
provided thou tell me who thou art, and who
put out thine eye." "Lord, I will tell thee;
I lost it in fighting with the Black Serpent of the
Cam. There is a mound, which is called the
Mound of Mourning; and on the mound there
is a earn, and in the earn there is a serpent, and
on the tail of the serpent there is a stone, and
the virtues of the stone are such, that whosoever
should hold it in one hand, in the other he will
have as much gold as he may desire. And in
fighting with this serpent was it that I lost my
eye. And the Black Oppressor am I called.
And for this reason I am called the Black Op-
pressor, that there is not a single man around
me whom I have not oppressed, and justice
have I done unto none." "Tell me," said
Peredur, "how far is it hence?" "The same
day that thou settest forth, thou wilt come to the
Palace of the Sons of the King of the Tortures."
"Wherefore are they called thus?" "The
Addanc of the Lake slays them once every day.
When thou goest thence, thou wilt come to the
Court of the Countess of the Achievements."
"What achievements are there?" asked Pere-
dur. "Three hundred men there are in her
household, and unto every stranger that comes
to the Court, the achievements of her house-
hold are related. And this is the manner of it,
— the three hundred men of the household sit
next unto the Lady; and that not through
disrespect unto the guests, but that they may
relate the achievements of the household.
And the day that thou goest thence, thou wilt
reach the Mound of Mourning, and round about
the mound there are the owners of three
hundred tents guarding the serpent." "Since
thou hast, indeed, been an oppressor so long,"
said Peredur, "I will cause that thou continue
so no longer." So he slew him.
Then the maiden spoke, and began to con-
verse with him. "If thou wast poor when
thou earnest here, henceforth thou wilt be rich
through the treasure of the black man whom
thou hast slain. Thou seest the many lovely
maidens that there are in this Court; thou
shalt have her whom thou best likest for the
lady of thy love." "Lady, I came not hither
from my country to woo ; but match yourselves
as it liketh you with the comely youths I see
here; and none of your goods do I desire,
for I need them not." Then Peredur rode
forward, and he came to the Palace of the Sons
of the King of the Tortures; and when he
entered the Palace, he saw none but women;
and they rose up, and were joyful at his com-
ing; and as they began to discourse with him,
he beheld a charger arrive, with a saddle upon
it, and a corpse in the saddle. And one of the
women arose, and took the corpse from the
saddle, and anointed it in a vessel of warm
water, which was below the door, and placed
precious balsam upon it; and the man rose up
alive, and came to the place where Peredur
was, and greeted him, and was joyful to see
him. And two other men came in upon their
saddles, and the maiden treated these two in the
same manner as she had done the first. Then
Peredur asked the chieftain wherefore it was
thus. And they told him, that there was an
Addanc in a cave, which slew them once every
day. And thus they remained that night.
And next morning the youths arose to sally
forth, and Peredur besought them, for the sake
of the ladies of their love, to permit him to go
with them; but they refused him, saying, "If
thou shouldst be slain there, thou hast none to
bring thee back to life again." And they rode
forward, and Peredur followed after them;
and, after they had disappeared out of his sight,
he came to a mound, whereon sat the fairest
lady he had ever beheld. "I know thy quest,"
said she; "thou art going to encounter the
Addanc, and he will slay thee, and that not by
courage, but by craft. He has a cave, and at
the entrance of the cave there is a stone pillar,
and he sees every one that enters, and none see
him ; and from behind the pillar he slays every
one with a poisonous dart. And if thou
wouldst pledge me thy faith to love me above
all women, I would give thee a stone, by which
thou shouldst see him when thou goest in, and
he should not see thee." "I will, by my troth,"
said Peredur, "for when first I beheld thee I
loved thee; and where shall I seek thee?"
" When thou seekest me, seek towards India."
And the maiden vanished, after placing the
stone in Peredur's hand.
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
533
And he came towards a valley, through which
ran a river; and the borders of the valley were
wooded, and on each side of the river were
level meadows. And on one side of the river
he saw a flock of white sheep, and on the other
a flock of black sheep. And whenever one
of the white sheep bleated, one of the black
sheep would cross over and become white;
and when one of the black sheep bleated, one
of the white sheep would cross over and become
black. And he saw a tall tree by the side of the
river, one half of which was in flames from the
root to the top, and the other half was green
and in full leaf. And nigh thereto he saw
a youth sitting upon a mound, and two grey-
hounds, white-breasted and spotted, in leashes,
lying by his side. And certain was he that he
had never seen a youth of so royal a bearing
as he. And in the wood opposite he heard
hounds raising a herd of deer. And Peredur
saluted the youth, and the youth greeted him
in return. And there were three roads leading
from the mound ; two of them were wide roads,
and the third was more narrow. And Peredur
inquired where the three roads went. " One of
them goes to my palace," said the youth; "and
one of two things I counsel thee to do; either
to proceed to my palace, which is before thee,
and where thou wilt find my wife, or else to
remain here to see the hounds chasing the
roused deer from the wood to the plain. And
thou shalt see the best greyhounds thou didst
ever behold, and the boldest in the chase, kill
them by the water beside us; and when it is
time to go to meat, my page will come with my
horse to meet me, and thou shalt rest in my
palace to-night." "Heaven reward thee; but
I cannot tarry, for onward must I go." "The
other road leads to the town, which is near here,
and wherein food and liquor may be bought;
and the road which is narrower than the others
goes towards the cave of the Addanc." " With
thy'permission, young man, I will go that way."
And Peredur went towards the cave. And
he took the stone in his left hand, and his lance
in his right. And as he went in he perceived
the Addanc, and he pierced him through with
his lance, and cut off his head. And as he
came from the cave, behold the three compan-
ions were at the entrance; and they saluted
Peredur, and told him that there was a pre-
diction that he should slay that monster.
And Peredur gave the head to the young men,
and they offered him in marriage whichever of
the three sisters he might choose, and half their
kingdom with her. "I came not hither to
woo," said Peredur, "but if peradventure I
took a wife, I should prefer your sister to all
others." And Peredur rode forward, and he
heard a noise behind him. And he looked
back, and saw a man upon a red horse, with red
armour upon him; and the man rode up by
his side, and saluted him, and wished him the
favour of Heaven and of man. And Peredur
greeted the youth kindly. "Lord, I come to
make a request unto thee." " What wouldest
thou?" "That thou shouldest take me as
thine attendant." "Whom then should I take
as my attendant, if I did so?" "I will not
conceal from thee what kindred I am of.
Etlym Gleddyv Coch am I called, an Earl
from the East Country." " I marvel that thou
shouldest offer to become attendant to a man
whose possessions are no greater than thine
own; for I have but an earldom like thyself.
But since thou desirest to be my attendant, I
will take thee joyfully."
And they went forward to the Court of the
Countess, and all they of the Court were glad
at their coming; and they were told it was not
through disrespect they were placed below the
household, but that such was the usage of
the Court. For, whoever should overthrow the
three hundred men of her household, would sit
next the Countess, and she would love him
above all men. And Peredur having over-
thrown the three hundred men of her house-
hold, sat down beside her, and the Countess
said, "I thank Heaven that I have a youth so
fair and so valiant as thou, since I have not
obtained the man whom best I love." "Who
is he whom best thou lovest?" "By my
faith, Etlym Gleddyv Coch is the man whom I
love best, and I have never seen him." " Of a
truth, Etlym is my companion ; and behold here
he is, and for his sake did I come to joust with
thy household. And he could have done so
better than I, had it pleased him. And I do
give thee unto him." " Heaven reward thee,
fair youth, and I will take the man whom I
love above all others." And the Countess be-
came Etlym's bride from that moment.
And the next day Peredur set forth towards
the Mound of Mourning. " By thy hand, lord,
but I will go with thee," said Etlym. Then
they went forwards till they came in sight of the
mound and the tents. " Go unto yonder men,"
said Peredur to Etlym, " and desire them to
come and do me homage." So Etlym went unto
them, and said unto them thus, — " Come and
do homage to my lord." "Who is thy lord?"
said they. " Peredur with the long lance is my
534
THE MABINOGION
lord," said Etlym. "Were it permitted to slay
a messenger, thou shouldest not go back to thy
lord alive, for making unto Kings, and Earls,
and Barons so arrogant a 'demand as to go and
do him homage." Peredur desired him to go
back to them, and to give them their choice,
either to do him homage, or to do battle with
him. And they chose rather to do battle.
And that day Peredur overthrew the owners of
a hundred tents; and the next day he over-
threw the owners of a hundred more; and the
third day the remaining hundred took counsel
to do homage to Peredur. And Peredur in-
quired of them, wherefore they were there.
And they told him they were guarding the ser-
pent until he should die. " For then should we
fight for the stone among ourselves, and who-
ever should be conqueror among us would
have the stone." " Await here," said Peredur,
"and I will go to encounter the serpent."
"Not so, lord," said they; "we will go alto-
gether to encounter the serpent." "Verily,"
said Peredur, "that will I not permit; for if
the serpent be slain, I shall derive no more fame
therefrom than one of you." Then he went to
the place where the serpent was, and slew it,
and came back to them, and said, " Reckon
up what you have spent since you have been
here, and I will repay you to the full." And
he paid to each what he said was his claim.
And he required of them only that they should
acknowledge themselves his vassals. And he
said to Etlym, " Go back unto her whom thou
lovest best, and I will go forwards, and I will
reward thee for having been my attendant."
And he gave Etlym the stone. " Heaven repay
thee and prosper thee," said Etlym.
And Peredur rode thence, and he came to the
fairest valley he had ever seen, through which
ran a river; and there he beheld many tents
of various colours. And he marvelled still
more at the number of water-mills and of wind-
mills that he saw. And there rode up with him
a tall auburn-haired man, in a workman's
garb, and Peredur inquired of him who he
was. "I am the chief miller," said he, "of
all the mills yonder." " Wilt thou give me
lodging?" said Peredur. "I will, gladly," he
answered. And Peredur came to the miller's
house, and the miller had a fair and pleasant
dwelling. And Peredur asked money as a
loan from the miller, that he might buy meat and
liquor for himself and for the household, and
he promised that he would pay him again
ere he went thence. And he inquired of the
miller, wherefore such a multitude was there
assembled. Said the miller to Peredur, " One
thing is certain: either thou art a man from
afar, or thou art beside thyself. The Empress
of Christinobyl the Great is here; and she will
have no one but the man who is most valiant ;
for riches does she not require. And it was
impossible to bring food for so many thou-
sands as are here, therefore were all these
mills constructed." And that night they took
their rest.
And the next day Peredur arose, and he
equipped himself and his horse for the tourna-
ment. And among the other tents he beheld
one, which was the fairest he had ever seen.
And he saw a beauteous maiden leaning her
head out of a window of the tent, and he had
never seen a maiden more lovely than she.
And upon her was a garment of satin. And he
gazed fixedly on the maiden, and began to love
her greatly. And he remained there, gazing
upon the maiden from morning until mid-day,
and from mid-day until evening; and then the
tournament was ended, and he went to his
lodging and drew off his armour. Then he
asked money of the miller as a loan, and the
miller's wife was wroth with Peredur; never-
theless, the miller lent him the money. And
the next day he did in like manner as he had
done the day before. And at night he came to
his lodging, and took money as a loan from the
miller. And the third day, as he was in the
same place, gazing upon the maiden, he felt
a hard blow between the neck and the shoulder,
from the edge of an axe. And when he looked
behind him, he saw that it was the miller;
and the miller said to him, "Do one of two
things: either turn thy head from hence,
or go to the tournament." And Peredur
smiled on the miller, and went to the tourna-
ment; and all that encountered him that day
he overthrew. And as many as he vanquished
he sent as a gift to the Empress, and their horses
and arms he sent as a gift to the wife of the
miller, in payment of the borrowed money.
Peredur attended the tournament until all were
overthrown, and he sent all the men to the
prison of the Empress, and the horses and arms
to the wife of the miller, in payment of the bor-
rowed money. And the Empress sent to the
Knight of the Mill, to ask him to come and
visit her. And Peredur went not for the first
nor for the second message. And the third
time she sent a hundred knights to bring him
against his will, and they went to him and told
him their mission from the Empress. And
Peredur fought well with them, and caused
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
535
them to be. bound like stags, and thrown into
the mill-dike. And the Empress sought ad-
vice of a wise man who was in her counsel;
and he said to her, "With thy permission, I
will go to him myself." So he came to Peredur,
and saluted him, and besought him, for the sake
of the lady of his love, to come and visit the
Empress. And they went, together with the
miller. And Peredur went and sat down in
the outer chamber of the tent, and she came
and placed herself by his side. And there
was but little discourse between them. And
Peredur took his leave, and went to his
lodging.
And the next day he came to visit her, and
when he came into the tent there was no one
chamber less decorated than the others. And
they knew not where he would sit. And Peredur
went and sat beside the Empress, and discoursed
with her courteously. And while they were
thus, they beheld a black man enter with a
goblet full of wine in his hand. And he dropped
upon his knee before the Empress, and besought
her to give it to no one who would not fight with
him for it. And she looked upon Peredur.
"Lady," said he, "bestow on me the goblet."
And Peredur drank the wine, and gave the gob-
let to the miller's wife. And while they were
thus, behold there entered a black man of
larger stature than the other, with a wild beast's
claw in his hand, wrought into the form of a
goblet and filled with wine. And he presented
it to the Empress, and besought her to give it
to no one but the man who would fight with him.
"Lady," said Peredur, "bestow it on me."
And she gave it to him. And Peredur drank
the wine, and sent the goblet to the wife of the
miller. And while they were thus, behold a
rough -look ing, crisp-haired man, taller than
either of the others, came in with a bowl in his
hand full of wine; and he bent upon his knee,
and gave it into the hands of the Empress, and
he besought her to give it to none but him who
would fight with him for it; and she gave it to
Peredur, and he sent it to the miller's wife.
And that night Peredur returned to his lodging;
and the next day he accoutred himself and his
horse, and went to the meadow and slew the
three men. Then Peredur proceeded to the
tent, and the Empress said to him, "Goodly
Peredur, remember the faith thou didst pledge
me when I gave thee the stone, and thou didst
kill the Addanc." "Lady," answered he,
"thou sayest truth, I do remember it." And
Peredur was entertained by the Empress four-
teen years, as the story relates.
Arthur was at Caerlleon upon Usk, his
principal palace; and in the centre of the floor
of the hall were four men sitting on a carpet of
velvet, Owain the son of Urien, and Gwalchmai
the son of Gwyar, and Howel the son of Emyr
Llydaw, and Peredur of the long lance. And
thereupon they saw a black curly-headed
maiden enter, riding upon a yellow mule,
with jagged thongs in her hand to urge it on;
and havinga rough and hideous aspect. Blacker
were her face and her two hands than the
blackest iron covered with pitch; and her hue
was not more frightful than her form. High
cheeks had she, and a face lengthened down-
wards, and a short nose with distended nostrils.
And one eye was of a piercing mottled gray,
and the other was as black as jet, deep sunk
in her head. And her teeth were long and
yellow, more yellow were they than the flower
of the broom. And her stomach rose from
the breast-bone, higher than her chin. And
her back was in the shape of a crook, and her
legs were large and bony. And her figure was
very thin and spare, except her feet and her
legs, which were of huge size. And she
greeted Arthur and all his household except
Peredur. And to Peredur she spoke harsh
and angry words. "Peredur, I greet thee not,
seeing that thou dost not merit it. Blind was
fate in giving thee fame and favour. When
thou wast in the Court of the Lame King,
and didst see there the youth bearing the stream-
ing spear, from the points of which were drops
of blood flowing in streams, even to the hand
of the youth, and many other wonders likewise,
thou didst not inquire their meaning nor their
cause. Hadst thou done so, the King would
have been restored to health, and his domin-
ions to peace. Whereas from henceforth, he
will have to endure battles and conflicts, and
his knights will perish, and wives will be
widowed, and maidens will be left portionless,
and all this is because of thee." Then said
she unto Arthur, " May it please thee, lord, my
dwelling is far hence, in the stately castle of
which thou hast heard, and therein are five
hundred and sixty-six knights of the order of
Chivalry, and the lady whom best he loves with
each; and whoever would acquire fame in
arms, and encounters, and conflicts, he will gain
it there, if he deserve it. And whoso would
reach the summit of fame and of honour, I
know where he may find it. There is a castle
on a lofty mountain, and there is a maiden
therein, and she is detained a prisoner there,
and whoever shall set her free will attain the
536
THE MABINOGION
summit of the fame of the world." And there-
upon she rode away.
Said Gwalchmai, "By my faith, I will not
rest tranquilly until I have proved if I can
release the maiden." And many of Arthur's
household joined themselves with him. Then,
likewise, said Peredur, " By my faith, I will not
rest tranquilly until I know the story and the
meaning of the lance whereof the black maiden
spoke." And while they were equipping them-
selves, behold a knight came to the gate. And
he had the size and strength of a warrior, and
was equipped with arms and habiliments.
And he went forward, and saluted Arthur and
all his household, except Gwalchmai. And
the knight had upon his shoulder a shield,
ingrained with gold, with a fesse of azure blue
upon it, and his whole armour was of the same
hue. And he said to Gwalchmai, " Thou didst
slay my lord by thy treachery and deceit, and
that will I prove upon thee." Then Gwalchmai
rose up. "Behold," said he, "here is my gage
against thee, to maintain, either in this place
or wherever else thou wilt, that I am not a trai-
tor or deceiver." "Before the King whom I
obey, will I that my encounter with thee take
place," said the knight. "Willingly," said
Gwalchmai; "go forward, and I will follow
thee." So the knight went forth, and Gwalch-
mai accoutred himself, and there was offered
unto him abundance of armour, but he would
take none but his own. And when Gwalch-
mai and Peredur were equipped, they set
forth to follow him, by reason of their fellow-
ship and of the great friendship that was be-
tween them. And they did not go after him
in company together, but each went his own
way.
At the dawn of day Gwalchmai came to a
valley, and in the valley he saw a fortress, and
within the fortress a vast palace and lofty tow-
ers around it. And he beheld a knight com-
ing out to hunt from the other side, mounted
on a spirited black snorting palfrey, that ad-
vanced at a prancing pace, proudly stepping,
and nimbly bounding, and sure of foot; and
this was the man to whom the palace belonged.
And Gwalchmai saluted him. " Heaven prosper
thee, chieftain," said he, "and whence comest
thou?" "I come," answered Gwalchmai,
"from the Court of Arthur." "And art thou
Arthur's vassal?" "Yes, by my faith," said
Gwalchmai. " I will give thee good counsel, "
said the knight. "I see that thou art tired
and weary ; go unto my palace, if it may please
thee, and tarry there to-night." "Willingly,
lord," said he, "and Heaven reward thee."
"Take this ring as a token to the porter, and go
forward to yonder tower, and therein thou
wilt find my sister." And Gwalchmai went to
the gate, and showed the ring, and proceeded
to the tower. And on entering he beheld a
large blazing fire, burning without smoke and
with a bright and lofty flame, and a beauteous
and stately maiden was sitting on a chair by
the fire. And the maiden was glad at his
coming, and welcomed him, and advanced to
meet him. And he went and sat beside the
maiden, and they took their repast. And
when their repast was over, they discoursed
pleasantly together. And while they were thus,
behold there entered a venerable, hoary-
headed man. "Ah! base girl," said he, "if
thou didst think that it was right for thee to
entertain and to sit by yonder man, thou
wouldest not do so." And he withdrew his
head, and went forth. "Ah! chieftain," said
the maiden, " if thou wilt do as I counsel thee,
thou wilt shut the door, lest the man should have
a plot against thee." Upon that Gwalchmai
arose, and when he came near unto the door,
the man, with sixty others, fully armed, were
ascending the tower. And Gwalchmai de-
fended the door with a chessboard, that none
might enter until the man should return from
the chase. And thereupon, behold the Earl
arrived. "What is all this?" asked he. "It
is a sad thing," said the hoary -headed man;
"the young girl yonder has been sitting and
eating with him who slew your father. He is
Gwalchmai, the son of Gwyar." " Hold thy
peace, then," said the Earl, "I will go in."
And the Earl was joyful concerning Gwalch-
mai. "Ha! chieftain," said he, "it was
wrong of thee to come to my court, when thou
knewest that thou didst slay my father; and
though we cannot avenge him, Heaven will
avenge him upon thee." "My soul," said
Gwalchmai, " thus it is : I came not here either
to acknowledge or to deny having slain thy
father; but I am on a message from Arthur,
and therefore do I crave the space of a year
until I shall return from my embassy, and then,
upon my faith, I will come back unto this
palace, and do one of two things, either ac-
knowledge it, or deny it." And the time was
granted him willingly; and he remained there
that night. And the next morning he rode
forth. And the story relates nothing further
of Gwalchmai respecting this adventure.
And Peredur rode forward. And he wan-
dered over the whole island, seeking tidings of
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
537
the black maiden, and he could meet with
none. And he came to an unknown land, in
the centre of a valley, watered by a river. And
as he traversed the valley he beheld a horseman
coming towards him, and wearing the garments
of a priest; and he besought his blessing.
"Wretched man," said he, "thou meritest no
blessing, and thou wouldest not be profited by
one, seeing that thou art clad in armour on
such a day as this." " And what day is to-day ?"
said Peredur. "To-day is Good Friday,"
he answered. "Chide me not that I knew
not this, seeing that it is a year to-day since I
journeyed forth from my country." Then he
dismounted, and led his horse in his hand.
And he had not proceeded far along the high
road before he came to a cross road, and the
cross road traversed a wood. And on the other
side of the wood he saw an unfortified castle,
which appeared to be inhabited. And at the
gate of the castle there met him the priest whom
he had seen before, and he asked his blessing.
"The blessing of Heaven be unto thee," said
he, "it is more fitting to travel in thy present
guise than as thou wast erewhile; and this
night thou shalt tarry with me." So he re-
mained there that night.
And the next day Peredur sought to go forth.
" To-day may no one journey. Thou shalt re-
main with me to-day and to-morrow, and the
day following, and I will direct thee as best I
may to the place which thou art seekirfg."
And the fourth day Peredur sought to go forth,
and he entreated the priest to tell him how
he should find the Castle of Wonders. " What
I know thereof I will tell thee," he replied.
" Go over yonder mountain, and on the other
side of the mountain thou wilt come to a
river, and in the valley wherein the river runs
is a King's palace, wherein the King sojourned
during Easter. And if thou mayest have tid-
ings anywhere of the Castle of Wonders, thou
wilt have them there."
Then Peredur rode forward. And he came to
the valley in which was the river, and there met
him a number of men going to hunt, and in
the midst of them was a man of exalted rank,
and Peredur saluted him. " Choose, chieftain,"
said the man, " whether thou wilt go with me to
the chase, or wilt proceed to my palace, and I
will despatch one of my household to com-
mend thee to my daughter, who is there, and
who will entertain thee with food and liquor
until I return from hunting; and whatever
may be thine errand, such as I can obtain for
thee thou shalt gladly have." And the King
sent a little yellow page with him as an at-
tendant; and when they came to the palace
the lady had arisen, and was about to wash
before meat., Peredur went forward, and she
saluted him joyfully, and placed him by her
side. And they took their repast. And what-
soever Peredur said unto her, she laughed
loudly, so that all in the palace could hear.
Then spoke the yellow page to the lady. " By
my faith," said he, "this youth is already thy
husband; or if he be not, thy mind and thy
thoughts are set upon him." And the little
yellow page went unto the King, and told him
that it seemed to him that the youth whom he
had met with was his daughter's husband, or
if he were not so already that he would shortly
become so unless he were cautious. "What
is thy counsel in this matter, youth?" said the
King. " My counsel is," he replied, " that thou
set strong men upon him, to seize him, until
thou hast ascertained the truth respecting this."
So he set strong men upon Peredur, who seized
him and cast him into prison. And the maiden
went before her father, and asked him where-
fore he had caused the youth from Arthur's
Court to be imprisoned. " In truth," he an-
swered, " he shall not be free to-night, nor to-
morrow, nor the day following, and he shall
not come from where he is." She replied not
to what the King had said, but she went to the
youth. "Is it unpleasant to thee to be here?"
said she. "I should not care if I were not,"
he replied. "Thy couch and thy treatment
shall be in no wise inferior to that of the King
himself, and thou shalt have the best enter-
tainment that the palace affords. And if it
were more pleasing to thee that my couch should
be here, that I might discourse with thee, it
should be so, cheerfully." "This can I not
refuse," said Peredur. And he remained in
prison that night. And the maiden provided
all that she had promised him.
And the next day Peredur heard a tumult in
the town. " Tell me, fair maiden, what is that
tumult?" said Peredur. "All the King's
host and his forces have come to the town to-
day." "And what seek they here?" he in-
quired. " There is an Earl near this place who
possesses two earldoms, and is as powerful
as a king; and an engagement will take place
between them to-day." "I beseech thee,"
said Peredur, " to cause a horse and arms to be
brought, that I may view the encounter, and I
promise to come back to my prison again."
"Gladly," said she, "will I provide thee with
horse and arms." So she gave him a horse and
538
THE MABINOGION
arms, and a bright scarlet robe of honour over
his armour, and a yellow shield upon his
shoulder. And he went to the combat; and as
many of the Earl's men as encountered him
that day he overthrew; and he returned to his
prison. And the maiden asked tidings of
Peredur, and he answered her not a word.
And she went and asked tidings of her father,
and inquired who had acquitted himself best
of the household. And he said that he knew
not, but that it was a man with a scarlet robe
of honour over his armour, and a yellow shield
upon his shoulder. Then she smiled, and
returned to where Peredur was, and did him
great honour that night. And for three days
did Peredur slay the Earl's men; and before
any one could know who he was, he returned to
his prison. And the fourth day Peredur slew
the Earl himself. And the maiden went unto
her father, and inquired of him the news.
"I have good news for thee," said the King;
"the Earl is slain, and I am the owner of his
two earldoms." "Knowest thou, lord, who
slew him?" "I do not know," said the King.
"It was the knight with the scarlet robe of
honour and the yellow shield." "Lord,"
said she, " I know who that is." "By Heaven ! "
he exclaimed, "who is he?" "Lord," she
replied, "he is the knight whom thou hast
imprisoned." Then he went unto Peredur,
and saluted him, and told him that he would
reward the service he had done him, in any way
he might desire. And when they went to meat,
Peredur was placed beside the King, and the
maiden on the other side of Peredur. " I
will give thee," said the King, " my daughter
in marriage, and half my kingdom with her,
and the two earldoms as a gift." "Heaven
reward thee, lord," said Peredur, "but I
came not here to woo." "What seekest thou
then, chieftain?" "I am seeking tidings of
the Castle of Wonders ? " " Thy enterprise is
greater, chieftain, than thou wilt wish to pur-
sue," said the maiden, "nevertheless, tidings
shalt thou have of the Castle, and thou shalt
have a guide through my father's dominions,
and a sufficiency of provisions for thy journey,
for thou art, O chieftain, the man whom best
I love." Then she said to him, " Go over yon-
der mountain, and thou wilt find a lake, and
in the middle of the lake there is a Castle, and
that is the Castle that is called the Castle of
Wonders ; and we know not what wonders are
therein, but thus is it called."
And Peredur proceeded towards the Castle,
and the gate of the Castle was open. And
when he came to the hall, the door was open, and
he entered. And he beheld a chessboard in the
hall, and the chessmen were playing against
each other, by themselves. And the side that
he favoured lost the game, and thereupon the
others set up a shout, as though they had been
living men. And Peredur was wroth, and
took the chessmen in his lap, and cast the chess-
board into the lake. And when he had done
thus, behold the black maiden came in, and she
said to him, " The welcome of Heaven be not
unto thee. Thou hadst rather do evil than
good." "What complaint hast thou against
me, maiden?" said Peredur. "That thou hast
occasioned unto the Empress the loss of her
chessboard, which she would not have lost for
all her empire. And the way in which thou
mayest recover the chessboard is, to repair to
the Castle of Ysbidinongyl, where is a black
man, who lays waste the dominions of the
Empress; and if thou canst slay him, thou wilt
recover the chessboard. But if thou goest there,
thou wilt not return alive." "Wilt thou direct
me thither?" said Peredur. "I will show
thee the way," she replied. So he went to the
Castle of Ysbidinongyl, and he fought with the
black man. And the black man besought mercy
of Peredur. "Mercy will I grant thee," said
he, "on condition that thou cause the chess-
board to be restored to the place where it was
when I entered the hall." Then the maiden
came to him, and said, "The malediction of
Heaven attend thee for thy work, since thou hast
left that monster alive, who lays waste all the
possessions of the Empress." "I granted him
his life," said Peredur, " that he might cause the
chessboard to be restored." " The chessboard
is not in the place where thou didst find it;
go back, therefore, and slay him," answered
she. So Peredur went back, and slew the black
man. And when he returned to the palace, he
found the black maiden there. " Ah ! maiden,"
said Peredur, "where is the Empress?" "I
declare to Heaven that thou wilt not see her
now, unless thou dost slay the monster that is
in yonder forest." "What monster is there?"
" It is a stag that is as swift as the swiftest bird;
and he has one horn in his forehead, as long as
the shaft of a spear, and as sharp as whatever
is sharpest. And he destroys the branches of
the best trees in the forest, and he kills every
animal that he meets with therein; and those
that he doth not slay perish of hunger. And
what is worse than that, he comes every night,
and drinks up the fish-pond, and leaves the
fishes exposed, so that for the most part they
PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC
539
die before the water returns again." " Maiden,"
said Peredur, "wilt thou come and show me
this animal?" "Not so," said the maiden,
" for he has not permitted any mortal to enter
the forest for above a twelvemonth. Behold,
here is a little dog belonging to the Empress,
which will rouse the stag, and will chase him
towards thee, and the stag will attack thee."
Then the little dog went as a guide to Peredur,
and roused the stag, and brought him towards
the place where Peredur was. And the stag
attacked Peredur, and he let him pass by him,
and as he did so, he smote off his head with his
sword. And while he was looking at the head
of the stag, he saw a lady on horseback coming
towards him. And she took the little dog in
the lappet of her cap, and the head and the body
of the stay lay before her. And around the
stag's neck was a golden collar. "Ha! chief-
tain," said she, " uncourteously hast thou acted
in slaying the fairest jewel that was in my
dominions." "I was entreated so to do; and
is there any way by which I can obtain thy
friendship?" "There is," she replied. "Go
thou forward unto yonder mountain, and there
thou wilt find a grove; and in the grove there
is a cromlech; do thou there challenge a man
three times to fight, and thou shalt have my
friendship."
So Peredur proceeded onward, and came to
the side of the grove, and challenged any man
to fight. And a black man arose from beneath
the cromlech, mounted upon a bony horse,
and both he and his horse were clad in huge
rusty armour. And they fought. And as of-
ten as Peredur cast the black man to the earth,
he would jump again into his saddle. And
Peredur dismounted, and drew his sword; and
thereupon the black man disappeared with
Peredur's horse and his own, so that he could
not gain sight of him a second time. And
Peredur went along the mountain, and on the
other side of the mountain he beheld a castle
in the valley, wherein was a river. And he
went to the castle; and as he entered it, he saw
a hall, and the door of the hall was open, and
he went in. And there he saw a lame gray-
headed man sitting on one side of the hall,
with Gwalchmai beside him. And Peredur
beheld his horse, which the black man had
taken, in the same stall with that of Gwalchmai.
And they were glad concerning Peredur. And
he went and seated himself on the other side
of the hoary-headed man. Then, behold a
yellow-haired youth came, and bent upon the
knee before Peredur, nd besought his friend-
ship. "Lord," said the youth, "it was I that
came in the form of the black maiden to Arthur's
Court, and when thou didst throw down the
chessboard, and when thou didst slay the
black man of Ysbidinongyl, and when thou
didst slay the stag, and when thou didst go
to fight the black man of the cromlech. And
I came with the bloody head in the salver,
and with the lance that streamed with blood
from the point to the hand, all along the shaft;
and the head was thy cousin's, and he was
killed by the sorceresses of Gloucester, who
also lamed thine uncle; and I am thy cousin.
And there is a prediction that thou art to
avenge these things." Then Peredur and
Gwalchmai took counsel, and sent to Arthur
and his household, to beseech them to come
against the sorceresses. And they began to
fight with them; and one of the sorceresses
slew one of Arthur's men before Peredur's
face, and Peredur bade her forbear. And
the sorceress slew a man before Peredur's
face a second time, and a second time he for-
bade her. And the third time the sorceress
slew a man before the face of Peredur; and
then Peredur drew his sword, and smote the
sorceress on the helmet; and all her head-
armour was split in two parts. And she set
up a cry, and desired the other sorceresses to
flee, and told them that this was Peredur, the
man who had learned Chivalry with them, and
by whom they were destined to be slain. Then
Arthur and his household fell upon the sorcer-
esses, and slew the sorceresses of Gloucester
every one. And thus is it related concerning
the Castle of Wonders.
INDEX OF AUTHORS
Addison, Joseph, 198
Arnold, Matthew, 478
Ascham, Roger, 38
Austen, Jane, 328
Bacon, Francis, Viscount St.
Albans, 74
Berkeley, George, Bishop, 216
Borrow, George, 417
Boswell, James, 277
Bourchier, Sir John, 22
Browne, Sir Thomas, in
Bunyan, John, 139
Burke, Edmund, 267
Burton, Robert, 97
Carlyle, Thomas, 366
Caxton, William, 21
Chaucer, Geoffrey, 12
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 317
Cooper, Anthony Ashley, Earl
of Shaftesbury, 197
Cross, Mary Ann Evans, 458
Defoe, Daniel, 176
Dekker, Thomas, 89
De Quincey, Thomas, 357
Dickens, Charles, 440
Dryden, John, 146
"Eliot, George," -458
Evans (Cross), Mary Ann, 458
Fielding, Henry, 226
Foxe, John, 41
Francis, Sir Philip (?), 292
Froude, James Anthony, 450
Fuller, Thomas, 117
Goldsmith, Oliver, 255
Greene, Robert, 64
Guest, Lady Charlotte, 521
Hazlitt, William, 349
Henry III, 4
Hobbes, Thomas, 102
Hooker, Richard, 54
Hume, David, 243
Hunt, Leigh, 354
Jeffrey, Francis, 320
Johnson, Samuel, 234
Jonson, Ben, 94
Junius, 292
Lamb, Charles, 337
Landor, Walter Savage, 345
Latimer, Hugh, 36
Locke, John, 163
Lodge, Thomas, 60
Lyly, John, 57
Macaulay, Thomas Babington,
Lord, 382
Macpherson, James (?), 275
Malory, Sir Thomas, 18
Mandeville, Sir John (?), 6
Milton, John, 120
More, Sir Thomas, 29
Nashe, Thomas, 86
Newman, John Henry (Car-
dinal), 409
Ossian, 275
Pater, Walter, 492
Pecock, Reginald, Bishop, 16
Pepys, Samuel, 168
Poore, Richard (?), Bishop, 2
Richardson, Samuel, 221
Rolle, Richard, 5
Ruskin, John, 463
Scott, Sir Walter, 308
Shaftesbury, Earl of, 197
Sidney, Sir Philip, 45
Smollett, Tobias, 251
South, Robert, 173
Southey, Robert, 321
Steele, Sir Richard, 207
Stephen, Leslie, 489
Sterne, Laurence, 247
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 509
Swift, Jonathan, 184
Taylor, Jeremy, 136
Temple, Sir William, 143
Thackeray, William Makepeace,
425
Trevisa, John de, n
Tyndale, William, 34
Walton, Izaak, 104
Wiclif, John, 9
Wordsworth, William, 298
541
INDEX OF TITLES AND SUB-TITLES
ACTS AND MONUMENTS OF THESE LATTER
AND PERILLOUS DAYES 41
ADVERSITY, OF 76
/Esop AND RHODOPE 345
AGE, OF YOUTH AND 85
ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY 97
ANCREN RIWLE 2
ANGLER, THE COMPLETE 104
ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE i
APOLLYON, THE FIGHT WITH 139
ARCADIA 45
ARCOT'S DEBTS, THE NABOB OF 267
AREOPAGITICA 126
ART (THE) OF CONY-CATCHING 67
ASTROLABE, A TREATISE ON THE 12
ATHEISM, OF : . 79
AUTHORS, A CLUB OF 263
BACHELORS, ON THE GREAT NUMBER OF
OLD MAIDS AND 262
BATTLE'S (MRS.) OPINIONS ON WHIST 340
BEAUTY, OF 85
BELIEF, NEWMAN'S THEORY OF 489
BlOGRAPHIA LlTERARIA 317
BLACK, THE MAN IN 258
BOETHIUS: DE CONSOLATIONS PHILOSO-
PHISE 13
BOFFIN'S BOWER 441
BONIS ET MALIS, DE 95
BYZANTINE PALACES 470
CAESAR 450
CAPTAIN SINGLETON, THE LIFE, ADVENTURES,
AND PIRACIES OF 176
CAT, NUNS MAY KEEP No BEAST BUT A 4
CATH-LODA 275
CENTRE OF INDIFFERENCE 373
CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN, MANNERS, ETC. . 197
CHARITY in
CHILD'S (A) DREAM OF A STAR 440
CHILD (THE) IN THE HOUSE 502
CHRONICLE, THE ANGLO-SAXON i
CITIZEN (A) OF THE WORLD 255
CLARISSA HARLOWE 221
CLINKER, HUMPHRY 251
CLUB (A) OF AUTHORS 263
COLERIDGE, MR 349
COLLEGE, A PROPOSAL FOR A 216
COMMANDMENT (THE) OF LOVE TO GOD. ... 5
COMPLETE ANGLER, THE 104
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER. . 357
CONGREVE 234
CONSOLATIONE PHILOSOPHIC, DE 13
CONVERSATIONS, IMAGINARY 345
CONY-CATCHING, THE ART OF 67
CROWN (THE) OF WILD OLIVE 473
CULTURE AND ANARCHY 478
DAUGHTER (THE) OF HIPPOCRATES , 354
DEATH, OF 75
DIALOGUE OF SIR THOMAS MORE 29
DIARY (THE) OF SAMUEL PEPYS 168
DISCOVERIES MADE UPON MEN AND MATTER . 94
DISPATCH, OF 81
DRAKE, THE LIFE OF 117
DRAMATIC POESY, AN ESSAY OF 146
EARS, A CHAPTER ON 343
ECCLESIASTICAL POLITY, OF THE LAWS OF. . 54
EDUCATION, OF 120
ENEYDOS, PREFACE TO THE BOOKE OF 21
ENGLAND, THE HISTORY OF 382
ENGLISH PROCLAMATION OF HENRY III 4
ESSAYS (BACON'S) 74
EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND 57
EUPHUES' GOLDEN LEGACY 60
EVERLASTING No, THE 370
EVERLASTING YEA, THE 377
FATAL IMPOSTURE AND FORCE OF WORDS, OF
THE 173
FLOSS, THE MILL ON THE 458
FRANCOIS VILLON 509
FRIENDSHIP, OF 82
FROISSART, THE CRONYCLE OF SYR JOHN. . . 22
GOSPEL OF MATHEW 9, 34
GRAFTON, LETTERS TO THE DUKE OF 292
GREAT PLACE, OF 78
GREENE'S NEVER Too LATE 69
GROAT'S WORTH (A) OF WIT 64
GULL'S (THE) HORNBOOK 89
HEAD-DRESS, THE 201
HENRY III, ENGLISH PROCLAMATION OF 4
HIGDEN'S POLYCHRONICON n
HILPA AND SHALUM 205
HIPPOCRATES, THE DAUGHTER OF 354
HOLY DYING, THE RULE AND EXERCISES OF 136
542
INDEX OF TITLES AND SUB-TITLES
543
HOLY STATE, THE 117
HOMILY, AN OLD ENGLISH i
HORNBOOK, THE GULL'S 89
HOUSE, THE CHILD IN THE 502
HUMOURISTS, THE ENGLISH 425
HUMPHRY CLINKER 251
IlYDRIOTAPHIA : URN-BURIAL 115
IDEA (THE) OF A UNIVERSITY 409
INDIFFERENCE, CENTRE OF 373
INNOCENTIA, DE 95
INQUIRY (AN) CONCERNING THE PRINCIPLES
OF MORALS 243
JOHNSON, LIFE OF DR. SAMUEL 277
JONES, TOM 226
JUNIUS, LETTERS OF 292
KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO LEARN-
ING 409
LAVENGRO 417
LAWS (THE) OF ECCLESIASTICAL POLITY. ... 54
LEVIATHAN 102
LOVE, OF 77
LOVE, HEROICAL 97
LOVE TO GOD, THE COMMANDMENT OF 5
"LYRICAL BALLADS," PREFACE TO 298
MABINOGION 521
MAN (THE) m BLACK 258
MANKIND, THE NATURAL CONDITION OF 102
MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE, OF 76
MARTYRS, FOXE'S BOOK OF 41
MATHEW, THE GOSPEL OF 9, 34
MAUNDEVILE, VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR
JOHN 6
MELANCHOLY, THE ANATOMY OF 97
MILL (THE) ON THE FLOSS 458
MIRZA, THE VISION OF 203
MODEST PROPOSAL, A 193
MORALS, AN INQUIRY CONCERNING THE PRIN-
CIPLES OF 243
MORTE DARTHUR, LE 18
MUTUAL FRIEND, OUR 441
NABOB OF ARCOT'S DEBTS, THE 267
NELSON, THE LIFE OF 321
NETHERLANDS, OBSERVATIONS UPON THE.. 143
NEVER TOO LATE, GREENE'S 69
NEWMAN'S THEORY OF BELIEF 489
NILE, THE BATTLE OF THE 321
NUNS MAY KEEP No BEAST BUT A CAT 4
OLD ENGLISH HOMILY, AN i
OLD MAIDS AND BACHELORS, ON THE
GREAT NUMBER OF 262
OLIVE, THE CROWN OF WILD 473
OPIUM-EATER, CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH 357
OSSIAN, POEMS OF 275
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 441
PALMER'S TALE, THE 69
PEREDUR 521
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, THE 139
PLACE, OF GREAT 78
PLAY, THE CHINESE GOES TO SEE A 255
POLYCHRONICON II
PREFACE TO THE BOOKE OF ENEYDOS 21
PREFACE TO THE " LYRICAL BALLADS " 298
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE 328
PRINTING, A SPEECH FOR THE LIBERTY OF
UNLICENSED 126
PROCLAMATION OF HENRY III, THE ENGLISH 4
PROPOSAL (A) FOR A COLLEGE 216
PROPOSAL, A MODEST 193
RACES OF MEN, THE Two 337
RAMBLER, ESSAYS FROM THE 239
REDGAUNTLET 308
RELIGIO MEDICI in
REPRESSOR (THE) OF OVER MUCH BLAMING
OF THE CLERGY 16
REVENGE, OF 75
REVOLUTION IN FRANCE, REFLECTIONS ON
THE 270
RIDLEY AND LATIMER, THE BEHAVIOUR OF. . . 41
ROSALYNDE : EUPHUES* GOLDEN LEGACY . . 60
RULE (THE) AND EXERCISES OF HOLY DYING 136
RYLSTONE, THE WHITE DOE OF, 320
ST. MARK'S 467
SARTOR RESARTUS 366
SCHOLEMASTER, THE 38
SERMON BEFORE EDWARD VI, THE FIRST 36
SHAKESPEARE NOSTRATI, DE 94
SHANDY, TRISTRAM 247
SINGLETON, THE LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND
PIRACIES OF CAPTAIN 176
SPECTATOR, THE 198, 214
SPEECH 2
STAR, A CHILD'S DREAM OF A 440
STERNE 425
STILO, DE 95
STONES (THE) OF VENICE 463
STYLE 95, 492
SWEETNESS AND LIGHT 478
TATLER, THE 207
TEUFELSDROCKH, SORROWS OF 366
THRONE, THE 463
TIMBER 94
TOM JONES 226
TRAVELLER, THE UNFORTUNATE 86
TRISTRAM SHANDY 247
TRUTH, OF 74
TUB, THE TALE OF A 184
Two RACES OF MEN, THE 337
UNDERSTANDING, OF THE CONDUCT OF THK 163
UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER, THE 86
UNIVERSITY, THE IDEA OF A 409
URN-BURIAL 115
UTILITY PLEASES, WHY 243
544
INDEX TO TITLES AND SUB-TITLES
VANITY AND SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE, OP
THE 136
VANITY FAIR 141
VANITY FAIR 430
VENICE, THE STONES OF 463
VERULAMIUS, DOMINUS 94
VILLON, FRANCOIS 509
VISION (THE) OF MIRZA 203
VOIAGE (THE) AND TRAVAILE OF SIR JOHN
MAUNDEVILE . . 6
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 308
WESTMINSTER ABBEY, THOUGHTS IN 200
WHIST, MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON 340
WHITE DOE (THE) OF RYLSTONE 320
WILD OLIVE, THE CROWN OF 473
WISDOM FOR A MAN'S SELF, OF 80
WIT AND HUMOUR, FREEDOM OF 197
WORDS, OF THE FATAL IMPOSTURE AND
FORCE OF 173
YOUTH AND AGE, OF 85
Manly J.M.
English prose
(1137-1890)
PR ._
IMS
Manly J.M. PR
Sngliah proae (1137-1890)1285
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